0scarp1astr1 - Tumblr blog

0scarp1astr1 · 3 days ago

Text

˖ 𐔌 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Coming from wealth doesn’t mean you come from love. When your father cuts you off, you're left to find a roommate to help keep your life in Monaco afloat. Kimi Antonelli’s place isn’t ready yet, so he moves in—and what starts as convenience slowly brings peace, family, and unexpected change. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: I was going to do this with Ollie, but I already have an Ollie story in mind, so, I figured I would give everyone some Kimi once again on this blog. S/n (sister's name), and your best friend's name in this is Amilla, entirely up to your imagination how she looks as well as your sister. ENJOY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Growing up surrounded by wealth wasn't the gilded fairytale people imagined. Sure, there was luxury—soft sheets, name-brand clothes, drivers who opened doors, and holidays in warm places. But luxury didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean attention. And it certainly didn’t mean fairness.

Your family had money. Old money. The kind of wealth that came with expectations and unspoken hierarchies, where lineage mattered more than individuality. Your father ran the family business—something passed from generation to generation like a sacred heirloom. One day, he’d hand it down again. But not to you. That had been clear since you were old enough to understand your own name. It would go to S/n. Always S/n.

Your mother was a neurosurgeon, brilliant and always composed, walking through the house with heels clicking and a schedule tighter than her high bun. She was the kind of woman people admired. But she was distant, her affections portioned carefully, like rations during wartime. And you learned early that most of those rations went to your sister.

Vacations as a kid had been something you used to look forward to. Back then, you didn’t notice how different things were. You just knew you got to be on a beach with a juice box, and your sister got the bigger floaty. You thought that was normal.

But as the years went by, the favoritism stopped being subtle.

At Christmas, you’d unwrap two gifts. Your sister had a mountain. A literal mountain. Once, when you asked if you could get a digital camera, your mother had looked at the price tag and said, “Maybe next year.” That same year, your sister got a custom-built pink go-kart because she said it looked "cute" in a movie.

You were twelve when you started noticing that conversations weren’t really conversations with your parents—they were lectures disguised as concern. You’d get a scolding for a B on a test. Your sister would be celebrated for an A she hadn’t even earned—she was charismatic enough to charm her way out of anything.

And your father—he spoke of her like she was a miracle. “One day, she’ll take over everything,” he used to say to guests at parties while you stood beside him, invisible. “She’s got the look, the mind, the instinct.”

No one ever asked what you had.

When you were sixteen, sitting across from your father at the dinner table, he asked casually, like it didn’t mean anything, “So what are you planning for the future?”

You’d been waiting for that moment. You straightened your spine and spoke clearly.

“I want to go into motorsports engineering.”

He paused, halfway through cutting his steak. “Hmm,” he muttered, then nodded. “That’s good, sweetie.”

That was it. No follow-up. No curiosity.

Across the table, S/n chimed in without being asked. “I’m thinking of modeling. I’ve already had a few agencies reach out. Plus, I want to travel. Maybe get a fashion line started.”

Your mother beamed. “Oh, darling, you’d be perfect. Your face was made for a billboard. And with your father’s connections…”

You sat there, pressing your fork into a piece of overcooked asparagus, chewing your silence.

That was how most conversations went.

At eighteen, after your graduation, you brought it up again—this time more serious. It was just you and your father at dinner in the study, eating off plates without the pretense of table manners.

“I want to move out,” you said, testing the words.

He didn’t even look surprised. He barely looked up.

“That’s good, sweetheart. Where are you thinking?”

“Monaco,” you said. “I’ve looked into a few universities there. I want to continue with engineering—eventually get my master’s. I know it’ll take time, but I’m ready.”

You tried to smile, like it would help him see your sincerity. You wanted him to care.

He nodded absently and took a sip of his scotch. “That’s good. Let me know where you land. I’ll help you get settled.”

Your heart squeezed. “You will?”

“Of course. I’ll cover the rent for your flat, but you’ll need to get a job. Can’t support everything.”

You hesitated. “S/n doesn’t work.”

He exhaled like you’d said something exhausting. “Y/N, your sister is preparing to take over the business. Her time is coming. You know that.”

Right. Her time. Like yours never would.

So you moved.

Monaco was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. The city glittered at night like it had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, far away from the echo of your father’s praise and your mother’s quiet favoritism.

You found a small flat with plain walls and cheap furniture, but it was yours. Your father helped you move in, carried boxes with a detached politeness, then handed you a spare key and left.

“Be smart with your time,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”

You weren’t sure if it was advice or a warning.

You got two jobs. A café by day, a restaurant by night. You’d collapse into bed, then wake up to submit your assignments before rushing back to work. Your professors only knew you as a face on a screen. You hated online school, but it was all you could afford.

Your fridge was mostly empty. Your walls were bare. You had three pans and one cutting board. Dinner was usually takeout—cheap pasta or boxed rice—because after a ten-hour shift, the last thing you wanted was to stand in front of a stove.

And your sister?

She was everywhere.

You’d scroll through social media, half-awake, and there she’d be—posing on a yacht in Santorini, smiling on a balcony in Paris, lounging in a silk robe with captions like #blessed #bookedandbusy. Her followers adored her. Your father reposted every brand deal she landed. Your mother shared her photos like holiday cards.

One night, sitting on your bed with a carton of takeout balanced on your lap, you opened your calendar to find a red-circled reminder: Family visiting tomorrow.

You groaned, setting your food aside. The idea of them walking into your small space, judging the plainness of your life—it made your chest feel tight.

You hadn’t invited them. Your father had insisted.

“It’s important,” he’d said on the phone. “We want to see how you’re doing.”

But they didn’t want to see how you were doing.

They wanted to compare.

You leaned your head back against the wall, sighing into the quiet. Your laptop screen buzzed gently, the cursor blinking in an empty assignment document.

“I’m tired of this,” you muttered.

Of the imbalance. Of the cold love. Of being measured against someone you could never outshine.

S/n would walk through your door tomorrow in a designer coat and full makeup. She’d sit on your secondhand couch like it was diseased. Your mother would comment on the size of your kitchen. Your father would ask if you’d “thought about getting something more stable.”

And none of them would see it—the long hours, the aching feet, the grades you worked for, the resilience it took to just exist outside their shadow.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe not.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You sat on the edge of your couch, back straight, arms folded tightly across your chest, the ticking of the wall clock louder than it should’ve been. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, despite the open window. Your parents sat opposite you in the two mismatched armchairs you’d found at a secondhand shop last month, looking as though the fabric might give them a rash. Your sister—S/n—occupied the arm of one chair like it was a throne, one long leg crossed over the other, perfectly manicured fingers brushing invisible lint from her designer slacks.

They hadn’t even been in your flat five minutes and already you could feel their judgment soaking into the walls. Your mother kept glancing at the chipped paint near the baseboards. Your father’s gaze swept across your bookshelf with unreadable criticism. S/n looked around like she was in a student dorm.

You broke the silence. “So… you said this visit was important?”

Your voice was low, careful, not wanting to sound defensive—but there was already tension coiled in your spine.

Your father nodded, finally giving you his full attention as he folded his hands across his knee. “Yes. It is.”

You watched him pause for effect, the same way he did at corporate meetings you’d sat through as a kid, the same way he always made sure the room was ready to listen before dropping his words like gospel.

“Well, S/n is engaged.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could control your reaction, your gaze snapping to your sister. “What?”

S/n’s grin widened as she held up her left hand, her long fingers shimmering under the weight of a diamond so big it could probably be seen from space. You stared at it. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement—loud, bold, impossibly expensive.

“She said yes last week,” your mother added softly, pride swelling in her voice like it was her engagement, not her daughter’s. “It was the most romantic proposal. Private jet to Lake Como. He had the staff arrange everything. Champagne, roses, the whole thing.”

“Wow,” you said, your voice flat. You didn’t know what else to say. You hadn’t even known she was dating anyone seriously.

“And the wedding is going to be expensive,” your father continued, his tone businesslike now. “Top-tier venue, elite catering, designer dress, security, stylists, floral design… everything a celebration of this scale demands. Her fiancé is contributing, of course, but most of the financial responsibility falls on us.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing the weight of what was coming.

“Which means,” your mother interjected, her tone cooler now, “we’re going to have to cut your funding. The rent for your flat, your utilities… we simply won’t be able to cover it all anymore. We need to give S/n our full attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

Your voice cracked slightly, the disbelief catching in your throat. Your eyes darted between their faces, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke. But no one was laughing.

“I’m sorry, honey,” your mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “We just need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” you echoed.

“You can still live here,” your father offered, shrugging like that solved everything, “but… we know you won’t be able to afford it on your own. And with your school and… your work, that’s a lot to juggle. It might be best if you came home for a while. Regroup.”

“Right,” S/n chimed in, her voice bright, chipper, like she was offering you a lifeline. “You could come back home with Mom and Dad! It’s not a big deal. I mean, let’s be honest—this place is a bit of a dump. It’s not like it’ll be a huge step down.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You stared at her, wondering how someone could say something so casually cruel.

“I have two jobs here,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I study all night, I sleep maybe four hours, I bust my ass trying to keep this apartment and pass my classes and stay afloat—and you’re just… cutting me off?”

“Y/N…” your father sighed, like your voice was giving him a headache. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re not being punished. This is just the reality. You’re not a child anymore. And we need to invest in the child who’s… in a critical life stage right now.”

“Right,” you scoffed bitterly, sinking back against the couch. “Because God forbid I ever be in a critical life stage.”

“It’s not like we’re abandoning you,” your mother added, sitting forward slightly. “You’ll always have a room at home. You can work at your pace and be comfortable.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Comfortable? You mean invisible. That’s what I’ll be back home. A ghost in the hallway while you all parade S/n down the aisle and throw her the wedding of the century.”

“That’s not fair,” S/n said with a shrug. “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean it’s about favoritism. I just have different goals. Glamorous ones.”

You stared at her. “Different goals,” you repeated, biting back every word you really wanted to scream. “Right. Like being loved. Celebrated. Chosen.”

Your father stood, brushing his slacks like he was done with the conversation. “We’re not here to argue. We just came to inform you. The rent will be covered through next month. After that, it’s up to you.”

You stayed seated, your whole body trembling with a quiet anger that went deeper than your skin. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about a lifetime of being passed over.

They started gathering their things, your mother smoothing out her coat, your sister checking her phone, already distracted.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled without looking up.

S/n glanced back at you with a smirk. “Thanks. I’ll send you the invite.”

They left without hugs. Just a closing door and the lingering scent of your mother's perfume.

And for a long time, you sat there, staring at the dent in the couch cushion where your father had sat, like his presence still weighed it down.

You didn’t cry.

You were too tired to cry.

But deep in your chest, something hardened. You didn’t know what yet. Maybe it was resolve.

Maybe it was the first breath of freedom.

After the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was loud—almost oppressive. The kind that settles in your bones and reminds you just how alone you are.

You stared at the chipped tile near the front door, hands limp in your lap. The echo of their voices still clung to the walls—your father’s cold practicality, your mother’s detached logic, your sister’s smug indifference. It all buzzed like static in your ears.

You blinked slowly, chest tight, and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered for a second before you tapped the contact without thinking—Amilla.

The only person who really knew you.

The only person who had stayed.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but it cracked with concern.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let out a hum, tired and hollow.

“Family meeting went bad?” she asked knowingly.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, dragging your palm down your face as you leaned back against the couch cushion. “You could say that.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like car keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move. Don’t overthink. Just… breathe, okay? You can tell me everything when I get there.”

And with that, she hung up.

You stared at the screen a moment longer before placing the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Ten minutes.

That’s all you had to hold yourself together for.

You stood up slowly, your joints aching from tension and exhaustion, and moved around the flat in a daze. The room suddenly felt smaller. Dimmer. Like your family had sucked the color out of the space with their judgment and fake smiles.

You shuffled into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A bottle of water. A leftover takeout box. Two eggs. Some mustard. You shut it again, heart sinking a little lower.

You moved instead to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain and looking out over the street. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden hue across the balconies of neighboring buildings. People were laughing somewhere down below. A couple walked hand in hand across the sidewalk, her head on his shoulder. You wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Or if luck even had anything to do with it.

You heard the buzz of the intercom almost exactly ten minutes later.

“Coming,” you murmured, pressing the button before you opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

A few moments later, Amilla walked in without knocking. She didn’t have to. She never did.

She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup—just comfort. She took one look at your face and set her bag down immediately.

“Okay,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Hug first. Words later.”

You didn’t argue. You stepped into her arms, and for the first time all day, your body finally let go. Your face buried into her shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. The tears came—not loudly, not dramatically—just quiet and exhausted. Like a release.

She held you tightly, like she knew exactly how broken you felt. She rubbed your back in slow, steady circles. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

You pulled back after a moment, sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said firmly. “Now sit. Start from the top.”

You both settled on the couch, your knees tucked under you as she pulled a throw blanket over your lap and curled beside you.

You took a deep breath, letting it all out. “They came here just to tell me they’re cutting me off. Rent, utilities, everything. Because S/n is getting married.”

Amilla’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

You nodded, voice hollow. “She’s engaged. Huge ring. Huge wedding. Dad’s paying for the whole thing—the venue, honeymoon, probably a freaking fireworks show too. And since it’s going to be ‘expensive,’ they decided they can’t afford to help me anymore.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, because clearly their child working two jobs and doing college alone isn’t a priority, but throwing your sister a royal wedding is.”

“They told me I could move back home,” you said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like that’s some kind of gift. They said it’d be easier. More ‘comfortable.’”

Amilla narrowed her eyes. “Comfortable for who? So you can play second fiddle in your own house again? Watch your sister get crowned Queen of the Universe while you serve snacks at the engagement party?”

You laughed dryly. “Basically.”

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “You’re not going back.”

“I can’t afford this place on my own.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said instantly. “Maybe we find you a roommate. Or a smaller place. Or you move in with me for a while—I’ve got space.”

“Millie…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, but her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go back there. Not to that house. Not to them. They don’t see you. But I do.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening again. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it felt warm—like safety, not judgment. The apartment, still small and dim, somehow didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

You looked over at her, brushing hair from your face. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she said, offering a small smile. “Now, do you want to keep venting or should we do something reckless like drink wine and look at Airbnbs we can’t afford?”

You grinned, a tired kind of grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

The day was bittersweet, soaked in a kind of ache that settled somewhere deep in your bones. It was the kind of ache that had no clear origin, no obvious wound—just the slow burn of disappointment, of being reminded once again that love, in your family, came with conditions. You had gone through all the stages—shock, anger, confusion—and now, sitting in the quiet after your parents and sister had left, it was just sorrow lingering like smoke in the room.

You didn’t understand her. S/n.

She had always kept you at arm's length. Like you were competition, not family. Like your existence threatened the affection and money she wanted all to herself. Even when you were little, she’d treated you more like a shadow than a sister—one she wanted to outshine, outrun, and forget. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most: you never wanted to compete. You only wanted to be seen.

After spending the afternoon with Amilla, the heaviness dulled just slightly. You’d curled up on the couch with her, shared cheap snacks and worse jokes. She made you laugh when your chest still ached from holding in tears. And though she never said it outright, she understood the weight of what you were going through. She always had.

Your flat didn’t feel quite so dull with her in it. Sure, it was a bit lifeless—bare walls, basic furniture, cold lighting—but it wasn’t awful. It was small, a little plain, but it was yours. It just needed… love. Color. A plant or two. Maybe some laughter.

You walked her to the door, leaning against the frame as she slid on her shoes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still breathing,” she teased, tugging her bag up on her shoulder.

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile. “I’ll try not to die in the next 24 hours.”

She paused, half out the door, then turned back to you. Her face softened. “Seriously. Stop thinking you’re burdening me. If you need anything—anything—just ask. You're not taking anything from my life. You're in it.”

Her voice carried more weight than it usually did, and for a moment, you felt it. The sincerity. The safety. She felt more like a sister than S/n ever had.

You blinked back the emotion rising behind your eyes and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Millie.”

“I mean it.” She pointed at you, backing down the hall. “I will drag you out of here if I have to. Preferably not by the hair, but I’ll do what I must.”

You laughed softly, and just like that, she was gone—leaving behind warmth in her wake.

A few blocks away, Kimi let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing outside a quiet café, phone pressed to his ear. The Monaco sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the sleek buildings and cobblestone streets.

“My place won’t be ready for a few more months,” he murmured into the phone, watching a group of teenagers skateboard across the square. “Still doing the kitchen, flooring, painting… all of it.”

His father’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm but filled with quiet concern. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the summer home? You don’t have to live in a hotel or whatever.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ve got options.” Kimi glanced around. “Just want to figure it out myself. Starting my life here, you know?”

There was a pause on the line before his dad spoke again. “Alright. But if you need us, if anything goes wrong, just say the word. You’re never alone out there, Kimi.”

He smiled faintly, nodding to himself. “I know. Thanks.”

After hanging up, he stepped onto the sidewalk, stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket and letting the breeze hit his face. Monaco had been a dream for a while—fresh start, new chapter, Formula 1 career in full swing. He had the money, the status, the success. But none of that helped with finding a place ready to live in right now. The luxury flat he’d purchased was stunning—top floor, sea view, sunlight flooding through tall windows—but far from move-in ready.

As he rounded a corner distractedly, his shoulder bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” he said immediately, looking up.

Amilla laughed, steadying herself and crouching down to pick up her phone. “No worries there. I’ve dealt with worse than being body-checked by someone who smells like expensive cologne.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She dusted off her phone and tucked it away. “I’ve been there. My brain’s a whirlwind right now. My friend—she’s kind of going through hell.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Amilla nodded, ready to talk like she’d known him for years. “Yeah. Her dad’s cutting her off, like boom, done. Next month’s rent is the last bit of help she’s getting.”

“That sucks,” Kimi muttered with a frown.

“Right? And she’s here in Monaco—alone, juggling two jobs, going to school, barely keeping it together. And her parents just bailed on her because her sister’s getting married. The whole Cinderella step-family situation.”

He blinked. “That’s… harsh.”

“Tell me about it,” Amilla said, adjusting her bag. “She’s too proud to ask for help. I keep offering. Hell, I told her to move in with me. I said I’d kick out my boyfriend if I had to. He wouldn’t even fight me on it.”

Kimi chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got her back.”

“Always,” she said.

He paused, thoughtful. “Actually… is she looking for a roommate?”

Amilla’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you psychic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I literally said earlier I’d help her find a roommate! I said I’d start asking around! And now, boom, here you are, asking me that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my place isn’t ready, and I don’t want to do hotels for months. I’ve been thinking about finding something temporary. If she’s got space…”

Amilla squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

“Good. You’re about to change someone’s life,” she said, pulling her phone out again. “What’s your name?”

“Kimi.”

She grinned. “Alright, Kimi. I think I’ve got someone you really need to meet.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The rain had faded into a soft drizzle by late afternoon, painting the Monaco streets in muted silver and gold. You were still wrapped in your hoodie and blanket, curled up on the couch as your laptop sat open on the coffee table—an unfinished motorsports engineering module on engine telemetry blinking back at you, completely ignored.

Your mind was elsewhere. Namely: rent, your sister’s wedding, and the gnawing ache of being left behind by the very people meant to love you unconditionally.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You shuffled toward it slowly, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a makeshift shield.

When you opened the door, Amilla stood there in her rain-damp hoodie, cheeks pink from the breeze and wearing a grin that made your suspicion kick in immediately.

“You brought something, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Technically someone,” she corrected, stepping aside.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled dark hair damp from the rain. A sharp jawline, hoodie pulled low, and deep brown eyes—warm, steady, quietly observing.

You knew that face instantly.

Kimi Antonelli.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Formula 1’s golden boy. Mercedes’ pride. The Kimi Antonelli, with a junior record longer than your coursework, and a fanbase that included a good half of your class. You’d watched his F2 performances like gospel before he ever made the jump to F1. His Monaco junior win? Practically mandatory viewing in your program.

And now he was standing on your doormat, like this was totally normal.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you said, voice slightly too high-pitched. “Um. Come in?”

He nodded and stepped inside, doing a polite scan of your modest flat while Amilla followed, already peeling off her coat like she owned the place.

“You didn’t say Kimi Antonelli,” you hissed at her, eyes wide as she flopped on the edge of your couch.

“Did I not?” she blinked. “I just said Kimi.”

“You said Kimi like he was some guy you bumped into, not like Kimi Antonelli, the Formula One driver who literally eats data for breakfast.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You gave her a pointed look, and then—without hesitation—grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

“Are you out of your mind?” you whisper-yelled.

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “He’s chill!”

“He’s also famous! Like, motorsports world famous. Do you not realize I wrote a paper on his F4 championship run last year? I have a graph on my laptop right now that literally has his race telemetry in it!”

Amilla blinked. “Wait. That’s him?”

“YES, Amilla. That’s him.”

She paused. Then grinned slowly. “Damn. Well. He’s cuter in person.”

“Not the point!”

You began pacing. “I can’t just… live with Kimi Antonelli. What if I geek out? What if I say something dumb? What if he sees my notes and realizes I analyze his braking patterns for fun?!”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Second, you’re acting like he’s a rock star or royalty. He’s just a dude who drives really fast and wears a fancy fireproof suit.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Amilla—”

“Hey. You need help. He needs a place. You both know how to change tires. It’s a match made in motorsports heaven.”

You blinked, exhaled hard, and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Fine. Cool. Calm.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Now put on your chill face. You’re the girl who knows how to recite FIA regulations from memory. You’ve got this.”

You nodded slowly, squaring your shoulders.

And then both of you walked back out to the living room like nothing had happened.

Kimi looked up from where he’d politely sat himself on the couch, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes flicked between the two of you with faint curiosity.

“Sorry,” Amilla said breezily. “Just a minor fashion emergency.”

You shot her a glare that she absolutely ignored.

You sat across from Kimi, trying to look neutral—cool, composed, totally not someone who once stayed up watching his entire rookie season highlight reel on YouTube.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re looking for a place, and I’m… well. Being kicked out by my parents. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

Kimi gave a small nod, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. My place won’t be ready until December. Renovations are taking longer than expected.”

“You’re in Monaco full-time?” you asked.

“For now. It’s a good base. I’m barely here during race weeks, anyway, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself.”

You nodded, your mind already calculating logistics: space, schedule, rent split. It could work. If you didn’t combust from awkward fan energy first.

“I mean,” Amilla chimed in with a grin. “She’s a motorsports engineering student, so if anything breaks, she can probably fix it better than your mechanics.”

You flushed slightly, and Kimi smiled—just barely, but it was there.

“That’s good to know,” he said, looking at you, not amused… but intrigued.

You swallowed, nodded once. “Okay. Trial run. One week. If we don’t kill each other, we can talk about extending it.”

“Fair enough.”

Amilla stood and stretched. “And with that, I have officially solved your housing crisis. You’re welcome, Monaco.”

You and Kimi both said at the same time, “It’s not like that.”

You paused.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

A beat.

Then, a flicker of a smile on both your faces.

Not like that… but maybe something was about to begin anyway

When Amilla left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoed just a little too loudly. And then came the silence. Heavy and awkward—not uncomfortable, just new.

You stood there for a second, not quite knowing where to start. Kimi stood across the room, still taking it all in, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as his brown eyes scanned your small, lived-in flat. No judgment, just quiet observation.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s not bad,” you said, gesturing around vaguely. “Small kitchen, yeah. And the lighting sucks at night—but it’s a decent two-bedroom. The second one’s kind of bland, just a guest room right now. But you’re free to do what you want with it. Move furniture. Put up posters. Burn sage. Whatever.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile. “Well… thank you. Seriously.”

You tucked your arms around yourself, half-shrugging. “And, uh, I mostly live on takeout. I work two jobs and still help pay for stuff around here, even when my dad was covering the rent. I also cover my school tuition, some bills, extra things. So if you get hungry, there’s some tea and sad leftovers, but… you’ll probably wanna grab something from down the street.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

You studied his expression for a second—unreadable, but not distant. Then you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and gave a sheepish laugh.

“I feel like a loser. I’m sorry you have to stay in a place this… bland.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Your friend told me the basics of your situation. So it’s fine. Really.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders. Not all, but enough to speak with less of a guard.

“At least we can make this work,” you said, crossing to the window and tugging at the blinds. The city outside glowed faintly through the mist. “You said your place will be ready by December. Until then, you can help with some bills, keep things running. And then when you move out, I’ll… probably move back home.”

He nodded. “Just tell me my half. I’ll take care of it.”

You hesitated. That quiet promise—I’ll take care of it—wasn’t something you were used to hearing without fine print.

Your life had always been private. Not by choice, just… survival. You’d learned to keep the details quiet, tucked behind tired smiles and vague explanations. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like Kimi was trying to push past that. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t giving advice. He was just here—in it, without judgment.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to breathe.

You gestured down the hall. “Guest room’s yours. Go ahead and check it out, unpack, move things around, whatever you need to do.”

“Sure thing,” he said, walking toward the hallway, then pausing as he turned to you. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Honestly… I’m kind of surprised you’re not freaking out.”

Your stomach flipped.

And deep down, you were. Your heart had been skipping beats since he first stepped inside.

You swallowed and gave a dry laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite buy it.

You sighed, rubbing your palm against the back of your neck. “Okay. Fine. I know who you are.”

His expression barely changed—just a slight lift of one brow, waiting.

“I study F1 alongside my main coursework,” you admitted, voice softening. “Motorsports engineering. I want to work in it—trackside, data, power unit management, maybe race strategy. You were in one of my research papers last semester.”

Kimi blinked.

“I broke down your Spa performance frame by frame for a telemetry analysis project,” you added, managing a nervous smile. “So, yeah. You being here? It feels a little fake. Like… dream-sequence, simulation glitch kind of fake.”

He smiled—just slightly, but you caught it. Not smug. Not flattered. Just… quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said, voice even, “give it a few days. It’ll feel real eventually.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-laughing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, the sound low and real, and disappeared down the hall to explore the guest room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the place he’d been, and whispered under your breath—

“Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t—”

But part of you already knew… it might be too late.

The rest of the day had gone by more smoothly than you expected. The initial awkwardness had faded into something calmer—comfortable, even. There were quiet stretches, soft conversation, and occasional shared glances that said this isn’t so bad without needing the words.

You’d talked a bit—about your schoolwork, the café job, the restaurant shifts, how most of your nights ended with sore feet and cold takeout. Kimi had listened more than he spoke, not in a disinterested way, but with a kind of quiet attention that felt rare. He didn’t cut you off. He didn’t pretend to know better. He just… listened.

By evening, you were both in pajamas, legs folded on the couch with a container of warm takeout between you. Something with noodles. Something comforting. Rain tapped gently at the windows while the TV played something forgettable in the background.

You set your food aside, wiping your fingers on a napkin as you grabbed your worn notebook from the table and flipped it open, pen already in hand.

“I’ll pick up some more shifts this week,” you said casually, scribbling a quick note. “Just so we’re even on bills. I don’t want you covering more than me.”

Kimi glanced over, chopsticks paused midair. “You don’t have to do that. I can pull more weight, if you need.”

You shook your head, still writing. “No. This is fifty-fifty. I’ll also get a copy of the spare key made tomorrow, just in case you come back when I’m out.”

He set his container down. “You’re going to take on extra shifts… on top of everything else?”

“Yep.” You underlined a word on your list and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“You have studies,” he pointed out, frowning slightly. “Lectures, labs, assignments—motorsports isn’t exactly light work.”

You leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly, pen still in hand. “Late turn-ins might happen. I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to understand how someone could be so… determined. Or maybe just stubborn.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not,” you replied softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m proving something to myself.”

He didn’t argue with that.

You gave a small shrug, voice growing quieter. “I want this to work. I don’t care if this is temporary. I don’t care if it’s just for a few months. I want it to feel fair while you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The light from the TV danced across his face—soft golds and blues washing over his expression.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think it’s impressive. What you’re doing.”

You blinked.

“Most people would’ve gone home by now,” he continued. “Most people do go home. You stayed. You work. You study. You make it all fit.”

Your chest ached a little, but in a different way now. It wasn’t the sharp loneliness from earlier this week—it was something gentler. Softer.

“Thanks,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

He gave a small nod, reaching for his food again. “I’ll pick up groceries tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. You can’t live off takeout forever.”

“Says the guy currently eating takeout.”

He looked over at you, a teasing glint in his eye. “Touché.”

You smiled, finally relaxing against the couch. Maybe it was the pajamas. Maybe it was the way the night had settled into something that felt like friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time in a long time someone had sat beside you and simply… stayed.

The flat was quiet, well into the night. The soft hum of city lights outside barely filtered through the windows, and the leftover scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air. You’d retreated to your room hours ago after a quick goodnight, worn out from juggling your shift and online coursework. The door clicked gently behind you, and that was that.

Kimi stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.

It wasn’t awkward—just still. Still enough to think.

He didn’t want to come off as distant or ungrateful. But truthfully, this wasn’t easy for him either. Living with someone new, especially someone he didn’t really know. Someone who clearly had their own world of weight on their shoulders. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize grit when he saw it.

And you… you carried it like armor.

He had a quiet respect for you, though he hadn’t said it yet. Not many people would’ve stayed here, held their ground, fought to keep their life afloat when it would’ve been easier to pack up and go home. And not many would’ve offered a total stranger a place to stay in the middle of that chaos.

He turned off the lights and disappeared into the spare room, the sheets still starchy from being unused, the space blank and untouched. But it didn’t feel cold—not completely. There was a softness to this place. Maybe because someone like you lived here.

The morning came with soft footsteps and the smell of faintly burnt toast.

It became a routine, surprisingly fast. Something you two practiced as soon as possible.

Within the two days there.

You were always up first, even if it was still dark outside, dragging your sleepy self into the bathroom and giving a quiet knock on his door before you passed, just in case. He appreciated that. Small things mattered.

You showed him where the towels were, left them folded on the counter. Showed him the shampoo, the toothpaste drawer, the stash of backup toothbrushes tucked behind the mirror.

“If you ever forget something or need extra, it’s all here,” you had said, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

And then you were gone—off to your early job with barely time to sip the coffee you made, leaving behind a note and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

Try to eat today.

Y/N

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the place was already quiet again, your energy gone with you. But the sandwich was warm. And the note made him smile, just a little.

Third day became comfortable to work with.

On your days off, the rhythm shifted. You were more present, still moving fast, but now he had company for breakfast, sometimes lunch, and always dinner. You cooked when you could—nothing extravagant, but warm and homemade. When you were too tired, you ordered in and refused to apologize for it.

And Kimi? He adjusted.

He took out the trash. Washed the dishes without being asked. Made you tea once when he noticed your eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. He didn’t say much, but he was paying attention.

Okay.

He could work with this.

He could fall into this groove, this quiet understanding between two people just trying to get by without falling apart. You had rules, a system, and he respected it. He wasn’t here to cause chaos. He was here to figure things out—and somehow, this… you… were a part of that now.

One week.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But as he sipped your burnt coffee with toast crumbs on his hoodie and the smell of your vanilla shampoo still clinging to the hallway…

He wasn’t so sure one week would be enough.

You had slipped into a routine almost seamlessly, like life had made space for this temporary chapter without complaint.

On the kitchen wall, a paper calendar hung—simple, handwritten, with your weekly schedule mapped out in black ink. Your shifts at the café, your online lectures, your study hours, all plotted in little boxes that dictated your time like clockwork. Kimi’s eyes had skimmed over it once or twice, and even though his own schedule didn’t quite match yours—morning workouts, sim sessions, team meetings—there was never a moment of tension. Just quiet understanding.

You didn’t hover. You didn’t pry. And neither did he.

A week. That was the plan.

Seven days to see if this could work.

But by day four, he already knew.

This wasn’t just working—this was comfortable. A still kind of comfort, something that wasn’t loud or needy, something that slipped into your bones without warning. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he did. He enjoyed the silence, the absence of pressure. The way nothing here was performative.

He came in that evening after a long workout, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie damp at the collar. The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting warm, tired light across the flat.

You were curled up on the couch, headphones in, completely unaware of him. Textbooks, printed PDFs, and sticky notes were spread out across the cushions and coffee table. Your laptop glowed in front of you, your eyes narrowed in concentration. Every now and then, you’d mumble a technical term or an answer under your breath, voice low and rhythmic like a chant.

Kimi paused at the entrance, hand on the back of his neck as he watched for a moment. You didn’t look up. You didn’t notice him.

And somehow, that made it better.

When you finally caught his presence in your peripheral vision, you pulled one earbud out, glancing up.

Your eyes met, and you gave a small, awkward wave.

He returned it—just a flick of his fingers—and nodded once before brushing past toward the hallway and into his room.

Day four.

So far, so good.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sounds of your quiet study session returned to fill the space again.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room, peeled off the hoodie, and let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. There was something about hearing you mutter suspension terms and fuel flow limits like gospel, seeing your notes taped to the table’s edge, your tired eyes lit by the glow of a laptop screen—that felt strangely grounding.

He didn’t know your whole story. Not yet. But he was starting to understand the edges of it.

You were built out of grit.

And maybe that’s what made the silence feel less empty.

He stepped back out for a moment, bare feet against the cold floor, heading into the kitchen for water. You didn’t say anything, didn’t pause your studying, but your gaze flicked up again—just briefly—as if to acknowledge him.

He filled his glass at the sink.

“I’m impressed,” he said finally, voice low.

You paused, blinking, earbud dangling from your hand. “By what?”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

You looked at your notes, then back at him with a small shrug. “Comes with the territory. Midterms are brutal.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be this… focused.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “Motorsport engineering isn’t exactly a soft degree.”

“No,” he said, sipping from his glass. “No, it’s not.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty. It sat between you comfortably, like something mutual. Something earned.

And as Kimi padded back to his room, that faint smile still lingered on your lips.

Maybe it was a small thing.

But for both of you?

It was a start.

Day five.

By now, the rhythm was second nature.

The soft knock on his door—your signal—and the faint patter of your feet across the hallway meant your day had started. It was always the same: your early morning shower, the hum of water behind the bathroom door, while Kimi moved through his own slow start to the morning. He’d pack his bag quietly, folding his team gear, checking emails from his phone, lacing his sneakers while the city was still wrapped in that soft Monaco hush.

He had a full day ahead—meetings with Mercedes, sim work, a debrief—but he didn’t mind the calm that came before it all.

You never rushed. Even when time was tight, there was a certain steadiness to the way you handled mornings.

In the bathroom, the mirror fogged as you brushed your teeth and combed through your damp hair, your internal monologue playing out as always—reminders, encouragement, quiet little pep talks. They helped you keep your shoulders squared and your head up, even on days when the exhaustion clung heavier than usual.

Once dressed and presentable, you slipped out, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag slung over one shoulder. As you stepped into the hallway, Kimi passed you without a word, offering a subtle nod, and disappeared into the bathroom in your wake.

No words. No need for them.

In the kitchen, you worked quickly, the familiar scent of eggs and toasted bread warming the small flat. You knew what he liked by now—even if he never said it out loud. The breakfast sandwich you made wasn’t anything special on paper, but you caught on to the way he always ate it first, the way he lingered at the counter longer on the days you made it fresh.

You wrapped it up carefully, not because it was fancy, but because you cared. Placed his drink beside it—just the way he liked it, not too sweet. And then came the little note.

Don’t skip breakfast. —Y/N

Same handwriting. Same casual tone. Still made him pause every time.

You grabbed your apron off the chair, looped your house key onto your wrist, and placed his key beside the sandwich. Neatly. Like clockwork.

And then, just like that, you were out the door.

Kimi stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, freshly showered, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. The scent of breakfast met him immediately, and the sight of that neat little package on the counter grounded him.

He reached for the note first, scanning the familiar handwriting. Then his eyes shifted to the calendar on the wall—your schedule for the day already penned in—knowing exactly when you’d be home and when you’d be gone.

He tucked the note into his pocket, grabbed the sandwich and drink, and then took the spare key. He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing over the countertop, like maybe he didn’t quite want to leave just yet.

The light above the stove was still on—your little habit of leaving a soft glow behind.

He turned it off before locking the door behind him.

Life was quiet.

Private.

Predictable, in a way neither of you had expected.

Something small, something stable.

But beneath all that simplicity… something else was beginning to take shape.

Something unspoken.

Something that mattered.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The soft hum of the heater and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall were the only sounds filling the flat. You’d just finished deep-cleaning—every surface wiped down, the floors swept and mopped until they glowed faintly under the warm light. The air smelled like lemon and something faintly floral. It was the kind of clean that let you breathe a little easier.

You sat on the couch, curled slightly toward Kimi, your legs tucked under you. He sat beside you, arms resting lazily on his thighs, his expression calm, even if his eyes looked a little sleepy from the long day. Comfortable. Familiar.

It had been a week.

Seven quiet days.

No lectures from your mother about how S/n’s career was thriving. No passive-aggressive remarks from your father about how much he had “invested” in you while praising your sister’s modeling contracts. No dinner table silences while your sister bragged about the next photoshoot or yacht trip. No constant comparison, no bitterness hanging in the air like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Just… this.

You. Him. Silence that wasn’t suffocating.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. And sometimes, his eyes spoke louder than any of your family’s noise ever had. Kimi had this stillness to him, a way of waiting for the right moment to speak—and when he did, it always came without judgment.

It felt right.

You reached for the paper you’d left on the coffee table—a page so carefully written it might as well have been a legal contract. You laid your pen across it and exhaled, letting the moment settle before you broke the quiet.

“Alright,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “Did you like the week here? Is it something you can actually see yourself doing until December?”

Kimi blinked slowly, thinking, then hummed in that low, thoughtful way he did. You gestured to the paper in front of you.

“If so, you can sign this.”

He leaned forward and picked it up, scanning the contents quietly. His brows furrowed slightly, reading more out of thoroughness than confusion. You explained softly, not wanting to break the gentle ease of the moment.

“It’s a rental agreement. Super basic—my version of it, at least,” you said with a dry chuckle. “I’m actually friends with the woman who owns this place. She’s old-school but sweet. She knows you’re here and told me to consider putting you on the lease. Said, ‘no freeloaders’”—you mimicked her voice and smiled faintly—“so this makes it official.”

Kimi’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Sounds fair.”

You nodded. “I can’t let you live here for free, no matter how temporary it is.”

But before you could say more, he looked up from the paper and said, “If I stay… we’ll have to make some adjustments.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been here for one week.”

He hummed in amusement, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah. And I already know this place needs help.”

You laughed under your breath. “You mean it’s bland.”

“I mean it’s lacking life. No offense, but this couch is tragic. And your curtains are basically grey bed sheets with commitment issues.”

You rolled your eyes, half-grinning. “Okay, interior designer.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, setting the paper down gently, “If I’m staying, let’s make it a place that feels like both of ours. Doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just… something that doesn’t feel like you’ve been surviving.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I know I come from money,” you admitted, your voice quieter, “but my parents are currently acting like I don’t exist. So asking for help to redo the place? Not an option.”

Kimi nodded once, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then let me pay for it.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t let you do that. I work two jobs, I’m managing—”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone,” he cut in gently. “Let me.”

You opened your mouth, and he beat you to it.

“You work in the mornings, come home looking half-dead, then study like your future’s balanced on a wire. You barely sleep. You live off instant noodles and cold coffee. You’ve done all this on your own, and I get it, that’s who you are—but I’m not going to sit here for the next few months pretending I don’t see it.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, breath caught somewhere between protest and something softer.

Kimi leaned back a little, resting his elbow on the couch arm. “I’m not trying to buy you a gold chandelier. I’m just saying… we pick a day, go shopping, you tell me what you like, and I’ll cover it.”

You frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me for letting you stay.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “I want to do this because I can.”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t used to people offering without strings. Without guilt. Without expectation.

You looked down at the contract, the pen still sitting atop it.

Quiet filled the space again. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something unfinished. It felt like a turning point.

“You’re not going to vanish in three weeks, are you?” you asked softly, still not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Kimi replied, just as soft. “Not unless you kick me out.”

You finally looked at him, searching his face for anything false. But all you saw was that same steadiness he’d had since day one. Calm. Certain. A little sleepy, sure—but sincere.

You reached for the pen.

“Okay,” you said, pushing it toward him. “Let’s make this official."

The pen hit the paper with a soft click, sealing it—simple, final, and strangely relieving.

It was official now. You weren’t doing this alone anymore.

You took a quiet breath as Kimi signed his name, and the air in the flat felt different. Not heavier. Not tenser.

Lighter.

You picked up your phone from the coffee table and sent a quick text to Amilla.

“He signed. It’s official. Thank you—for everything.”

It didn’t take her long to reply.

“Of course. I told you—he’s not just a pretty face. Proud of you, roomie.” Followed by a row of glitter and key emojis.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Amilla always knew what to say without making it dramatic. She understood your silences, your hesitations, and your need for caution in a world that felt far too quick to invade your peace.

You glanced back at Kimi, who was watching you calmly, waiting.

"Okay," you said, folding the paper. "Just want to make one thing clear.”

He straightened slightly, giving you his full attention.

“I don’t do media. I don’t want to be posted, tagged, or casually snapped in a background photo. My sister? She lives for the spotlight. She’d swim in flashing cameras if she could. But me?” You shook your head. “I prefer privacy. I like my life to be mine. So, if we’re going to make this roommate thing work—please don’t bring attention to me.”

Kimi’s gaze didn’t waver. His brown eyes softened with something that felt close to understanding. “Of course. I post what I need to for the team, for the sport. But outside of that? I keep things quiet. You have my word, Y/n. I won’t expose anything.”

You held out your hand, pinky slightly raised like muscle memory. “Shake on it?”

He grinned a little, grasping your hand in a warm shake. “We’re friends,” you added, voice light.

“And roommates,” he added back with a small nod.

The week rolled forward, and so did the rhythm.

The routine didn’t shift much—early mornings, overlapping schedules, the quiet handoffs between your departures and his returns. But your shoulders were looser now. Work didn’t feel like a crushing weight. Studying didn’t feel like climbing uphill with a backpack full of bricks. Everything was still hard—but it was… quieter. Easier, in the smallest of ways.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone was standing beside you rather than watching from the sidelines.

The café was slow for a Monday.

You’d just finished ringing out a customer and were stepping back behind the counter to grab your notepad when the soft chime above the door rang again. You glanced up instinctively.

Kimi.

You blinked in surprise and immediately leaned over the counter, lowering your voice like it was instinct. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “I came to see you.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, but there was no real bite behind it. “Kimi…”

“I’d be a fool to let my friend work herself to the bone without checking in,” he added smoothly.

You let out a small sigh, trying not to smile. “And I’d be a fool if I let you get caught loitering and end up in a gossip column. You want the entire internet dissecting who I am?”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Fair enough.”

You turned toward the register, keying in a simple drink order. “I’ll put something in, that way you’re not technically just standing here. Plus, it gives me cover.”

“Appreciate the protection,” he teased lightly.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You handed him a receipt stub as you passed by the espresso machine.

“You’re really keeping a low profile, huh?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you said, not turning to look at him. “I like it that way. My Instagram is private, barely used. I don't share my life unless I want to. It’s the only thing that still feels like mine.”

He hummed, and part of you wondered—had he looked? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were rooming with a professional driver; you Googled him on night one.

Still, he didn’t push.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, voice casual again.

You blinked, grabbing a clean cup. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought… if you’re free, maybe we go look at some stuff for the apartment. Pick out a few things. You know, make this place feel more like a home.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. That offer again. He wasn’t letting it go.

“I’m free all morning,” you said, not looking up yet. “But I have a night shift. My other job needs extra waitresses, so I picked up the shift.”

He nodded, understanding. “Then we make it a morning thing. Quick. No pressure.”

You finally looked at him, and he was already watching you—steady, quiet, but warm.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Morning it is.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning was shared with soft conversation and quiet plans, the kind that filled the silence with something comforting instead of heavy. You sat at the small kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Your handwriting trailed across the page in your usual organized chaos—eggs, bread, frozen dumplings, oat milk, shampoo… life stuff. It felt normal.

Kimi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes casually following the motion of your hand. The morning light filtered in, casting everything in a warm hue, making your little flat feel more like a home than it ever had before.

You paused mid-word and glanced up at him, brow quirking. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a cap and sunglasses inside the apartment?”

He didn’t move, just shrugged lightly. “Habit.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re trying to go incognito at a gas station.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

You gave him a look, your tone more amused than annoyed. “There’s no one out to get you here. Just me. And I already know your face.”

He pulled the sunglasses off slowly, a sigh slipping out as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know,” he muttered. “But I’m trying here, okay? You said you didn’t want attention, media… all that. So, I figured I could at least try to be forgettable in public.”

Your pen stilled in your hand, and for a moment you just looked at him—really looked at him.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was doing it for you.

The realization bloomed in your chest like something soft and painful all at once. He wasn’t obligated to care. But he did. In his quiet, awkward way—this was his way of protecting you, of making sure you didn’t end up on someone’s Twitter thread just because he happened to walk beside you.

Your voice softened, a quiet thanks behind your words. “That’s… actually really sweet of you.”

He just hummed, like he didn’t know what to say to that. You knew him well enough by now to know that was his version of you’re welcome.

By the time you both made it to the car, you had your list folded neatly and tucked into your pocket, though you were beginning to suspect it would be completely ignored. The second you sat in the passenger seat and buckled up, you could tell—Kimi had other plans.

“So,” you began cautiously, glancing over at him as he started the engine, “we’re getting small stuff. Essentials. That’s the plan.”

He shook his head slowly, pulling into the road, eyes forward. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“We’re getting a new TV,” he said plainly. “Couch. Kitchen stuff. Bathroom. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. And for the love of everything—bedroom upgrades. Especially yours.”

You looked at him like he had just declared war on your minimal existence. “Kimi, we agreed—small stuff. Like groceries and maybe one decorative plant.”

He gave you a look, one brow raised as he turned down a quiet street.

“I’ve been living here for over a week,” he said. “Your mattress is basically an ancient fossil, your desk chair is about to lose a leg, and your closet door literally moans in pain every time you open it.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, then sighed dramatically. “Okay… fair. But still.”

“You’ve made this place work on survival mode,” he continued, more gently now. “You deserve something that feels good. Comfortable. I’m not saying go full luxury—just let it feel like a real home.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your seatbelt. “But I can’t let you buy all of that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not offering charity,” he said. “I’m offering a living space. One we both share. I can afford it. You already do everything—work, study, clean, cook. Let me cover the things I can.”

You looked over at him, the weight of those words anchoring you somewhere deep in your chest. He wasn’t pitying you. He was trying to meet you where you stood—without ego, without strings.

“…Fine,” you murmured. “But only if I get to pick the color scheme.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “As long as it’s not mustard yellow.”

You gasped. “That’s literally the color of one of the pillows we bought!”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re the worst.”

“Yet somehow, still your roommate.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest as the car rolled to a stoplight, the city opening up ahead of you.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading what came next.

You were almost… excited.

And that?

That was new.

The engine hummed softly beneath you, the city passing in a blur of stone buildings and pastel balconies as Kimi drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the air between you both was easy, like it had settled into something comfortable.

You glanced over at him, your cheek resting against your knuckles. “So… when you leave for race week, I’m gonna be that person screaming at the TV.”

Kimi glanced at you with a half-smile, not taking his eyes off the road. “You better be. I expect dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get commentary,” you said, chuckling. “But you better FaceTime me. I’m expecting updates, track gossip, paddock drama—the works.”

“I will,” he said, a little more serious now. “I’ll call you when I can. Keep the routine alive.”

You hummed at that, watching the sun filter through the windshield. “And don’t blow your cover,” you added after a beat, voice softer. “No one knows we live together. No one even knows who I am. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

He nodded once, understanding instantly. “I got you. I’ll keep it quiet.”

There was a short pause before a grin slowly tugged at your lips. “But… if you can get me something signed by Fernando Alonso—a cap, a shirt, I’m not picky—I’ll cook you pasta every night. Real pasta. Handmade if I have time.”

That made him turn his head slightly, one brow lifting with amused surprise. “Pasta every night?”

You nodded solemnly. “Every night.”

He let out a short laugh, eyes flicking back to the road as he leaned into the turn. “That’s not just a gift, that’s blackmail.”

“No, no,” you grinned. “It’s an incentive.”

He smirked, voice lower now, warm and teasing. “An offer… I don’t think a man like me can resist.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching him for a moment, the way his brown eyes were focused ahead, but still so present. You liked that about him. He was quiet, but he always listened.

“Don’t say I never gave you motivation,” you teased.

He glanced at you again with a smile that lingered just a little longer this time. “Noted.”

You ended up picking the couch. A warm, earthy-toned sectional that felt like a soft exhale—something that said home without trying too hard. Next came the dining table, a sleek but simple wooden one with enough room for two, maybe three if Amilla ever dropped by for dinner. Then you spotted it—a recliner, tucked off to the side, and you didn’t even mean to sit down, but once you did, it hugged you in such a way that your body didn’t want to leave it. Kimi noticed. So, it went on the list too.

From there, it was like watching your little flat bloom into something real. Something full of intention.

Fairy lights for the walls.

A couple of canvas prints for that one blank space you always avoided looking at.

Even the tiniest shelf with enough room for a few potted plants—or maybe books you never had time to read but liked having around anyway.

You picked out soft, neutral bedding for your room and a handful of throw pillows that didn’t match perfectly, but felt right. Kimi made a few quiet selections too—storage boxes, an extra lamp, some new towels for the bathroom that didn’t feel like sandpaper. He never said much, but you could tell he was already picturing how it would all fit together.

When the cashier rang everything up and the number flashed on the screen, your stomach dropped.

“Kimi—” you started, already reaching to pull a few items off the cart, “this is too much. Let’s take some of it back. I don’t need half of this.”

But before you could even finish your sentence, Kimi had already stepped forward, card in hand, voice calm and unfazed. “It’s fine.”

And he meant it.

He paid, like it was nothing, and the delivery team promised your furniture would arrive within the next couple days. The receipt was long, the kind that curled when it printed. You just stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the reality that someone had just… given you all of this without asking for anything in return.

When you walked out of the store, sunlight warming your face and shopping bags in hand, you were quiet. Too quiet. Until finally, you sighed.

“That cost a lot.”

Kimi gave a nonchalant hum. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it is fine,” he repeated with a small smile, eyes forward as he unlocked the car. “This is your home. I’m just helping it feel like one.”

You slid into the passenger seat, placing the smaller bags down by your feet. “I still can’t believe you’re willing to switch everything around just for me.”

He laughed under his breath as he buckled in. “I’m living there too, remember? You’re not redecorating alone anymore.”

You leaned your head against the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No guilt trip. Just quiet, genuine assurance—something you weren’t used to, but were beginning to understand might just be a part of who Kimi was.

“And next,” he added casually, “we’ll pick up supplies to patch the chipped floorboards near the wall. Something small. Just enough to make everything feel put together.”

You let out a soft laugh, half in disbelief, half in appreciation. “You’re full-on nesting in a place that isn’t even yours yet.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like it is.”

And somehow, without warning, you smiled—real, wide, warm. For the first time in a long while, things felt… settled.

Almost like home.

Kimi stuck to his word, no hesitation in sight. Every aisle you turned down, he was already ahead of you—reaching for things, checking labels, adding what was needed into the cart like it was second nature.

The cart rolled steadily through the store, now packed with the tools to build a real kitchen: a sleek new toaster, pots and pans that matched for once, an entire set of plates and matching cups, fresh utensils, and a modern coffee maker that caught your eye the second you saw it. Without needing to ask, he grabbed it.

“I figured you’d want that,” he said simply, like he could already picture you bleary-eyed at six in the morning with a mug in hand.

He got you everything—forks, spoons, knives, spatulas, even those oddly specific gadgets you didn’t think anyone ever bought: a garlic press, a lemon zester. Things you didn’t even know you’d use. You walked beside him in a slow stroll, taking it all in.

“Mugs,” you said with a little grin, glancing toward the display.

Kimi slowed down. “Pick one for you and one for me,” he said casually.

You stepped toward the shelf, trailing your fingers over the rows. Some were too cheesy, some too plain. Then your eyes landed on two—ceramic, slightly misshapen, one a warm rust color and the other a faded olive green. They had tiny, subtle ridges like they were handmade. Not flashy. Not perfect. But something about them felt like home.

“These,” you said quietly, turning and gently placing them into the cart like they were delicate treasures.

He looked at them, then at you, and smiled softly. “Good pick.”

The cart moved again. You strolled past more shelves, and he kept the pace. Easy. No pressure.

“Mixer,” you said aloud, stopping beside a bright red stand mixer. “Maybe… we could bake sometime. I’m not amazing at it, but it could be fun.”

Without missing a beat, Kimi reached over, lifting the box like it weighed nothing and placing it in the cart.

“Okay,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Your wish is my command.”

You shot him a look, amused. “Don’t spoil me, Antonelli.”

“Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

The moment settled in the quiet between you—something soft and certain, like the edges of a new beginning forming gently under your feet.

And for once, as you both moved through the store with a shared cart, laughter in your voices and warmth in your chest, you didn’t feel like you were doing life alone.

When you finally made it back to the flat, both of you carrying bags and boxes in hand, laughter still lingered in the air—left over from small jokes shared during checkout and the minor chaos of trying to stack everything in the trunk.

The front door closed behind you with a soft thud, and the two of you stood there for a second, surrounded by the beginning of something new. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, bags full of spices and pasta, mugs and plates waiting to be unwrapped. The flat didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like it was becoming lived in.

You let out a small breath and smiled to yourself, proud of how much you’d gotten done. Then you turned to Kimi, eyes sparkling with something that sat somewhere between gratitude and peace.

“We’ll start putting this all together once the furniture gets here,” you said, motioning toward the boxes. “One big transformation day.”

He nodded with a soft hum, watching you.

“But I’ve got work tonight,” you added with a small pout. “So the construction chaos will have to wait a little.”

You turned, heading to your room with that signature lightness in your step—almost a bounce, like you were holding onto a piece of joy and didn’t want to drop it. “I’ll see you later,” you called over your shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable without me!”

The door clicked behind you as you went to get ready, and Kimi stood still for a moment in the quiet. His gaze moved slowly over the space—the stacked bags, the half-full cart of potential, the two mismatched mugs resting near the sink.

And then, softly, his lips tugged into a smile.

You were from money, he knew that. A background like yours wasn’t exactly subtle, and yet… you didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t wear it like a badge. You were grounded, driven, and quietly carrying more weight than most people would ever realize. You worked long shifts, studied harder than you let on, and gave even when you had barely anything left for yourself.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch—the old one for now—and exhaled slowly.

There was something in him, quietly steady, that wanted to shield that goodness in you. Not because you were fragile. But because you shouldn’t have to keep doing it all alone.

And if he could be even a small part of what made this place feel like home for you?

Then yeah.

He was in.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Home.

That’s what it finally felt like.

It wasn’t just a flat anymore—it was yours and his, the quiet rhythm of two people who carved out peace together. The new furniture had arrived earlier that week, and now every corner of the flat whispered comfort. It had been a chaotic but rewarding few days of unpacking, assembling, arranging, laughing over misplaced screws and instruction manuals that made no sense.

The living room was the heart of it all—anchored by the plush, warm-toned couch you had chosen together. The fairy lights cast a soft glow above it, golden and gentle, curling along the wall like a constellation you could trace with your eyes. The throw blanket was folded neatly at one end, pillows fluffed and arranged with just enough care to make it inviting without looking staged. A soft rug sat under the coffee table, grounding the room in cozy textures. The TV was mounted on the wall, sleek and new, with shelves on either side now filled with a growing collection of plants, books, and tiny personal touches.

Even the smallest things made it feel like home—the simple wooden hanger near the door with your two keys hanging side by side, the hallway now holding canvas art that added charm without clutter. The recliner you’d fallen in love with was tucked into the perfect reading corner. The bathroom sparkled with fresh towels, little containers for soaps and lotions, and a faint citrus scent that felt crisp and clean. The dining table, small but elegant, was exactly right for the two of you—and with a third chair, a place always waiting for Amilla.

But it was the kitchen that made you smile the most. Fully stocked, full of life. Mugs on hooks. A new kettle, the mixer you insisted on getting, labeled jars for pasta and spices, the fridge humming quietly. It smelled like something warm had just been baked—or maybe it was just the scent of being settled for once. Safe.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out whatever the world was doing outside. The world could wait. In here, everything felt still. Content.

You were curled up on the couch, your legs lazily draped across Kimi’s lap, a controller in your hand. He leaned back beside you, one hand on his own controller, the other resting just behind your knees like it belonged there. The screen in front of you glowed with colors, characters zipping past each other in the chaos of Mario Kart.

“Save your shell!” you warned, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Do not use it on me.”

Kimi laughed—an actual, full laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his face. “No promises.”

You glanced at him with mock betrayal. “Kimi—”

But the moment you turned your attention back to the screen, the shell launched. Your kart spun in place. The controller dropped slightly in your lap as you looked at him, offended but smiling.

“I knew it.”

“Sorry,” he said through a grin, not sounding sorry at all.

When he won the race, you sighed dramatically, tossing your controller gently to the side as you turned to him. “Okay, you win. Champion of the living room. You pick dinner.”

He leaned his head back slightly, thinking. “How about pasta tonight? Something easy.”

You smirked. “Pasta? That’s your whole legacy, Antonelli. You better treat the dish with the honor it deserves.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, nudging your leg with his knee. “I’ll be gentle.”

There was something so easy about this. The way he kept your world private, respected your boundaries, let you breathe. You knew who he was to the world—an F1 driver, a rising star, someone who had the spotlight whether he asked for it or not. But in this space, in these quiet domestic moments, he didn’t feel like a celebrity. He felt like a person. Like someone who was kind, grounded, funny in a quiet, sarcastic way.

Like a friend.

Maybe something more, but you weren’t ready to name it yet.

The two of you wandered into the kitchen, and you pulled your favorite apron off the hook. As you held it up, Kimi stepped in behind you without a word. You stilled for just a second as his fingers grazed your waist, tying the strings neatly behind your back. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate—anchoring. His movements were careful, not rushed, not assuming. Just present.

“Alright, chef,” he said softly, his breath warm by your ear. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You turned to him, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Just remember… if I mess this up, it’s because you distracted me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

You nodded, poking his chest with a finger. “Entirely your fault.”

And with that, the two of you moved into a shared rhythm—boiling water, chopping garlic, stirring sauce. There was music playing quietly from your phone, your laughter bubbling up now and then between stories and sarcastic comments. He handed you the basil when you asked for parsley. You pretended to fire him. He offered to grate cheese and almost grated his knuckle.

By the time the pasta hit the plates, the kitchen was a mess and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

But the food was good. The company was better.

The two of you sat across from one another at the dining table, plates nearly cleared, the faint aroma of garlic and basil still clinging to the air. The candle between you flickered softly, casting a golden hue across the space that now truly felt like home.

Kimi's phone sat beside his plate, screen lighting up every few seconds with a vibration, then going dim again. It kept happening—buzz, light, pause. Over and over. But he didn’t look at it. Not once. Just kept twirling his fork idly, listening to the soft music in the background, occasionally meeting your eyes when you spoke.

But you looked at it. You noticed. And curiosity had a way of growing teeth if you didn’t feed it. So, before you could stop yourself, your mouth was already moving.

“What happened to…” you hesitated, pretending to focus on your plate for a moment. “Eliska Babickova?”

His head turned slightly, slowly—eyes meeting yours with a stillness that made your stomach flip. Not accusatory. Not angry. But surprised. As if you'd just unlocked a door you weren’t supposed to find.

“I know her,” you clarified quickly, your voice soft. “I study motorsport engineering, I follow F1 like it’s religion. I’ve seen her. At races. The photos. The beginning of the season—she was in that list of WAGs, right?”

Kimi stayed quiet for a second longer than was comfortable, and you regretted asking already. Then he hummed.

“We still talk,” he said, calmly, as he leaned back in his seat. His tone was neutral, but it didn’t soothe the way your heart twisted in your chest.

You nodded slowly, your hands folding into your lap. You hated how your voice wavered just a little next. “Are you two… still together?”

This time, his gaze met yours directly, and it wasn’t cold—it was just unreadable. He didn’t frown. Didn’t shift. Just… looked at you. Carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out, waving your hand in dismissal. “That was too personal. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean—living with a girl would be kind of a thing if you were still in a relationship, so I guess I just wondered and—”

“Sometimes,” Kimi said, interrupting gently, “some things should stay personal.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just firm. Like a closed door with a sign that read not right now.

Still, it stung.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was thick enough to notice. You laughed—too quickly, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Totally fair,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “Totally agree. Mind my business.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just shifted his focus back to the last bite on his plate.

You pushed your own food around with your fork, lips pressing together as you tried not to let the disappointment show. You’d let yourself get too comfortable, too familiar. You thought you were close enough to ask. And maybe that was the worst part—feeling like you misread the closeness that had begun to build between you.

Still, you said nothing more, and he didn’t offer further explanation.

And somehow, the candle in the center of the table flickered just a little smaller.

The plates between you were mostly cleared, the soft clinking of silverware the only sound in the apartment for a few moments. The flicker of candlelight danced across the table, and Kimi’s phone buzzed again on the table beside his plate, lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Still, he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly and exhaled, voice low. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

You glanced up at him from where you were nudging the last bit of pasta on your plate. “Race week?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You nodded too, slowly, then your eyes flicked down toward your phone. “My sister’s engagement party is coming up.” Your tone was flat, almost rehearsed. “Figured I’d go back home for it.”

His brows drew together slightly in concern. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

That question hit something deeper than expected. Your fingers tightened around your fork, then relaxed. “They’re my family, Kimi. Not wild animals.”

“I know,” he said gently, his voice calm, not challenging. “But… you’ve said it yourself, things are complicated with them. I just thought—”

“Some things should stay personal,” you snapped softly, and as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

There was a pause. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You sighed, rubbing your palm along the tablecloth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes lifted to meet his. “It just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Kimi gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “No offense taken.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, then set it down and leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want me to come with you?”

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“To the party,” he clarified. “If you send me the date and it’s after my main race day, I’ll try to make it.”

You hesitated, taken aback by the offer. “Kimi, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I will if you want me there.”

You studied his face for a moment. Calm, sincere. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his tone—just quiet support. You weren’t used to that. Especially not from someone who knew how messy your family dynamic could be.

You looked down at your hands, then back up. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t press for more.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The apartment felt different that morning—quieter, not just in sound, but in energy. You stood by the kitchen island, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, while Kimi double-checked his bag near the door.

His flight was in a couple of hours, but he was already in that focused headspace. That calm, steady rhythm he slid into whenever the track called.

“You have everything?” you asked softly, taking a small sip from your mug.

Kimi glanced over his shoulder at you, nodding. “Yeah. I packed last night. Triple-checked it this morning just to be sure.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you again. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… hoping I survive this engagement party.”

He chuckled gently, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Remember, if it gets bad, pretend you have to take an urgent call from a Formula 1 driver. Very important business.”

You snorted softly. “Right. I’ll just hold my phone upside down and dramatically whisper race terms until someone asks me to leave.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren’t ready to say goodbye, but the moment was here.

“You’ll text me?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll call when I can. FaceTime, even. I want updates. I don’t care if it’s about the party or what you had for lunch. Just… let me know how you’re doing.”

You looked up at him, something warm and strange blooming in your chest. “I will.”

Kimi reached out and squeezed your shoulder gently. “You’ve got this.”

And then he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps down the hall, silence trailing in his place.

You stood there for a while, hands still on your mug, eyes on the door. It was always harder than it should’ve been, watching him go.

The train ride home was long, but you stared out the window most of the way, earbuds in, playlist running. You barely noticed the other passengers. Your thoughts were too loud. Every bump of the train reminded you of how long it had been since you saw your family—how much longer it had been since you felt seen by them.

You checked your phone once as you pulled into your hometown’s station. A message from Kimi waited for you.

Kimi: Let me know how it goes. You’ve got this.

You smiled at the screen, then slipped it back into your pocket.

The car pulled up slowly to the gates of your childhood home—if you could even call it that. The towering black iron bars buzzed and creaked open as the driver entered the code, revealing the winding driveway and pristinely landscaped hedges that led up to the mansion.

It looked the same. It always did. White stone exterior, tall windows, a fountain in the center of the roundabout that sparkled like it was polished every other hour. The house was pristine, glossy… almost too perfect. Like it had nothing to do with love or comfort. Just… image.

You stepped out slowly, grabbing your bag from the back seat. The air was different here. Sharper. Clean, but in a suffocating way.

As you reached the large oak doors, they opened before you could knock.

“Y/n,” your father greeted, his tone clipped but polite. He wore that usual warm-but-distant smile he saved for company. “You’re early.”

“You said to come today,” you replied, stepping inside.

The foyer was massive. The floors shined so bright they reflected the chandelier overhead. Expensive artwork lined the hallway. You hated how you could still name each piece—your mother had made sure of it growing up.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the punctuality. Leave your bag with Marta. She’ll have it taken to your room,” he said, gesturing to one of the housekeepers who approached silently.

You hesitated, keeping your grip on the handle for just a second longer before letting it go.

He clapped his hands once. “Right, we’ve got quite a schedule ahead. The engagement party is Friday evening, obviously. But until then—tomorrow is the spa day. Your mother and S/n planned it. Girls only.” He gave you a pointed look, as if daring you to protest. “Thursday, we have the formal dinner with the groom’s family. You’re expected to attend. Friday morning, there’ll be a brunch, then hair and makeup appointments in the afternoon before the party.”

You nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“Good,” he said, and just as he was about to turn away, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Well, well. Look who finally came crawling back.”

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakably smug.

“Damon,” you said flatly, turning to face your sister’s fiancé.

Damon was exactly as you remembered—clean-shaven, smug grin, cologne heavy in the air around him. He stood there like he owned the place already, hands in the pockets of his slacks, blazer slightly too sharp for a casual day at home.

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you said under your breath.

He chuckled, catching the words but pretending not to. “Well, it’ll be… interesting to have you around. Try not to ruin too many photo ops.”

You forced a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll try not to stand in your spotlight. Wouldn’t want to overshadow your hair gel.”

Your father cleared his throat, annoyed. “Let’s keep things civil, both of you.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Just get through it. Get through the week, get through the party, and go home.

Damon walked past you, shoulder brushing yours a little too hard to be accidental.

“Your room’s been made up the same as before,” your father said, walking ahead. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Your mother will want to see you before then.”

You followed him quietly, eyes scanning the walls as you walked down the hallway. The same family portraits hung—S/n front and center in every one. You were there too… off to the side. A ghost in the background.

Still, you said nothing.

Just one more week. Then you could go back to the place that felt like home. Back to Kimi, back to peace. Because this house, no matter how grand it looked, never gave you that.

You can stick it out, you believed it.

Tried to believe it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the grand dining room, where the long oak table was perfectly set for four. The chandelier overhead sparkled against the early sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows, bouncing off crystal glasses and untouched butter knives. You sat near the end, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, the edges of your toast untouched on the porcelain plate in front of you.

Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, while your mother idly stirred her tea. Your sister, across from you, chewed thoughtfully on a piece of melon, legs crossed and posture flawless, like every part of her was curated for a camera that wasn’t even there.

“So,” your father began, voice calm but distant, “how is Monaco?”

You looked up, surprised he was even addressing you directly.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, setting the cup down. “Busy. But manageable.”

He nodded once. “And after next month? Any plans for where you’ll go?”

You blinked, heartbeat skipping as you tried to gather the words, but before you could even breathe them out, your sister’s voice cut through.

“Well, it’s not her fault, Daddy,” she began with a syrupy sweet tone, “that you had to cut her off. Weddings are expensive, and mine will be... well, unforgettable. So I get it.” She smiled across the table at you like she’d just offered you a compliment. “But hey—who says you need money, or a plan? You don’t even need a man. Not a good one, anyway.”

You tilted your head, lips pressed into a tight line.

She wasn’t finished.

“I mean... there’s always some guy out there who wants the quiet, weird ones,” she said, waving her hand airily. “The engineer types, motorsport whatever girls... you know the ones. Nerdy, socially average. Dorky. Harmless. Basically invisible.”

You flinched but kept your expression flat. You stabbed at your eggs with the fork, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Monaco’s been good,” you tried again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Amilla. We’ve been hanging out more lately.”

She gave a laugh, sharp and polished. “One friend. In a whole country. That’s... tragic.”

You said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t want to model,” she continued with a mock frown. “You could’ve had everything. The travel, the outfits, the name. Instead, you picked... online college and being poor.” She smiled again, then sipped her juice.

Your mother glanced at her briefly but said nothing. Your father didn’t even look up from his plate.

“And let’s be honest,” she added. “You’ll never get the business anyway. That’s mine. Everyone knows that. You’re just...” She paused, searching for the word, eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. “Laying on the ground, like a dog. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever be to something real. To something... elevated.”

You stared at your plate, your jaw tightening.

Not one word from your parents.

Not even a disapproving look.

Your stomach twisted, not just from the insult, but from their silence. That had always been the loudest part.

She sat back, satisfied. Like it had been a game and she’d won.

You closed your eyes for half a second, imagining your flat in Monaco. The fairy lights. The new couch. The coffee mugs. The smell of fresh pasta.

Kimi.

His silence had more warmth than this whole table did. His quiet glances held more value than all your father’s hollow compliments to her.

You swallowed thickly and pushed your chair back just slightly.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you. Not that you expected them to.

Because they never did.

Outside, the sun poured down like warm silk across your skin, the stone patio heated beneath your bare feet as you sat tucked beneath one of the garden umbrellas. The distant sound of sprinklers clicking to life blended with the chirping of birds, the scene almost peaceful—almost.

Your phone rested in your palm, thumb hesitating just above the call icon beneath Kimi’s name. The longer you stared at it, the more uncertain you felt. You wanted to hear his voice. Something steady. Familiar. Something that didn’t belong to this house or the people inside it.

But then, a buzz. A message. From Amilla.

Your chest tightened the moment you saw the preview.

“This the guy you live with, right?”

Brows furrowing, you tapped it open.

A photo.

It didn’t even need a caption. Your stomach dropped before you could stop the spiral from beginning.

There he was.

Kimi. Dressed casually. Sunglasses on. Hand in hand with her.

Eliška Babickova. Long legs, perfect smile, soft curls bouncing around her shoulders. She looked effortless, like she always did in magazines. Even her stride beside him looked... matched. Like they belonged there, walking down that sun-drenched street, hand in hand.

Your heart twisted in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So they were still together.

You stared at the photo for a long moment, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling suffocating, pressing down against your chest like gravity itself was conspiring to crush you.

A small voice inside you tried to rationalize it—They talk, he told you that. He never lied... you just never asked again. But another voice, the one you’d been quieting all week, whispered something harsher: You let yourself believe it meant something. That the dinners, the laughs, the way he looked at you—it was different. That maybe he stayed for more than just a couch.

Your finger hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding.

You wanted to call him. Ask. Demand clarity. Cry.

But instead, you just sighed. A deep, bitter sigh.

You typed a short reply to Amilla:

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Then you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket.

No call. No message.

You would sit this one out. Because getting attached was your mistake. And the price of that mistake… was swallowing this silence.

Alone.

The day dragged on, the sun high above the manicured estate as if mocking you from its place in the sky. You sat quietly between your mother and sister inside the serene spa lounge, draped in a robe, legs crossed, warm steam brushing against your skin. But even surrounded by luxury, lavender-scented towels, and softly humming music—you felt suffocated.

Their laughter floated through the air like perfume—light, shallow, rehearsed. Your mother talked about floral arrangements for the engagement party while your sister chimed in about designer gowns and imported champagne, their voices rising and falling like a song you could no longer sing along to.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even try.

You were just... there. A body filling space.

No one noticed how your smile never reached your eyes, how your fingers dug into the plush arm of the spa chair whenever your sister said something smug. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well and left—but even the idea of going back to that mansion, alone in that too-big guest room, felt worse.

You kept thinking of Monaco. Of the cozy flat. Of quiet mornings and shared coffee. Of Kimi.

And then the weight would drop into your stomach again.

Because that picture was proof.

You were never more than a placeholder.

The thought ate at you as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the steam doing nothing to ease the chill crawling into your chest. You had finally started to feel beautiful there, next to him. Valuable. And now you were back here—fitting like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Meanwhile, across the channel, in the dim hum of the Mercedes garage, Kimi stood silently, gaze fixed on the setup in front of him. Mechanics worked around him, voices buzzing in the background, but his mind had wandered. He barely flinched when a pair of lips brushed behind his ear.

“Can you not?” he muttered, stepping to the side with a quiet exhale.

Eliška laughed softly behind him, brushing a hand down his arm. “Relax. I’m just loving on you,” she said, her voice all sugar and shine.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair. “I get that we have PR appearances, but that doesn’t mean crossing every boundary.”

She pouted, arms folding. “Since when did you become so... distant?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brown eyes scanned the monitors, but his mind wasn't registering the data.

He saw you. In pajamas, arguing over whose turn it was to pick dinner. Sitting across from him in soft lighting, eyes lit with ambition and stories. Mumbling formulas under your breath, tucked in a corner with a pencil between your fingers.

You never asked him for anything. Never expected anything more than honesty. And he missed that honesty now, the quiet safety of your presence.

“I just don’t want to overplay what this PR thing is,” he finally said, voice low.

Eli rolled her eyes. “You used to be more fun.”

Yeah, I used to be more lost, too.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because he still hadn’t figured out why that photo—why your silence since—had felt so damn heavy.

And maybe, across the ocean, you were feeling the same. Buried in wealth, surrounded by everything that glittered—but nothing that meant something.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You had told yourself you could survive this week. You could manage the rehearsed smiles, the endless small talk, the suffocating luxury. But when Friday night came, it hit you like a wave crashing against sharp rocks. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, the hum of classical music swirling through the grand ballroom — all of it was a reminder of how far you felt from belonging.

You stood there, lost among the well-dressed crowd, eyes darting over polished faces that smiled politely but never truly saw you. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the ache of loneliness and a love you couldn’t reach. You had missed yesterday’s race, unable to tear yourself away from the crushing sorrow that wrapped around you like a shroud.

Suddenly, your sister’s voice cut through the murmurs, demanding attention.

“I would like to speak!” she declared, stepping forward with a confident smile that didn’t reach her eyes but captivated the room nonetheless.

“My fiancé and I are so grateful you all could join us tonight,” she began, glancing toward your parents, who beamed with pride. “Growing up, I always knew I was the special one—the important one. The daughter in love, soon to be married, destined to carry the family name forward. I have done everything to earn my place beside Mom and Dad.”

Her words were sharp, deliberate.

“And then there’s Y/n,” she continued, sweeping a glance in your direction, “who chose to leave us behind for Monaco. And here she is tonight... without a date, without a boyfriend, without anyone to console her.”

A hush fell over the room.

“You will have your moment to shine,” she promised sweetly, “just like me. When the time is right.”

You met her gaze, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

She didn’t stop.

“One day, you’ll come back home to us,” she said, voice dripping with false kindness. “You’ll realize just how cruel the world really is. That luxury and wealth are all you really have. Outside this family, your name means nothing—no one knows you unless you claim us.”

Her words were knives twisting in your chest.

“May love find you, Y/n,” she said softly, a cruel smile flickering across her lips. “And if it doesn’t, may money be enough. Maybe you can live in the fairytale of your motorsports dreams, but it will never amount to what I can do.”

That was the final straw.

Without thinking, without pause, something inside you snapped.

You lunged toward her, your vision blurred by tears and rage. Gasps and startled cries filled the room as chaos erupted.

Your mother’s hand was suddenly on your cheek, harsh and unforgiving.

“Y/n!” she hissed. “Enough! Can’t you see what you’re ruining tonight?”

Your father’s voice boomed next, filled with frustration and anger.

“I cut your funds for one reason! Just to focus on her! And you can’t even live without it?”

You were burning inside, every word stinging like acid.

“It’s not about your money!” you spat, brushing past the stunned faces, heart pounding wildly as you fled the mansion.

Outside, the cold night air bit into your skin, but you didn’t care.

Kimi’s fingers tapped nervously against his phone as he stared at the screen, the call to you still ringing unanswered. Each unanswered ring felt like a weight sinking deeper in his chest. He couldn’t shake the knot of worry growing inside him, an ache he hated but couldn’t ignore.

“Come on...” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with concern. “Say something to me, Amore...” His voice cracked slightly, barely audible in the quiet apartment. He began pacing the small living room, restless, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Finally, he gave up on trying you directly and dialed Amilla’s number, hoping she might have heard from you.

“Hey,” she answered, her tone cautious.

“Have you heard from Y/n?” Kimi asked quickly, trying to keep calm but failing to mask the tension in his voice.

Amilla sighed softly on the other end. “No, not really. She’s barely messaged me since she left—just once.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”

“I think her train’s tomorrow,” Amilla replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Kimi frowned, his brow knitting in worry. “Okay... I’ll wait for her.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Late into the night, the train finally pulled into the station, its screech echoing through the empty platform. You stepped off, heavy with exhaustion and a dull ache deep inside your chest that you couldn't shake, no matter how far the distance from your family. Your phone buzzed incessantly—calls and texts from your mother and father—but you ignored every one. Tonight, you needed silence more than anything else.

At the door of your flat, your keys jingled softly as you slid them onto the hook by the entrance. You paused, eyes catching the other set of keys hanging there—Kimi’s. He was home.

Before you could move forward, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close. His face buried gently in your hair, he whispered, voice thick with relief, “You’re okay... you’re really okay.” He breathed in your scent as if to confirm you were truly there.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t pick up my calls or texts. Please, don’t ever do that again, Cuore mio. Don’t leave me to worry like that.” His grip tightened just a little, like holding onto you anchored him.

You stood frozen, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness that contradicted everything you’d been feeling from your family lately. You expected him to pull away, to give you space—but he didn’t.

“Just stay here... don’t move,” he said softly, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself you were safe now. He kissed the top of your head, lingering, then finally pulled back to look at your face.

His eyes darkened with concern at the sight of your glossy, tear-filled eyes, the smudged makeup tracing down your cheeks, and the faint imprint of your sister’s slap still visible on your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he said gently, voice thick. “I would’ve been there for you. Always.”

You hummed quietly, biting back the truth simmering in your chest, the feelings that went beyond friendship. “You’re a good friend...” you whispered, fragile.

Kimi’s lips pressed together, his eyes softening. “The best,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I try... only for you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That moment felt like a delicate pause in time — everything you’d built together in the apartment, every quiet laugh, every shared meal, every late night spent unwinding side by side, suddenly seemed to weigh heavy. Kimi moved around, folding the last bits of clothing into a taped-up box, the soft rustle of packing paper filling the silence. You held a small, taped box yourself and set it down gently.

“You’re leaving... and I’m leaving,” you said softly, forcing a light chuckle, trying to mask the sting beneath. He hummed thoughtfully, looking around the now bare room.

“Luxury homes…” he began with a half-smile, “and the beautiful life in Monaco.”

You shook your head with a bittersweet smile. “Back home I go… and your life in Monaco keeps going.” Your voice was quieter now, almost lost to the stillness around you.

He met your eyes and simply said, “Yeah…”

Silence settled like a thick blanket between you two. The comfort of your shared home was boxed up, every laugh, every gentle touch, every moment of peace—packed away and stacked in the corners. The raw ache of it felt dull and heavy, like losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t live without.

Kimi broke the quiet, a playful glint in his eye as he pointed at you. “You better be my engineer in the future.”

You smiled, nodding with conviction. “I am. I’m going to be.”

He grinned wider. “And be a good friend to others. Especially Amilla.”

You nodded, thinking of your best friend. “Oh, she’ll get on a train just to come see me—and you better do the same.”

His nod was firm, sincere.

Home — this space you’d shared — was being folded away, soon to be just a memory. The comfort, the routine, the little world you built together, was slipping through your fingers as you both prepared to part ways.

Suddenly, a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. You opened it to see Amilla standing there, her eyes glossy, a small hopeful smile playing on her lips. Both you and Kimi looked at her, surprised by the emotion in her face.

“I’m really going to miss you two living together,” she said, pulling you both into a warm group hug.

“Amilla! You’re being dramatic,” you teased, though your smile faltered a bit.

She sniffled, not letting go. “I don’t care! I’m going to miss monopoly nights, video games, and overcooked pasta!”

Kimi huffed, a mock offense clear in his tone. “My pasta is not overcooked—”

“Shut up, dumbass!” Amilla laughed, and you couldn’t help but chuckle too.

In that moment, despite the impending goodbyes, the warmth between the three of you lingered, reminding you that some things—friendship, laughter, memories—would never truly be boxed away.

The air in the flat shifted the moment Kimi spoke.

"I have to get my stuff out. I’ll be the first to leave," he said, voice quiet but firm, trying to hold steady against the growing weight in his chest.

Amilla finally let go of you both, wiping her cheeks with a dramatic sniff. You hummed, eyes falling to the floor before flicking back up to Kimi. “Good luck! And you better handle everything with Eli.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head. “Huh?”

Amilla, ever the bold one, sighed. “You’re good friends, Kimi. Don’t play dumb.” She crossed her arms before confessing, “I sent her the photo. The one of you and Eliska—Eli—holding hands. It popped up online when she was with her parents. You probably should’ve told her you were still dating her. Must’ve felt weird, living with Y/n all this time.”

Kimi’s eyes widened in disbelief, the realization crashing down like a wave. “Oh…” he breathed, heart thudding.

You gave a tight, brittle smile, masking everything boiling under the surface. “But it’s okay, Kimi. We’re friends,” you said with a tone that tried to be casual. Tried. “I’ll find me a nice, handsome man back home.” Your lips trembled slightly. “You continue living the best of your life.”

Before either of them could stop you, you turned and walked down the hallway, voice faint as you added, “I have to get my closet packed.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Kimi stared after you for a beat too long, the words you said burning into his chest like embers. Then Amilla stepped into his line of sight, her expression unreadable.

“Eliska and I are exes,” he said quickly, like it was something he should’ve shouted a long time ago. “That photo? That was PR. Nothing real. I haven’t been with her in a long time.”

Amilla raised a brow. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you sent her the picture,” Kimi snapped, though his voice was still soft, weighed down with guilt. “And now she thinks—she thinks I don’t care.”

Amilla blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, as if something clicked. “Wait... are you correcting me because... you like her?”

Kimi exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I love her,” he admitted, finally, the truth slipping out in a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Are you kidding me? We’ve lived together for months. I’ve never felt this grounded before. I love her. And no wonder she’s been acting strange—keeping her distance, being quiet.”

Amilla watched him for a long second, her lips slowly curling into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Now she’s going back home to live in her sister’s shadow, in that big mansion that makes her feel like she’s nothing.”

Kimi’s gaze dropped to the floor. The ache in his chest spread further, like roots digging deep into regret. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder. He had to get moving, had to clear out his things. He took one last look around the flat, the space that held all their memories—every breakfast, every laugh, every late night—and quietly gathered what remained of his belongings.

Without another word, he stepped out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.

But even as he left, a part of him stayed behind—with you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Months of studying, of long nights and longer days under the weight of family expectations, had finally brought you here—to the Grand Prix weekend. The crowd buzzed around you, excited voices and camera flashes filling the air, but nothing could shake the weight that followed behind you like a shadow.

Your mother, father, and sister trailed just a few steps behind. They hadn’t wanted to come. They didn’t care about motorsports, about your dreams, but they showed up anyway—if only to say they did.

"This is what you’re working toward? Honestly, it’s pathetic," your sister scoffed behind you, flipping her perfectly styled hair. You didn’t even flinch at the jab, too used to the tone, the sharp edge of her voice. Your father and mother didn’t bother saying anything, their silence more cutting than words.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself, eyes scanning the track layout, the pit boards, the energy alive in every turn. “The race was amazing,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Kimi got pole…”

Your mother sighed impatiently. “Who?”

You frowned. “A driver.”

Before you could brace for more disinterest or mockery, a sudden voice broke through the noise.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!”

You barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around you and lifted you into the air, spinning you in a blur of laughter and warmth.

“Kimi!” you gasped, laughing as your heart leapt with surprise and relief.

“If it isn’t Antonelli,” you teased as he set you down, his grin lighting up his entire face. “My best friend,” you added with a soft smile.

“I saw your text!” he said. “You said you were coming—figured I’d find you eventually.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught your parents staring, clearly stunned by the interaction. But Kimi didn’t give them another glance—he only had eyes for you.

“I want to show you something,” he said quickly, grabbing your hand before you could say anything else. He pulled you away from them, your fingers wrapped in his as he led you straight into the heartbeat of the circuit: the Mercedes garage.

You looked around in awe, the energy of the team, the mechanics, the machines—everything. “It’s… incredible,” you breathed, eyes wide. “You’ve been busy, huh? All these months. Ahead. Super busy.”

But he didn’t answer.

You turned around, only to find him already staring at you. His face softened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks beneath the harsh garage lights.

“I have something for you tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you the location. Just… meet me?”

You nodded, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah. I will.”

—

The night air was cool, carrying the salty breeze of the coast as you sat beside him in the passenger seat of his car. The streets of the city felt quieter than usual, or maybe it was just the way your heart was pounding.

Kimi hadn’t said much during the drive, but his hand sat close to yours on the center console, and you swore you could feel the weight of what he wanted to say.

He finally pulled into a quiet overlook, the lights of the city below flickering like stars scattered across the earth. He turned off the engine, but didn’t get out. Instead, he turned toward you, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then he sighed—deep, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“You know,” he started, voice low, “not a second went by that I didn’t think of you.”

You glanced at him, your breath caught in your throat. “I’m just the best friend in the whole world, right?”

He gave a sad, quiet chuckle. “God, no. That’s not what you are. You’re so much more than that.”

Your eyes locked. His were glassy, earnest.

“I’ve been in love with you, Y/n,” he said finally, like the words had been burning him alive from the inside. “I loved you the entire time we lived together. Every time you made breakfast, or tied your hair up before class. The way you left notes next to my coffee. The way you always had my towel ready in the mornings. I came back from the track looking forward to the silence we shared. To you just… being there.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he continued. “And then I saw what you went through with your family, how you kept pushing anyway. You were never just a friend. You were my peace.”

He looked down, rubbing his palm nervously against his thigh. “And that photo Amilla sent you—me and Eli? That was PR. Just PR. We broke up a long time ago. Mercedes needed something for the cameras, for the headlines. I let them run with it because I thought it was harmless. But it wasn’t. Not to you. And I hate myself for that.”

You stared at him, lips trembling slightly. His voice cracked with the next words.

“I wish we still lived together. I miss it. I miss you. And I understand if you don’t want to be with me, or if this makes things worse. But I had to tell you. Because the thought of letting you go back to that life—thinking you were just my roommate—kills me.”

He reached for your hand. “If you don’t feel the same, I’ll take it. I’ll keep being your friend, if that’s all you’ll let me be. But if there’s even a small part of you that feels the same… just tell me. Because I love you. Not just the memories of you. Not just the comfort of having you there. I love you—your dreams, your fire, the way you walk into a room and make it warmer. I love all of it.”

He paused, breath trembling.

“And I need you to know that.”

The car was silent but for the soft hum of the wind outside.

And in that stillness, you realized—this was the moment. The one you had been waiting for.

Your eyes softened as your fingers laced with his.

“I was always yours, Kimi. You just never asked.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

And so, on a beautiful day—some golden, breezy Monaco afternoon—you sat curled up on the soft couch, laughter in your chest, sun spilling in through the sheer curtains. The scent of sea salt drifted in with the breeze, light catching the waves outside the window. Next to you, Kimi lounged comfortably, his knee touching yours, both of you surrounded by pens, cards, and open envelopes scattered like confetti across the coffee table. Wedding invitations. Futures written in ink.

"Hey! Don’t scribble with crayon on those!" you exclaimed, nudging him with your elbow as he held up a childish doodle across the back of one invitation.

“Oh come on,” he grinned with faux innocence, holding the crayon like a trophy. “Adds personality!”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, the kind of smile only he could pull from you so effortlessly. "Who are we even sending these to?" you mumbled, glancing over the list, your tone softening. “My family and I… we don’t talk. I cut ties, remember? Like you said I should. You were right. No calls, no fake apologies, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.”

He looked over at you gently, his smile no longer teasing. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud of you,” he said. “You chose yourself. That matters.”

You nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before he tapped his pen on the table and gestured toward his side of the list. “So we’re sending mine out. My family, my team, the good ones. Oh, and don’t forget to add something personal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who customized these invites again?”

“You,” he said quickly, pointing at you. “But who paid for them?”

“Hmm, let me guess—Kimi Antonelli, my soon-to-be husband?” you teased.

He smirked. “Exactly. As your fiancé, it’s my duty.”

The flat you now shared—a stunning, sea-facing luxury apartment—held pieces of both of you. His racing memorabilia mingled with your books and plants. The cozy throw blankets, the mugs you picked out together, the gentle clutter of two people who had built something together. It wasn’t just his anymore. It was yours. Your home. Your safe place.

“You are so lucky I love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes as he leaned closer.

“Oh yes, I am the lucky one,” he said with a crooked grin. “Living with you, waking up to that face every day... What could be better?”

“Keep flirting and I’ll leave you with the rest of these invites,” you warned, picking up the box playfully. “Let’s see if you can figure out who gets which one.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you were already on your feet, laughing, bolting toward the hallway. He chased after you, laughter filling the walls of the apartment, just like it used to in the old place—but now louder, warmer, brighter.

The flat was new, upgraded, sleek and modern—but it was filled with the same love that bloomed back in that small two-bedroom you once shared. Back when everything felt uncertain but full of possibility.

That little flat was where it started. The morning coffees, the midnight talks, the study nights, the pasta dinners, the Mario Kart battles, the long hugs, the slow-burn love. That flat gave you both your beginning.

Now here you were—living together, planning forever, engaged to a man who loved you without condition. The sea was yours to wake up to. The world, yours to build together.

No nagging father, no brooding mother, no spiteful sister, just you, Kimi, and your growing home from here.

He tackled you on the shared bed playfully, your laughter filling the large and luxurious space.

And tucked inside a sleek white envelope, scattered across your coffee table, was an invitation to a future signed:

Mr. & Mrs. Antonelli.

326 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 4 days ago

Note

Oh there most def should be a baby number three💛

Good news, it’s going to be a series for the Norris family. And the master list is in my drafts🧡

#anon #Norris family #dad! lando norris #lando norris x female reader #lando norris x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris x reader

84 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 6 days ago

Text

˖ 𐔌 𝐀 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || As Lewis Hamilton’s sister and a busy fashion designer, love was never a priority—until your best friend George, with help from his girlfriend, sets you up on a blind date. You meet a lovely guy without realizing who he is; now, you've broken a rule without knowing. And even when you find out..you both decide to keep it hidden.||

ᯓ★ Charles Leclerc x Fem! (Hamilton) Reader

ᯓ★ 3x Genre: Fluff, Angst, Humor

ᯓ★ Warning: Nothing major! Just a fight!

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Charles Leclerc! This is the first solo fic on the blog for him. If it’s bad, I apologize. I write half of these when I’m half awake.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Being born into the Hamilton family felt like a blessing—one you didn’t fully understand until you were older. To the outside world, the Hamilton name carried legacy, speed, and triumph. But to you, it meant warmth, laughter, and safety. And above all, it meant Lewis.

From the moment you were born, Lewis became your shadow. Your older brother—your protector, your secret-keeper, your greatest champion. There was never a time you could recall where he wasn’t right there, watching over you with that gentle big brother energy. He held you in his arms when you were just hours old, and from then on, something unspoken rooted deeply between the two of you. A bond no spotlight or fame could shake.

You both grew up chasing your own dreams, carving your own paths. While Lewis chased victory on tracks across the globe, you were sketching in notebooks, sewing by hand, and whispering dreams of runways and high fashion. But no matter how far apart your worlds seemed, he was always in yours.

“You’re gonna be something incredible one day,” Lewis would tell you when he saw your hands covered in thread and fabric scraps, frustration on your brow after a long day of failed designs. “You’ve got the eye. You’ve got the soul.”

He was there through every milestone. From the innocent nervousness of your first school dance to your senior prom, Lewis always made sure you were cared for. You remembered how he sized up your prom date with folded arms and a quiet stare before letting him take you out. Later that night, he texted you: “If he even looks at you the wrong way, I’m coming to get you. Love you, baby sis.”

And when your heart was broken—once, twice, more times than you’d admit—he was there too, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“Don’t let any man’s foolishness make you question your worth,” he whispered one night as he gently brushed a tear off your cheek. “You’re beautiful. Strong. You’re you. That’s more than enough.”

Those words stayed with you.

As you got older, your admiration for him only grew. You followed his career passionately, cheering from the stands every time your dad, Anthony, allowed you to travel. You were there at Silverstone, Monaco, even Singapore once. You knew every detail of his racing history by heart—not just because he was your brother, but because he inspired you. You wanted to succeed the way he did: with grace, with grit, with heart.

It was during one of those race weekends that you met George. He was younger, full of charm, and refreshingly down-to-earth. You hit it off instantly—laughing in the paddock over shared jokes, learning about cars in a way that actually made sense thanks to him.

“George is good people,” Lewis said one day with a nod of approval as he caught you two chatting. “I trust him with you.”

You smiled. “You trust him more than I trust your wardrobe choices sometimes.”

“Oi,” he chuckled, nudging your shoulder, “I’m a fashion icon.”

Eventually, your world extended beyond just racing. Toto and Susie took you under their wing. Susie became like an older sister to you—wise, elegant, and always ready for some “girl time.” You’d sit together during race weekends, sipping coffee while watching Jack toddle around.

“He looks so much like Toto,” you laughed one morning, watching the boy pick up a toy car and zoom it across the floor.

“He’s got his sass too,” Susie added with a wink.

They became your second family, tied together by shared passion and years of trust.

When Lewis sat you down one evening in Monaco, a thoughtful expression on his face, you knew something was coming.

“I’m leaving Mercedes,” he said quietly.

Your breath hitched. “What? Why?”

“It’s time,” he said simply. “Ferrari came calling. And I want a new challenge.”

You sat back, absorbing the weight of it. “Does this mean I shouldn’t hang around Mercedes anymore?”

He looked at you with soft eyes, shaking his head. “No. Don’t be silly. This is my choice—not a war. I have no bad blood with anyone there, and you shouldn’t either. They love you. Toto, Susie, George… they’re part of your life too.”

Relief washed over you like a tide. “Okay… I’m glad.”

But life wasn’t just about supporting your brother—you had your own. Your fashion career had started to bloom, albeit not without struggle. The late nights in Monaco spent hunched over your desk, bleeding ideas onto sketchbooks. The moments where doubt gnawed at your resolve, whispering that maybe you weren’t cut out for this world. But in those moments, your phone would buzz with a message from your dad: “Keep going. You’ve never been a quitter.” Or Lewis would FaceTime you from across the world, just to check in.

“Show me the latest,” he’d grin, propping the phone on his dashboard.

You’d hold up a design, trying to hide your nerves. “It’s not finished…”

“It’s fire,” he’d say immediately. “I can already see it on a runway in Milan.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your heart would feel lighter.

That was the magic of being a Hamilton. Yes, the name carried weight, but the love in your family—the support, the loyalty, the belief in each other—that was what truly made it a gift.

And through every twist, turn, and race, you never forgot it.

The Monaco flat gleamed in the golden hue of noon. Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, dancing off the marble floors and bouncing off the scattered chaos of your workspace. Bolts of fabric draped across chairs, colorful swatches layered like a mosaic on the table, and dozens of hand-sketched designs lay half-finished. Pencils, measuring tape, coffee cups—organized chaos, exactly how you liked it.

You didn’t flinch at the sound of the door unlocking. Not even a glance.

But then you heard the soft, familiar panting and gentle taps of paws.

"Ah, you brought my dog!" you gasped with a grin, turning around as Roscoe trotted in like he owned the place.

A warm chuckle followed, rich and familiar. “Firstly,” Lewis said, stepping in behind him, “he’s my dog. Secondly, I brought him because I’ve been texting you all damn day and haven’t heard a peep.”

You blinked, eyes widening slightly. “Wait—really?” You reached for your phone on the cluttered side table and groaned. Ten unread messages. “Shit. I’m sorry, Lewis. I’ve been locked in.”

He strolled further in, his eyes scanning the battlefield of paper scraps, crumpled sketches in the trash, empty mugs stacked dangerously near the edge of the counter. He bent to pick up one of the balled papers and unfolded it, glancing over the design.

“I can tell,” he muttered, giving Roscoe a little pat as the dog waddled toward you, tail wagging.

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing your temple. “This is a major piece I’m working on. If I don’t design this the way I see it in my head, I’m going to lose it. This could be the one that gets me out there—like really out there. And I don’t want to screw it up.”

Lewis nodded slowly, lowering himself onto the arm of your plush white couch, surveying the energy you’d poured into the room—your drive practically dripping from the walls. He knew you. Knew this side of you well.

You weren’t just trying to be good. You were trying to be unforgettable.

“I get it,” he said finally. “You’re grinding. You’ve always been like this when something matters to you.” He glanced around, eyes settling on the pinboard above your desk covered in half-formed ideas and a quote from your dad, written in permanent marker: 'Perfection doesn’t come easy. Keep stitching.' “Still, don’t forget to breathe.”

You scooped up Roscoe into your arms with a little huff, the bulldog instantly relaxing against you like a warm weighted pillow.

“Please,” you mumbled, walking to the living room and plopping down into the cushions, “I’m perfectly content with little Roscoe. He’s the only man in my life who doesn’t stress me out.”

Lewis followed you, flopping down beside you with a laugh. “And you’re completely buried in work,” he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You smirked. “Says you, Mr. ‘Married to the grind and no one else.’”

He tilted his head, smirking. “The difference is, I’m older than you. I'm 40. When you get closer to 40, love starts to look different.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, drama king, for the record—I’ll be 27 tomorrow, which feels like ancient history to my knees.”

He chuckled. “Twenty-seven… damn. I remember when you were stuffing glitter into my shoes and crying over that one dress you made with duct tape.”

“That was experimental fashion,” you replied with a mock glare. “And for the record, the glitter was deserved. You told everyone at school I still slept with a nightlight.”

He threw his head back laughing, the sound filling the room with warmth. “That was one time!”

“Still one too many,” you said, but your smile betrayed your affection. You leaned into the couch, Roscoe now snoring softly on your lap, your fingers absently brushing over his back.

There was a brief moment of silence, the kind only shared between two people who didn’t need to fill it with words. Lewis glanced over at you again, more serious this time.

“You know,” he began, “I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you. This thing you’re building—your name, your brand—it’s real. Don’t let your fear of not being there yet make you forget how far you’ve come.”

You swallowed the small lump in your throat, touched by his sincerity. “Thanks, Lew.”

He shrugged, casually but not without heart. “You’ll have your moment. The world just hasn’t caught up to you yet.”

Lewis glanced over at you, sensing the shift in energy, and decided to steer things into lighter territory. “So,” he began casually, stretching his legs out and leaning back into the couch, “I have to ask—what’s the plan for the big birthday tomorrow?”

You let out a breath, still stroking Roscoe absentmindedly. “Honestly?” you said with a shrug, “Not much. You know how Dad is—he wants us to spend the morning together, maybe have a little birthday breakfast. Something chill.”

Lewis nodded knowingly. “Classic Dad. He probably already bought a candle shaped like a 3 just to mess with you.”

You snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

Lewis gave you a sly look. “Assuming you actually show up on time and don’t get stuck here crying over your sketchbook again.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “Hey! I don’t cry every time. Just when my ideas fall apart and I’m sleep-deprived and hormonal and spiraling—so, you know, normal stuff.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. I just don’t want Roscoe calling me at 8 a.m. like, ‘She’s curled up on the floor again, mate. Bring snacks.’”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I’ll be there, alright? I’m not a little kid anymore. You don’t have to keep treating me like one.”

Lewis turned to look at you more seriously, his expression softening. “I know you’re not. But I don’t care. I’m forty now, and you’re turning twenty-seven tomorrow—and I’m still your big brother. That doesn’t change. Not ever.”

You smiled, touched by the weight in his voice. “I know. And I’m glad you haven’t changed. I mean it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you said, sitting up a bit straighter. “But guess who left me a message?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Wait—don’t tell me. The guy from the bakery?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes! He’s been spamming me with messages, asking if I’ve ‘thought about that coffee date.’ Like sir, it’s been two weeks. Move on.”

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Persistent.”

“Pathetic,” you corrected, frowning. “He’s nice, sure, but... I don’t care about any of that right now. I don’t care about love, relationships, the whole dating game. My heart’s in my work. That’s where I am, and I don’t want distractions.”

Lewis nodded slowly, his voice calm and steady. “Well, that’s true. You’ve always known what you wanted. And if this—this life, this career, this grind—is where you desire to be, then so be it. I support you, one-hundred percent. Even if I do have to keep bringing Roscoe over just to make sure you’re eating.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, a small, grateful smile curving your lips. “Thanks, Lew.”

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his voice softer. “Anytime, sis. Always.”

For a while, you both just sat there. The afternoon light poured into the apartment, golden and quiet, casting long shadows on the floor. Roscoe snored gently on your lap, the soft hum of the city outside your window the only sound breaking the silence. And in that moment, your messy apartment, your overworked mind, your birthday nerves—they all faded into the background.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Later that evening, after Lewis had left and Roscoe had obediently followed him out the door, the flat fell into a thick, echoing silence. The kind of silence that crept in slowly—settling in the corners, winding through the fabric scraps, resting on your shoulders like a soft, invisible weight. You stood by your desk, still in your pajamas, arms crossed as you glanced at your half-finished sketch.

The light from the city glowed through the windows, soft and distant, but inside your apartment, everything felt still. Too still. It was in that quiet moment you realized just how familiar this loneliness had become. A presence you'd kept buried under ambition, folded neatly beneath the layers of your craft and pride. You told yourself you were fine. You always did.

Until the front door opened.

Your head snapped up, startled, eyes narrowing. You weren’t expecting anyone.

“George?” you asked, unsure.

And there he was, stepping inside like he owned the place—holding up a bottle of wine in one hand, an uneven grin on his face. “It’s me,” he said, voice light and teasing. “How’s my favorite little loner doing?”

You exhaled a breath through your nose, unimpressed but not truly annoyed. “Not funny.”

He smirked, closing the door behind him. “I know, I know. Carmen already gave me the lecture. Said to quit it with the nicknames and act more ‘emotionally available.’”

You hummed, folding your arms. “Are you sure you’re listening to her?”

As if on cue, Carmen stepped in behind him, her own smile softer—apologetic, even. “He’s not listening at all.”

You let out a breath of amusement, crossing the living room to greet them properly. “What are you two even doing here?”

Carmen stepped forward and handed you a small bag of your favorite snacks, the kind you only treated yourself to on bad days. “Well, you’re turning twenty-seven in less than twenty-four hours,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “We figured... why not crash your place and turn it into a proper sleepover?”

George held up the wine again with a triumphant smile. “It was my idea.”

You arched a brow. “Of course it was.”

“But I also brought ice cream,” he added.

You blinked. “Okay, fine. You’re forgiven.”

The three of you eventually settled into the living room—blankets tossed over the couch, wine glasses clinking lightly, an old movie playing in the background that none of you were actually watching. It felt easy. Comforting. Familiar in the best way.

“So,” George said eventually, lounging back on the cushions, his gaze finding yours with that boyish curiosity. “Tell me about your love life.”

You made a face, nose wrinkling. “Right... my love life.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, nudging your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Carmen sat up, watching you closely with the kind of look only a friend could give—gentle but perceptive, as if she could already read the words you hadn’t spoken.

George leaned in a little, his expression losing its playfulness, just for a moment. “I care about you, you know that?”

The sincerity in his voice surprised you more than it should’ve. You looked at him, then at Carmen, and for the first time that day—maybe the first time in a long while—you felt it. The warmth of being seen. Not just for your work, or your ambition, or your drive to prove something to the world. But for who you were when everything else quieted down.

You nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah... I know. I care about you guys too.”

George leaned back, satisfied with your answer, reaching for the remote to change the movie. “Okay, enough feelings for one night. Let’s watch something where at least one person gets murdered in the first five minutes.”

Carmen groaned. “George, absolutely not. It’s her birthday, not Halloween.”

You smiled—genuine, easy, grateful—and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. Maybe you were a little lonely sometimes. Maybe you buried it deep. But tonight, you didn’t have to be. Not with them.

The wine had softened the air between the three of you, laughter coming easy now, interrupted only by the occasional crackle from the half-watched movie playing in the background. But despite the warmth of the room, your thoughts wandered. George had asked about your love life, and though you’d played it off at first, the silence that followed tugged at your honesty.

Finally, you spoke—soft, quiet, like you’d just realized the words yourself.

“My love life isn’t real.”

The room stilled, as if the wine paused in their glasses and the flickering screen forgot to move.

George turned his head toward you slowly. Carmen stopped mid-sip, her eyes searching your face.

“I don’t go out or anything,” you added with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “No dates. No dinners. I just… work. And when I’m not working, I’m recovering from working.”

George leaned in, arms propped on his knees, his voice gentler now. “Okay. Spill.”

Carmen smiled, scooting closer, her hand brushing your arm. “We’re all ears, babe.”

You sighed, tucking your legs under yourself. “It’s not like I don’t want to meet someone. I just—don’t really make space for it. I guess I’ve convinced myself it’s safer this way. Less disappointment. Less distraction.”

Carmen gave you a look filled with empathy. “You’ve been building a dream. That’s not something to feel bad about.”

George nodded. “Exactly. But you also deserve to live a little. Not just design gowns for people in love—you deserve to feel it too.”

You didn’t answer right away, but a quiet warmth pressed into your chest at their words.

Meanwhile, across Monaco...

Charles stared at his brother like he had two heads.

“A blind date?” he repeated, unimpressed.

Arthur sat on the edge of the couch, waving his phone like it held the answer to all of Charles’ problems. “Yes, Charles. A blind date. You know… when two people go out, talk, maybe smile for once?”

Charles leaned back against the kitchen counter of his immaculate flat, arms crossed, his jaw tightening. “I’m not interested.”

Arthur groaned, dramatic as ever. “You never are. Ever since Alex—”

“Don’t,” Charles warned, his voice low.

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t keep weeping over someone who walked away. You’ve been stuck in this mood for months. Monaco’s starting to feel depressing and that’s saying something.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You sleep alone, you work out alone, you barely smile. That’s not fine, that’s functioning.”

Charles looked away.

Arthur took the opportunity to press further. “Just one date. I’ll even handle the profile. Make it sound tasteful—sophisticated. Someone artsy, elegant, not clingy. Like… designer energy.”

Charles blinked. “Designer energy?”

Arthur grinned. “You know what I mean.”

Charles exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It just sounds like a bad idea. A setup. I don’t do well with setups.”

“But what if it’s different this time?” Arthur said. “What if someone actually surprises you?”

Charles didn’t answer.

Instead, he stared out the large glass window of his flat, the lights of Monaco glittering below, dancing on the water—like the world was busy moving on while he stood still.

Back in your apartment, Carmen was already scheming. You didn’t notice it at first, but she exchanged a look with George—one of those secretive, mischievous glances that meant trouble.

“So,” Carmen said, sweetly, “hypothetically... if someone were to set you up with a mystery man, how would you feel about it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hypothetically? I’d think you’re both out of your minds.”

George grinned. “But you wouldn’t not be curious... right?”

You stared at them both, the wine glass paused just inches from your lips, a skeptical brow raised. “How would you even get me on a blind date?”

George smirked, the kind of grin that only meant one thing—he’d already thought this through. He lifted his phone like it was a trophy. “Simple. There are apps for this now. Real ones. Blind-date apps. No photos required, just your words. You write a profile, someone reads it, likes what they see, and boom—mystery date locked in.”

You blinked. “You want me to go on a date with a man who doesn’t even know what I look like?”

“Exactly!” he said, like it was the most brilliant idea ever conceived. “No pressure, no pretenses. Just vibes and words.”

You turned your gaze toward Carmen, silently pleading for logic. “Should I trust this?”

She didn’t give you an immediate answer—just pursed her lips in thought, then offered a soft hum. “Monaco is full of men. But most of them are surface-level. This... could be interesting. Let yourself have a night that’s different. Even if it doesn’t end in a love story, let it be something you’ll remember. Something fun. Something just for you.”

You hesitated, playing with the hem of your pajama sleeve. The idea was terrifying, but it also sparked something—something small and flickering inside you that wanted to feel new, wanted to step outside the rhythm of sketches and solitude.

George suddenly perked up. “I would set you up with one of the drivers directly, but ya know…” He waved his hand dramatically. “Lewis and his stupid no-F1-driver rule. No teammates, no paddock crew, no friends, no flirty engineers. The Hamilton guard dog policy.”

You laughed, almost choking on your wine. “That sounds about right.”

He leaned closer. “Seriously, he’d come after me if I even let you breathe near any of them. Like Esteban, great guy.”

Your eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Esteban? He’s not even—no. That’s not even on the radar. Plus, I never met him. Best I don't. You know, I don't watch F1 really. I just usually go to support my brother. I don't know anyone but you."

George shrugged. “It’s a shame. He’s single, sweet, probably could handle your mood swings… right up your alley.”

Carmen cut in with a giggle. “Don’t listen to him. But do let yourself experience something. You’ve been hidden in this flat too long. You’re not meant to spend every night buried in fabric. Just try it.”

You let your eyes flick between them both. The room was cozy, filled with soft light, laughter, wine—and for once, you didn’t feel the pressure to be “the designer.” Just a woman. A woman being seen.

You sighed, finally leaning back with a smirk. “Alright. Fine. But I want creative control of the profile. I’m not going on a date with some crypto bro or a man who thinks wearing boat shoes counts as personality.”

George grinned. “Deal. I’ll screen the weirdos.”

“And for the record,” you added, “I don’t mind dating a man outside of F1. That world... it’s different from mine. I’m not trying to fall for someone who's already halfway married to their career.”

Carmen smiled knowingly. “That’s fair.”

You tapped your finger against the wine glass thoughtfully. “Still... it would be nice. To meet someone who sees me.”

George opened the app with a flourish. “Then let’s build your mystery profile, designer girl. Time to manifest a Monaco man who might just change your mind.”

Charles sat at the edge of the couch, phone in hand, half-focused as he lazily scrolled through the blind date profiles. Most of them felt forced—long bios stuffed with buzzwords, selfies filtered into oblivion, and a strange obsession with yacht photos. Each new one seemed more desperate to escape the app than the last.

“‘Looking for my king’... Nope,” he muttered. “‘Manifesting power couple energy’... definitely not.”

He was about to shut the app when a profile caught his eye. Simple username. No photo. Just words. It was different enough to make him pause.

“Hm... the username on this one is... something,” he murmured, holding the phone up toward Arthur without taking his eyes off the screen.

Arthur leaned in. “What’s she about?”

“Says she’s a designer. Twenty-six.” Charles scrolled a little more, skimming through the bio. “Lives in Monaco... No kids, no pets. Doesn’t go out much. Works a lot. Sounds like she keeps to herself.”

Arthur gave a small nod. “So, basically, your female twin.”

Charles gave him a dry look but didn’t deny it.

“I mean, I should give it a try, no?” he asked, brow raised as if seeking permission he didn’t want to need.

Arthur smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “You should absolutely message her. She sounds like the kind of woman who won't ask for a selfie mid-conversation. That's rare.”

Charles exhaled, eyes still on the words she’d written. There was something quiet about her tone. Something thoughtful. Not trying to sell herself—just telling the truth.

He hovered over the keyboard for a second, then finally began to type.

The glow of your phone screen illuminated your face in the dim living room as you lay curled up on the couch, Carmen and George practically glued to your sides. Every time the notification buzzed, they leaned in like co-conspirators in a heist.

“Okay, okay—he replied again,” you whispered, heart beating faster than you cared to admit.

George peered over your shoulder. “What’d he say this time?”

You read it aloud, your voice a little softer this time. “‘I’m not great at small talk, but I’m really good at listening. So, tell me what kind of cake you’d have if you were celebrating quietly, with no pressure and no expectations.’”

Carmen clutched a pillow, eyes wide. “That’s... so specific and thoughtful.”

George held up his hands triumphantly. “Alright, whoever this mystery man is, he’s good.”

You smiled to yourself, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. “What do I say back?”

“Be honest,” Carmen urged gently. “Like you were in the profile.”

So you typed:

‘Lemon cake. Something not too sweet. Something simple.’

And the conversation kept flowing. Throughout the night, text after text, word after word—easy, honest, natural. You didn’t feel the need to perform. He wasn’t trying to impress. There was comfort in that. You didn’t even realize how late it was getting until your phone buzzed again with a new message that made your breath catch.

“Would you be open to meeting? Tomorrow night maybe? I know it’s your birthday. But I’d like to be a quiet part of it.”

You sat up, blinking at the words, rereading them twice.

“This complete sweet stranger,” you said aloud, slowly, as George and Carmen leaned in again, “he wants to set our date for tomorrow night... since I told him tomorrow’s my birthday.”

Carmen squealed immediately, flailing her hands. “He remembered?!”

George pumped a fist in the air. “WE DID IT! WE GOT YOU A BLIND DATE!”

You laughed, covering your face with one hand. “This is insane.”

Carmen tugged the blanket tighter around you with a proud smile. “It’s not insane. It’s happening. And tomorrow night, you’re going on a birthday blind date—with someone who actually listens. That’s rare.”

Across town, at Charles’ flat...

Charles sat hunched on the couch, phone in hand, his own expression unreadable. Each message from you made him straighten just a little, made something unfamiliar stir in his chest.

He read your last reply—“Lemon cake. Something not too sweet.”—and smiled without realizing it.

Arthur leaned over, chin resting on Charles’ shoulder like a nosy child. “Did you ask her out yet?”

“I just did.”

Arthur read the message over his shoulder and let out a low whistle. “Smooth. Soft. Sweet. Is this your rebrand?”

Charles rolled his eyes, but his voice was quieter than usual. “She’s different.”

Arthur grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Guess we’re buying you a birthday gift for her this year.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun poured into your favorite café in Monaco, casting a soft golden glow across the terrace as the sea breeze drifted in. You stepped in, already dressed and glowing, the confidence of turning twenty-seven sitting lightly on your shoulders. Your father and Lewis were seated at your usual corner table, two steaming cups of coffee already waiting.

“Morning, birthday girl,” Lewis greeted with a warm smile as your dad leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple.

“Morning,” you hummed, sliding into the seat across from them, taking a grateful sip from your cup. The quiet clinking of cutlery and gentle chatter filled the space around you.

“So,” your father began after a moment, “after this, you got any plans? Or is it back to the design cave?”

Before you could open your mouth, Lewis scoffed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. “We already know her answer: work, stress, repeat.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully, then cleared your throat. “Actually... I have a date tonight.”

Lewis paused mid-sip, slowly lowering his coffee cup. “Really?”

You raised a brow. “Wait... you support this?”

He nodded, shrugging as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “Yeah. As long as he’s not one of my friends or anyone from F1, then we’re golden. That’s the only rule.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, he's a stranger. Total blind date. I can assure you he has absolutely nothing to do with cars, engines, or pit stops. Probably doesn't even know what DRS means.”

Lewis gave you a suspicious squint. “What’s his name?”

You smirked. “Nice try. That’s staying a mystery—for now.”

Your dad chuckled, stirring his coffee. “Let her have this, Lew. She’s twenty-seven now. Not fifteen.”

Lewis raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes stayed on you. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying... no breaking the rule. You know how I feel about all the drivers. No Lando, no Carlos, no Pierre, no anyone.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “Please. I already rejected Lando five times.”

Lewis snorted. “Yeah, and it took you long enough. You were this close to folding when you called him fine.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “Heaven forbid a woman acknowledges a man is attractive without throwing herself into his arms.”

Lewis cringed and looked away. “Can we not talk about what makes you feel things?”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Relax. I’m just saying—I’ve known George for years and never once crossed a line.”

Your father gave Lewis a pointed look. “You gotta give her a little more room, son. She’s a grown woman. And frankly, you’re not gonna be able to big brother her forever.”

Lewis leaned on the table, eyes softer now. “I know. I just worry. You deserve something real, that’s all. Not someone who’ll come and go like pit crews on a rainy Sunday.”

Your smile softened, your gaze settling on him with warmth. “That’s why I’m trying something new. Someone outside the storm. Just a guy who doesn’t know my last name or what world I come from. Just... me.”

Lewis nodded slowly. “Alright. Then I’ll trust you.”

“So… you met him through that blind date app thing?” Lewis asked, squinting at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

You nodded, your smile light and hopeful. “Yep. We use usernames, no pictures, no real names. Just... talking. Getting to know each other without all the surface stuff.”

Lewis leaned back in his seat, arms folded. “That sounds so unlike you. I can’t help but feel this wasn’t entirely your idea.”

You grinned, tucking your hair behind your ear as you took another sip. “Guilty. My favorite couple showed up last night and basically staged an intervention.”

His brow lifted. “Let me guess. George and Carmen?”

You nodded proudly. “Of course. They came in like a Hallmark movie. Carmen brought snacks. George brought wine and chaos.”

Lewis groaned. “Ah yes, his gossip wine. The one he brings specifically to talk nonsense for hours.”

You laughed. “Exactly. It worked. I wasn’t planning to go through with anything, but then I started talking to this guy and… I don’t know. He’s different.”

Lewis watched you for a moment, your expression soft and strangely lit from within. The kind of glow he hadn’t seen on you in a long time.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You met his gaze, sincere and steady. “No. But I’m open to it. And that feels... good.”

He gave you a slow, reluctant smile. “Alright. But if he turns out to be some washed-up lounge singer with a comb-over and a fake Rolex—”

“I’ll send you an SOS under the table.”

Lewis chuckled. “Deal.”

After a few warm snapshots with your brother and your father—arms wrapped around one another, laughter caught mid-frame—you hugged them both tightly, breathing in their familiar scents and warmth before saying your goodbyes.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” your dad said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Lewis ruffled your hair the way he always did, grinning. “Be safe tonight. And don’t text me if the food’s bad—I’m not coming to rescue you.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Thanks for the confidence, big brother.”

As you all parted ways and you made your way out onto the sunny Monaco street, the wind lightly toying with the hem of your dress, you paused in surprise.

Leaning casually against the side of a sleek black car, arms folded and sunglasses perched on his face, stood George.

“I’m on outfit duty,” he announced smoothly.

You laughed, walking toward him. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since Carmen called dibs on hair and makeup and told me I had to earn my gossip wine privileges,” he replied with a wink.

You crossed your arms, raising an amused brow. “Should I trust you with this? This is the birthday blind date outfit we’re talking about here.”

George pushed off the car and opened the passenger door for you. “You should. Trust me on this. I’m going to dress you like you walked straight out of a fashion magazine, and that man is going to fall.”

You smirked, sliding into the car. “No pressure then.”

He shut the door with a grin. “All I do is deliver.”

Charles stood near the center display in the small, charming Monaco florist shop, his eyes scanning the neatly arranged bouquets. The air was filled with the soft scent of petals and eucalyptus, sunlight filtering through the glass windows. His fingers grazed over a few stems until he paused, pointing without hesitation.

“These,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

Arthur peeked over his shoulder. “Roses?” He tilted his head, brow raised. “You sure about that?”

Charles nodded, though his expression was unreadable. “Roses are… classic. Not too much, but still thoughtful.” He glanced toward the tiny handwritten tags, inspecting the shades of pink and cream. “She said she liked things that aren’t too sweet. Simple.”

Arthur leaned against the nearby counter, arms crossed, watching his brother a little too closely. “Alright, Romeo. What’s next? Gonna serenade her too?”

Charles gave him a side glance but didn’t bite. Instead, he looked toward the small display of delicate jewelry behind the counter. A modest collection of local artisan pieces—elegant, understated, not overly flashy.

“I was thinking... maybe a necklace. Something subtle. Just… a small birthday gift.” He hesitated. “Am I moving too fast?”

Arthur shrugged, clearly torn between teasing and actually being helpful. “I mean... yes. And also no?”

Charles blinked. “Thanks. Very helpful.”

Arthur chuckled. “Look, it is her birthday. So yeah, maybe it’s a little extra for a first date, but it’s thoughtful. If she’s anything like how you’ve described her—quiet, passionate, soft but strong—I think she’ll appreciate it.”

Charles nodded slowly, almost to himself, as he stepped closer to the counter. “It’s not about impressing her. I just want her to know I’ve been listening.”

Arthur smirked. “Now that is dangerously close to you catching feelings.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We haven’t even met yet.”

“Mmhm,” Arthur hummed. “That’s how it always starts.”

Charles huffed, deciding to search for someone to wrap the bouquet for him. Arthur followed close behind. "Just saying!"

“Lorenzo will probably help you get ready,” Arthur said, eyeing the bouquet now wrapped neatly in Charles’ hands.

Charles nodded, his gaze lingering on the roses as they walked out of the shop. “I know how to dress for a date. I’m not doing this to impress anyone. I’m doing it to… get out. To breathe again.”

Arthur looked over at him, quieter now. “Yeah. I know.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, the sound of Monaco’s streets humming softly in the background. Charles' jaw tightened for a moment, and Arthur didn’t miss it.

“The truth is,” Arthur continued gently, “you needed this. A chance to meet someone new, feel something new. The last thing we need is you staying stuck in the same heartbreak loop.”

Charles didn’t reply right away. He just kept walking, the bouquet clutched in one hand, his other tucked in his pocket.

Arthur added, “She was lovely—don’t get me wrong. But people grow apart. You gave what you could. It’s okay to move on now.”

Charles stopped at the curb, eyes on the pavement for a second too long before finally glancing at his brother. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” Arthur said, softer this time. “But maybe tonight doesn’t have to be heavy. Maybe it can just be… a start.”

Charles exhaled slowly, nodding once. “A start.”

George clicked his tongue the moment you stepped out of the changing room, his face twisted in theatrical disapproval. “I’m sorry, no. The green throws me off. It’s giving... elegant Christmas tree.”

You let out an exhausted sigh, arms slumping at your sides. “We’ve been through ten dresses.”

He began counting off on his fingers. “The golden one was too much. We’re not dressing for a red carpet. The green—pretty, yes—but those weird embroidered flowers? No. Hot pink?” He gave you a look. “That’s go-go dancer on her fourth tequila shot and ready to black out.”

You crossed your arms. “It’s called statement color.”

“It’s called no thank you.”

You groaned as he kept going. “The yellow one—super cute, but honestly? More ‘housewife feeding chickens at dawn’ than birthday girl on a mysterious blind date.”

“Okay, ouch.”

George didn’t flinch. “I love you, but someone had to say it.”

He held out a dress, carefully retrieved from its protective garment bag like it was made of gold thread. “Now. For the love of fashion and your birthday, try on the one I specifically picked for you.”

You stared at it, narrowed your eyes, then snatched it from his hand with a huff and stormed back into the changing room.

From the other side of the curtain, your voice rang out in protest. “You are so lucky I care enough to listen to this nonsense.”

George was unfazed, casually tapping his foot. “Because you love me, and we’re best friends,” he replied smugly.

You muttered under your breath. “Yeah, like I have a choice.”

He smiled. “You absolutely do. But you still choose me.”

You paused for a beat as you adjusted the dress inside, voice quieter now. “...Maybe. Just maybe, I’ll like it.”

George leaned against the fitting room wall, folding his arms with a smirk. “Oh, darling, you’re going to love it. And so will he.”

The soft shuffle of fabric and the occasional muttered complaint were the only sounds coming from behind the fitting room curtain. George stood just outside, arms crossed, tapping his foot like a judge awaiting a final contestant.

“I swear,” you called from inside, “if this dress doesn’t work, I’m going back to the green one and we’re done.”

George smirked. “You say that now... but wait until you see yourself.”

The curtain slid open.

You stepped out.

And for a rare moment, George fell completely silent.

The off-the-shoulder black dress hugged your figure perfectly, the structured white neckline giving just enough contrast to make the look timeless. Paired with your heels and softly styled hair, it wasn’t just a dress—it was the dress. Elegant. Clean. Effortless.

George blinked, then slowly grinned. “Oh, my God.”

You turned toward the full-length mirror, your breath catching slightly. “Wow...” you whispered.

“See?” George gestured wildly, like a magician revealing his greatest trick. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get out of you! You look like you’re about to walk into a movie scene and completely destroy a man’s sense of reality.”

You smiled, a bit shy. “It’s... classy.”

“It’s everything.” George came to stand beside you. “Mysterious, elegant, confident. He won’t know what hit him.”

You looked at your reflection again—this time with a flicker of wonder in your eyes. “Yeah… maybe I’m ready.”

George raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “No, babe. You are ready.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Charles sat on the edge of his bed, eyes locked on the ticking hands of the clock on the wall. Each passing minute pulled him closer to something unknown—but for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. He was dressed neatly: a dark tailored suit, soft charcoal gray, paired with a crisp white shirt. No tie. Clean, simple. Thoughtful, like the man wearing it.

Cologne faintly lingered in the air, and his hair had been combed back with just enough effort to look effortless. His phone sat on the table, face-up, glowing softly with the last message he’d sent you:

“I’ll be the one holding the roses.”

“Just go get your girl!” Arthur called dramatically from across the flat.

Before Charles could answer, a gift bag was shoved into his hand, the roses balanced against his arm—and the front door was promptly shut behind him.

He blinked, standing alone in the hallway, bouquet in one hand and a cautious sort of hope in his chest. “Merci, Arthur,” he muttered with a shake of his head, walking toward the car.

Meanwhile, across town, you sat in the backseat of a sleek car, legs crossed, fingers absently twisting the thin chain of your bracelet. The dress fit like it was made for you, the cool evening air slipping through the cracked window and brushing against your skin like nerves made visible.

“Just so we’re clear,” you muttered, glancing toward the front seats, “I can drive myself.”

George didn’t even look back, one hand draped casually over the wheel. “Oh, we know,” he said.

Carmen turned slightly in her seat, a soft smile on her lips. “But we insist. Besides, we don’t trust this mystery man yet. One of us had to play Uber, and George demanded the aux cord.”

You chuckled, about to protest when your phone buzzed in your lap.

George glanced at you through the rearview mirror. “Who is it?”

You smiled, reading the message quietly.

Lewis: Good luck. Be yourself. And text me if you need anything. Seriously. 💙

“Lewis,” you murmured. “Just checking in. Wishing me luck. Classic big brother move.”

“Aww,” Carmen smiled warmly. “He loves you. He’s just scared of letting go.”

George snorted. “I’m scared for the guy who doesn’t realize he’s about to be sat across from you.”

You laughed lightly, tucking your phone away, but in the depths of your chest, your heart began to pick up a faster beat. Excitement. Nerves. Curiosity. The unknown.

Tonight, you’d meet the stranger who only knew your words. The man who remembered lemon cake and silence. Who wanted to be a quiet part of your birthday.

And neither of you had any idea how familiar the other already was.

After thanking George and Carmen—who each gave you their own dramatic farewell (“Don’t fall in love too fast!” from George and “Text us if he’s weird!” from Carmen)—you stepped out of the car and into the golden-lit entrance of the restaurant.

The soft hum of music and the clinking of glasses filled the luxurious rooftop air as you stepped into the restaurant, heart skipping slightly in your chest. The host gave you a polite nod after checking your name. “The other party has arrived. Right this way.”

You followed him through the elegant interior, heels clicking against marble, up the winding staircase that led to the rooftop. The scent of fresh flowers and faint citrus from the lit candles danced in the air. Monaco’s skyline shimmered around you like a velvet painting—romantic, rich, and utterly intimidating.

Your eyes darted around nervously until the host stopped beside a table for two nestled under the warm glow of hanging lights.

“Here’s your table,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”

You gave a small, polite smile and a breathy, “Thank you,” before turning toward the man sitting there.

And then everything slowed.

The stranger looked up from the menu, his posture straightening slightly when his eyes met yours. For a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

He was handsome. Striking, even—clean-cut with soft brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and those eyes... bright and curious, the kind that made you feel like he was looking straight through your layers.

He stood politely, tucking the chair back with a gentleman’s grace. “Hi,” he said, voice low and smooth with a French accent. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but… you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, caught off guard in the sweetest way. “Thank you,” you replied, shy but smiling. “You clean up well yourself.”

He chuckled softly, stepping aside to help you into your seat before returning to his own. “I’m Charles, by the way.”

You tilted your head slightly, trying to recall the name. “I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you. I, uh… I don’t really do this kind of thing.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted, then grinned. “But I’m glad I did.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh, glancing around the candlelit terrace. “This place is… a lot fancier than I imagined.”

“I wanted it to feel like something special,” he said, watching you with interest. “Especially since you said it’s your birthday?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it is. I didn’t expect to spend it with a stranger.”

Charles smiled warmly. “Then let’s not be strangers for long.”

And for the first time that night, the nerves started to melt away—replaced by the soft thrill of something new. Something possible.

“I brought you some birthday gifts,” Charles said gently, reaching beneath the table. From beside him, he pulled out a bouquet of soft roses and a small, elegant gift bag with a satin ribbon.

“Happy birthday.”

You blinked, visibly stunned as you slowly took them from him. “Wow… thanks. I—didn’t think you’d pull something so romantic.” A light laugh slipped from you, warm and breathless.

He laughed softly too, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was worried it’d be too much. Too fast.”

You shook your head, smiling more genuinely now. “No, this… this is a really nice way to celebrate. Thank you. Truly.”

You peeked into the gift bag, eyes widening further when your fingers brushed against a velvet box. Gently, you pulled it out and flipped open the lid, revealing a delicate, shimmering necklace—elegant, understated, and clearly expensive.

“Charles… this looks like it’s worth a lot,” you said quietly, your fingers resting just near the pendant. “You didn’t have to do this. For a stranger.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes soft. “I wanted to do something kind. From what I read on your profile… you seem like someone who gives a lot of herself to others. Quiet, hardworking. Like you don’t get many moments like this.”

Your smile faltered for a second—but not out of discomfort. Out of recognition. That was exactly it.

You closed the box and placed it carefully back in the gift bag, knowing deep down that you’d be wearing that necklace. Not tonight. But soon. It already meant something.

“I do stay to myself a lot,” you admitted. “I’m a fashion designer. Not the runway, celebrity kind. Not yet, at least. But I’m working on something big. For a small show. Hoping it gets my name out there.”

“That sounds incredible,” he said. “A busy woman, from what I gather.”

“Very.” You let out a small laugh. “Most days, it’s just fabric, pins, coffee, and a hundred sketches I hate the next morning.”

He smiled at the image, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table. “Tell me more.”

There was something so disarming about the way he listened. Like he genuinely wanted to know—not just hear.

“Well,” you continued with a slight shrug, “aside from burying myself in work, I have a wonderful dad, and a few siblings. My older brother is the one who hovers and checks in constantly—sweet, but a little overbearing at times.”

You grinned softly. “I don’t have any pets. Would love one, but time doesn’t really allow it. And no kids either—not something I’ve thought about seriously in my twenties, you know? I mean, sure, parenthood seems sweet in theory, but we’re still young. There’s so much we haven’t even seen yet.”

Charles listened, quietly mesmerized. Your voice, your ease, your honesty. There was something magnetic about it. Even as you rambled—especially as you rambled—he found himself hanging on to every word.

And before he even realized it, he was smiling for no reason at all.

“So,” he said, his tone soft and curious. “What made you try blind dating? If I’m being honest… you don’t strike me as the type to use an app either.”

You laughed gently. “Touché. My best friend and his girlfriend—they staged a whole intervention. Said I needed to get out more, live a little. I figured one night wouldn’t hurt.”

He chuckled. “Sounds familiar. My brother did the same. Said I needed to stop moping and… well, try again.”

There was a brief pause. Not awkward. Just full. Like you were both taking in the quiet revelation that, somehow, through the pressure of others and the unpredictability of timing… you ended up here.

“Guess the universe was doing us a favor,” you said softly.

Charles looked at you for a long moment, his eyes warm.

“Maybe it was.”

Dinner had stretched far longer than you'd planned. Hours melted away like butter on warm bread. The rooftop lights glowed softer now, Monaco twinkling behind you, a lull of laughter and clinking glasses surrounding the two of you like distant music.

The wine bottle sat almost empty between your glasses, and the plates were half-cleared—forks pushed aside as conversation carried on like it always belonged there.

He’d told you everything. Not all at once, but in pieces—his voice soft and slow when he spoke of his last relationship, the way it unraveled, how he tried to hold it together. You listened, not because you had to, but because it was easy. It was natural.

You shared your own past, the guys who hadn’t taken your dreams seriously, who made you feel like you were too much and never enough all at once. Somehow, he didn’t flinch at any of it. He just listened.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a blind date… and started feeling like the beginning of something else entirely.

You leaned back slightly, your laughter fading into a warm smile as you looked at the nearly empty bottle of wine. “So, Charles…”

He raised an eyebrow, mirroring your smile. “Yes?”

“I think we’ve officially finished that bottle,” you mused, tapping the neck of it lightly.

He glanced at it and laughed. “We definitely have.”

“And yet…” you tilted your head slightly, teasing, “we barely even scratched the surface of our lives.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I’m a driver. That’s the easy part. You’re a fashion designer. Also easy. But you’re right... we haven’t really dug yet.”

You lifted your glass, swirling what was left. “Well, if you’re a driver…” you said casually, smirking slightly, “then you should drive me home.”

Charles grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I would love that.”

You blinked, cheeks flushing slightly. “I—I was joking.”

“I wasn’t,” he said smoothly, his gaze lingering on yours just long enough to make your stomach flutter.

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping to your glass. “God, I don’t usually flirt like this.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and sincere. “Then I feel lucky to be the exception.”

You looked at him then—really looked. This man you hadn’t known existed a day ago was somehow already making your heart beat differently. And while you didn’t want to fall too fast… you couldn’t deny the feeling.

“We should have just one more romantic little nightcap,” you said with a lazy smile, your voice soft, the wine making your words just a touch warmer than usual.

Charles mirrored your grin, eyes still sparkling under the soft rooftop lights. “I’ll order us one more,” he said.

But one became two. Two became three.

The line between strangers and something more blurred under the Monaco stars. Your cheeks were flushed, his eyes softer, looser with each glass. Every laugh melted into another. Every glance lingered longer than the last.

Your clutch sat untouched beside your chair, your phone buzzing silently inside with texts and calls—Carmen, George… even Lewis, probably. But none of it reached you. None of it mattered in this moment.

“You are too sweet,” you giggled, cheeks aching from how much you'd been smiling.

Charles leaned closer, voice low and laced in charm. “You make me that way.”

Somewhere in the swirl of tipsy teasing, flirty banter, and honest smiles, something real had started to bloom. Neither of you named it—but it sat there, quiet and heavy and humming between your glances.

Eventually, the check came. Charles paid with no hesitation, and you stood with your roses gently tucked under your arm, the gift bag holding your necklace swinging lightly in your grip. You walked out with him still talking—still laughing—still feeling something unfamiliar but magnetic.

The moment you reached his car, your thoughts were hazy but clear enough to know what you wanted.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and without another word, you leaned in—and kissed him.

It was warm and slow and unexpectedly perfect. He tasted like wine and something softly unfamiliar, but it settled in your chest like a secret you’d been waiting to uncover.

When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but giggle. “Okay, so… change of plans, back to your place?”

Charles smirked, the kind that was both sweet and sinful. “I don’t see why not.”

He opened the car door for you, that same gentleman streak never breaking—no matter how drunk on the moment he was. You slid in, glancing over with a coy smile.

He slid into the driver’s seat, the engine purring softly as Monaco blurred behind you.

Meanwhile, across town…

Carmen paced back and forth across your living room like she was expecting the floor to crack under her next step. “This is bad. This is so bad.”

George sat on the couch, arms crossed, trying to appear calm—but the slight twitch in his eye betrayed him. “We need to breathe. Just—breathe. She hasn’t texted, okay? So maybe she’s fine.”

Carmen threw her arms in the air. “She’s fine? She’s with a stranger, George. A stranger we convinced her to meet on an app! And if we don’t get her back in one piece, you know what’s going to happen?”

George sighed, bracing for it. “Angry Lewis?”

“Angry Lewis,” she repeated dramatically. “Do you want to see Lewis Hamilton show up at our door with that big brother energy and a whole lifetime of ‘I told you so’ in his pocket?!”

George clicked his tongue. “Fair point…”

They both stared at the door in silence.

“Call her again,” Carmen said.

“I already did—twice.”

“Then text her. And pray.”

George grabbed his phone with a groan. “This is how it ends, isn’t it? We try to be good friends, and we get taken down by a serial killer on a blind dating app.”

Carmen glared. “You don’t even know if it’s a serial killer!”

George raised a brow. “You don’t know that it’s not.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun spilled across the large bed, golden and far too bright for the subtle pounding in your head. You stirred beneath the sheets, stretching your arms and legs only to find the other side of the bed cold. Empty.

A quiet wince left your lips. Wine headache. Classic.

“God... what time is it…” you mumbled, blindly reaching for your clutch bag tossed by the nightstand. You pulled your phone free, tapped the screen—and immediately froze.

12 missed calls. 28 unread messages.

Carmen. George. Lewis. Toto?!

“Shit.”

You sat up abruptly, blankets clinging to your bare chest. Your head pulsed. Your heart thudded.

Call 1: Carmen.

She picked up on the first ring.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she half-screamed. “I thought you were dead, Y/n!”

You winced. “Okay—ow—Carmen, calm down. I’m sorry. I’m alive, okay?”

“We didn’t know that! George and I literally slept on your couch waiting for you to show up or text or anything!”

You rubbed your temple, guilt sinking in. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Where are you? We’ll come get you.”

You looked around. The room was… nice. Too nice. Expensive sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows, an ocean view that made you want to weep.

“I… think I’m at his place. My date’s.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Okay,” Carmen said slowly. “You better come home in one piece. I love you, but please call Lewis before he comes here breathing fire.”

“I will.”

She hung up before you could say more.

Call 2: Lewis.

He answered with no hello.

“Have you lost your entire mind?”

You flinched. “I’m sorry! I was out on my date, my phone was silenced. I didn’t think—”

“You never think when it comes to this stuff,” he cut in, exhaling hard. “You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t sleep.”

“I get it, Lew. I messed up.”

“I’ll tell Dad you’re okay,” he said flatly. “But I’m coming over later. You and I—we’re having a long talk.”

Click.

You groaned, tossing the phone aside and dropping flat against the bed again. “Fantastic.”

You flung the blanket off—then squeaked, immediately pulling it back up.

You were naked.

Eyes wide, cheeks heating up, you squeaked, “Oh my god. My clothes… where are my clothes? Did we—oh my god did we?”

Just then, you heard a muffled voice from the hallway. “Leo, stop—hey—come back here…”

Seconds later, Charles appeared in the doorway, following a tiny, bouncing puppy into the room. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and the smile he gave you was soft and sleepy.

“You’re awake.”

You blushed furiously, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Where are my clothes?”

Charles ran a hand over his jaw, chuckling softly. “Last night was… really nice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Charles. What. Happened.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Relax, mon cœur. We didn’t do anything like that. No full-on... you know.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “We made out. A lot. There was some... other stuff. But nothing more. Just… the basics.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“Oral?” you asked, voice a whisper.

He gave a guilty smile. “...Yeah.”

You fell back into the pillows, groaning into your hands. “I’m so irresponsible.”

Charles chuckled. “You were charming. And a little tipsy. I wasn’t going to push things. Trust me—I liked last night just the way it was.”

You peeked out at him, still red in the face. “You promise you didn’t, like... use me or something?”

He tilted his head with a soft smile. “Non, mon ange. I think you used me.”

You let out a tiny laugh despite yourself.

“Your dress and heels are in the laundry room,” Charles said from the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, his voice soft and low. “Shower’s all yours, mon cœur. Feel free to wear something of mine. I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready.”

You let out a sigh of relief, your body still tucked beneath the sheets. “You’re dangerously perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled. “Don’t give me too much credit yet. Wait until you see my hoodie collection.”

You smiled faintly, your cheeks still slightly warm as he gave you one last reassuring glance before closing the door, giving you privacy. You peeled yourself from the bed, wrapping the blanket around you as you padded into the bathroom.

The moment you saw the large glass shower and warm steam rising from the polished tiles, your shoulders relaxed. It was exactly what you needed. Quiet. Warm. Private.

As water poured down, washing away the wine, nerves, and lingering lipstick, Charles made his way to the living room, ruffling his hair and settling onto the couch.

His phone buzzed just as he grabbed it.

Lewis Hamilton.

Charles answered casually. “Bonjour.”

“Hey, Charles,” Lewis’ familiar voice came through, cool and easy. “Just a heads up—I’ll be a bit late today. I’m heading to my sister’s place first.”

Charles leaned back on the couch, his gaze momentarily drifting to the hallway. “No worries, mate. I’ve got… a guest here anyway. Won’t be leaving until I pull myself together.”

Lewis chuckled lightly on the other end. “Alex?”

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. Definitely not Alex. I’m not going back there.”

“Fair enough,” Lewis said. “Just thought I’d check. Take care.”

“You too.”

Click.

Charles dropped his phone onto the cushion beside him, stretching an arm across the back of the couch, eyes trailing up to the ceiling. The irony hadn’t hit him yet. Not even close.

Back in the bathroom, steam curled around your shoulders as you turned off the water, wrapping yourself in the soft towel provided. You felt better—clearer—yet still utterly unaware of the name “Charles Leclerc,” still unaware of his world of speed, podiums, and red Ferrari suits.

He didn’t recognize your last name either. Not with the haze of the night before, your profile missing a photo, and the intimacy of the date distracting him from logical connections.

The truth hung above both of you like a ticking clock—neither of you hearing it yet.

You were just two people—two strangers, sweetly tangled in something brand new—too caught up in the glow of it all to realize just how complicated this was about to become.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The ride to your place was quiet, but comfortably so. Monaco rolled by outside the car window in soft golden tones, morning light catching the sparkle of the sea and rooftops. You sat with the roses delicately balanced in your lap, the velvet necklace box resting beside you like some kind of secret treasure.

“I’m still really sorry,” you said quietly, turning to look at Charles, guilt flickering behind your smile. “I didn’t mean to make everyone panic.”

Charles glanced at you briefly, eyes kind. “No worries. Truly. I had fun. I needed it—even if you don’t realize it.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I needed it too,” you admitted, your fingers brushing over the petals of the roses.

When he pulled up in front of your flat, he shifted into park but didn’t move to open his door. Instead, he looked at you with a faint smile. “Wait. Let me have your number.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised, and nodded. “For another date?” you asked, your tone soft, a little playful.

He leaned slightly toward you, resting an arm on the steering wheel. “Another date,” he confirmed, “and to have a very good excuse to keep in contact.”

You smiled, exchanging numbers, your fingers brushing as you passed the phone between you. “I had fun. Truly,” you said.

He gave a small nod, his voice low and warm. “Me too… Y/n.” He winked at the end, and your heart did a little somersault you tried to ignore.

You stepped out, roses in hand, clutch under your arm, and turned to wave as he drove off. For a moment, you just stood there—smiling like a fool in love… even though you’d promised yourself not to fall too fast.

You pushed open the door to your Monaco flat, and before you could even step fully inside, George was storming toward you.

“Do not hey me! I thought you DIED,” George exclaimed, immediately wrapping his arms around you like a human seatbelt.

“Oh my god—Russell, put me down!” you laughed, nearly dropping the roses. “I’m not a missing child!”

“I cannot do that,” he said dramatically, squeezing tighter. “I am clinging to life itself right now.”

Carmen stood off to the side with her arms crossed, but her eyes were soft and worried. “We were really worried. You didn’t text. You didn’t call.”

“I know, I know,” you said, finally breaking free of George’s hug. “I messed up. My phone was on silent, and the date just… kind of swept me away.”

“I told you not to trust blind dates,” Carmen huffed, but her voice betrayed relief.

“I’m fine. He was sweet. Gentle. Thoughtful. He even gave me these.” You set the roses on the table delicately, placing the necklace box beside them. “He drove me home, made sure I was okay. Like, I got very lucky.”

George leaned over the roses suspiciously. “So what’s his name, hmm? Did he lie about having a yacht or something?”

“Charles,” you said casually, walking toward your room. “Charles... something.”

George and Carmen froze. “...Charles what?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask for his last name. Should I have?”

George looked at Carmen. Carmen looked at George.

“Oh my god,” George whispered.

“You’re kidding,” Carmen mouthed.

You turned back, confused. “It's weird to ask for last names on first dates." you said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Carmen grinned, settling beside you on the couch with wide eyes and eager energy. “Give us all the details!”

You laughed lightly, waving a hand. “Okay, okay. Let me have a snack first—and then we’ll get cozy.”

A few minutes later, you returned to the living room with a plate of buttery croissants and a glass of sparkling water, curling up between them as if the night before hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down.

“So,” you began, “we met at this fancy rooftop restaurant. Like, chandelier-fancy. He’d already gotten a table, and there were roses waiting for me.”

George raised his brows. “Roses? Wow. Straight out the gate.”

“He gave me a necklace, too,” you said, nodding toward the box on the table.

Carmen’s eyes sparkled. “Shut up. On a first date? Who is this man—and does he have brothers?”

You laughed again. “It was really sweet. He didn’t come off pushy or weird. We just… talked. About everything. His last relationship, my work, what we both want. It didn’t feel like a date from an app. It felt like…” you paused, searching for the word.

“Like you’d known each other longer than a night,” Carmen offered, smiling gently.

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“I cannot wait to meet him someday,” she said dreamily.

“One day, you will,” you promised, biting into your croissant. “Just give him some time. I want to see how things play out. Keep it real.”

George leaned back. “Only right.”

Just then, the front door clicked open. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

“You,” Lewis said, walking in with all the exhaustion of a man who hadn’t slept.

You groaned softly. “I just started telling them about the date, can I have five minutes of peace—?”

Lewis cut in, frustration simmering beneath his voice. “That doesn’t matter, Y/n. You can’t just disappear and leave your phone on silent.”

“I wasn’t disappearing,” you said, setting your glass down. “It was one date. I didn’t think I needed to check in every hour.”

“I don’t care if it was dinner or a weekend getaway,” he said firmly, stepping further in. “I’m your brother. I need to know you’re safe. You didn’t text anyone. Not me. Not Dad. Not even Toto—and that man wakes up at four in the morning worried about tire strategy and you.”

You winced, guilt tugging at your expression. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Carmen interjected gently, “She’s safe. She’s here. And the guy treated her really well.”

Lewis narrowed his gaze. “And you met him?”

“Not yet,” George said, before flashing a guilty look. “But we, uh, helped her get the date.”

"Oh great! So you guys could have set her up with a serial killer and never known." Lewis said.

"I'm okay, Lew." You assured. "I'm here and I'm okay and it won't happen again, I won't silence my phone again, so take a deep breath...and relax."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll relax. Later, I have to meet with the team at the paddock for the upcoming GP," he said.

You hum. "I have to work on some of my fashion designs, but I'd love to stop by. See you on your Ferrari team at work, and of course, to stop in and see Toto and Susie, and maybe squeeze my way to McLaren to see my two favorite boys," you stated.

George hums. "Wow, so you're going to paddock hop today? How nice," he mumbled. "It's just practice," he said as you hum. "And I'm going."

"touche"

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was just a simple practice today—nothing grand, nothing too loud. No interviews. No press chaos. Just the subtle buzz of engines and the clean Monaco breeze blowing through the paddock. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to be there, to watch your brother do what he loved. After all, you needed some air before diving back into your designs and the endless piles of fabric and sketches.

Even if… your mind was still dancing with the warmth of last night’s memories. The wine. The laughter. His kiss.

You shook it off.

You walked alongside George, his presence always calming, always familiar. He was rambling about Carmen—his usual lovestruck, slightly dramatic way of doing so—and you smiled as you listened.

"You two are like... the best couple ever," you said warmly. “And my best friends.”

He smirked. “We try our best. She mostly tolerates me.”

You both chuckled, the sound light and comfortable. The air between you was filled with that easy rhythm of close friendship—bouncing between jokes and stories, effortlessly killing time as you strolled near the edge of the paddock.

Until—

Your laughter died in your throat. Your heart skipped. Your eyes widened.

You stopped walking.

Your arm shot up and pointed before you could think.

“Him. George—him. He races?”

George followed your line of sight, eyebrows raising casually. “Yeah… that’s Charles Leclerc.”

You blinked. “He races?”

George turned to you, confusion painting his face—right up until he saw the way your expression crumbled. The way your breath caught.

“Oh,” he muttered.

Then louder. “Oh no.”

You grabbed his arm and pulled him with you, away from the walkway, ducking just behind one of the garage walls out of view of anyone passing by.

“Whoa—hey—Y/n, breathe,” he said, hands gently on your arms now. “What’s going on?”

You stared at him, practically whispering now. “George. That’s him. That’s the guy. From last night.”

His eyes blinked rapidly, doing the math. Then his mouth fell open in slow-motion horror. “Wait… wait. You went on a blind date with—Charles Leclerc?”

You nodded frantically.

He ran a hand down his face. “And Charles Leclerc is your brother’s teammate—now. After the transfer.”

You stared blankly at him. “Why didn’t I know that?! I didn’t recognize him last night—I didn’t even think!”

George looked around, as if Lewis might appear out of nowhere like a thundercloud. “Okay. So. What was Lewis’s number-one, carved-in-stone, hell-will-freeze-before-it-breaks rule?”

You swallowed hard. “…No dating F1 drivers. Or anyone in the paddock. Ever.”

George pointed a finger at you. “Exactly.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “This is a disaster. George. George. What do I do?!”

He placed both hands on your shoulders. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. It’s fine. Maybe he won’t recognize you.”

You looked at him like he was insane. “He kissed me, George. Twice. And I woke up in his bed.”

George blinked. “Okay yeah, you're screwed.”

“Oh, thank you, George! Just what I needed—pure panic and doom,” you hissed as you paced in a small circle behind the garage, clutching your bag and trying not to scream.

George held up a finger with dramatic flair. “Okay, listen, we can hide you.”

You gave him a flat stare. “George, you cannot hide me in a paddock. We’re literally surrounded by cameras, drivers, mechanics, and people who probably know my last three hairstyles.”

Without another word, George yanked off his hoodie and tossed it over your head. “There. Crisis averted. You’re Carmen now.”

You squawked. “I am not Carmen, I’m clearly taller—”

“Relax. I got this.” he whispered, already pulling you by the wrist around the back of the Mercedes garage like this was a military-level operation.

You had zero time to protest before you heard a familiar voice, calm and charming as ever:

“George.”

George spun around like a kid caught sneaking out. “Charles! Charles Leclerc! My man—Monaco’s shining prince,” he blurted with a tense grin.

Charles blinked at him, clearly thrown off by the greeting. “Right…”

Then his eyes flicked to you—well, to the hoodie-covered version of you—and he raised a suspicious brow. “Why are you hiding Carmen under a hoodie?”

George’s laugh was painful. “What? This?” he gestured vaguely at you, stepping in front of your body like a malfunctioning security system. “She was just—uh—complaining about the sun. Brutal sunburns, you know how women get—fragile and dramatic about, uh…melanin!”

You audibly groaned under the hoodie.

Charles tilted his head. “Carmen’s not that dramatic.”

“She is today!” George insisted, nudging you hard. “Babe, say something!”

You froze. Then in the worst, most broken Carmen impression imaginable, you muttered, “Uhm… oui… soleil… bad.”

George clapped a hand to his face.

Charles blinked slowly. “She doesn’t even speak French.”

George laughed way too hard. “No, no! That’s the new her. French Carmen! Embracing the local culture. Anyway—look at the time! Gotta go! Carmen and I have to—uh—rub aloe on each other!”

He began dragging you away, your legs barely cooperating under the weight of panic and secondhand embarrassment.

Charles stood there for a beat, brow furrowed, watching you both stumble away like two guilty middle schoolers sneaking out of class.

“…That’s not Carmen,” he muttered.

Charles turned the corner quickly, eyes narrowing as he tried to brush off the odd encounter with George. But just as he stepped forward, his shoulder bumped gently into someone else. He turned instinctively, already ready to apologize.

“Oh—je suis désolé—” He froze.

“Carmen?” he blinked hard, confusion thick in his voice.

Carmen tilted her head, mirroring his expression. “Charles? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

He stared at her. Really stared.

She wasn’t in a hoodie. She wasn’t with George. And she certainly hadn’t just called the sun ‘bad’ in broken French.

Charles took a slow step back. “Wait... if you’re here… then who—” He spun around, eyes scanning the paddock in search of the hoodie-covered mystery woman George had practically thrown into another dimension.

Carmen squinted. “What’s going on? You look rattled.”

“I think...” he muttered, brows pinched, “I think George just tried to pass someone off as you.”

Carmen’s lips parted, curious and amused. “Why would he—”

Charles’s eyes flicked back to her, then widened slightly.

“No... no way...” he breathed. “It was her. The girl from the date.”

Carmen furrowed her brow. “Wait—Y/n?”

He blinked.

“…Y/n?” he echoed slowly, like the name had just been unlocked in a memory vault.

Carmen’s eyes grew wide. “Oh God, you don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

“She’s Lewis’s sister.”

Charles’s face dropped.

Silence.

The entire paddock suddenly felt louder. Engines in the background, chatter from the media zone, radios buzzing. But none of it reached him. Only that single, horrifying realization echoed in his mind:

He kissed Lewis Hamilton’s sister.

He almost slept with Lewis Hamilton’s sister.

“Oh no,” Charles whispered, visibly paling. “I’m going to die.”

“Charles—DO NOT TELL LEWIS!” Carmen whisper-yelled, chasing after him like a woman on a mission, her boots clicking furiously against the paddock asphalt.

“I’m not!” Charles called over his shoulder, already weaving through people. “But I have to see her—I need to talk to her!”

“CHARLES!” she groaned, practically running now. “Wait! We can make a deal! Negotiate! Mediate! Don’t go rogue!”

But Charles was gone—darting like he’d just seen a yellow flag in qualifying.

As Carmen sprinted after him, a pair of familiar red-clad legs stepped out from the Ferrari garage. Lewis had just finished a debrief, earphones dangling from his neck, a towel slung around his shoulders. He paused, watching Charles fly past, with Carmen hot on his heels.

He squinted. “...Charles?”

Then blinked as Carmen flew by. “...Carmen?”

“What in the—?”

But instead of chasing them down like a brother with questions should, Lewis just pulled his towel tighter around his neck, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Nope. Not my circus today.” He popped one earbud back in and resumed his casual walk like chaos wasn’t screaming right behind him.

Further down the paddock—

“You are—Charles?” Toto turned around just in time to be nearly shoulder-checked by a panicked Monegasque man in full Ferrari red.

“Sorry! Can’t stop!” Charles blurted, not even breaking stride as he zoomed past the Mercedes team principal.

Carmen followed behind, panting. “Just—let him go, I’ll sedate him later!” she called to Toto. “Oh! Hey Kimi!” she added as she flew by.

Kimi Antonelli, halfway through biting into an energy bar, slowly lifted his hand to wave. “Uh…hi?”

He looked up at Toto, who was still standing stunned.

“...Do I ask?”

Toto didn’t look away from where Charles disappeared around a corner. “Absolutely not.”

You stood near the back of the paddock with George, trying your best to act like everything was fine. He was mid-story about Carmen when your eyes suddenly locked on someone in the distance. Your stomach dropped.

“Shit…” you mumbled, grabbing George’s arm.

He looked up. “What?”

You didn’t respond right away, watching as Charles made a beeline toward you — fast, determined, and clearly not just here to say hello.

George followed your gaze, and his expression fell into place. “Ah. Okay. Yep. That’s a situation.” He straightened up, then glanced around awkwardly. “Um… I’ll grab Carmen. We’ll, uh—give you two space.” He gently guided Carmen a few steps back as she gave you a sympathetic look.

Charles didn’t wait for pleasantries. His eyes were intense, his jaw tight. “You should’ve told me.”

You blinked. “Charles—”

“No, seriously, Y/n. I told you I was a driver! you told me you were a fashion designer and nothing else!"

Your lips parted in disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

“No! You knew exactly who I was once you saw me, and you didn’t say a word until after.” His voice was rising with frustration. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

You clenched your fists, your voice rising to meet his. “Because I can’t date Formula 1 drivers! It’s a rule — my brother’s rule. And when you said you were a driver, I didn’t think F1! You could’ve been a track-day racer or a damn Uber driver for all I knew!”

Charles stared at you, clearly not expecting that level of honesty. But he pressed further. “Still doesn’t matter. You didn’t tell me. You should have. So why?”

You finally snapped.

“Because I’m tired of people only liking me for my brother!” you yelled, your voice cracking as your emotions spilled out. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? To constantly wonder if someone wants me, or if they want access to Lewis Hamilton?”

His brows softened, but you weren’t finished.

“Do you know how exhausting it is to meet people, men especially, and realize halfway through that they’re only interested because of my last name? Because of the clout? Because I’m ‘Hamilton’s sister’ and not Y/n?” You pointed to yourself, frustrated tears brimming.

“I didn’t tell you because... for once, I wanted someone to see me. Not the name. Not the family. Just me. And last night, I thought you did.”

A heavy silence fell between you.

Charles looked like he wanted to speak, but for a moment, he couldn’t. The truth of your words hit him harder than he expected, and you—standing there, angry, vulnerable, and shaking—looked like someone whose walls had been forced down after too long of holding them up.

George and Carmen stood back quietly, watching, not daring to interrupt.

Finally, Charles said softly, “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

You wiped your cheek roughly. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Before you could say anything else, Charles reached out and gently cupped your face in his palms. The warmth of his touch startled you, but you didn’t pull away.

“Y/n,” he whispered, holding your gaze. “Last night… it meant something. I don’t care if sneaking around his back gets us killed by Lewis himself,” he added with a small, crooked grin. “I want to see you again. Another date. Just you and me. No labels, no pressure, just... time to keep laughing like we did. It felt good to just be with someone who didn’t care about the cameras or the chaos.”

You let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding under your ribcage. His thumbs brushed your cheeks softly, and for a fleeting moment, the world around you quieted.

“You’re serious?” you asked, a whisper of disbelief in your voice.

He nodded. “As long as you can keep this a secret... I’ll keep it too.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Okay… another date,” you said, your voice firmer now. “But this doesn’t make us a couple. I want to move slow. I don’t want this to be fast or messy or reckless.”

He smiled, dropping his hands slowly but still close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Then slow it is,” he said. “No pressure. Just... us. One step at a time.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Keeping your relationship with Charles a secret from Lewis was never easy. The guilt lived quietly in the corner of your heart, even when you smiled, even when Charles cupped your face and told you everything was okay. That it was worth it. That you were worth it.

And maybe he was right.

Because a week after that first chaotic paddock run-in, your second date happened — and it was nothing like the first. There was no tension. No foggy wine haze. Just you, him, and the gentle sway of the ocean as his yacht floated under the Monaco moonlight.

The sea shimmered like spilled glitter beneath the stars, and you wore a soft, silk dress he couldn’t take his eyes off of. Charles, in a white linen shirt that danced in the wind, held you gently as music played from a vintage speaker tucked in the corner of the yacht deck. Your bodies swayed in rhythm, barefoot and easy, your cheek resting against his shoulder. You had never laughed more freely. You had never danced with your eyes closed.

He kissed your forehead that night and whispered, "This feels right. Doesn’t it?"

And it did.

From then on, the dates became routine, like a secret rhythm only the two of you shared. Dinners in tucked-away corners of Monaco. Walks along the beach with Leo pulling at his leash while you both talked about everything and nothing. Movie nights where you'd end up tangled together on his couch, half-watching the screen, too busy studying the way he looked when he was relaxed.

Within a month, it wasn’t just dating. It was existing together.

There were nights you fell asleep in his bed and mornings you woke in yours with his arms wrapped around your waist. His necklace occasionally sat on your nightstand. Your lipstick showed up on his coffee mugs. Leo would climb onto your lap like he belonged there — and he did.

When work consumed you — when sketches blurred into seams and fabric — Charles always had perfect timing. He’d show up with your favorite drink, a little croissant, and kiss the top of your head. "Breathe, mon cœur," he’d whisper. “Come lie down. Just ten minutes.”

You’d argue, and every time, he’d win. You’d end up wrapped in a blanket on your couch, your sketch pad abandoned, your head on his chest as his heartbeat lulled you into the first rest you’d had in hours.

He’d clean up after himself at your place, and you did the same at his. The unspoken rhythm became: love in little things. Folding his hoodie and placing it neatly over the back of a chair. Gathering your sketch papers and placing them in piles. Wiping down his countertops. Picking up Leo’s toys. When you looked at him now, you didn’t see just a fling. You saw someone.

But the secret — the heaviness of keeping it from your brother — it lingered.

Even as the months passed, even when Charles officially asked you to be his girlfriend — sometime in the third month, over breakfast on his balcony, with orange juice in one hand and your hand in the other — you still hadn't told Lewis.

You’d stared at him, sleepy and warm in one of his Ferrari shirts, and said, “Is this you making it official?”

“It’s me trying to stop pretending I don’t already think of you that way.”

You said yes, with a smile too big for your face.

And yet... every time Lewis called, every time he asked how you were, something inside you twisted. Because he didn’t know. And he would hate it. And it was getting harder to lie.

George saw it coming before you did.

“You’re getting careless,” he said one day, eyes flicking up from his phone as you sat across from him in a little Monaco café. “He leaves your place late. You smile when his name comes up. You hum Ferrari songs.”

You laughed, but George didn’t. “I’m serious, Y/n. Be careful. You two… you’re like… in love or something.”

You looked away. You couldn’t even deny it.

Because maybe, just maybe, you were.

The snow outside blanketed the streets of Monaco in soft white, a rare sight that made everything feel quieter, softer — almost like the city itself was holding its breath. You stood by the tall window of your flat, the soft layers of your sweater pulled tight around your frame as steam curled from your untouched mug of tea on the windowsill.

Behind you, Lewis stood, also watching the falling snow. His cup of hot chocolate rested in his hands, warming his fingers. The soft instrumental music playing in the background barely filled the space between your shared silence.

"You know," he spoke, his voice calm and thoughtful, "your winter fashion show is going to do good."

You turned slightly to look at him, your face lit by the soft glow of string lights decorating the room. He offered a half-smile, nudging your shoulder. "Even if it’s just a small event."

You took in a quiet breath, eyes lingering on the flakes outside. "Actually..." you began, your voice low, "...it's not going to be a small event."

Lewis turned to you fully, his brows raising with interest. "Wait—what? You got a bigger show?"

You nodded, biting your lower lip as the smile threatened to take over your whole face. He blinked once, processing, before gently setting his mug down on the nearby table and wrapping his arms around you in a warm hug. "I'm so proud of you! I knew my little sister was capable of something amazing!" he said into your ear.

You chuckled against his shoulder, burying your face there for a moment. He was so proud, so encouraging, and your heart ached with the weight of what you weren’t saying.

Because deep down, you knew exactly how this opportunity came to you. It wasn’t luck or coincidence.

It was Charles.

You could still remember it so clearly — the way he told you over dinner one night, casually mentioning he pulled a few strings to get your portfolio into the right hands. He tried to act cool, like it wasn’t a big deal, but the moment he said “they want your work in the main showcase,” you had squealed, leapt into his lap, and tackled him back onto the couch.

He laughed so hard that Leo barked in confusion, circling around the both of you.

You’d kissed every inch of his face, hands in his hair, overwhelmed by the happiness he’d brought you. He didn’t do it to impress you. He did it because he believed in you. He told you, "They didn’t say yes because of me, they said yes because your work speaks louder than I ever could."

You had never loved someone more in that moment.

The warmth of the memory made your chest tighten. You cleared your throat and pulled slightly back from Lewis’s embrace, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Well, you know… Lewis," you started, eyes on your hands, "I actually… had some help getting it."

He tilted his head. "Was it Dad?"

You shook your head slowly, avoiding his gaze. "No… just… someone. Someone who believed in me, I guess."

He watched you for a moment, lips pursed in thought, but he didn’t press. "Well, whoever it was, I owe them a drink." He reached for his mug again. "Just tell me the date of your show, I’ll be there — front row."

You smiled. "Thanks, Lew."

But even as the snow fell gently outside, even as warmth filled the room, your mind couldn’t help but linger.

One day, you thought, he’ll know. One day I’ll have to tell him.

But today wasn’t that day.

So you could proceed to spend careless time with Lewis.

Even if guilt kept eating at you.

Two hours into the night, the apartment was warm, filled with the low hum of music and the soft crackle from the faux fireplace video on the TV. Your mug of hot tea sat empty beside Lewis’s finished hot cocoa, the lingering steam gone, but laughter still echoed between the two of you.

It was one of those rare, peaceful evenings—just you and your older brother, sharing old stories, poking fun at each other, and letting the world slow down for once.

Then your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You glanced down instinctively, lifting it as you continued laughing—but the smile faded fast as your eyes scanned the message:

“I’m on my way up.”

Your heart dropped.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You sat up a little too quickly, phone still in hand, panic tightening your chest. “Hey, Lewis!” you said, voice pitched just a little too high. “Aren’t you ready to head home?”

He looked at you with a slight frown, blinking slowly. “Hm? Not really, no. I was actually thinking I might crash here tonight.” He stretched and leaned back against the couch, completely at ease. “The couch is nice, the atmosphere’s chill, and I get to hang out with my favorite sister. Why would I leave?”

You let out a nervous laugh, nodding, then immediately regretting how frantic it sounded. “Yeah, that’s…great. Just…I mean, you don’t have to, you know? Your bed’s probably way comfier.”

He raised a brow at you. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No! Not at all!” you said quickly, your hand tightening around your phone. “I just, um… remembered I have to do some stuff tonight. Work stuff.”

Lewis squinted at you, suspicion now creeping onto his face. “At 9:30 at night?”

You froze. Your mouth opened—then closed.

Knock knock.

The knock at the door sent an immediate bolt of panic through you.

“Who’s that?” Lewis asked, leaning forward slightly.

You jumped to your feet. “I’ll get it!”

You rushed to the door and cracked it open with your body half blocking the view. Standing there in a casual black coat and a teasing smile, was Charles.

Of course he looked devastatingly handsome.

And of course he knew what was going on the moment he saw the sheer panic in your eyes.

“Lewis is still here?” he whispered.

You nodded furiously, stepping out and shutting the door gently behind you. “I thought he’d leave hours ago!”

Charles grinned. “What do you want me to do? Wait downstairs?”

“No, just…” you looked around in every direction like a spy on the run. “Give me five minutes. I’ll...make something up.”

“I can pretend to be your neighbor dropping off sugar,” he offered, amused.

“Charles.”

He smirked. “Five minutes. I’ll be just down the hall.”

You turned back toward your apartment and inhaled deeply.

Time for the Oscar-winning performance.

You stepped back into the living room with a big, fake yawn. “Wow, I think the tea’s hitting me. I’m getting so tired…”

Lewis looked at you like you were slowly losing your mind. “Okay?”

“I should probably get to bed,” you continued, too cheerily. “You sure you don’t wanna head home? You have Roscoe, who needs care! right?”

He folded his arms. “Y/N, seriously—what is going on?”

You faltered for a beat.

Then, before your mouth could betray you even more, your phone buzzed again.

Charles.

“I’m down the hall, leaning against the wall, looking very cool. No pressure 😇”

You groaned, rubbing your face.

Lewis was staring now. “Do you have a guy coming over or something?”

You choked. “Wha—what? No. I—of course not. That would be absurd. I don’t even like guys. I mean, I do, but not like tonight—I mean, not that I wouldn’t—Oh my God.”

Lewis’s eyes widened. “Y/N…”

“I have to open the door,” you said, walking away in defeat. “Please don’t freak out.”

You opened it again.

Charles leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, and greeted you with a smug, “Your sugar delivery has arrived.”

You stepped aside wordlessly and let him in.

Lewis stood from the couch. His jaw dropped. “You?!”

Charles raised both hands like a man caught red-handed. “Bonsoir.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “So… Lewis. This is Charles.”

Charles gave a half-wave. “The blind date.”

Lewis blinked between the two of you.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You stepped firmly in front of Charles, your brows knitting tightly as you faced Lewis. “Just listen,” you said, voice steady but heavy with frustration.

Lewis’s eyes burned with anger, his jaw clenched tightly. “You broke my rule! My number one rule! No F1 drivers. No one from that world!” His voice rose, filled with disbelief. “But Charles? My teammate? My friend?!” His words cut sharp through the tense air.

He took a step closer, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “And you,” he said, glaring straight at Charles, “you knew. You smiled in my face at every race. And you were with my sister the whole time.”

Lewis’s voice cracked as he looked between the two of you, the hurt evident beneath the anger. “So what? What were all those excuses you gave me to leave early? What was the truth behind them?”

Before Charles could open his mouth, Lewis’s temper snapped. He grabbed Charles by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall. The sudden force echoed in the room.

“Lewis! Stop!” you shouted, stepping forward, panic threading through your words.

Lewis’s glare didn’t waver as he spat, voice thick with betrayal, “You lied to me! You fucking lied! You kept this a secret from me.”

Charles met Lewis’s glare evenly, voice calm but firm. “You can be mad at me all you want, but I love her.”

Lewis scoffed bitterly, his eyes flashing with venom. “Yeah, like you love every woman you’ve ever been with.” His words were harsh, a cruel jab meant to sting. The room crackled with tension, the weight of years and broken trust pressing down on all of you

Lewis’s voice cracked with raw emotion, anger burning in his eyes. “My sister is not the fucking rebound to Alex! Not to any of your problems!” His grip tightened on Charles’s collar, the frustration and protectiveness colliding in his tone.

Charles met Lewis’s glare, equally fierce. “I’m not using her as a rebound. We’ve been together for months—months! I spent her birthday with her! I was her blind date! I’ve been seeing her behind your back, and look at how you’re acting right now. No wonder she didn’t want to tell you!”

Lewis’s hold became even firmer, the tension thickening the air.

You stepped between them, voice shaking but resolute. “Lewis, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

At that, Lewis finally loosened his grip, stepping back and locking eyes with you, his breath heavy and uneven. “You tell me everything! It’s trust between us—you and I! We’re best friends, siblings—we trust each other.”

You squared your shoulders, pointing a finger firmly at his chest. “We do! But you can’t keep telling me what’s allowed and what’s not allowed! You can’t control who I see.”

Lewis’s expression shifted, the anger softening just enough to reveal the deep worry beneath. You sighed, trying to bridge the divide. “You need to go home, calm down, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He scoffed, eyes still burning. “Save it. I don’t want to talk in the morning. You lied to me. You both kept this from me. I was only looking out for you. Because I didn’t want you to get hurt like you have been before.”

You groaned, exasperated. “Lewis, don’t start this.”

“No,” he shot back, voice cracking with frustration. “I have to be honest. You didn’t tell me—you lied to my face. And all I’ve ever done was protect you—from guys who would only hurt you. I kept you safe because all you ever know is heartache. I was scared! And you lied to me.”

Charles shook his head, stepping forward calmly but firmly. “She’s fine with me. She’s been safe with me. And she’s nothing like Alex. I love Y/n for who she is.”

Lewis sneered, unable to hide his anger. “Save it. You were lying to me! Smiling in my face at every practice, every team meeting, every media day, every race. You smiled at me—what the hell were you doing behind closed doors?”

He knitted his brows tighter, voice bitter. “Playing with my sister?”

Charles rolled his eyes, unfazed by the jab. “Actually, we were doing very intimate things. In fact, on the very couch you sat on.”

Lewis lunged toward Charles, rage spilling over, but you stepped sharply between them, voice ringing out with authority.

“ENOUGH!”

The word stopped them both in their tracks. Your voice trembled but held power. “Both of you go home. Right now. Both of you. Just go.”

You could see the anger and frustration still burning in their eyes, but also the weight of your words sinking in. Neither moved for a moment, tension thick in the room, until slowly, both turned away, retreating from the battle you never wanted but now had to face.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That night, you lay awake in bed, the silence pressing down on you like a heavy weight. One lonely night stretched into days—days filled with unanswered messages and missed calls, Charles wasn't talking to you, his name lingering in your mind like a bittersweet echo. Lewis didn’t reach out either, his absence only deepening the ache in your chest. You hated this feeling—this unbearable tug-of-war inside your heart—as if you were being forced to choose between two worlds, neither of which you wanted to lose.

You threw yourself even more into work, day after day, trying to bury everything else. George would stop by, try to reach out, but you barely responded—words caught in your throat, eyes distant. He’d make you snacks, quietly setting them down, but you never touched them. Watching you like this tore at his heart. He hated seeing his best friend so lost, so closed off. But deep down, he knew he had to do something.

Despite the cold snow falling outside, George called Charles and Lewis, insisting they meet him at the café—you loved that place. When they arrived, the tension between them was thick—staring daggers, barely a word exchanged.

George finally broke the silence. “Alright, enough of this childish nonsense,” he said firmly. Both men turned to him.

“He started it,” Charles shot back, defensive.

Lewis scoffed. “Says the fake friend and teammate who’s sleeping with my sister.”

George rolled his eyes. “No, seriously. Enough. Both of you—zip it. She’s drowning in work, pushing herself harder than ever with that winter fashion show coming up. And you two need to be there. But first, you’ve got to stop this stupid tension you’ve created.” He pointed at Lewis. “You’re her brother, not her babysitter or her dad. Of course you care, but you can’t chain her down. She’s a grown woman making choices that make her happy.”

Turning to Charles, he added, “And if you love her, you should want the same. Who cares if it’s you? It could be some reckless playboy like Lando, or some creepy old guy looking for a sugar baby. But it's you.” His voice hardened. “As her boyfriend, you should be ashamed for not answering her calls and texts. She loves you, and you love her. I’ve watched her before and after you came into her life—she smiled more, relaxed more.”

They both fell silent, the truth sinking in.

“Now,” George continued gently, “Say whatever you want from now on, but forcing her to choose between you? That’s just childish.”

Charles glanced over at Lewis, a hint of remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Lewis exhaled, shoulders softening. “I’m sorry too. I’ve just seen her hurt before—badly. I guess I tried too hard to protect her… maybe more than I should have.”

Charles gave a small nod. “You’re her brother. I understand. I should’ve told you earlier. But please believe me when I say—I love her. More than you probably know. When I’m with her, I see her for everything she is. Being with her… it’s the best part of my life. I look at her and I see my future. One day, I want to marry her. So no, Lewis, I’m not going to break her heart. I know how lucky I am.”

Lewis cracked a small smile. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

George leaned back with a satisfied hum. “Great. You two finally made up. Now I expect both of you front row at her show. And if you're not—well, don’t make me come after you. My fist has your names on it.”

That day marked a turning point for both Lewis and Charles. The tension that once stood like a wall between them had crumbled, replaced by understanding and mutual respect. They realized that your happiness mattered more than any pride or past disagreements. Now, it was you who deserved the apology—and you would get it.

The night of the fashion show arrived, wrapped in the hum of chatter and clinking glasses, the venue sparkling with elegance and wealth. The kind of crowd that made your stomach twist. Every polished face, every scrutinizing eye—it all made your nerves hum with electricity. You were scared. Anxious. Drowning in thoughts of everything that could go wrong.

This couldn’t fail. Not tonight. Not when you had poured your heart, your soul, and every waking hour into this. This was your dream. Your moment.

Backstage, you gathered the models, trying to keep your voice steady. “Alright, remember—every piece is art. Walk like you're wearing something timeless. Elegant,” you said, scanning each of their faces. “You know what you’re doing.”

Your throat was dry, your nerves transparent to anyone who looked closely enough. But even as you tried to focus, a familiar thought lingered in the back of your mind—Lewis and Charles. Would they come? Had they really listened?

Suddenly, you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. Turning, you were met with your dad’s reassuring smile as he pulled you into a hug. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

You let out a quiet hum, forcing a small smile. “I just… I really hope people like my designs.”

He laughed softly, ruffling your hair like he used to when you were a kid. “They’re going to love them. I know they will. How could they not?”

And just like that, a little bit of the weight lifted from your shoulders.

Your father gently handed you the microphone, offering a soft, encouraging nod. You took it with a quiet “thank you,” your heart pounding as you stepped onto the runway. Dressed in one of your own handmade designs—a stunning gown that shimmered under the lights like freshly fallen snow—you looked every bit the visionary you were. Elegant. Poised. A living introduction to the art you were about to unveil.

You took a breath, eyes scanning the sea of faces before you. Then, with a steady voice, you spoke:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. This moment means everything to me. Each of these designs you’re about to see—each stitch, each detail—was crafted with love, passion, and purpose. My Winter Wonderland collection isn’t just fashion. It’s a reflection of emotion, of creativity, of elegance that I hope will ripple not only through Monaco, but across the world.”

You paused, letting your words land.

“My name is Y/n Hamilton… and tonight, you’ll witness what elegance and royalty look like—through my eyes. Through my art.”

The room erupted in applause, camera flashes beginning to flicker. You smiled faintly, nerves still swirling, and turned to make your way backstage. As you disappeared behind the curtain, the lights dimmed to a soft, icy blue. Music swelled through the venue like a cold, enchanting breeze, and one by one, the models began to emerge—each one wearing a piece of your soul, walking the runway like royalty, like winter itself.

And just like that, your dream was coming to life.

From backstage, you peeked through the curtain, heart racing as each model stepped into the spotlight. The soft blue lighting cast a magical glow across the runway, your designs gliding down the catwalk like snowflakes—each one unique, powerful, unforgettable.

Then, out in the crowd, your eyes found them.

Charles and Lewis had arrived.

They sat beside your father in the second row—close enough to see every detail, every stitch. Lewis was dressed in a sleek black suit, no longer guarded or cold, just watching, quietly moved. And Charles… Charles looked completely taken. His eyes didn’t leave the runway, not for a second. He saw you in every piece—your mind, your hands, your heart.

Lewis leaned over to your father. “She really did this…” he murmured, a mixture of awe and pride in his voice.

Your dad smiled. “Told you she would.”

Charles sat with his hands folded, gaze locked on the next model, who wore the same silhouette you had walked out in—only in silver, encrusted with crystals that caught the light like frost on glass. He could see your soul in the fabric. The emotion in the movement. This wasn’t just a fashion show. It was your story being told in silence, and he was listening with every breath.

Backstage, your team moved with care, each model perfectly timed. You watched your vision unfold from the shadows, nerves slowly melting into pride. You didn’t know they had come—not until you saw them with your own eyes. And just like that, the ache you'd carried for days began to loosen.

You hadn’t lost them.

They were here.

And they saw you—truly saw you.

The night had finally begun to slow, the music faded, the last model had walked, and your Winter Wonderland show had come to a magical close. The adrenaline was still coursing through you, but now it was mixed with something even more powerful—pride, love, and relief.

Backstage, laughter and soft conversations filled the air, and you were suddenly pulled into a warm, emotional hug by Carmen.

"You did it," she whispered, voice thick with tears. "Y/n, that was beyond amazing."

George was right behind her, wrapping both of you in his arms before pulling back just enough to look at you. “I’ve never been more proud of you,” he said, sincerity written all over his face. “Every single second of that show—you owned it. You were powerful. You were you.”

You held the bouquet they had given you close to your chest, heart full. “You two are the best friends I could ever ask for,” you said softly, overwhelmed. “I’m so happy you were here.”

George let out a mock scoff, blinking fast to hide the shine in his eyes. “Miss Hamilton, please. I would’ve fought the snowstorm with my bare hands to be here tonight.”

Carmen smiled tearfully and took your hand. “And when George and I get married someday—you’re making my dress. No one else. It has to be you.”

You blinked, heart catching for a moment before breaking into a watery smile. “I would be honored. It'll be the most beautiful gown anyone’s ever seen. I promise.”

The three of you stood there for a moment—laughing, sniffling, holding each other—wrapped in friendship, in history, in a kind of love that few people are lucky enough to find in this life.

Then, just behind them, you saw Lewis.

He walked toward you with your dad beside him, and the look in his eyes—soft, humbled, proud—made your heart twist.

Without a word, you stepped into his arms. He held you tightly, his hand cradling the back of your head like he had when you were little.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For what I did. For what I said. For not trusting you to know your own heart. I let my fear speak for me… and I hurt you.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “You were trying to protect me. You’ve always done that.”

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “But I can’t protect you from everything. I shouldn’t. I need to let you grow, even if that means letting you fall sometimes. And… if Charles is who you choose—then I’ll support you. I’ll accept it. Because it’s your life. Your happiness. And that’s what matters most to me.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes, and your voice cracked just a little. “Thank you, Lewis. That means everything to me.”

He smiled and touched your cheek gently. “I may not always get it right. But I’ll always be your big brother. And I’ll always love you.”

You hugged him again—longer this time—and for the first time in days, your heart felt whole.

In that moment, everything felt right. The people who loved you had shown up. They’d hugged you, cheered for you, and made amends. One by one, they left you with warmth in your heart and a smile on your face. But now, as the crowd thinned, the energy faded, and the cold crept in… you were alone.

You looked around, eyes scanning the space in quiet hope.

But Charles was nowhere in sight.

A wave of disappointment hit you unexpectedly. You wrapped your fur coat tighter around yourself and stepped out into the quiet night. Snow blanketed the streets like a painting—soft, serene, and cold. Winter had a way of being both harsh and breathtaking.

Then, from across the way, a voice broke through the silence.

“Hey... no need to walk home, mon ange.”

You turned, heart skipping.

There he was.

Leaning against his car, hands in his coat pockets, that soft smile on his face—the one that only appeared when he was looking at you.

“Charles…” you breathed, a smile tugging at your lips.

He walked toward you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in. His lips brushed yours in a kiss that was warm despite the cold all around you—like home.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said against your mouth. “Every design, every detail… it was all so you. Beautiful.”

You exhaled, pressing your forehead lightly to his. “Thank you.”

He took your hands in his, his voice lowering with sincerity. “And I’m sorry. For what I said to your brother. I let my frustration get the best of me. But George… well, George made sure we heard him loud and clear.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding.

Charles continued, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “What I’m trying to say is… I love you. I love you so much. And I hope we can move forward—together. Because you’re not a rebound. You’re the love of my life.”

Your heart clenched at his words, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m glad I went through all that heartache,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Because it led me to you. If I hadn’t listened to my brother, if I hadn’t gone on that blind date… I never would’ve met you. And now, I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again, deeper this time—full of every word you didn’t have to say. And in the middle of that snowy street, in your fur coat and heels, with Charles holding you close…

You felt more loved than ever.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was a beautiful morning in Monaco, the golden light spilling softly through the windows of the flat. The scent of cinnamon and rosemary drifted in from the kitchen, wrapping the home in warmth. The Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, fully decorated with delicate ornaments and soft lights. Leo was curled up contentedly on the couch, watching the room with lazy interest.

You smiled warmly as you glanced into the kitchen. Charles’ mother was there, gently stirring something on the stove. “Do you need a hand?” you asked, stepping closer.

She turned to you with a kind smile. “Lewis is helping me, dear. I think I’ve got more help than I need.”

You laughed softly and looked toward the living room, where Arthur and Lorenzo stood by a half-opened box of decorations. “Arthur, Lorenzo,” you called with a grin, “could you two hang up some garland around the windows and staircase?”

“On it,” Arthur replied, and Lorenzo gave a playful salute as they got to work.

You turned to your father with a warm smile. “Where’s the star?”

He retrieved it from a small box on the side table, handing it to you carefully like it was made of glass and gold. You took it gently in your hands, then looked to Charles, who was just behind you.

“Little help?” you asked with a smile.

He chuckled, moving beside you. The two of you reached up together, carefully placing the star at the top of the tree, your hands brushing, your eyes meeting for a moment too long. A simple gesture, but filled with so much more.

You—the fashion designer, the rising name in elegance and winter collections. Lewis Hamilton’s sister, a title you wore with pride. And now… Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend. The woman who had unknowingly become the center of his world.

But in his heart, you were more than that.

Much more.

Tucked away in a drawer in the bedroom was a small velvet box—an engagement ring, hidden safely, waiting for the right moment. He hadn’t told anyone. Not yet. But he knew. He knew what he wanted. And it was you.

In this moment, everything felt exactly as it should. Lewis was in the kitchen, laughing with Charles’ mom as they worked together on breakfast. Your dad was tying garland around the banister with Arthur and Lorenzo, full of smiles and quiet joy. And just as George and Carmen stepped through the door, arms full of drinks and cheer, the room filled with even more light.

Every piece of your heart was here.

And every piece of his.

In a warm Monaco flat, surrounded by love, family, and future promises, you couldn't have been happier.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #f1 one shot #f1 fiction #formula 1 x reader #lewis hamilton #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader

401 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 8 days ago

Text

Spoiled Much? (P2)

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Pranking them but telling them you let another man pay for you. ||

P3 ((COMING SOON))

ᯓ★ Featuring: Oscar Piastri, Yuki Tsunoda, Franco Colapinto, Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman, George Russell

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Humor

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? Yes

Author Note: Part 2 of Spoiled much, I hope you all enjoy it, these are fun to make, and I am squeezing in as much content as possible for drivers.

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

Oscar Piastri

You and Oscar had decided to spend a few quiet days with his family, away from media buzz and cameras. It was peaceful, relaxing — and just what you needed. Plus, it meant bonding time with his mom and sisters… and, well, the perfect opportunity to mess with your tall, calm, sweet-faced boyfriend.

Oscar always told you not to worry about money. “Just tell me what you want, I’ll get it,” he’d say like it was nothing — and while he looked calm on the outside, you knew exactly how to poke the bear. A fake “another guy paid for it” prank? That would definitely stir something.

After a full day of shopping with his mom and sisters, you returned to the house, bags in hand, smile innocent, kiss on his cheek, and his credit card handed back like a dutiful wife.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, pulling you into his side as he kissed your temple.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Didn’t even have to use much of your money.”

Oscar blinked, glancing at the ten shopping bags in your hand. “That’s... hard to believe,” he muttered.

Right on cue, Hattie chimed in. “Oh come on, Osc! The guy was sooo nice, you should’ve seen him. Just strolled up, all confident, and was like, ‘Don’t worry pretty girl, I’ll take care of it.’”

Edie nodded. “He even told her to pick the next store and said he’d pay again!”

You bit back your laugh, playing your part perfectly. “Some people are just sweet like that,” you said with a shrug.

Oscar stood still for a moment. Processing. And then—

“Okay hold on, WHAT?” he said, completely blindsided. “He paid for you? Why?! No. Nope. That’s not sweet — that’s sketchy. That’s 'I’m trying to take your girl to dinner and dessert' energy.”

He turned to his mom and sisters like a courtroom defense lawyer. “You let him pay? You encouraged this? I’m her boyfriend. Me. Oscar Piastri. I make millions! I can pay for her to buy a store if she wants!”

That was it — you and the girls lost it, bursting out laughing. Oscar blinked around the room like he was the only one not in on the joke… until he spotted your phone angled toward him from the side table.

His shoulders dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You leaned up and kissed him, still giggling. “You’re so dramatic when you think another man’s trying to buy my affection.”

“Because he was!” Oscar said, exasperated as he turned to walk upstairs.

You followed, juggling your bags. “Come on! You have to admit that was hilarious.”

“I don’t think I trust you on TikTok anymore,” he muttered, disappearing into your shared vacation room.

“I love pranking you!” you called after him.

“I noticed. Especially after the flour incident. And when you made me think someone broke into our Monaco flat,” he said with a shake of his head.

You smirked. “Lando was in on that one. You nearly whacked him with the bat.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Shouldn’t prank me about break-ins — I’m trying to keep you safe, not turn Monaco into a crime scene.”

You flopped onto the bed, bags landing beside you. “So I take it this means war?”

Oscar shrugged, kicking off his shoes. “Just know… I’m not always as chill as I look. One day, I’ll get you back.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you get in on the prank wars?”

He grinned slightly, slipping under the covers.

“One day, you’ll find out.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

Yuki Tsunoda

It was a sunny afternoon in Tokyo, where you and Yuki had gone to visit his family and enjoy a break from the F1 madness. Between temple visits, catching up with his childhood friends, and eating your weight in street food, you were having the time of your life. Yuki was extra cuddly on this trip too—maybe it was the home vibes, or maybe he just loved showing you off. Either way, it was perfect.

But perfect wasn’t complete without chaos. And that chaos? A prank.

So when he offered to wait in the car while you ran into the local store for some drinks and snacks, you accepted with a sweet smile and his card in hand. You already knew what you were going to do.

When you returned with a bag of goodies and that signature innocent grin, you handed the card back to him casually. “Didn’t need it after all,” you said, getting into the car.

Yuki blinked. “Why? Did they not take cards?”

You shook your head. “No, actually… this guy behind me in line paid. Said something about a beautiful girl like me not needing to pay for her own stuff.” You said it so calmly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Yuki sat there. Processing.

Then he blinked again. “Wait. Who?!”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, some guy. He was nice. Complimented my outfit. Said I had a pretty smile.”

Yuki’s jaw dropped like you just told him AlphaTauri was being renamed “Team Random Guy.” “HE SAID WHAT?!”

You looked out the window like it was no big deal. “I mean, it was sweet, really. People can be really generous.”

Yuki turned to you fully. “That’s not generosity! That’s flirting! That’s trying to steal my girlfriend in 4K!”

You bit your lip, barely holding back laughter as he kept going.

“And you just let him?! What was I supposed to do, huh? Sit here like a chump while you got sugar-daddied by Mr. Free Snacks?! I could’ve been in there karate-chopping someone!”

You covered your mouth to hide the giggle.

Yuki pointed a dramatic finger at you. “You are not allowed to be this pretty in public. New rule. Hoodie, sunglasses, ninja mode.”

“I was wearing sweatpants and your hoodie,” you said.

“EVEN WORSE,” he shouted. “He knew it wasn’t even yours! That man paid while you wore MY CLOTHES?!”

You finally broke, bursting into laughter and pointing to your phone in the dashboard mount. “Yuki… it was a prank.”

He followed your finger, saw the red light, and slumped into the seat. “Oh my god… I thought I was gonna have to fight someone. Like, actual punches.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “But you were so cute and protective.”

He narrowed his eyes. “No. No compliments. I’m not falling for your sweet talk.”

“Come onnn,” you teased.

“I hope that guy steps on a Lego.”

“He doesn’t exist, Yuki.”

“I still hope he steps on a Lego. Just in case.”

You giggled as he started the car again, muttering something under his breath in Japanese.

“Love you,” you said sweetly.

He sighed, grabbing your hand.

“Yeah yeah. Love you too. But next time I get to prank you, and I’m going full chaos.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

Franco Colapinto

You and Franco had a nice dinner out planned—a little place tucked away on a quiet street, somewhere he promised had “the best pasta in the city, I swear on my helmet.” The two of you were tucked into a cozy corner, laughing over shared appetizers, when he suddenly leaned in and whispered, “Mi amor, I need to use the bathroom. If the bill comes, just use my card, okay?”

You nodded sweetly, already sliding his card from his wallet like the loyal girlfriend you were. The moment he disappeared down the hallway, though, the phone was set up—tucked sneakily between the salt shaker and wine bottle, camera rolling. You pulled out your own card and paid with a knowing grin.

A few minutes later, Franco returned, hair slightly tousled, sleeves pushed up like he had just gotten into a brawl with the hand dryer. “Did the bill come?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, handing back his card. “But I didn’t need it. A gentleman saw me sitting alone and paid for it. Said no beautiful woman should have to pay for her own dinner.”

Franco blinked. Twice. Then very slowly sat down in the chair across from you.

“…A gentleman?” he repeated.

“Mmhm.” You sipped your drink nonchalantly. “He insisted. Said something about it being tragic for a gorgeous girl to be left alone for even a minute.”

Franco leaned forward, brows knitting. “Wait wait wait. So a man… paid for my girlfriend's dinner? While she was sitting here looking pretty, so he sat… in my seat?”

You nodded, pretending not to notice his rising stress.

“And you let him?! Did you tell him you’re with me?”

You tapped your chin. “I think I said I was seeing someone… briefly. Might’ve been hard to hear with the music.”

“Dios mío,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Was he older? Did he look rich?”

“Definitely older. Possibly owned a yacht.”

Franco sat back, blinking at the ceiling like he was trying not to cry. “So now I have competition with a yacht guy? At a pasta place I brought you to?!”

You bit your lip, struggling not to laugh as he threw his arms up.

“He just… paid for you? What was I doing?! Washing my hands like an idiot while some James Bond wannabe was out here stealing my girl with his wallet?”

You pointed silently to the phone recording between the bottles of olive oil. He followed your finger, then froze.

“Oh no…”

You burst out laughing as Franco buried his face in his hands. “You’re evil,” he groaned. “You actually had me questioning if I should challenge this guy to a duel.”

You giggled, reaching for his hand. “But it was so funny, baby!”

He peeked through his fingers. “You know what’s funny? How much flour is going to be in your hair next time I bake something.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t bake.”

“I’ll learn. For revenge.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Love you, Franco.”

He grinned.

“Love you too, mi amor… but your days are numbered.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

Kimi Antonelli

You and Kimi were deep into a study date at a quiet café—books spread out across the table, highlighters scattered like confetti, and Kimi hunched over his notes like he was preparing for a championship instead of a history exam. His focus was intense, brows furrowed, jaw set, the occasional frustrated sigh escaping when something didn’t make sense.

“I’m starving,” you whispered, nudging his arm gently.

Without even looking up, he slid some cash across the table toward you. “Get us something. Surprise me. Just… not tuna.”

You grinned, taking the money. “Got it, no tuna. Maybe anchovies?”

His only response was a quick side-eye and a very clear don’t test me expression. You stood with a soft laugh, heading to the counter. But, of course, instead of paying with the cash he gave you, you slid it into your hoodie pocket and paid with your own card, mentally thanking your brain for remembering to set up your phone camera before you left the table.

When you came back, two drinks in hand and a little plate of snacks, Kimi was still buried in his book, scribbling notes at lightning speed.

“You got it?” he asked absently, finally glancing up.

“Mhm.” You placed the drinks and snacks on the table. “Funny thing though… some guy at the counter offered to pay for me. Said no pretty girl should have to pay for her own coffee.”

Kimi blinked slowly.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, sipping your drink. “He was really sweet about it, said I looked too stressed to worry about paying. Even offered to pay for your drink too. Said he hopes my boyfriend is as nice as he is.”

Kimi set his pen down, his full attention now on you. “I—Sorry, what? A guy paid for you? At a café? While you were on a date with me?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“And you accepted it?!”

You shrugged innocently. “Didn’t seem polite to decline.”

Kimi leaned back in his seat, running a hand down his face. “So now there’s some mystery guy out there thinking he’s your knight in shining armor? Great. I’m competing with a man who buys snacks at cafés.”

You tilted your head. “Are you…jealous?”

“No.” He paused. “Maybe. Yes. A little. I’m studying Napoleon and losing you to an oat milk cappuccino and charm.”

At that, you couldn’t help it—you laughed, pointing at the phone angled between your notebooks. “It was a prank.”

Kimi followed your finger, narrowed his eyes at the phone, and let out a slow sigh. “You’ve been spending way too much time on TikTok again.”

“You love it,” you grinned, nudging him with your knee.

He shook his head but couldn’t hold back the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

“Lucky? I’m gorgeous.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” he mumbled, grabbing his pen again. “That and the fact that now I have to find a way to prank you back in the middle of midterms.”

You leaned in with a smirk. “Bring it on, Antonelli.”

He looked up, smirk matching yours.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, bella.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

Ollie Bearman

It had been a chill day at the paddock—at least, as chill as things could get during a race weekend. Ollie had been doing his usual: juggling meetings, debriefs, and pretending he wasn’t texting you between every other lap review. You’d been wandering around, catching up with people, grabbing snacks, and planning—most importantly—your next prank.

Which is where Esteban Ocon came in.

You cornered him earlier with a grin and said, “Want to help me mess with Ollie?”

“Always,” he replied without hesitation.

So now, you were strolling casually back to the paddock beside Esteban, snack bag in hand, your phone tucked in a subtle angle to record the chaos that was about to unfold. Ollie stood a little down the way, chatting with one of the engineers until he spotted you both. His face lit up—until he noticed the smug expression on Esteban’s face.

“What did I miss?” Ollie asked, brow already raised as you approached.

“Oh nothing,” Esteban said casually. “Just had to save your girlfriend from being hit on by a guy at the snack tent.”

You blinked up innocently. “He was sweet, though. Said no girl that pretty should pay for her own snacks.”

Ollie froze mid-step. “Wait—what?”

Esteban kept the bit going flawlessly. “Yeah, proper gentleman. Paid for her food and everything. Honestly, I felt a bit awkward just standing there.”

You nodded, biting your lip like you were holding back a laugh. “He even asked if I was single.”

Ollie looked between the two of you, his jaw slowly dropping. “Hang on—you let some random guy pay for you? And Esteban just stood there and let it happen?!”

Esteban raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t want to start a fight over chips, mate.”

You added, “He said I had really nice eyes. And a radiant energy.”

“Okay, what is this—The Bachelor: Paddock Edition?!” Ollie blinked, looking incredibly betrayed. “I’ve been doing tire analysis for thirty minutes and you were out there getting free snacks and compliments like it’s a rom-com?”

Esteban couldn’t hold it anymore. He started laughing first, and you quickly followed, pointing to the phone that was still subtly recording.

Ollie looked over, eyes narrowing. “Oh my god. I knew this was suspicious. You two are evil.”

“I prefer creative,” you giggled, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

He sighed dramatically. “I can’t believe you teamed up with Esteban for this.”

Esteban slapped him on the back. “She promised me a free coffee. Worth it.”

Ollie pointed between you both. “This means war. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but you better sleep with one eye open.”

You smiled sweetly. “You still love me though.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile, pulling you into a quick hug. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Esteban winked at Ollie. “Next time, I’ll tell the guy she’s married to some old guy in Formula One.”

Ollie groaned.

“That makes it sound so much worse.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

George Russell

Race weekend meant chaos, caffeine, and press obligations. You’d been hanging around the paddock, chatting with familiar faces, and were supposed to grab a snack while George was finishing up a quick engineering meeting. Nothing fancy—just a little bite to hold you over.

Toto had spotted you on the way to catering and, being the gentleman he always was, insisted on paying for you. You initially said no, but Toto waved it off like it was nothing. "George doesn’t mind. It all comes out of Mercedes’ budget somehow."

But you were struck with a spark of inspiration. A prank. A perfectly subtle, paddock-appropriate prank.

Toto was more than game.

So, when George came striding out of the garage looking far too confident and far too clean for someone in motorsport, he found you waiting with a snack and a smirk—and Toto standing nearby with the look of a man who was absolutely about to commit to the bit.

"Hey, love," George smiled, brushing a kiss to your temple. "Get everything sorted?"

Toto gave a casual shrug. "Well, yes. Though I’m not sure how I feel about some random man flirting with your girlfriend while paying for her lunch."

George blinked. "Wait—what?"

You nodded, biting into your snack, cool as ever. "Yeah, he was sweet. Told me I shouldn’t have to pay for myself. Said a pretty face like mine deserved better."

George’s entire posture changed. "I—hold on—what guy? Where was I? I was literally gone for ten minutes!"

Toto, somehow keeping the most impressive poker face ever, added: "Tall guy. Nice watch. Little too confident if you ask me. He even winked."

George looked between you both, trying to compute. "And you just—let him pay?! Toto, you're the boss! You didn’t say anything?!"

"I didn’t want to embarrass him," Toto said seriously. "Maybe George should be more present next time."

Your face was turning red from holding in your laughter, especially when George turned to you in complete disbelief. "You let some random man just... fund your lunch like it was a date?!"

You shrugged. "Free food is free food."

George looked like he was mentally filing divorce papers you hadn’t even signed yet. "Absolutely not. You’re banned from snack stands without supervision."

At that point, Toto lost it—chuckling deep in his chest as he clapped George on the back.

"She’s joking, George. It was me."

George paused. Blinked. "...Wait, you paid?"

"Yes."

"And the flirting?"

You pointed to Toto. "All him."

George’s face dropped into his hands as you finally burst out laughing. "You two are unbelievable."

"You’re just upset someone else got to call me pretty first today," you teased.

He peered at you through his fingers. "That’s not true. I called you pretty this morning. Before breakfast."

Toto smirked. "Guess you’ll have to step it up."

George pointed at you. "You are never teaming up with him again."

You grinned, slipping your arm around his. "No promises, Mr. Russell."

George shook his head as the three of you walked off.

"I’m switching snack duty to Kimi next time. He wouldn’t emotionally sabotage me like this."

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #oscar piastri x fem!reader #yuki tsunoda x reader #franco colapinto x female reader #kimi antonelli x reader #ollie bearman x reader #george russell x reader #f1 headcanons #f1 one shot #f1 fiction

955 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 9 days ago

Text

the way he blinks in time with the helmet pats I can’t.

god, I love him so much. words are not enough anymore.

#op81 #mclaren #miami gp 2025 #f1

5K notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 9 days ago

Text

Franco Colapinto flying to New York for the world premiere of F1 the Movie on June 16, 2025 (F1)

#franco colapinto #f1 #formula 1 #f1 2025 #alpine #f1 the movie #argentina #photography #other

81 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 9 days ago

Text

Franco Colapinto with Lando Norris (McLaren), Gabriel Bortoleto Kick Sauber) and Ollie Bearman (Haas F1 Team) travel to New York for F1® The Movie World Premiere on June 16, 2025 in New York, New York. (Mark Sutton)

#franco colapinto #f1 #formula 1 #f1 2025 #f1 the movie #alpine #other #argentina #photography #lando norris

61 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 10 days ago

Note

Not to like be that person but hear me out. Baby number 3! Norris family! I’m sorry! I LOVE SEBASTIAN AND LYLA

The Norris Family seems to be quite popular. . . on this blog. . .

#anon #ask

14 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 10 days ago

Note

Heyy og requester here, could you tag me when the release is out! @aunslie (not my main blog so I can't send asks from it :( 💕)

Tagged you in the post!

#anon

0 notes

0scarp1astr1 · 10 days ago

Note

is there ever a chance I would be able to convince you to create ONE writing for Ayrton Senna?

I don’t mind experimenting with my writing, stepping into the world of old drivers. I love Ayrton Senna, this is known a lot by people that follow my blog, but, I doubt he’s someone I’m willing to step into writing for. Simply because he’s passed years ago and I feel some people might be uncomfortable with this concept. But really this is for the people to speak of, not me. I’m here to create content, yes, but how others feel about certain drivers or subjects, it’s something I highly consider. If my followers come to me, and ask this while stating how it makes them feel, I’d be okay with knowing that. But to freely create work of him without consideration how uncomfortable some may get, it feels very wrong. This is for followers to discuss, amongst themselves.

#anon

4 notes · View notes

0scarp1astr1 · 11 days ago

Text

˖ 𐔌 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬࿐ .۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Lando is loving his new life as a family man, making time and moments with them count. With his baby girl in the picture now, life couldn't be more perfect. Until, the media crosses a line it shouldn't. ||

Change it all ((Read First if you haven't))

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: Sad Sebastian, pissed off Lando, but nothing really major.

ᯓ★ Requested? Yes

Author Note: Here for you all! Maybe one day, I can make a fic where all the kids to the drivers spend time together. Feel free to request any time you want. Here is Lando being a dad again, and by far a good one.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It was early morning in the Norris flat nestled in the hills of Monaco, where the sky glowed with a soft pastel light and the sea reflected gold from the slowly rising sun. The hush of dawn hadn’t yet been broken — the kind of peace that felt borrowed, fleeting, like the quiet before a favorite song starts. It was moments like these that made everything feel real. Lando’s arm was draped across your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder, the covers tangled between your legs.

What was once a sleek and stylish bachelor’s flat had transformed into something entirely different over the past few years — still elegant, still Monaco — but lived-in now, softened by crayon marks on walls that wouldn’t wash off, scattered Lego bricks in the corners, and the sound of little feet that never really stopped moving.

What remained just as surreal as the view outside was how completely Lando had embraced his role as a father — to both your children. He had stepped into Sebastian’s life when your son was only three, never once blinking at the challenge of loving a child that wasn’t biologically his. And now, with Lyla — his own daughter — nothing had changed. If anything, he seemed more determined to make sure Sebastian never felt a difference. He claimed him proudly, in every interview, every post, every loving gesture that quietly said: this boy is mine.

You felt his fingers flex sleepily around your waist, his face buried into your neck.

“I hear those feet…” you murmured with a tired grin.

Lando groaned in reply, eyes still shut, his curls tickling your shoulder as he shifted. “I’ll count down from five…”

You laughed softly. “No need. They’re moving at the speed of light.”

Before either of you could react, the door swung open with the force of a hurricane. Seven-year-old Sebastian shot into the room like a missile, socks skidding against hardwood before he leapt onto the bed with zero hesitation. The mattress bounced with the impact, jostling both of you as Lando let out a dramatic oof and you burst into giggles.

Trailing behind him, in a much gentler and wobblier fashion, was Lyla — her two-year-old curls still tousled from sleep, thumb halfway to her mouth, but her determination never wavering. She used the edge of the bed to hoist herself up, little knees clambering with practiced effort until she was nestled beside you.

Sebastian grinned wide, face already lit with excitement. “Do you know what today is?!” he asked, bouncing on his knees as if it were Christmas morning.

Lando blinked sleepily at him. “Hmm… let me guess, buddy… your birthday?”

Sebastian collapsed dramatically across Lando’s chest. “Nooo! Guess again!”

“My birthday?” Lando teased, pointing at himself.

Sebastian giggled, shaking his head. “No, Daddy! It’s practice day! For my race!”

Lando gasped with mock horror. “You’re right! How could I forget? That’s way more important than a birthday!”

You watched them with a smile, pulling Lyla into your arms as she giggled softly and tucked her head under your chin. You kissed the top of her curls and rocked gently.

“Well, you two boys have a busy day,” you said with a knowing smirk.

Lando shook his head, sitting up with Sebastian still draped across him like a backpack. “We all do! Come on, let’s go out afterward! Make a day of it.”

You raised a brow. “You know how Lyla does in public,” you said gently, voice full of motherly concern. “She gets overwhelmed, and—”

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing soft circles across your palm. “I’ll be there. I’ve got her. I’ve got all of you. Always.” His voice was low but full of that quiet conviction that never failed to ground you.

You leaned in, kissing him softly. A moment shared — peaceful and full of promise.

“Ew!” Sebastian whined loudly, slapping his hands over his eyes. “Mommy, don’t! That’s so nasty!”

You and Lando burst out laughing, the kind that made your ribs hurt and your heart feel full.

“Okay, you two,” you said, wiping your eyes as you sat up straighter. “Time to get moving. I’m in charge of breakfast this morning. And Daddy…” you glanced at Lando with a smug smile, “…is on bath duty.”

Sebastian groaned. “Noooo! He takes forever! He sings and makes it a whole concert!”

Lando threw up his hands. “Hey, those bath-time concerts are award-winning, thank you very much!”

Lyla clapped her hands together and squealed, “Dada!” as she wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling as Sebastian squished himself into the cuddle pile, too.

You watched them — your people. Your chaotic, messy, absolutely perfect morning crew — and for the thousandth time, you felt that deep swell in your chest. Not just love. Not just gratitude.

You moved with ease around the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of cooking grounding you as the smell of cinnamon, scrambled eggs, and warm toast filled the air. The stovetop sizzled softly, and you balanced flipping pancakes with keeping an ear open for the usual chaos that trailed your mornings like a shadow.

Lyla was happily soaking in the tub just down the hall, her rubber duckies bobbing lazily across the sea of bubbles. You could hear her humming to herself, splashing now and then, her high-pitched giggles bouncing off the tiled walls. Meanwhile, from the adjacent bedroom, came the sound of father and son negotiations — or, more accurately, a fashion debate.

“All the girls are gonna want me looking this good!” Sebastian declared proudly, his voice echoing slightly through the open doors.

Lando laughed. “You're absolutely right, champ. It’s exactly how I won over your mom.”

You paused mid-stir, brow raised, lips twitching into a half-smile as you rolled your eyes toward the ceiling. “He’s really using that line this early in the morning?” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head with amusement.

“She fell hard for the curls,” Lando continued dramatically, fluffing Sebastian’s hair as if he were preparing him for a red carpet event.

“I knew it!” Sebastian said, puffing out his chest in front of the mirror. “Girls love cool hair.”

Back in the kitchen, you moved to plate breakfast with practiced grace, sliding fluffy pancakes onto warm dishes, eggs just the way Sebastian liked — slightly runny but not “gooey” as he insisted — and a few cut strawberries on the side for Lyla. You were used to this: multitasking like a magician with a wand in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Soon enough, the family made their way to the table — Lando drying his hands on a dish towel, Sebastian practically skipping with excitement, and Lyla toddling in behind them, curls still damp and cheeks pink from her bath. You had her sit in her booster seat at the end of the table and gently wrapped a towel around her tiny shoulders to catch any drips.

As she munched happily on her pancakes, you stood behind her, carefully sectioning her hair with nimble fingers, your voice low and soothing.

“Let’s try something cute today, hmm?” you murmured, twisting soft little curls into a half-up bun, securing it with a gentle clip that matched her tiny shirt — a pale blue one with little clouds on it.

“She looks like a doll,” Lando said with a grin, watching as Lyla turned to flash him a syrupy smile, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

“Dada,” she giggled, smearing her fingers on her tray.

“Okay, helmet?” Lando said, turning back to Sebastian and tapping into race dad mode. “Gloves? Shoes? Suit? Water?”

Sebastian nodded along confidently, his mouth full of toast. “Helmet, check. Gloves, check. Suit, double check. And I already put my water in the bag. See?” He held up a small bottle with cartoon lightning bolts on it, grinning as Lando gave him a mock salute.

“You’re on it, little champ,” Lando said, reaching out to tousle his hair again — carefully, of course, so as not to undo the masterpiece they had just created.

You finished pinning Lyla’s bun, stepping back to admire your handiwork before letting out a soft sigh. “You two go over that list every morning like you’re heading into space instead of a kart track,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned on the back of Lyla’s chair.

Lando leaned back in his seat, throwing his arm casually around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Well, we could be astronauts. You never know what kind of traffic we’ll hit on the way.”

Sebastian laughed. “Space traffic!”

You shook your head, chuckling. “Mmm, sounds like someone’s been watching too much sci-fi with their dad.”

“Never too much,” Lando said with a wink. “Besides, if he’s going to be the youngest world champion in karting history, he’s got to be prepared for everything. Meteor showers. Tire punctures. Mid-race alien invasions.”

“You two are hopeless,” you said, brushing a crumb off Lyla’s bib before leaning down to kiss her cheek. She turned to smoosh her pancake against your chin in response.

“See?” Lando said, watching the sticky chaos unfold. “This is why you’re in charge of breakfast, and I’m in charge of bath-time concerts and emotional support.”

“You do bring the chaos and the comedy,” you said, laughing as you wiped your chin with a napkin.

Lando stood and stretched, his shirt rising just slightly over his stomach as he groaned like an old man. “Alright, team. Finish up, grab your things, and let’s get this show on the road!”

Sebastian hopped up with an enthusiastic, “Yes, sir!” and darted off to find his shoes.

Lando leaned in as you helped Lyla down from her seat, planting a kiss at your temple. “We make a good team, huh?”

You smiled, glancing down at your daughter’s syrup-stained curls. “The best.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sebastian sat in the backseat with his head leaned gently against the window, his dark curls freshly brushed and bouncing slightly every time the car hit a bump in the road. He watched the trees blur by, his little face glowing with joy, occasionally pointing out passing birds or funny-shaped clouds. The soft hum of his humming, offbeat and sweet, filled the car like background music to a peaceful morning.

Beside him, Lyla sat in her car seat clutching her plush bunny in one hand, the other rubbing her tired eyes. Her lashes were still damp from her bath, and her tiny mouth hung open in a sleepy pout. You glanced back at her with a soft smile before turning your head toward Lando, your arm resting lazily on the center console as the morning sun spilled into the car.

"You know," you began, your voice quiet and careful, "about that upcoming race… are we gonna talk about it?"

Lando didn’t glance at you — his focus stayed on the road, jaw slightly tightening. His hands adjusted subtly on the wheel, knuckles tensing for just a second. "Not in front of the kids," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Would be nice to just… have a peaceful drive."

You hummed in understanding, nodding slowly. He wasn’t wrong. You’d learned by now that Sebastian didn’t handle his absence well — not even short trips. The kid was emotionally aware, always had been. And as much as Lando tried to explain race weekends and schedules, it always came back to one thing: Why can’t you just stay home with us?

You looked over your shoulder again at Lyla, who was still fighting sleep. Her thumb rested near her lips, and you could see the way her small frame stiffened every time the car rolled past more people on the sidewalks. You sighed.

“She’s already tired, poor thing,” you murmured.

"Yeah, she was that way after her breakfast." He pointed.

You nodded again. “She’s still not comfortable in crowds.”

The car grew quiet. You both hated that part — not because you minded adjusting for her, but because it hurt to see her so afraid of the world. Your arms were her hiding place, your scent the only thing that calmed her when strangers’ eyes overwhelmed her. There were times she'd sob, clinging to you like her life depended on it, and only Lando’s calm voice and protective arms could slowly settle her.

“I still don’t understand it,” you said softly, shaking your head. “We never pushed her. Never forced her into loud spaces or too many people…”

“Sometimes it’s just how they’re wired,” Lando offered, his voice calm but laced with concern. “It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with her. She’s sensitive. She feels things deeper than other kids. That’s not a flaw.”

You smiled faintly, reaching over to squeeze his hand on the gearshift. “Well, I want you to know… we’ll be expecting you to come home.”

He finally looked at you then, just for a second — his eyes warm and filled with love. “I love my family,” he said firmly. “I'd be a fool not to wanna be home with you guys.”

A peaceful silence fell over the car. You soaked in the moment — Sebastian's quiet joy, Lyla’s sleepy breathing, the comfort of Lando’s presence beside you. The kind of moment you wish you could bottle up forever.

Then your phone buzzed sharply in your bag, breaking the stillness. You glanced at it, saw the name light up on the screen, and tucked it back into your purse without a word.

Lando noticed. His eyes darted to you, then back to the road. “Who was that?” he asked, his tone casual — but just barely.

You exhaled. “You know who’s dad…”

His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared out ahead, jaw flexing. His shoulders tensed, the kind of reaction that told you he was fighting the urge to say something harsh — not in front of the kids.

“He has no reason to call,” Lando said at last, his voice low, controlled.

You nodded, your lips pressing together. “His excuse is he wants to build a bond with Sebastian.”

Lando scoffed, his laugh bitter and humorless. “Bullshit,” he spat. “Build something with him? Firstly, that’s my son.”

You stayed silent, listening — because you knew what was coming, and he had every right to say it.

“I don’t recall him claiming Sebastian when I came into his life at three years old,” Lando continued, eyes hard on the road. “Where was he then? Hm? When Sebastian was asking why his dad didn’t come to the school play? When he needed someone to tie his shoes or wipe his tears or sit through every damn dentist appointment?”

You reached across the console and laid a hand on his arm. His voice cracked slightly.

“He needs to find someone else to play parent with,” he said, a tremor of protectiveness in his throat. “Because it won’t be my son.”

You let the words linger for a moment, feeling the weight of them settle in the car like dust.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I didn’t answer. I won’t. Not until I know Sebastian is safe. Emotionally, mentally… he doesn’t get to mess with his heart just because he’s feeling guilty or left out now.”

Lando glanced at you again, softer now. “You always protect them.”

“So do you,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

From the backseat, Sebastian’s voice chimed in, unaware of the heaviness in the front.

“Are we almost there?” he asked, kicking his feet happily.

“Almost, champ,” Lando called back, voice instantly warmer. “You ready to win today?”

“Always!” Sebastian grinned.

Lyla blinked her eyes open, her gaze locking on you. You reached back and brushed a curl from her cheek, watching as her face relaxed at your touch.

“Oh! I like this song!” Sebastian piped up from the backseat, his little voice bubbling with excitement.

Lando glanced at the rearview mirror and smirked, reaching forward to turn the volume knob up just a little. “Classic,” he said with a grin, recognizing the tune.

Sebastian immediately started singing along — a little off-key, but enthusiastic nonetheless, his shoulders bouncing with every beat. Lando, unable to resist, joined in, throwing in a dramatic harmony that made Sebastian laugh.

You turned your head to watch the two of them for a moment — your son with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and the man who’d become his entire world, belting out lyrics like they were the headliners of a sold-out concert.

“You two are something else,” you murmured with a fond smile, shaking your head.

The front of the car erupted in playful chaos, with Lando drumming his hands on the wheel and Sebastian pretending to play air guitar. You pulled out your phone, instinctively hitting record. You captured it — the laughter, the music, the sunlight dancing across their faces — and posted it to your Instagram story with a simple caption: my boys 💛

There was something so peaceful about that moment. You didn’t need anything more. It was messy and loud and filled with love.

When you finally arrived, the hum of excitement still buzzed between all of you. Sebastian jumped out first, eyes wide and full of anticipation. Lando stepped out after him, grabbing the gear bag with one hand and Sebastian’s smaller one with the other. You moved to the back to get Lyla, who was still curled up in her car seat, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest.

You gently lifted her out, her body molding instantly to yours, her head tucking into your neck as her tiny hand gripped your hoodie.

“She’ll be okay,” you whispered softly, kissing her temple.

Lando came around to your side, brushing a hand down Lyla’s back as he looked at you. “It’s just a crowd,” he echoed quietly, as if saying it would make it true. “She’s gonna be okay...we’re here.”

You both nodded, but it was more for yourselves than anyone else.

Lyla whimpered a little as voices swelled in the distance, and you adjusted her in your arms, shushing her gently. You found a seat away from the crowd, tucked near the fence, giving her the space she needed to feel safe while still watching everything unfold.

Meanwhile, Lando led Sebastian toward check-in, walking side by side as if this were their own little pre-race ritual. He helped him unzip the duffle, pulling out the race suit and setting it down over the bench.

��Alright,” Lando said, kneeling down beside him as he began helping Sebastian into his suit. “You got this. I know you do. But remember, don’t push too hard. If someone’s being reckless, let them pass. We’re not here to crash. We’re here to finish.”

Sebastian nodded, his expression serious. “You always say that,” he muttered, pulling one arm through his sleeve.

Lando smirked. “Because it’s true. Some of these kids? They don’t play fair. But you do. You’ve got a good heart, and good instincts. That’ll take you farther than a shortcut ever will.”

Sebastian was quiet as he finished adjusting the suit around his waist, fiddling with the zipper. Lando’s brow furrowed slightly. He knew that silence — it wasn’t focus. It was doubt.

“Hey,” Lando said, crouching down again and lowering his voice. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kiddo?”

Sebastian looked up at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It’s just…” he hesitated. “The other kids… they say I’m only good because of you. That I don’t actually work hard. Some of the parents too. I didn’t mean to listen in but… they talk loud enough.”

Lando’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. He didn’t speak for a moment, processing it.

“They say it’s just handed to me,” Sebastian continued, looking down. “And when I win or do something good, no one really cheers for me… not like they do for the others.”

Lando blew out a slow breath through his nose, trying not to let his anger show too much. He knelt fully now, hands resting on Sebastian’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “You are good because you work for it. I don’t care what any of them say. I help you — I coach you, yeah — but I’m not the one on that track. You are. You’re the one who gets in the kart. You’re the one who focuses. You’re the one who takes what we practice and makes it happen.”

Sebastian’s eyes welled slightly, and he looked away, embarrassed. “But what if they’re right? What if I’m only good because you’re… you?”

Lando shook his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You think being my son guarantees anything? You’ve got no idea how hard you’ve worked to be here, how much discipline it takes for someone your age to handle this pressure.”

He smiled gently now, brushing a piece of hair out of Sebastian’s face.

“You’re doing amazing, Seb. And honestly? They’re just mad that you’ve got someone in your corner who believes in you. That’s what they’re really jealous of.”

Sebastian sniffled once, nodding slowly.

“And you know what?” Lando added with a mischievous grin. “When I have you as the face of McLaren in a few years, those same people? They’ll be the ones begging for your autograph.”

That got a smile.

“For real?” Sebastian whispered.

“For real,” Lando said. “Now, c’mon. Let’s show them exactly why you’re the one to watch.”

He offered his fist, and Sebastian bumped it with his own, a new fire in his eyes.

From the stands, you watched the whole thing unfold — Lando kneeling beside Sebastian, talking to him like he was the most important person in the world. And to both of you, he was.

You looked down at Lyla in your arms, her breathing even and her little fingers still clutching her bunny, and kissed her forehead.

You stood near the edge of the karting track, sunlight glinting off the safety barriers, the breeze carrying the smell of fresh rubber and excitement. Lyla sat comfortably on your hip, playing absently with your necklace, her curls a soft halo in the golden light. From your vantage point, you could see everything — the track, the other kids prepping, and most importantly: Sebastian.

His kart zoomed around the bend, hugging the corner with precision beyond his years, and Lando stood tall beside you, his arms folded, pride practically radiating from him.

“God, he looks good out there,” you said with a soft smile, not taking your eyes off Sebastian’s small figure in the kart. “He’s grown so much. His lines are cleaner than they’ve ever been.”

Lando nodded, his mouth twitching into a proud grin. “He’s smoother, more confident... and he’s reading the track. That’s not something you can force into a kid. He wants this.”

You glanced at him, your gaze lingering. “That’s because of you. You’ve been in his corner since the day you met him. He listens to you.”

He exhaled a breath, voice dropping a little. “It’s all him. I just gave him the tools. He did the rest.”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arm through his. “You gave him a dad. That’s what he needed most.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at you with something tender in his eyes — something unspoken but understood. Then, Sebastian flew by again, his kart perfectly balanced as he handled a tricky chicane without flinching.

“He’s killing it,” Lando muttered with pride.

“He’s so little, yet so fearless,” you said with a light laugh, adjusting Lyla who had begun to rest her head on your shoulder. “And he’s got your determination.”

Lando chuckled. “He’s got your heart.”

Sebastian finished another lap, slowing as he coasted into the pit area. His helmet tilted your way, and even behind the visor, you knew he was beaming.

Lando turned to you, taking Lyla gently from your arms and cradling her against his chest. “I’m going to go talk to him — he’ll want to review that last corner. I think he was pushing for a tighter exit.”

You watched him approach Sebastian with warmth in your chest, your boys side by side, your daughter tucked securely in Lando’s arms.

Sebastian pulled off his helmet, his face flushed and glowing with pride. “Did you see me?!” he asked excitedly as Lando crouched down beside him.

“I did,” Lando grinned, ruffling his hair. “You nailed the back corner. That’s the cleanest I’ve seen you take it. I’m seriously impressed.”

“Can we watch the footage later?” Sebastian asked. “I wanna see how I can make my line even better.”

“Of course,” Lando replied. “We’ll break it down, see where you can gain time. But today? You did everything right.”

From where you stood, you could hear their conversation, and it made your heart swell. Sebastian wasn’t just driving — he was growing, thriving, becoming someone with confidence and focus, and so much of that came from Lando’s gentle, steady guidance.

You walked over and knelt beside them. “We saw you out there, baby,” you said, brushing a hand through his curls. “You were incredible. Smooth, fast… and smart.”

Sebastian looked up at you, shy but proud. “Thanks, Mom. It felt really good today. I didn’t even get scared when I had to pass that older kid.”

“That’s because you’re brave,” you said, kissing the top of his head. “And you’ve got the best coach in the world.”

He turned to Lando, grinning. “Can we get ice cream? You said good laps mean good treats.”

Lando chuckled. “I believe I did say that. Alright, one scoop for a good lap... two scoops for a great one.”

“Then I get three,” Sebastian declared with a cheeky smile.

You all laughed as you took Lando’s free hand in yours, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. Lyla yawned in his arms, her tiny body curled into his chest like it was her safest place.

Looking at the three of them — Lando kneeling beside Sebastian, Lyla dozing in his arms, the proud look on his face as he juggled being a coach, a father, and your partner — you couldn’t help but feel full. Of love, of peace, of something that felt like forever.

After a successful day at the track, Sebastian chattered endlessly from the backseat, recounting every twist, turn, and overtake he had made during practice. His hands moved animatedly, mimicking his steering, his words tumbling out faster than his kart had gone. You and Lando exchanged soft glances as you sat in the front — it was one of those small, sweet moments that made parenthood feel so full.

“And then I passed him right before the curve, and I didn’t even have to brake that much! I just— vroom— took the inside and boom! Gone!” Sebastian beamed, eyes wide with excitement.

“Don’t have a sugar rush or a sugar crash, mate,” Lando chuckled, giving him a teasing glance in the rearview mirror.

“I won’t,” Sebastian promised quickly, though the giant scoop of chocolate ice cream in his hand said otherwise.

It only took a few more minutes and half a cone before the inevitable happened — Sebastian’s head lolled to the side, ice cream wiped away, his mouth slightly open as he slept soundly. Lyla, tucked in her car seat beside him with her thumb near her mouth and her little bunny plush clutched to her chest, was already out like a light, her soft breaths the only sound beside the hum of the car.

With both kids asleep and the city lights beginning to dim under the setting sun, you turned your gaze toward Lando. His hands rested calmly on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, the soft orange-pink hues from the sky reflecting gently off his face.

It was the perfect time to talk.

“So…” you began softly, careful not to disturb the peaceful air. “When do you head out for your race?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, barely noticeable, and then he let out a low sigh. “Next weekend,” he muttered.

You frowned slightly, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You’ll be back before Sebastian’s next race, right?” you asked, a little tentative, but hopeful.

He sighed again, deeper this time. “I hope so,” he said truthfully. “I really do. It just depends how the travel and schedule plays out. But I promise you, I’m trying.”

You could hear the frustration behind his voice, not directed at you — never at you — but toward the situation he was tangled in. Racing, family, responsibility... the weight of being in two places at once. You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh gently.

“I know,” you said softly. “We’re not mad, baby.”

Lando’s fingers gripped the wheel a little tighter. “I just…” he paused, searching for the words. “I’m upset. Upset that I’ve got this race and I know I can’t take you guys with me — not because I don’t want you there. But Lyla… she doesn’t like crowds. She gets overwhelmed and anxious, and I’d never forgive myself if she had a meltdown because I forced her into that kind of environment.”

You nodded, heart aching at how much he carried inside. “We know, Lando. You’re always doing what’s best for us. Lyla’s well-being comes first, and Sebastian understands. He might miss you when you're gone, but he knows how much you love him.”

“I just hate not being there,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “Putting Lyla down at night, handling Sebastian’s school, meals, practice — it all falls on you when I’m away, and I know that has to get exhausting.”

You turned your body slightly toward him, brushing your thumb over his hand where it rested between gears. “It gets hard, yeah. But I’d do it again and again because this is our life. I love our life, even the messy parts.”

Lando looked over at you briefly, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured. “A real break. Just us. Somewhere warm, quiet, no press, no race schedule. I’ll book it after the next GP. Sebastian and Lyla can stay with my parents — they’ll be spoiled rotten and so happy to see their cousins.”

You laughed under your breath, brushing your hair out of your face as the breeze from the slightly open window caught it. “You’re too sweet for your own good sometimes, Norris.”

“I try,” he smiled, glancing over at you again. “But I mean it. You need rest too, babe. Not just sleep. Real rest. Sun. A slow morning. A long bath. No tiny humans yelling about cereal or needing their race suit zipped up.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, as you looked over your shoulder at the sleeping kids. Sebastian’s mouth was still open, Lyla clutching her bunny with a peaceful expression on her face.

“You’re an amazing dad, Lando,” you said, your voice warm, full of sincerity. “Even when you’re gone, we still feel your love around us. That’s something special.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Later that evening, the sky outside the windows had turned a rich, velvety navy. Inside the house, the atmosphere was warm but quietly heavy — a kind of stillness you felt more than heard. The television murmured in the background, but it barely registered over the small voices drifting from down the hall.

Lando was in the bedroom, packing slowly. His suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled with race gear, socks, and shirts all folded with methodical care — but he wasn’t focused. Not really. Every few minutes, he paused, sighing softly to himself, glancing toward the hallway like he could feel time running too quickly.

“I can fit here,” Sebastian declared from beside the bed, pointing at the remaining space in the suitcase with a hopeful look on his face. “Right here, next to your shoes. I’ll be still.”

Lando managed a weak chuckle. “You can’t, bud. I’m sorry.”

“But if I curl up really small—”

“Seb…” Lando’s voice cracked just slightly, guilt tugging at his chest. “I wish I could take you, I do. But I can’t this time.”

Before the moment could settle, Lyla toddled over, latching herself around Lando’s leg and hugging tightly. “Dada,” she said in a tiny whimper. She didn’t quite understand what was happening — just that her father had a suitcase out again. And that was never a good sign.

You heard them from the living room and stood, walking toward the bedroom doorway quietly. The second you appeared, Lando looked up at you, and his eyes said everything: I can’t do this… please help.

“Alright, kiddos,” you said gently, crouching down to their level. “Daddy needs to pack. He’s not going for long, but he needs to be ready.”

“I wanna go with him!” Sebastian said again, louder this time, tears pricking at his eyes.

“I know you do,” you murmured, brushing some of his curls from his face. “But you’ve got school, remember? And karting, and Lyla—she doesn’t do well in big crowds, sweetie. So we’ll stay here, and when Daddy’s done with his race, he’ll come right back to us. Just like always.”

Sebastian stood still for a moment, eyes on the floor. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. “But… what if this time he doesn’t?”

The words landed like ice water to the chest. You exchanged a quiet glance with Lando before quickly crouching closer.

“What do you mean by that, baby?” you asked softly.

Sebastian shrugged, jaw trembling.

“Seb… talk to us. What’s going on in that big heart of yours?” you coaxed.

But his silence thickened, lips pressed into a tight line. He shook his head hard and took a step back, eyes starting to brim with tears.

“Sebastian…” Lando started gently, “Hey, look at me, buddy.”

But the boy turned suddenly, wiping at his cheeks and darting toward the door. “I don’t wanna talk about it!” he shouted, voice cracking as he ran down the hallway. His bedroom door slammed a moment later, muffled sobs barely audible behind it.

Lando stood frozen, his hand halfway out like he could reach for him. “Shit,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean for him to feel like this.”

You moved slowly toward him, Lyla still tucked into your arms as her big eyes watched you both. “He’s scared,” you whispered. “And he doesn’t know how to say it yet.”

“I would never leave him!” Lando said again, his voice strained, eyes shining as he tried to hold himself together. “Not on purpose. Not ever.”

You stepped closer, gently reaching for his hand. “Baby, we know that,” you murmured, voice soft. “He knows that too… deep down. But he’s just… going through a lot right now. He’s young, and this is all a lot to take in. He’s scared, but Lando…” you looked at him with all the tenderness in your heart, “he loves you so much.”

Lando let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t hold much humor. “So much he thinks I’m trying to leave him on purpose,” he said bitterly, shaking his head.

You felt your chest ache, your heart twisting at the pain that passed across his face. It wasn’t fair — not to Lando, and not to Sebastian. You both tried so hard to give the kids a life full of love and security, and yet somehow, fear still crept in through the cracks.

“I don’t even know where this came from,” you admitted, your voice catching. “What made him say that? Is someone saying things to him? Did he overhear something? It’s bothering me, Lando. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Lando was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched. He hated the unknown of it too — hated that Sebastian was hurting in ways they couldn’t immediately fix.

“Go talk to him,” you finally said, gently nudging his hand. “Before bed. He needs to hear from you. He needs that reassurance. And tomorrow… please, while you’re away, think about how this even happened. Figure out what he’s feeling and why. Because this—” you shook your head, “—this isn’t something we can let fester.”

Lando nodded slowly, pulling you into a tight hug before stepping back with a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he said. “He shouldn’t have to carry this. Not at his age.”

His feet carried him quietly down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. When he reached Sebastian’s room, the soft hum of the nightlight cast little race cars in orange light against the walls. Sebastian was curled up in his race car bed, turned toward the wall, clutching his pillow tightly. His shoulders were trembling, the occasional hiccup giving away his tears.

“Sebastian…” Lando said gently from the doorway.

No answer.

He stepped inside, kneeling beside the bed slowly. “Listen to me, buddy,” Lando said, voice low but steady. “You are my son. Okay? Nothing about that is temporary. Nothing about that is going to change.”

Sebastian sniffled but didn’t respond, his small body tense under the covers.

“I don’t know why you’re feeling like this, or what made you think that I’d leave you. But I need you to hear me — I would never, ever leave you on purpose. This racing stuff… it’s part of what I do. But it’s not more important than you. Or your sister. Or your mom. You three are everything to me.”

Sebastian gave the faintest shake of his head, still not turning around.

“I came into your life when you were just three,” Lando continued, his voice softening even more. “You probably don’t remember all of it, but I do. I remember meeting you. I remember how loud and happy you were, how curious. I remember how your little hand fit in mine the first time we crossed the street together. And I remember thinking, I’m going to protect this kid. Always.”

There was a pause, then a sniff from Sebastian.

“You know… before I met you and your mom, my life was a lot faster than it is now,” Lando confessed. “I was partying, flying everywhere, being wild and selfish and not really thinking about anything long term. But then I met you two… and everything changed. You made me want to be different.”

Finally, Sebastian stirred. His little hand poked out from under the blanket, wiping at his eyes. Lando reached out and rested his hand gently on the bed.

“When I asked your mom to marry me, I didn’t just ask to be her husband. I asked to be your dad, too. Because by then… you weren’t just some kid I was helping raise. You were mine. You are mine. I love you, Sebastian, more than I can explain. You’re my first son. You’re my world.”

Sebastian finally turned over, his face blotchy and red-eyed. “Then why do you keep leaving?” he whispered, voice trembling. “Why do you have to go?”

Lando swallowed hard and reached for him, brushing his hair from his face. “Because that’s part of what I do right now. But it’s not forever. And I promise, I hate being away from you just as much as you hate it. I miss your voice, your jokes, your excitement over karting. I miss bedtime and hugging you goodnight. I don’t leave because I want to. I go because it’s my job — but I always come home. Always.”

Sebastian’s lower lip quivered. “You’re not like my other dad?”

“Not even close,” Lando said, shaking his head firmly. “Your other dad left when things got hard. I stay. I’ll always stay. I don’t care how far away I have to go, you’re my son, and I’m coming back to you. Every single time.”

Sebastian finally launched himself forward, wrapping his arms tight around Lando’s neck. “Okay,” he whispered against his shoulder. “I believe you.”

Lando held him just as tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, eyes stinging.

“I love you, little man,” he murmured. “More than words. And I’m always coming home to you.”

Outside the door, you wiped a tear from your cheek, quietly backing away to give them the moment they both needed. Inside that room, a little boy’s fears began to melt, just a little — warmed by the voice of the man who never once thought of him as anything less than his own.

The house was wrapped in stillness, the soft hum of the night filling the quiet as the children slept peacefully in their rooms. You lay tucked under the covers, curled close against Lando’s chest, his arm draped around you protectively. His warmth, his heartbeat, the calm of being next to him after such an emotionally draining day — it was everything you needed.

Your fingers gently traced circles on his chest, your voice soft as you murmured, “We’ll be expecting that win, you know.”

Lando let out a low chuckle, his lips brushing the top of your head. “I’ll win,” he promised, his tone full of tired certainty. “You have my word.”

You smiled faintly, but your heart was still heavy. “So…” you began, hesitating for a second, “Did he give in? Did he tell you where he heard it?”

Lando’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling slowly as he pulled you a little closer. “No,” he said quietly. “He never told me where he learned it from.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration evident even in the dim light. “But I’ll figure it out. Someone’s spreading bullshit about him not being my son. I don’t care if it’s some nosy gossip mom at the karting track or someone we actually know... Someone’s putting that idea in his head, and I won’t let it slide.”

You looked up at him, catching the slight furrow of his brow in the soft light from the hallway. He was trying to stay calm — for you, for the kids — but you knew him well enough to recognize the storm brewing behind his eyes.

You sighed, your hand slipping up to cup his jaw gently. “He’s still a kid, Lan. A sensitive one. All it takes is one sentence, one nasty comment… and it sticks. We just have to keep showing him what’s true. Every single day.”

Lando turned his face into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I know,” he murmured. “It just kills me that anyone could make him feel like that. Like he’s not wanted, or not mine. I’ve been there since he was three. I’ve changed nappies, made lunch boxes, sat by his bed when he was sick. That kid is mine.”

Your eyes softened. “I know, love. He knows it too. Deep down, he does. He just needed to hear it out loud tonight.”

Lando looked at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said it more. I should say it every day.”

“You say it in how you show up,” you whispered, laying your head back on his chest. “In how you coach him, how you pick him up from school, how you wrestle with him in the living room like an overgrown kid. That’s what he remembers, Lando. That’s what counts.”

He wrapped both arms around you now, tighter than before, and let the silence linger for a moment — the kind of silence that spoke love more deeply than words ever could.

“Let’s just get some sleep,” you said softly, a yawn escaping as you nestled further into his embrace.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The airport buzzed with travelers and rolling suitcases, but in the middle of it all, Lando stood still, a backpack slung over one shoulder and his race bag at his feet, watching his little family like he didn’t want to blink and miss a second of them. The sunlight streamed in through the massive windows, casting a warm golden glow on the polished floors and the group of you gathered just by the lounge entrance.

You shifted Lyla gently in your arms, her small arms wrapped around your neck and her cheek pressed against your shoulder, peeking every so often only to immediately hide again. Her curls tickled your chin as you smiled, rocking slightly on your feet to soothe her. “I swear, if this airport had a softer carpet, she’d be napping right now,” you muttered, causing Lando to snort.

Sebastian stood at Lando’s side, bouncing on the balls of his feet, full of energy and curiosity. “So you travel with Oscar?” he asked, eyes wide with fascination like the idea of teammates sharing an airport adventure was just the coolest thing ever.

“Yeah, buddy,” Lando nodded with a grin, ruffling Sebastian’s hair. “He’s my teammate. We fly together, practice together, complain about food together…”

“Do you sit together on the plane?” Sebastian cut in.

Lando blinked. “Only if he gets there on time. Otherwise, I claim the window seat and he sulks in the middle.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound bright and warm. “Classic Oscar,” you said with a smirk. “Lyla, you’ll end up liking Oscar. He’s quiet — not many words, very mellow — so he won’t scare you. You could honestly make him your emotional support adult.”

Lyla, predictably, burrowed her face deeper into your neck like you’d just told her Oscar was a walking jump scare. “Okay, okay,” you whispered into her curls, pressing a kiss to her head. “Take your time.”

As if the universe were on cue, Oscar Piastri strolled into view — calm, composed, holding his suitcase like it weighed nothing, dressed in comfy layers and holding a coffee like he absolutely woke up ten minutes before arriving.

“Look who finally made it!” Lando quipped, throwing his arms out. “Only mildly fashionably late.”

Oscar raised a brow, completely unbothered. “Lando, I was on time. You were just here twenty minutes early because you’re emotionally unstable without your family.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “He’s not wrong.”

“I am not emotionally unstable,” Lando protested. “I’m emotionally… organized.”

“Sure,” Oscar deadpanned. “Very organized meltdown last time your daughter FaceTimed you and then hung up mid-sentence.”

Lyla peeked up again, this time catching a glimpse of Oscar, only to retreat immediately. Oscar noticed, offering a small, kind smile and a little wave, like he’d read a guidebook on communicating with toddlers. “Hi, Lyla,” he said gently. “I won’t talk too much. Promise.”

“Uncle Oscar is learning,” you said proudly.

Sebastian, meanwhile, practically threw himself at Oscar, grabbing his hand. “I saw you win that one time and my dad was like, ‘Yeah, yeah, okay, good job’ but I was like ‘LET’S GOOO’ and then I made a drawing of you and I forgot to bring it.”

Oscar blinked. “That’s...very sweet. Also, you should be in PR.”

“Trying to be just like Dad,” Sebastian said proudly, making Lando grin ear to ear.

Lando then reached out, hands open like a kid about to ask for a puppy. “Can I just take Lyla?” he pleaded.

You gave him the most exaggerated look of faux-shock. “Oh sure, let me just hand over our clingy, sleep-fighting, tiny-anxiety-ball daughter to a man who doesn’t even remember to pack his own socks half the time.”

“I remember my socks... now,” he muttered.

You stepped closer, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “I know you miss her when you travel. I know you’d take us all in your suitcase if you could.”

Lando's eyes softened, that teasing glint replaced by something real and vulnerable. “I just hate the part where I leave,” he murmured. “Everything else is manageable, but walking away from you three? That’s the worst part of my job.”

You leaned up to kiss him softly, Lyla squirming slightly in your arms as if sensing the emotion. “Go win. Come home. That’s all we ask of you.”

He smiled, wrapping one arm around your waist, kissing Lyla’s cheek, and ruffling Sebastian’s hair one last time. “I’ll bring back souvenirs.”

“Better be food,” Sebastian said.

“Better be diamonds,” you added with a grin.

Oscar sighed beside you both, already done. “Can we please go before you all start crying and I have to stand here pretending not to care?”

Lando threw an arm around his teammate’s shoulder. “Admit it, you love us.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re...tolerable.”

“Progress!” you cheered.

As Lando began to walk away, he turned back one last time, catching your eyes — a silent promise exchanged between the two of you in that fleeting glance. He mouthed I love you, and you whispered it right back.

And just like that, he was gone for now — but never really gone. Not in the ways that mattered.

Once the plane had taxied down the runway and lifted into the clouds, the familiar hum of the engines filled the cabin, creating that oddly peaceful quiet that only seemed to exist once wheels left the ground. Lando sat back in his seat, letting out a slow breath as he adjusted his cap and glanced out the window for a second — but all he could picture was Lyla’s sleepy little face nuzzled into your neck, and Sebastian’s teary eyes looking up at him just hours ago at home.

He turned toward Oscar, who was already halfway reclined and lazily sipping a ginger ale like they weren’t thirty thousand feet in the sky. “I miss them already,” Lando muttered, not really trying to hide it.

Oscar glanced sideways at him, his expression softening. “Sebastian’s growing up fast,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “Last time I saw him properly, he was just this tiny three-year-old clinging to your leg, trying to ‘help’ you clean your helmet with baby wipes.”

Lando chuckled, rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah… he’s seven now. Whole personality built in. Witty, quick on his feet, obsessed with racing. It’s like looking in a mirror — except better.” His eyes lingered out the window, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips before it slowly faded. “Y/n’s sad he’s getting older. I am too. He’s not my little guy forever. And then there’s Lyla… she just turned two, and she’s already more emotionally aware than half the grid.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh, but he could tell from the tension in Lando’s voice that something was weighing heavier than normal.

“What’s eating at you?” Oscar asked gently, setting his drink aside.

Lando hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. “Sebastian’s been… weird lately. About me leaving. He gets upset. He thinks… he thinks I won’t come back. That I’ll leave him like his biological dad did.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together in concern. “Shit,” he muttered. “That’s heavy for a seven-year-old.”

“Tell me about it.” Lando’s voice cracked slightly. “He won’t talk about it much either. Y/n says he’s scared. And I get it, I do. He’s trying to protect himself. But when he said it last night, when he asked if I was leaving like his other dad…” He trailed off, blinking rapidly. “It felt like someone punched a hole through my chest.”

Oscar didn’t interrupt. He just listened, giving Lando the space to vent.

“I’ve given him reassurance, every time,” Lando continued. “I tuck him in, I talk to him about my schedule, I FaceTime them from the paddock, I bring him souvenirs — hell, I’d tattoo his name on my forehead if I thought it’d help. And Y/n… she says I’m doing great. But it doesn’t make it hurt less. I’m not mad at him. I’m just… frustrated. Heartbroken.”

Oscar nodded slowly, choosing his words carefully. “You love that kid like he’s yours. And he is, Lando. You’ve raised him. Anyone with eyes can see that. But he’s old enough now to start feeling uncertainty. He probably overheard something. Or maybe it’s just all these changes, the travel, Lyla being little and needing more attention, growing up in general… it’s a lot for a kid.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling. “I hate that I have to filter everything I say or do. Not around him — around everyone else. I hold back online. I avoid talking about him sometimes in interviews. Because the moment people know the full story, they’ll twist it. Gossip about his real dad. Make up stories about me and Y/n. And he’ll hear it. And I can't shield him from all of it forever.”

Oscar gave a solemn hum. “People can hate on you, yeah. But your family’s different. It’s the soft spot. I get that.”

“I don’t care what they say about me,” Lando said, voice tight. “Call me overhyped, say I’ll never be a world champion, criticize everything — fine. But the second they talk about Y/n? About Sebastian? Lyla? That’s my red line.”

There was a silence that stretched for a moment, filled only by the low buzz of the plane.

Oscar broke it with a quiet, honest comment. “You’re a better dad than most, Lando. Hell, you’re a better man than most. Seb will figure that out — if he hasn’t already. Kids are smart, and he’s yours. In the ways that count.”

Lando let out a breath, one hand dragging down his face. “Yeah… thanks, mate.”

Oscar gave him a side glance. “Just don’t cry on me. I can’t handle that mid-flight.”

Lando scoffed and wiped his eye. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

“I’m crying from having to hear about feelings on an airplane,” Oscar muttered dryly.

That got a laugh out of Lando, finally. One that shook the tension loose in his shoulders.

He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and glancing down at the screen where he’d set a lock screen of the four of you at the beach — Sebastian covered in sand, Lyla curled up in your lap, you smiling toward the camera as Lando held it out with wind-tousled hair and a cheeky grin.

He stared at the picture for a long moment before nodding to himself.

“I’ll win this weekend,” he said, more to himself than to Oscar. “For them.”

The familiar winding roads of Monaco stretched before you, the sea glittering off in the distance and the sunlight casting a warm glow across the dashboard. You let out a soft sigh, one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently in your lap as the comforting hum of the car filled the silence. The air was calm, the kind that settled in only after a long morning of goodbyes — the kind that reminded you someone was missing from the seat beside you.

From the backseat, the soft sounds of Sebastian quietly humming drifted forward. He was mumbling the theme song to one of his favorite cartoons, his fingers rhythmically drumming on the armrest beside him. Lyla, tucked snugly into her car seat, swung her little legs gently back and forth, her favorite stuffed bunny cradled in her arms, as her eyes flicked between the sun-drenched buildings outside and her big brother beside her.

You glanced into the rearview mirror, watching them with a soft smile before speaking up. “Alright, kiddos,” you said, voice warm and teasing. “Since Daddy’s off flying through the skies to go race fast cars, how about we go do something fun of our own while he’s gone?”

Sebastian perked up, peeking his head up a little more in his booster seat. “Like what?”

You shrugged playfully. “I don’t know… what if we went skating?”

There was a short pause before Sebastian gave a thoughtful frown. “Mmm… I don’t think Lyla can skate. She’s too tiny. She’d probably fall.”

Lyla, catching on to her name, simply squeaked out, “Fall!” and then giggled, not even understanding but joining in the fun anyway.

You chuckled, glancing at them again in the mirror. “Fair point. Alright, no skating. What about…” You tapped your chin theatrically. “What about Lego shopping?”

The reaction was instant.

Sebastian gasped, eyes lighting up like someone flipped a switch. “Really? We can go today?!”

You grinned. “Of course. We’ll swing by that toy store you love — you know, the one where you always find the big sets hidden in the back.”

“Yes!” he beamed, practically bouncing in his seat. “And Lyla can get a toy too!”

Lyla kicked her legs a little more excitedly now. “Toy!”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “We’ll get you both something, then head home, order pizza — the kind with the stuffed crust that you love — and we’ll set up a movie marathon. I’m thinking popcorn, pillows on the floor, and one of those movies you’ve seen a hundred times but still laugh at anyway.”

“Movie night!!” Sebastian turned toward his sister with wide eyes. “Lyla, we’re gonna have a movie night!”

Lyla clapped her hands, though it was more like soft patting, her stuffed bunny flopping with each motion. “Moobee!”

You laughed, the warmth of their joy radiating through the car and straight into your heart. Moments like these — these tiny, quiet, ordinary ones — made everything else worth it. The tears, the tough conversations, the goodbyes at the airport.

As you slowed at a red light, your eyes caught them again in the mirror — Sebastian now holding his sister’s hand across their seats. It wasn’t perfect, she was barely reaching with her tiny fingers, but he had his arm stretched out, patient and gentle, as she grasped a few of his fingers in hers and smiled.

You felt your chest tighten with that familiar ache of love.

“Hey,” you said softly, eyes on the mirror. “I love you two so much.”

Sebastian gave a goofy grin. “We love you too, Mama.”

Lyla chimed in softly, her voice a little more clumsy but full of meaning. “Lub you.”

And in that moment, as you turned down the street toward the toy store, your heart — though missing one person who was flying far away — felt completely full.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The toy store buzzed with the low chatter of parents and the excited squeals of children, shelves stacked high with colorful boxes and glittering plastic, the occasional jingle of a motion-activated toy going off somewhere in the aisles. You stood beside your children, Sebastian inspecting a complicated LEGO Technic set while Lyla pointed curiously at a plush unicorn that blinked and sang when touched. Her little fingers barely reached the shelf, but she tried anyway.

You smiled, watching them, when a familiar voice interrupted your quiet moment.

“Y/n?”

You turned, blinking in surprise before your face lit up. “The one and only… Alexandra Saint Mleux.”

She laughed gently and stepped forward for a hug, her ever-elegant frame wrapped in a long cream coat, a small designer purse slung over her shoulder. “It’s been ages,” she smiled, her soft French accent still intact despite living in Monaco for so long.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you admitted as you stepped back. “I figured you’d be flying out to watch the race.”

Alexandra nodded and sighed. “That was the plan, but work got in the way. Some last-minute clients. I’m heartbroken to miss this one… but I’ll survive.” Her eyes wandered to the kids, warm and understanding. “So… how are they doing? You know, with Lando being away?”

Your smile faltered just a bit. “We’re managing,” you said, lowering your voice to a private hush. “Keeping them busy helps. I don’t know how bedtime will go — it never really gets easier, not when they’re used to him doing stories, doing his silly voices and games… but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Alexandra nodded solemnly. “You’re doing beautifully, Y/n. Truly.”

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed in your coat pocket. The name on the screen made your stomach knot.

Sebastian’s Father.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, masking the moment with a smile toward Alexandra. “Would you mind staying with them while they pick their toys? I’ll just be a moment.”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “Take your time.”

You stepped away from the aisle, finding a quieter corner near a display of puzzles. The buzzing continued in your hand. With a deep breath, you hit accept.

You didn’t wait for a greeting. “Can you stop calling?” you said sharply, keeping your voice low but laced with steel.

A familiar voice crackled on the other end. “Y/n, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks. I want to speak to my son.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “Your son?” you spat, turning your back toward the toy aisle and gripping the phone tighter. “Since when?”

He sighed, as if he was the one carrying the burden. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to sit back and see pictures of him with some other guy? Videos of him calling someone else dad?”

“Oh, cry me a river,” you snapped, your voice sharp now, tempered only by the awareness you were still in public. “That other guy is my husband. The man who has raised Sebastian with love, patience, and every ounce of care you never had the courage to give.”

“Y/n��”

“Y/n Norris,” you corrected, your voice cold now. “You lost the right to say my name the day you walked out and left me with a baby and no fucking idea what to do. No help. No money. No check-ins. You abandoned us, and now you think you can just call and insert yourself into his life because he’s old enough to form memories now?”

Silence.

“I made every bottle. I held him through every night terror. I worked two jobs while praying I wouldn’t miss another milestone. And then I met Lando — who didn’t have to step in, but chose to. Who didn’t just love me, but loved him. Who tucks him into bed every night he’s home, who taught him how to ride a bike and how to read a clock, and who kisses him on the forehead even when he thinks no one’s watching.”

“You think I don’t regret what I did?” his voice cracked, but you didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t ready—”

“You think I was?” you whispered harshly, voice shaking now. “You think I had a manual for being a mom at twenty-five? You ran. I stayed. And now you have the audacity to ask me to just… hand him over for a chat, like it’s that easy?”

“I just want to talk—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice final. “He’s happy. He’s safe. And he doesn’t need you to confuse him now that he’s finally finding solid ground. Especially when all you want to do is soothe your own guilt, not actually be a father.”

“I’m his father whether you like it or not,” he hissed.

“No,” you said, eyes burning. “Lando is his father. He’s earned that title every single day, with love, not DNA.”

"I want to see him, speak to him. Sebastian is my son." he huffed.

"Take that up with his father if you feel so brave now, but I'm sure I know Lando's answer."

You didn’t give him the chance to respond. You hit end call, your hand trembling slightly as the call disconnected.

You stood there for a moment, collecting yourself, breathing through your nose as you tucked your phone back into your pocket. A soft noise caught your attention — a giggle from the kids.

You returned to the aisle to find Alexandra kneeling beside Lyla, who was now clutching a soft stuffed fox with velvety fur, her face glowing with delight. Sebastian held the LEGO box like it was made of gold.

“There’s my mama,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Is this one okay?”

You smiled, blinking back emotion. “That one’s perfect, bud.”

“Can we go home now and build it?” he asked.

You nodded, gathering them in close. “Yeah, let’s go home. We’ve got some pizza to order and movies to watch.”

Alexandra gave you a knowing look, a supportive warmth in her gaze.

You mouthed a soft thank you to her.

Time passed like a warm breeze, slow and golden, wrapping around the three of you with the kind of peace you hadn't felt in a while. After the toy store, you’d made a spontaneous day of it — a little ice cream, a detour to the duck pond where Lyla screamed “DUCKIES!” so loudly she startled a few of them into waddling chaos, and a stroll down the pier with the salty sea air brushing your cheeks. You snapped pictures constantly — Sebastian holding up his LEGO box triumphantly, Lyla wearing oversized sunglasses she found in a boutique and refusing to take them off, even a silly selfie with all three of your faces smushed together under the caption: “We miss you already, daddy 💛”

Even though Lando had only been gone since morning, the ache of his absence was already settled in your chest. You could feel it in the way you kept glancing at your phone, like you needed to send another photo, another text — partly for your reassurance, partly for his. Because if you missed him like this, you could only imagine how heavy his heart felt, knowing he left with Sebastian upset, Lyla too little to really understand goodbyes, and you… trying to hold it all together like you always did.

After the duck pond and walk, you stopped by a children’s boutique where Sebastian’s eyes lit up at the sight of a rack full of pajamas. “Can I get the race car ones?” he asked, already clutching them like treasure.

“Of course, baby,” you smiled.

Lyla chose a soft, cottony pink set with little teddy bears, hugging it to her chest with a proud little smile, even letting out a tiny squeal that melted your heart.

By the time the sky started darkening, you were all a little tired but happy — the kind of happy that made the silence in the car on the way home feel peaceful instead of awkward. You chuckled as you helped them out of the car, herding them into the flat.

“Alright, pajamas!” you called, clapping your hands. “Go get them on! I’m ordering the pizza and picking the movie. Then you two can come back in here and play with your toys.”

Sebastian darted to his room, practically airborne in excitement, clutching his pajama set. Lyla, however, clung to your leg like a little koala, dragging her pajamas on the floor behind her.

You gently ruffled her curls. “Come on, you too, missy. I’ll help you get dressed in a minute.”

Your phone rang, buzzing softly in your pocket. When you saw the name on the screen, your heart warmed.

Best Husband 💛

You answered with a smile already tugging at your lips. “My love.”

A tired sigh of relief echoed through the speaker. “God, I needed to hear your voice. Are the kids asleep?”

You glanced toward the hallway where Sebastian was noisily dragging open drawers. “Nope, we just got home. We’ve been out all day. You should see Lyla’s new sunglasses. I swear she thinks she’s a movie star.”

Lando chuckled, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. “That sounds like her already. God, I miss you all so much… I want to speak to them, if that’s okay.”

But your smile faded slightly, the warmth in your chest twisting into something more uncertain.

“I actually need to speak with you first,” you murmured, tone quiet and serious.

Lando picked up on it immediately. “What’s going on?”

You stepped into the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder to make sure the kids were still occupied. You lowered your voice.

“His father called.”

The line went dead quiet for a few seconds, and then Lando exhaled sharply, almost like he had to physically calm himself. “He what?”

“Said he wants to talk. See him. And you know…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “Same guilt-tripping, same dramatics. He brought up the fact that we post pictures of you and Sebastian together, like it’s supposed to be some crime.”

“He’s an asshole,” Lando snapped without hesitation. “I would prefer he never sees Sebastian again. Period. I know you didn’t block him before — maybe part of you thought one day things could be different, or maybe for Sebastian’s sake… but now’s the time to block him. For good.”

You could feel the raw emotion behind his words — the frustration, the protectiveness, the love.

“I don’t care how selfish I sound, okay? Listen to me,” Lando continued, voice low and tight. “I love him. I love Sebastian like he’s my own. He is my own. And he’s clearly hurt and confused enough as it is right now. The last thing he needs is that man worming his way in and stirring up more shit.”

“I want to say the same thing, honey, I do,” you said softly. “But I think we need to be careful. This didn’t come out of nowhere. Someone planted this idea in Sebastian’s head — someone’s been talking behind our backs, and it’s eating at me. I don’t know if he overheard something or if it’s…”

“The media,” Lando muttered.

“I’ve been thinking that too,” you said. “He doesn’t have access to the internet, he’s seven. But… maybe something slipped through on the TV, or someone said something in public. It only takes one headline. And even if we limit comments, we can’t control everything.”

“I said the same thing,” Oscar piped up from the background, his voice distant but clear.

Lando groaned. “I mean come on — we’re careful. I hardly talk about the kids publicly. And when I do, it’s always vague or safe. I never name names or post anything personal.”

“I know, baby,” you said gently. “But not everyone cares about respecting boundaries. Some people just love digging where they don’t belong.”

There was a pause. You could hear the quiet buzz of the hotel room on the other end — the hum of a minibar, maybe the faint flicker of the TV in the background. You imagined Lando sitting on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, shoulders tight with worry.

“I hate this,” he finally said. “I hate that I’m away and you’re dealing with this. I hate that Sebastian’s even thinking about this. I hate that some faceless asshole behind a screen or a reporter with a notepad can get into my son’s head.”

“He’s just scared, Lan,” you murmured. “But he loves you. I see it every day. And you’re doing right by him — we both are. That’s what matters.”

You could hear him nodding, even if he didn’t speak.

“I ordered the pizza,” you added softly, trying to lighten the mood. “We’re watching Toy Story 2 tonight. Sebastian said it’s your favorite.”

Lando’s voice cracked with a small laugh. “It is my favorite. Tell him I said that’s a solid choice.”

“I will. After they’re in pajamas. Lyla’s currently pretending her leg doesn’t work because she doesn’t want to get changed.”

Lando laughed again, and this time it was lighter, like he was really smiling now. “She gets that from you.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said playfully, and for a second the weight lifted.

“Hey,” he added, voice gentle now. “Thanks for everything. For keeping them grounded… for being you. I know this isn’t easy.”

You closed your eyes. “It’s not. But we’re a team. Even miles away, we’ve still got this. And tomorrow, we figure out what the hell is actually going on.”

“Damn right,” he said. “And I’ll bring back a win, too. Just for you guys.”

You smiled, heart full.

“Then you better buckle in, Norris. Because Toy Story, pajamas, and pizza nights are hard to beat.”

“Impossible,” he replied. “But I’m coming home to try.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lando being gone wasn’t new.

It was never easy, but it was familiar — a rhythm that ebbed and flowed like the tide. The early flights, the packed bags by the door, the quiet “I love you”s whispered over sleepy heads and soft kisses before the sun even broke the horizon. You’d grown used to the ache, the temporary emptiness of the house. What you never grew used to, though, was waking up and not having him there.

The bed felt far too big without him.

Sebastian had crawled into the middle during the night, tangled in the sheets like a little tornado of limbs and heat. His head rested on Lando’s pillow. Lyla, small and warm, was curled up in the crook of your arm like a kitten, her stuffed bunny pressed against her cheek.

You carefully untangled yourself, slipping out of bed with practiced ease. Neither of them stirred — a small blessing. These were the pockets of peace you counted on. The house was still, the morning light barely filtering through the curtains, and the silence was thick but comforting.

It was always like this on the first morning without him. Quiet. Empty, but full of purpose. You stood for a moment in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, staring at your reflection. You could see the soft weariness around your eyes, the evidence of another night where you’d reached across the bed and found nothing but cool sheets.

“He’s not gone forever,” you murmured aloud, a mantra, not a reminder. Just a soft truth you whispered to yourself.

You showered slowly, letting the steam loosen your tense shoulders, letting your mind wander. There was always a to-do list playing quietly in the back of your head: school drop-offs, meals, cleaning, playtime, phone calls, maybe a grocery run, and somewhere in the middle of all that — time to feel his absence and push forward anyway.

By the time you wrapped yourself in your robe, hair damp, you were ready. You padded into the living room and curled into the couch with your phone, letting yourself fall into the mindless scroll for just a little while. Social media, messages from friends, a few missed texts from Lando sent at 2 a.m. his time.

Still up thinking about you. Tell Seb I love him. Kiss Lyla for me. I miss my girls.

You clutched the phone to your chest for a second, your breath catching. Then, quietly, you smiled.

After about an hour of peace, you placed the phone on the side table, stood up, and entered the kitchen. The hum of familiarity buzzed in your ears like a song you’d memorized long ago.

You didn’t need to think anymore — your hands just moved. You poured Lyla’s apple juice into her bunny sippy cup. It had a little bow drawn onto it with pink permanent marker — something she insisted on one afternoon when she decided all her toys needed to be “fancy.”

Sebastian’s orange juice went into his dinosaur cup — the same one he refused to drink out of unless it was “the dino one with the T-Rex not the triceratops.” You smirked a little at the thought as you set it on the table.

Then came the rest: pancakes for Lyla, perfectly golden and cut into tiny bite-sized hearts the way she liked them, with a side of blueberries she always pushed to the edge of her plate. For Sebastian, toast lightly browned, eggs just barely runny (any more and he would call them “slime eggs”), and two strips of crispy bacon he’d probably try and feed one to the cat even though you told him not to.

Everything was where it should be. Like muscle memory.

A sound behind you — groggy feet shuffling across the floor.

“Mama?” Sebastian mumbled, his curls sticking up in every direction, pajama pants slightly twisted around his legs.

You didn’t even turn around, just hummed as you flipped the final pancake. “Practice is going to happen soon,” you said softly, “you know they have to adjust, get themselves ready.”

He climbed onto the stool at the counter and rested his chin on the marble. “I miss him.”

You finally turned, wiping your hands and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Me too,” you said quietly. “But he misses us just as much. Maybe even more.”

Lyla padded out a moment later, dragging her blanket behind her, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you cooed, sweeping her up into your arms.

“Dada?” she mumbled against your shoulder, her thumb slipping into her mouth.

“Soon, sweet girl,” you whispered. “You’ll see him soon.”

As they settled at the table, Sebastian perked up, watching you with those curious brown eyes.

“Are we gonna talk to Grandma today?”

You nodded, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got time. After I drop you off at school, Lyla and I are going to call her. You know she misses you two terribly.”

He grinned a little, the kind of smile only grandmothers could pull out of children. “Can I send her a picture of my dinosaur cup?”

You laughed. “Absolutely.”

It was all clockwork. Predictable. But it still hurt sometimes — to do all of this without Lando, to smile through it even when your chest ached and your throat tightened unexpectedly.

But you managed.

You always did.

Because your kids were watching. Because their little hearts depended on you. Because Lando, miles away and probably staring at a calendar on his phone, counting down the days until he could be back, needed to know you could hold it all together.

And you would.

Just like every other morning.

Motherhood had a way of testing your limits and then rewarding you in small, quiet ways. After you dropped Sebastian off at school — his usual chatter about karting practice and Lego sets still echoing in your ears — the rest of your day unfolded like a long, busy stretch of survival mode. You managed a video call with Cisca, who filled your morning with soft smiles and much-needed comfort. Lyla’s meltdown over her empty bunny sippy cup had you on your knees, trying to calm her down while preparing breakfast and unloading the dishwasher at the same time. It was one of those mornings where time seemed to slip through your fingers.

The car got cleaned, though that required strategic maneuvering with a clingy toddler on your hip. You made a small grocery run, holding her hand tightly while she stared cautiously at every passing stranger. Then you walked her around the quiet park near your building, hoping the fresh air would calm her nerves. And it did — a little. She let go of your hand for all of five minutes before gluing herself to your leg again.

Eventually, you made it back to the flat. You swept and mopped floors, wiped down counters, and sorted laundry while Lyla played quietly with her toys in the living room. She had picked out a stuffed bunny, a wooden puzzle, and one of Sebastian’s smaller race cars — and all three were lined up next to her as she sprawled out on the floor.

And just like that… she was asleep.

Not in her bed, not on the couch — but flat on the playmat, one hand still resting on the toy bunny. Her tiny chest rose and fell slowly, lashes resting like feathers against her cheeks. You stood there for a moment, arms crossed, soft smile tugging at your lips. Then you carefully picked her up, mindful not to wake her, and tucked her into bed. You kissed her forehead, lingered there for a beat, then finally had a moment of peace to yourself.

And that’s when you called him.

The screen rang only once before Lando’s tired but joyful face filled your screen, his curls a little messy under a cap, eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

“My favorite girl,” he greeted, voice warm and smooth, as if it could wrap you up.

You let out a small, relieved breath, your shoulders finally dropping. “I was calling just to see if you’re surviving,” you teased lightly, your voice soft, your love clear even in the distance.

He let out a short laugh. “Yeah, just about. Got some practice coming up. You know how leading into a race weekend is — mind on a thousand things.”

You nodded. “I figured. Sebastian’s at school, and Lyla’s down for a nap… finally.” You leaned back on the couch, rubbing your temple.

“She’s sleeping a lot lately?” Lando asked gently, concern twitching at his brow.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your smile fading. “I think the anxiety’s wearing her out. I mean, it’s not dramatic all the time — she’s not screaming or crying. But she clings to me like I’m her anchor, and when she’s like that… I can tell her brain’s on overload.”

His jaw tensed slightly, the helplessness setting into his eyes. “I hate that I’m not there. I hate not being able to help her when she’s like that.”

You sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You help more than you know, even just by existing as her safe space. But I won’t lie… it’s getting hard, Lando. I don’t want this to feel normal for her.”

“I know, baby,” he said quietly. “Let’s talk more about getting her a child therapist when I get home. Someone trained in early social anxiety, someone who’ll take it slow. She doesn’t need to feel like the world’s too loud for her forever.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. “That’d help… thank you.”

There was a brief silence between you — not uncomfortable, just full of unspoken longing — until you finally exhaled again and shifted the conversation.

“Anyway,” you said, trying to lighten the mood, “Sebastian has more practices coming up. I’m hoping you’ll be home in time for his competition.”

Lando’s face softened with guilt. “Yeah. I know. I’m doing everything I can to make sure I’m there. Even if it means I have to sprint off the track and hop on a plane. I’ll deal with the team's reaction after. I won’t miss it.”

“You promise?” you asked, needing to hear it aloud.

He smiled. “Cross my heart. I’m his biggest fan. I wouldn’t miss watching our boy race for anything.”

You felt a swell of affection in your chest, unable to hide your smile. “Good. He’ll want you there — he already asked twice this morning if you’d make it.”

“Tell him yes,” Lando said firmly. “Tell him I’ll be there with bells on.”

You laughed softly, then glanced at the time. “So, um… your mom and I talked earlier. She wants to have Sebastian and Lyla for the summer. Says she misses the chaos.”

Lando’s eyes widened a bit. “I figured she’d bring that up.”

“She’s already planning beach days and movie nights, Lando. I think she’s ready for full grandma mode,” you joked.

“They’ll love being with her,” Lando said with a grin. “They’ll be with their cousins, run around outside, no cameras, no pressure. It’ll be good for them.”

You quirked a brow. “And what will we be doing?”

He leaned closer to the camera, eyes dancing. “Well, I was thinking… maybe I take you somewhere sunny, just us, no responsibilities…”

You laughed again. “You say that, but I know what’s going on in that head of yours. Keep it in your pants.”

Lando feigned innocence, wiggling his brows mischievously. “Mmm, I don’t know, love… baby number three doesn’t sound so bad.”

You gasped, half-joking, half-serious. “Lando Norris! Sebastian is seven and Lyla is two!”

“And?” he smirked. “That’s perfect spacing. You’d be glowing again, and we already know how good I am at naming kids.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm with laughter. “You're unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he added smoothly, gaze softening.

You fell quiet for a beat, letting his words settle in your chest.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

“I miss you more,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse. “But I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

And as the call continued, you found yourself feeling lighter — knowing that even when things felt heavy, you didn’t have to carry it all alone.

“You guys’ll be watching the race, huh?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “When do we ever miss your races? We watch every single one. Whether it’s on the couch, the tablet in the car, or Lyla yelling ‘Dada!’ at the screen in the middle of the grid walk.”

He laughed softly, his eyes glowing with that boyish charm that never seemed to fade. “You’re gonna be watching me win then?”

You smirked. “We’re going to be watching you win with snacks, and matching shirts, and banners Sebastian insists on hanging from the window like it’s a football match.”

Lando leaned his chin into his palm, clearly imagining it all. “God, I love that. I love you guys.”

“And when you come home…” you started.

“We’ll celebrate,” he said in unison, and your face lit up as you nodded. “All of us,” you added.

He raised a brow with a mischievous tilt of his lips. “So, no just you and me then? No little alone time?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Mr. Norris.”

He laughed at the way you said it, all mock-serious and slightly amused.

He countered with a grin, “Mrs. Norris.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Husband.”

He leaned closer to the camera, eyes soft, teasing, “Wife.”

Silence fell for a beat — the kind of silence wrapped in warmth and longing — before you both let out small, soft chuckles, laughing at nothing in particular, just the comfort of each other.

He sighed gently, his eyes darting away for a second, then back to you. “What is with you wanting another baby?” you asked, arching a curious brow. “Lyla is two. And she’s still in diapers!”

He shrugged, that knowing, cheeky smirk forming again. “I don’t know… I think I’m growing into this whole ‘loving family man’ thing.”

You tilted your head, amused but still listening.

“I mean, I still love going out, hanging with the guys, laughing till we cry — you know that. But something about you, and them…” His voice lowered a bit, softer now. “Something about our life together. I don’t know. It hits different. Like, I never knew coming home to sticky hands and toy cars on the couch would feel better than champagne and lights and music.”

You smiled, hand absentmindedly playing with the necklace around your neck. “You’ve changed. In a good way.”

“I am changing,” he agreed, “but I still love who I’ve always been. I’m just loving this part of me more. The part that watches you sing while folding laundry, or kisses Lyla’s curls when she falls asleep on my chest, or watches Sebastian explain why one dinosaur could totally beat another in a race.”

You chuckled, teary-eyed and full of love. “You’re soft.”

He smirked, “I’m a marshmallow for you. And them. Completely useless without you guys.”

You nodded slowly, eyes glinting with emotion. “We’re useless without you too.”

Then, of course, came the turn.

“And I think I do want another baby,” he added, more serious this time, eyes not leaving yours.

You let out a slow sigh. “Maybe one day, Lando. Maybe when you retire… When you’re actually home more than gone.”

He shrugged innocently. “Mmm, if I can just pull out enough—”

“Lando Norris!” you scolded sharply, eyes wide.

He burst into laughter, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding! I swear. Kind of. Half kidding.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to suppress your smile but failing.

“I just…” He leaned back slightly, his gaze softening. “I love what we’ve built. I love what we’re still building. And if I’m being honest, even the hard days — the tantrums, the late-night feedings, the exhausting travel — I’d do it all again with you.”

Your breath caught for a moment, a knot forming in your throat as his words settled.

“I’d do it all again with you too,” you whispered.

He exhaled, smiling.

"I have to go, but I love you and you have to watch the race" he said

"we wouldn't miss it for the world"

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The tension had built up for days.

In the quiet stillness of your Monaco flat, it was race day. You could feel it in the air, thick with excitement and nerves. The living room was decked out in your usual Norris-family race day tradition — soft throws on the couch, little flags in the corner, and three matching shirts that read “Team Norris” in bold navy lettering. Lyla had one much too big for her tiny frame, but she wore it anyway, content on your lap, her thumb in her mouth and her wide eyes fixed on the TV screen. Sebastian, meanwhile, was nearly bouncing in place, his eyes shining, his hair still a little mussed from sleep.

You hadn't heard much from Lando since the night before — just a quick "I love you" text with a photo of him on the grid in the early prep stages — but you understood. This was the one. The big one. And you knew where his mind had to be. It still didn’t stop you from missing him.

"He has to win!" Sebastian said again with conviction, this time louder, his feet tucked under the blanket and his eyes already locked on the pre-race footage.

You gave a soft smile, brushing your hand over Lyla’s curls before standing. “Just give it some time, sweetheart. I'll get your snacks — popcorn or goldfish?”

“Both!” Sebastian shouted after you as you headed into the kitchen.

Back in the living room, Sebastian leaned closer to his baby sister, a grin spreading across his face. “Daddy’s gonna win, I just know it,” he whispered like it was a sacred truth. “And I’ll prove my point to Matteo from school, who said Daddy’s only second-best. Hah! Wait till he sees this.”

Lyla blinked at him, offering a toothy grin and a little clumsy clap as she watched the colorful cars roll out onto the formation lap.

Meanwhile, across the world, on the grid.

Lando pulled on his gloves, taking one last breath as the helmet was lowered onto his head. The outside world dimmed.

The engineers around him buzzed with activity, last-minute data checks, and tire temps, but Lando was quiet, focused. One AirPod still in, playing the last voice note you had sent him — Lyla babbling in the background, Sebastian yelling "Bring home a trophy, Dad!" and you, soft and reassuring, saying, “No matter the result, we’re watching, and we’re proud.”

He closed his eyes. That was all he needed.

Oscar passed by with a thumbs up, and Lando nodded, his jaw tight but a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

He climbed into the cockpit, strapping in.

“Radio check,” his engineer’s voice buzzed.

“Radio check, loud and clear,” Lando replied.

“Alright, Lando. You know the target. Eyes forward.”

Back in Monaco…

You returned with two bowls, setting them on the coffee table as the lights on the screen counted down.

“Okay guys… here we go,” you said, dropping to the couch and wrapping one arm around Lyla, the other rubbing Sebastian’s back.

“Lights out and away we go!”

Lap 1-10:

Lando got off to a strong start, holding his position in P2, close behind Verstappen. The first few laps were all about rhythm, getting into the groove. You leaned forward as you watched him maneuver confidently, hugging apexes, defending perfectly from Leclerc who trailed behind in P3.

“He’s doing good, right?” Sebastian asked, clutching a little toy McLaren car in his hands.

“He’s doing amazing,” you smiled, heart pounding.

Lap 11-25:

The tension began to build. Lando was gaining time in Sector 2 — fast, precise, pushing the limits.

Then came the first big move: DRS open, Lando dove down the inside of Max at Turn 4 — bold, committed, clean. He took the lead.

You stood up instinctively, nearly knocking the popcorn bowl over. “Oh my God! He did it!” you gasped, hands over your mouth.

Sebastian jumped up and down on the couch. “HE’S IN FIRST! MAMA! HE’S IN FIRST!”

Lyla clapped again, amused by the yelling more than the race itself.

Lap 26-40:

Pit stops came and went. The team got Lando out just in time to cover an undercut from Carlos Sainz. It was tight, the kind of strategy that made your hands sweat and your heart ache, but it worked.

Lando stayed ahead.

You texted him a quick message even though you knew he wouldn’t see it till hours later: “We’re screaming. In the best way. Keep going, baby.”

Lap 41-55:

Fatigue started to show on track. Tire wear became an issue for nearly everyone — except Lando. He managed his tires like a master, something you knew he’d been working on.

Oscar came up on the radio: “Keep pushing, mate. Clean sectors. He’s not gaining.”

Back in Monaco, you were chewing on a nail, leaning forward, whispering, “Come on, come on, come on...”

Sebastian sat completely still, eyes locked, absorbing everything, while Lyla dozed slightly against your arm.

Lap 56-60:

A late Virtual Safety Car nearly ruined everything — a spin from Tsunoda meant Lando had to hold his nerve for a restart with just four laps to go.

“You got this, baby,” you whispered.

Lando held the restart beautifully.

Max tried to pressure him. Leclerc was still lurking. But it wasn’t enough.

You saw it coming — last lap, still leading, gap stable — and your heart rose into your throat.

Final Lap.

“He’s going to do it, he’s going to do it,” you repeated like a prayer, holding Lyla tighter as she shifted awake.

Sebastian stood tall on the couch, arms raised before the car even crossed the line.

Lando Norris takes the win!

The living room erupted.

You scooped Sebastian into your arms, both of you yelling, laughing. Lyla squealed at the noise, bouncing in your grip as you kissed her forehead.

“That’s your dad!” you said, tears pricking your eyes. “That’s our guy!”

Sebastian was fist-pumping, dancing around. “He did it! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD EVERYONE!”

The energy from the win still surged through Lando like electricity.

Champagne soaked his fire suit, the fizzy scent clinging to his skin, and the weight of the first-place trophy still tingled in his fingers. It had been a long, grueling season, but this moment—this victory—made every drop of sweat, every frustrating finish, every near miss worth it.

He had stood on the top step of the podium, the national anthem ringing in his ears, flanked by rivals who, in that moment, were just shadows in his periphery. He’d closed his eyes as the crowd roared, tilting his head back to the sky, arms raised—this one was for them. For you. For Sebastian. For Lyla.

The after-race buzz carried him into the media pen, where bright lights flashed and microphones lined up like waiting mouths.

He knew the drill. Praise, performance, statistics. But this time, it felt different. More personal.

The interviewer greeted him warmly, microphone in hand, and Lando offered her his usual winning grin, wiping a stray drop of champagne from his cheek.

"That race was amazing! You did good out there, congratulations on your win."

“Ah, thank you,” Lando said, voice steady but still glowing with pride. “We’ve been working hard as a team. McLaren has been putting in the effort. I think this is a result we absolutely deserve. We’ve come a long way and I’m proud of all of us.”

"You made some great overtakes, looked pretty smooth on the track out there,” she added.

He chuckled, brushing a hand through his damp curls. “Yeah, I agree. I did enjoy that. Smooth. Confident. Covered in champagne now,” he added playfully, gesturing to the soaked suit.

The interviewer laughed lightly. “So, onto a serious question—what pushed your focus today?”

Lando’s smile softened. “My family back home,” he said without hesitation. “My wife and our kids. Every time I race, I know they’re watching. That matters more than anything else. My son’s probably bouncing off the walls right now, and my daughter... well, she’s probably clapping and not really understanding why,” he laughed gently.

“Speaking of,” the interviewer said, voice shifting slightly, “Lyla has grown a lot, hasn’t she? She’s your first child, correct?”

Lando tilted his head, surprised. “Lyla’s my youngest. Sebastian’s the first,” he corrected with ease.

The interviewer’s expression stiffened slightly, a subtle shift in tone as she pressed forward. “Right, but... Sebastian isn’t biologically yours, is he? That’s been talked about online a lot. It’s everywhere on social media, so we were just wondering if you could confirm it. Are you... a bonus dad, then?”

There was a pause.

The sparkle in Lando’s eyes dimmed instantly. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he simply stared at her. The celebratory atmosphere turned cold.

“Where are you getting your information?” he asked, voice clipped, firm.

She blinked. “It’s all over the internet. Just speculation, and we’ve talked about it before in smaller settings—”

“You’ve talked about it,” Lando interrupted, his tone sharper now. “Without us. Without permission. Without context. That’s not speculation. That’s invasion.”

The camera continued rolling, capturing every twitch of his expression as it darkened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more composed now but pointed. “What part of this interview gives you the right to belittle my son? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

The interviewer seemed to falter, caught off-guard.

“I don’t race for this,” Lando said, voice steady but seething. “I don’t climb into that car, risk my life, give my everything—just to sit here and hear you disrespect a little boy who’s probably wearing my name on his back right now.”

He took a deep breath, visibly trying to steady the anger that surged beneath the surface. “I’ve been in his life since he was three. I’ve tucked him in every night I’m home. I’ve been at his karting races, holding his helmet, tying his shoes, patching his scraped knees. I’ve wiped his tears and celebrated his victories. That is my son. Period.”

The interviewer tried to speak, “I was just—”

“Digging,” Lando cut her off coldly. “You were digging. For drama. For a soundbite. Let me make something clear. Your job is to ask me about this—” he gestured around the paddock, the track, the microphones—“not about my family. Not about my wife. Not about my children.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words, low and calm, cut sharper than anything else could.

“I’m not a ‘bonus dad.’ I’m just his dad,” he continued, emotion cracking just slightly in his voice. “If you can’t understand that, then you’re not qualified to sit behind that microphone. And if any of you out there are scrolling through my wife’s social media trying to create stories out of our life, just know — it ends here. Her account will be private by tonight, and I’ll make damn sure of that.”

Lando stared her down, jaw tight. “I love my family. I protect my family. You don’t get to question that.”

And with that, he pushed the mic gently aside and turned, walking off, his soaked fire suit leaving damp footprints on the concrete. The cameras followed him, the silence of the interviewer deafening behind him.

At home, you had pulled Sebastian into your lap, shielding him from some of the awkward silence, but he had heard enough to understand that his dad had defended him.

Your heart swelled with love. You pressed your lips to Sebastian’s temple.

“He’s the best,” Sebastian whispered, resting his head against your shoulder.

“He really is,” you whispered back, eyes misty.

And as the screen faded to coverage of the next driver interview, the three of you sat there in silence — proud, warm, protected.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was well past midnight when the front door clicked open.

The Monaco flat was dimly lit, the soft hum of the city outside barely reaching through the thick windows. Lando stepped inside quietly, careful not to let the door slam behind him. He stood still for a moment, shoulders heavy with travel and the weight of the last few days, just breathing it all in.

Home.

It smelled like lavender and laundry detergent. Like calm. Like you.

He dropped his bag gently by the wall, toes sinking into the familiar rug. The place was quiet—so quiet it almost made him hesitate. But then—

“Lando?”

Your voice came softly from down the hall, thick with sleep but unmistakable. He turned toward it just in time to see you stepping out from the bedroom, wearing one of his hoodies, your hair messy, eyes puffy from sleep.

“You’re awake?” he asked, surprised but touched.

You didn’t answer right away. You just walked to him, arms wrapping around his torso as your head found his chest. He let out a long breath, holding you tightly, his hand smoothing over your back like he’d been aching to do it for weeks.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whispered. “Not till I knew you were home safe.”

He kissed the top of your head, quietly. “I’m here now.”

You looked up at him after a beat. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked gently, brow furrowing.

You swallowed, stepping back just enough to look into his eyes. “For defending Sebastian... in that interview after the race. I watched it live. I—I cried, Lando. You stood up for him like he was born yours. I think you gave him something that day that words can’t explain. Closure. Pride. Love.”

His face softened. “You don’t need to thank me for loving my own kid.”

You took his hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Come on, sit with me.”

You both moved to the living room, the silence between you filled only with the late-night hum of the world outside. Lando sank into the couch beside you and pulled something out of his backpack—a large envelope.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said, handing it to you. “But during this trip... I finally did it.”

You opened the envelope slowly. Your breath caught when you saw the words printed at the top of the first page.

Petition for Adoption.

Your hand flew to your mouth as your eyes began to water. “Lando…”

“I want to adopt Sebastian,” he said firmly. “Not just emotionally. Not just in practice. I want him to know, for the rest of his life, that he’s mine. In every way. I want him to carry my name proudly, not just because it’s what he’s always known—but because I chose him. Because he’s my son.”

You blinked through your tears, heart aching in the most beautiful way.

“He is your son,” you whispered. “He always has been, but... yes. Yes, of course you can adopt him. His biological father gave up any rights years ago. This... it’ll just make it official.”

Lando smiled, relief and love rushing over his face like a wave.

“I want him to see his name on paper and know that he was never second choice. That I was never filling a space. That I am his dad.”

You reached for him, pulling him into another hug, both of you holding onto each other tightly.

“He’s going to love this,” you murmured against his shoulder. “He’ll be so proud.”

After a moment, he kissed the top of your head and leaned back, looking toward the dark hallway.

“Where are they?”

“In our bed,” you said with a sleepy laugh. “They didn’t know you’d be home tonight, so they both passed out in your spot.”

Lando chuckled quietly. “Of course they did. I should’ve guessed.”

He stood and stretched, running a hand through his messy curls, then glanced back at you with a tired but happy smile.

“I’ll crawl in beside them. I missed that.”

You nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll put the papers somewhere safe.”

As he disappeared down the hallway toward your shared bedroom, you lingered on the couch a little longer, fingers brushing over the envelope in your lap. The adoption papers felt like more than just forms. They were proof of love, of choice, of a bond deeper than blood.

Lando Norris wasn’t just a driver. He wasn’t just a husband.

He was a father—one who had chosen your son with his whole heart.

And soon, the world would know it, too.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was a bright, golden Saturday morning, the kind where the sun felt warmer just from the happiness in the air. The buzz of excitement surrounded the karting track as parents gathered along the fences, kids zipped around in anticipation, and the low hum of engines created a constant vibration in the atmosphere.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, gently rocking Lyla in your arms. Her little fists clung to your hoodie, her face buried against your neck as the loudness of the event overwhelmed her small, sensitive self. Her curls tickled your cheek as she whimpered softly, the noise too much, the people too many.

“I know, baby girl,” you murmured, swaying gently with her. “You’re okay. Mama’s got you. We’re just watching your big brother, and I promise you’re safe. Deep breaths, just like we practiced.”

You could feel her breathing start to match yours, still uneven, but getting there.

Not far away, Lando crouched in front of Sebastian, who stood in his racing boots, looking up at his stepdad with wide, focused eyes. Lando held out the fresh, custom McLaren-orange-and-black racing suit with his name stitched across the chest: Sebastian Norris.

“Here, champ. Get this on,” Lando said with a grin, his eyes gleaming with pride.

Sebastian’s smile was immediate—half excitement, half nerves—as he slipped into the suit with Lando’s help. Lando zipped it up and adjusted the collar, smoothing out the sleeves like he was dressing him for battle.

“Remember,” Lando began, placing a hand over Sebastian’s shoulder, “you’ve got this. You’re fast, you’re smart, and you’re brave. Everything I taught you in practice—that was just guidance. But today? This is your race. It’s your hands on the wheel. You own every second out there. Be proud of yourself no matter what.”

You stepped closer, giving Sebastian a warm smile. “And remember something else too, baby. Even if you don’t come first, we’re always proud of you. You’re our superstar no matter what place you get, okay?”

Sebastian, eyes big with emotion, suddenly launched himself forward and wrapped his arms around both of you, burying his face between you and Lando. It was tight and fast and full of love.

“Love you both,” he said into the hug.

“We love you more,” you both echoed at the same time, grinning.

Just then, a familiar voice called out beside you. “Am I missing anything?”

You turned to see Oscar Piastri, sunglasses pushed into his curls and a grin on his face. He was holding a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, like he’d rushed to get there just in time.

“You showed up at the right moment,” you said, nodding toward the track. “Taking the uncle role seriously?”

Oscar glanced at Lyla, who peeked up at him briefly before hiding again. “Trying,” he said, a little awkwardly, patting her gently on the back like he wasn’t quite sure how to comfort a toddler.

You chuckled. “She’ll warm up to you. She’s got anxiety, so she’s on edge right now, but... just wait. She’s going to adore you. You’re already one of her favorite people—we just haven’t told her yet.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow playfully. “Guess I better live up to it.”

Meanwhile, Sebastian climbed into his kart with Lando by his side. The helmet went on. Visor down. Gloves tightened. It was the kind of moment that made your heart swell—watching a boy take after the man who raised him, inspired by him.

Lando leaned in for one last word, tapping Sebastian’s helmet twice. “Have fun out there, alright? Do it for yourself.”

Then the engines roared.

The race began.

You, Lando, and Oscar stood at the rail, eyes locked on the track. The karts whizzed by, and you could barely keep up with how fast they were moving. Sebastian got a decent start but was caught behind a few karts early on, stuck in the middle pack. Lando’s hands clenched the fence, but his voice remained calm.

“You’re okay, son! You’ve got time. Stay smart, find your line,” he called out.

Sebastian, laser-focused, didn’t respond, but you knew he heard him. You could tell by the way he adjusted his line and began picking up pace. Lap after lap, he pushed harder, smoothly maneuvering the corners and creeping up on the front two.

“He’s holding steady,” Oscar muttered. “Smart kid.”

On the final lap, everything changed.

Sebastian saw the opening at the hairpin—a risky move, the kind Lando had pulled once years ago in Formula 1. With confidence far beyond his years, Sebastian went for it, cutting in sharply and overtaking both drivers with stunning precision. The crowd erupted.

You screamed. “THAT’S MY BABY!”

Lando pumped his fists into the air, grabbing Lyla out of your arms and lifting her up with joy.

“HE DID IT! That’s my boy!” Lando laughed, peppering kisses all over Lyla’s cheek as she giggled, her anxiety forgotten for a moment. “Your brother did it, little bug! This means we’re gonna celebrate!”

You felt your throat tighten with pride as the announcer echoed the final call over the speakers:

“Sebastian Norris takes the win! What an incredible overtake! What a finish!”

Sebastian pulled into the finish area, lifting his helmet off to reveal a glowing, flushed face and the biggest grin you’d ever seen. His eyes searched the crowd—he wasn’t looking for the trophy.

He was looking for his family.

And you were already running.

The day had been filled with celebration—post-race chatter with other parents, Sebastian glowing under the praise, Lyla surprisingly soothed by the familiar warmth of family even in the crowd. You all went out for lunch, somewhere simple and kid-friendly, where Sebastian insisted on ordering the “victory pancakes” and got whipped cream on his nose. Lando let him wear his medal around his neck the entire time.

Now, hours later, the sun hanging gently above the Monaco skyline, the flat was filled with a peace that only came after a day well-spent.

You sat curled up on the couch with Lando, your legs across his lap and his fingers lazily tracing circles on your ankle. The golden glow from the windows bathed the room in light, and across from you, in the display case that Lando had meticulously organized, sat Sebastian’s first-ever karting trophy. It gleamed under the soft light—placed proudly in the center, as if it belonged in a museum.

“We did it,” Lando said softly, breaking the silence with a small, awed chuckle. “He won.”

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder, watching the way his eyes lingered on the trophy with that soft fatherly pride that never got old. “He did. And he earned it. You both did.”

Lando looked at you with a grin, then glanced toward the hallway. “He’s been jumping on his bed for the past ten minutes, I swear.”

“He’s seven,” you laughed. “He might still be jumping when he’s seventeen.”

“Honestly, he’s got something special,” Lando said. “Just at seven... imagine what kind of skill he’ll have when he’s older. He’s going to be unstoppable.”

Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt. “I believe it. And Lyla… well, hopefully she picks something a little less... tire-screeching. Maybe something quiet. Like painting or reading books.”

Lando laughed. “Please. I am begging the universe for that.”

“She’s only two and already doesn’t like loud noises,” you reminded him, nodding toward her room where soft music was playing and little clinks of plastic toys could be heard as she played peacefully. “Let’s pray it sticks.”

Lando’s arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You still haven’t rewarded me,” he teased, voice low and cheeky.

You raised a brow with a smirk. “Rewarded you for what?”

He grinned. “For raising a champion, obviously. For all my hard work. The late nights. The endless pep talks. The helmet adjusting.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, pretending to consider. “So... what are you asking for exactly?”

His eyebrows wiggled, and you knew exactly where this was going. “Well,” he said, leaning in. “The kids will be asleep tonight... it’ll just be me and you... in our bed...”

You snorted, swatting his chest. “Lando!”

“I’m just saying!” he laughed. “It’s the perfect time to discuss a possible baby number three... maybe even a name list.”

You pulled back, eyes wide and playful. “We are not having another baby, Lando.”

He gasped in mock betrayal. “Mrs. Norris, how dare you deny your devoted husband more offspring!”

You burst out laughing. “You are being needy.”

“And you,” he leaned in to kiss you, “are being difficult.”

Just as you kissed him back, the sweet moment was interrupted by a voice yelling from down the hall: “MOM! DAD! Come look! I made a racetrack out of my LEGOs!”

You looked at Lando, who just gave a breathless chuckle, resting his forehead against yours. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

“Because I’m just... happy,” he said, voice soft. “He’s a Norris now. Really a Norris. Legally. Officially. My boy.”

Your heart swelled at the way his voice cracked ever so slightly at the word my. You reached up to kiss him again, fingers brushing his cheek.

“He always was,” you whispered. “Even before the papers. But now... it’s forever.”

Lando’s lips curved into a proud smile. “Yeah. Forever.”

Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he leaned back and added, “And baby three will be too—”

You grabbed the nearest couch pillow and chucked it at him, hitting him square in the chest.

“Your baby fever is at an all-time high,” you warned, grinning as he laughed and threw his hands up.

“Get it fixed, Norris.”

“Can’t help it!” he said, holding the pillow like a prize. “You made this life too good.”

And somewhere down the hall, a little boy was yelling about tires and turns, a little girl was humming with her toys, and in that living room—surrounded by trophies, laughter, and the soft kind of love that lasts—Lando Norris sat beside his forever family, more proud than he ever imagined he could be.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @aunslie @fastandcurious16

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 fluff #formula 1 fanfic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #f1 dad au #f1 as dads #dad! lando norris #one shot fanfic #formula 1 x reader

2K notes · View notes