angelsueeeeeee

[angelsueeeeeee]

they’re so infuriating but I GET IT, breakups are hard and trying to detach yourself is even harder

i can do it with a broken heart — mv33 (part 2)

when max breaks up with you, you’re left heartbroken and confused. you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with him and your world is turned upside down. even more so, when his new relationship emerges. but you're determined to carry on and you're still perfectly capable of doing your job, even with a broken heart. (40.3k in total, 19.3k in this part)

max x red bull strategist! reader

warnings/contents: please PLEASE read these carefully because there is a lot (these cover both parts)! swearing, suggestive content, mentions/references to struggles with eating, panic and anxiety attacks, mentions of the aftermath of a car accident, fainting incident, hospital visits, drinking and alcohol, there is a drink spiking incident, max and kelly’s relationship is a major focus but hate of any sort will be deleted and blocked (for plot purposes they only start dating in 2024), family dynamics mentioned, use of YN but only in texts and social media posts, some old ig handles lol

a/n: well, here is part 2! thank you for the love on the first part, i am blown away by all. i didn't expect anywhere near this amount of interest in it and im truly grateful! if you're interested in this silly little universe, i have a whole, entire alternate ending and many (many) more scenes!! i hope you enjoy this and come yap to me about it!!

You’re riffling through some papers, humming under your breath when someone clears their throat behind you. 

“Happy birthday.” A quiet voice speaks from behind you and you spin around to see Max standing there, several wrapped parcels and a bag in his hand. He offers them to you with a small smile and you accept them before stepping into his waiting hug.

“Thank you, Max. You didn’t have to get me anything though.” 

“Of course I did. Don’t be silly.”

“Thank you. That’s really kind of you.”

“Are you going to open them?” He says with a smile on his face as you just stare at the small pile that you’ve now placed on the desk.

“Oh. Yeah. Um, of course.” You take a seat and carefully take the first one from the pile, sliding your finger under the tape that holds it together.

“I forgot what you’re like opening presents.” 

“You’re just impatient because you like to see people’s reactions,” You counter back and he lets out a quiet laugh but doesn’t respond otherwise. Your breath catches when you open the first one and you stare at it for a few moments before looking up at him. “Max… I -”

“I’ve been searching for it for a while and when I finally found it… Was just waiting for a chance to give it to you.”

“Max, I can’t accept this.” You’re back to staring at the book that lies in your lap. A very rare first edition of your favourite book to be exact. You're almost afraid to touch it, one hand hovering over it before it drops back to his side.

“You can and you will. You know that… the money isn’t an issue. It’s your favourite book. It’ll be so much better in your hands than with some collector who just wants it for show,” His voice is stern but when you glance back up at him, he’s staring at you with a soft expression on his face. “Now go on, there’s more to open.”

“Thank you, this means… So much to me,” You breathe quietly as you move on to opening another parcel in the same precision as the others, a movement that has him fake sighing in annoyance. “Journals?”

“Noticed you were down to your last few pages of your current ones.” He grins, tilting his head to the journals that lie on the desk in front of you, which are indeed almost running out of space. 

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful of you,” You smile, before your gaze lands on one more neatly wrapped present. It’s small and square and when you peel back the wrapping paper to reveal a navy jewellery box, you pause. Your movements are slow and hesitant as you open it to see a fine silver chain, with two dainty charms hanging off of it. One has the initial of your first name stamped on it and the other is a small charm of your birthstone. “Max…”

“I remembered you broke and lost your favourite necklace at a race earlier this year. I noticed you haven’t been wearing one since… This just felt very you - something small and subtle and you know, you can fiddle with the charms.” He gives you a half-shrug, playing it off but it means so much more than that and both of you know it.

“Thank you. For everything. Max, it’s really… It’s really sweet of you. I love everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Max says softly, giving you a smile when you catch his gaze. “You deserve all of it and more.”

“Thank you.” You repeat quietly as you unclasp the necklace and place it around your neck. His hands twitch as if he wants to help, but he remains still otherwise. You’re not sure what to say, the fact he’s noticed the lack of a necklace and went to the effort to find you a replacement that he knew you would love, is causing all the gears to turn. But you’re saved from having to find the words when someone else approaches. 

“Hi, happy birthday.” Kelly smiles at you and gives you a gentle hug that you return. 

“Thank you.” 

“Will you do much?” 

“Um, probably not. Got a lot of work to do being a race weekend. But it’s okay, surrounded by enough friends here.” You give a small shrug, trying not to think about how Max would always organise something small, despite it being a race weekend. 

“Well, maybe we can all get dinner or something small. Oh, and P has a surprise for you.” She grins as her daughter runs up, waving at you as she hovers by Kelly’s legs.

“Happy birthday! I have a present for you!” Penelope beams up at you and you bend down to her height, her arms immediately wrapping around your neck. Her hands then reach for her bag that Kelly is holding, unzipping it excitedly. 

“Thanks P. You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Yes, I did. Mummy and I picked it out together. You have to get presents on your birthday.” She frowns at you, as if you could ever think differently. The little girl reaches into her bag before handing you a handmade card, piled with glitter that leaves a trail in its wake and a present wrapped in unicorn wrapping paper. 

“Wow, did you make this yourself?” 

“Yes! I used lots of glitter and Max said your favourite colour is blue so I made sure to use lots of blue!”

“Oh, thanks P. That’s so sweet of you,” You look down at the card in your hands that is indeed covered in blue glitter. You open it to find drawings all over it, along with the words happy birthday in big bubble lettering. Tears prick at your eyes at the kindness and genuine sincerity behind the little girl’s thoughts and you wrap her in another quick hug. “Do you want me to open the present now?”

“Yes!” She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet grinning at you, her eyes watching you as you carefully undo the wrapping paper to reveal a pale blue Jellycat bunny staring back at you. “I really like bunnies and Max said you do too!”

“I love him, P. Thank you so much,” You stare down at the bunny, your heart constricting at the thought behind her present. “What do you think I should name him?”

“Hmmm, Harry!” 

“Yeah? I like that name.”

“Me too! And now you can bring him with you when you travel! And our bunnies can be friends!”

“He will be my travel buddy.” You smile down at her and she beams back at you before she continues to chatter excitedly to you, hand tugging at yours.

—&.&—

MV: happy birthday again. i hope you have a wonderful day, you deserve the world x

YN: thank you max x

YN: thank you for the presents again. they all mean so much and it was very thoughtful of you xx

MV: anytime xx

—&.&—

VV: just checking we are still on lunch today? cant wait to see you! Xx

YN: yes of course! wouldnt miss it for the world xx

VV: kiddos are so excited xx

YN: and me x

—&.&—

“Hi lovely.” Victoria wraps you in a tight hug and you return it, relaxing into her for a few seconds.

“Hey Vic,” You smile at her before small bodies barrel into you and you’re surrounded by a babble of noise. You pull back from her hug to kneel on the ground and accept the hugs from her children. “Hi guys.”

“We missed you!” 

“I missed you guys too.” A laugh escapes you as you do your best to wrap your arms around all three of them. Once you manage to untangle yourself, you exchange a hug with Victoria with Luka and Lio both stubbornly clinging to a leg each.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” She whispers quietly into your ear and gives you one last squeeze before letting go. “Boys, come on now. How is she going to sit down and talk to you if you’re doing that?”

They immediately let go but latch onto your hands instead, dragging you back to the table and sitting down next to you. Despite their protests and frowns, they let their sister sit on your lap and Hailey snuggles into you.

“We missed you so much. We don’t get to see you anymore. Ever.” Luka frowns unhappily and Lio chimes in, nodding his head furiously. The look on their faces is so like Max’s that it makes your heart clench.

“I know, I’m sorry. I miss you guys too.” You say softly, giving them a soft smile.

“We used to see you all the time. Now we never get to see you. Why don’t you come with Max anymore?” 

“Boys, we talked about this, remember?” Victoria starts, shooting you an apologetic look and she places a gentle hand on Luka’s shoulder. You shake your head at her, telling her it’s fine with the best attempt at a smile you can muster.

“Max and I aren’t together anymore. But that doesn’t mean we still can’t be friends.”

“But what if you forget about us now that you’re not with Max?”

“Oh, I’m not going to forget about you guys. Ever.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.” You hold out your pinky and the two of them both grab onto it shaking your hands up and down. Hailey just snuggles closer to you, grip tightening. 

“Now, come on, you said you had lots to tell her about school and everything.” Victoria nudges the two of them gently and they both launch into detailed explanations of everything that’s happened in their lives. You sit and listen patiently, reacting appropriately at all the right times. At one point, Victoria catches your gaze and she offers you a soft smile which you return. But inside your heart is hurting - it was just another reminder that your breakup with Max had meant you lost more than just him.

—&.&—

“Schatje! It’s so wonderful to see you,” Sophie wraps you in a tight hug before pulling back and putting both hands on your cheeks. “How are you? Have you been sleeping enough? Eating enough?”

“It’s so nice to see you too.” You smile at her softly, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. Sophie had been like a second mother to you during your and Max’s relationship and you had spent a lot of time together. You loved your parents, but sometimes it felt like you were a stranger in what was meant to be your home. Both your parents had brought new houses, remarried, and you now had four younger siblings. Your childhood home had long been sold and you hadn’t lived with either parent since you left for university. Nothing had truly felt like home until you had met Max.

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” She gives you a gentle look, wrapping one arm around you as she leads you to sit down a few feet away. She doesn’t remove her arm when you sit down, only moving to give you a tissue before grabbing one of your hands with her free one.

“Nothing, nothing, just being silly. It’s just really nice to see you. It’s been a while.” You admit quietly, wiping your eyes.

“You know you’re still welcome to come over anytime you want, yes?” Sophie says gently, squeezing your hand tightly. “You’re still a part of this family, you always will be.”

“That’s very kind of you, but it's different now and I know that.” You whisper, blinking away more tears and Sophie lets out a quiet sigh, tightening her arms around you.

“Yes, it is different now. But you are always welcome. Always. Don’t you ever think differently. Now, you have some time between Monza and Baku, yes? Why don’t you come for a visit? Or after Singapore.” 

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“You wouldn’t be a bother. It would be wonderful to have you around again. We will organise it later.”

“Okay, that sounds lovely.” You give her a smile, leaning into her hug. You’ve missed her almost as much as you’ve missed Max.

Meanwhile, from the other side of the floor, Max is watching you interact with his mother with mixed emotions. He loves that you still get along, he knows how much his family adores you. Even his father had approved. But watching you two was bittersweet. He knew that your breakup had affected more than just the two of you. His mother had been upset and confused, not seeing where this had come from, but ultimately accepted his decision, knowing it was his choice to make. But he knew you two still talked, that she continuously checked up on you, that she still saw you as another daughter. Victoria had gone another route, yelling at him about how stupid he was, that you don’t break up with someone when you still loved them because you think you’re protecting them. She had then refused to talk to him for three days before sending a strongly worded text telling him that she would still be in constant contact with you and that she didn’t care what he thought.

He sees your tears and his mother comforting you and something is tugging at his heart. He had loved, still love, how well you had fitted into his family. His mother had welcomed you instantly, fussing over you from the moment he had brought you home, checking in on you more than she checked in on him. He knows how much they all adore you and how much you return that love, and watching you was just a reminder of what he had done to fracture that.

—&.&—

You watch the scene in front of you with your heart racing. Luka, Lio, and Hailey are running around, giggles coming from their mouths with Penelope hot on their heels. Victoria is watching them closely, gently scolding them when they veer into the path of others. She’s chatting to Max and Kelly, smiles and laughter passing between them, but you’re watching the scene with a churning in your stomach that makes you feel like you’re about to be sick all over the floor of the Red Bull garage.

You feel as though you’re frozen into place, eyes glued on the scene that’s unfolding in front of you. The tightening in your chest only grows when you see P run up to Max, wrapping her arms around his legs, and he leans down to pick her up with a laugh. She leans over, playing with his cap before leaning to wrap her arms around his neck and Kelly looks over with a fond smile, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head. Their hands link together and a gentle, loving look passes between them. You can feel the tears building, the tightness that seems to be constricting your entire chest growing with each passing moment.

All that is going through your head is the conversations you and Max used to have about starting a family. Never in the near future, but one day. Eventually. To have a family full of love. But those talks are conversations of the past and seeing him with someone new, with a family hurts more than you ever thought it could. You clench your clammy hands together, nails digging into your palms, and you turn to go but not before Max spots you. For a few seconds, you two stare at each other before you spin on your heel and flee. 

You don’t stop or turn around to see Max set Penelope down gently and murmur in Kelly’s ear before chasing after you. You’re too focused on making your way through the garage and not letting your tears fall. Hannah calls out your name, concern woven in her tone but you ignore her, intent on making it outside where you can hopefully catch a breath. You ignore Max, who you can hear getting closer, your name falling repeatedly from his lips.

“Hey, stop, please, just -” Max lets out a grunt when you skid to a sudden stop, crashing into your back and he swears under his breath as his hands land on your hips to steady you. The touch only makes everything worse, reminds you of what you’ve lost, and you stumble away from him, backing up a few steps to maintain the distance between you. 

You feel a stab of guilt when you see the hurt on his face but it fades to the back of your mind when the image of him, Kelly, and P flashes through your mind like it’s replaying on a loop. The suffocating feeling rises in your chest and you struggle to get the breaths in.

“Hey -”

“Max, I’m really happy for you that you’ve found love again and that you’re happy. But right now, I really, really can’t do this.” You choke out, furiously blinking back tears and you see the heartbreak and conflict on his face. 

“I’m more sorry than you will ever know - “

“You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault,” You shake your head, the tears slipping down your cheeks as you try to reassure him. Because you see how distraught he is and you want to make it better. Because at the end of the day you are still hopelessly in love with him and you don’t want to see him in pain. “You deserve the purest and kindest type of love.”

“So do you.”

“Please, Max, please, don’t do this right now. I… I am happy for you, I am and I will never want to deny you happiness because of me. But today is just… Today I just can’t, okay? So, please, just… please just don’t.”

“At least just let me help get you settled somewhere. You’re panicking -”

“I’m fine, I’m just going to go and - “

“Hey guys, everything alright?” A new voice cuts in and you both turn to see George walking up to both of you. Concern floods his face when he notices the obvious tension between the two of you and the tears on your face paired with the heartbroken look on Max’s face.  

“Yeah, hey George. We’re good.” You try to force a shaky smile but you know he doesn’t buy it for a moment when he places a gentle hand on your shoulder and guides you to sit down on the nearest bench. Max follows, hovering to the side as he watches you two. He wishes he could help, he knows exactly what to do when you’re like this and how to get you to calm down, but he also knows that having him help now is just going to make things worse.

“Just take a breath for me, okay?” George murmurs quietly, one hand wrapping around yours and squeezing gently. “Just a big one, yeah? Focus on me.”

“Okay.”

“Can you do something for me? Can you tell me three things you see?” He prompts you gently and you know what he’s trying to do. The grounding technique is nothing new to you and something you’ve done countless times. 

“I can… I see you, and Max, and I can see some of the grandstands.”

“Okay, that’s great. And what about three things you can hear?”

“You, I hear you. I can hear someone’s car engine going and I can hear them testing the mic.”

“That’s perfect. Then we’re just going to move three body parts, yeah?” You nod, and wiggle your hands, along with your feet before rolling your neck, feeling some of the tension ease. George is still staring at you with a gentle smile on his face, hand holding yours as his thumb moves in small circles on the top of your hand. “Hey, that’s great. Did that help?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks George.” You offer him a shaky smile and rise from the bench, his hand falling from yours as you do so. You glance to his side to where Max is still standing, gaze intently focused on you. He offers you a gentle smile when he catches your gaze, but you see the underlying sadness and conflict behind his eyes.

“That’s alright, anytime. Look, do you want to take a walk? I think it would help,” George says quietly, gaze flickering between the two of you. “If you want to go back to the garage, or your room, that’s okay too.” 

“You should go for a walk. The fresh air will help.” Max cuts in, shuffling closer before giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Text me if you need.”

“I… um, yeah, that’d be nice. I…” You look between the two men before settling on Max. “I’ll, um, I’ll find you later?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, offering you a small smile before nodding at George. “Thanks mate. See you later.” “See you.” George nods, slapping hands with Max before you fall into step as you walk down the path. “So, are you alright?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“Probably not, sorry.” A quiet chuckle leaves his lips and he nudges me gently with his shoulder when I follow suit. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to but if you think it’ll help I’m more than happy to listen.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t be bothering me. I offered and I’m here to listen if that’s what you need.”

“I just… seeing Max and Kelly with P, it hurts more than I thought it would and then seeing them interact with his nieces and nephews and Victoria. It just… hurt. And I know it sounds silly when it’s been like a year and a half and I’m still not over him. But I spent the last four years of my life building something and now it’s just gone. I’m happy for him, I am. He deserves to have this love and family. Some days it’s fine, and it barely registers and other days I just don’t know how to deal with it and it hurts so much.”

“You don’t get over a relationship like that so easily. It’s okay to still be hurt. It took me a while to be okay after Carmen and I broke up and I didn’t have to see her every day.”

“Yeah, that was… Certainly didn’t make things easier.” 

“I really am sorry. I know it’s been difficult.”

“S’okay, its the way it is, isn’t it?” You give him a small shrug and your best attempt at a smile before looking away from him again, watching your feet as you walk along the path. “So, tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Well…” And so George prattles on about everything he got up to during his break and tells you corny jokes, taking out his phone to show you photos of the new dog one of his friends has just adopted, knowing how much you adore them. You know he’s trying to distract you and for that you’re grateful. The thoughts and images from earlier still linger, but by the third lap you’ve taken around the paddock, you’re feeling a little lighter and you find yourself laughing alongside him. 

Sometimes, you’re not sure you’ll ever be okay and it hurts so much you can’t breathe. Other times, you feel like it could get better, you feel a little lighter. Times like right now. 

—&.&—

September 2024

Max is finally done with pre-practice interviews and is making his way back to the Red Bull area, eager to get out of the Singapore humidity, when he senses something is wrong. There’s an eerie silence whenever he walks past people and looks of concern follow him.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone looking at me like that?” He demands the moment he steps into the Red Bull garage. Team members look at him and he searches for someone he knows will give him the answer. But when he fails to spot you within the team, the gnawing feeling intensifies. You’re always there. You always have been. Even after your breakup, he knew you’d always be able to find you in the garage. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Max.” Hannah emerges and steps in front of him, and he sees the worry on her face. Worry he knows isn’t directed at him.

“Hannah, what’s going on? I know something is wrong.” He demands quietly, trying to search her face for any sign of what’s happened since he’s been gone.

“Listen, Max, it’s nothing major, but she fainted,” Hannah says softly, her voice gentle and she reaches a hand to rest on his arm. There’s no question about who she’s referring to. There’s only one person Max has ever been this anxious about, this concerned about. “She’s okay, they’ve taken her to the hospital just to make sure. But she was awake and conscious.”

“Nothing major?! What the hell happened?”

“We’re not sure yet, she was looking a little unwell during the morning, but she said it was just the heat and the humidity.”

“And you let her stay?!”

“Max, you know as well as I do that she’s stubborn beyond belief. She said she was fine, just struggling with the heat a little. No-one could have convinced her to leave.” 

“Why can’t she just let someone take care of her for once in her goddamn life?” Max mutters under his breath, frustration lacing his tone. 

“You know how she is.” Hannah tries to lighten the mood, nudging him gently and he tries to smile but the worry is consuming him. You’ve fainted a couple of times before and each time it has terrified him. 

“Did she go alone?” 

“Um, no, Kelly went with her…”

“Wait, sorry, what?”

��She was adamant she didn’t want to take anyone away from their work, that it was bad enough that she had to leave. So Kelly offered. Her and P went.”

“She’s so fucking stubborn.” Max grumbles quietly and Hannah lets out a quiet laugh.

“That she is. It makes her who she is though. She wouldn’t be half as good at her job if she wasn’t like that.”

“She’s so… God. Drives me absolutely insane sometimes.” 

“That she does,” Hannah gives him a soft smile before handing him his keys. “Go. We can debrief later.”

“Thanks Hannah.” He throws a grateful smile over his shoulder as he all but sprints towards his car. All he can think about is the last time you were in this scenario - the car accident you had in Monaco, and he’s terrified of what he’ll find. 

When he finally finds a park after twenty minutes of driving in circles, he has to then queue in what feels like a never-ending line to find out what room you’re in. He’s off with a quick thank you to the receptionist as he strides down the hallways until he’s found the room he’s looking for.

“Are you okay?!” Max storms into the room as a whirlwind of red and blue gear, stopping short when he sees the sight in front of him. You’re sitting up in bed, looking pale but there’s a smile on your face as Penelope talks animatedly to you. Kelly is sitting in the corner, a fond smile on her face as she watches her daughter with you. Max walks up to her first, giving her a quick hand squeeze before he nears you.

“Mashy!” P beams up at him, reaching her arms up for a hug and he indulges her, wrapping the little girl in a hug.

“Hey P, how are you?”

“Good! We’re talking about what kind of unicorn we’d want and dancing! Did you know she used to do ballet when she was younger?” P beams at you and you give the younger girl a smile back, shifting over when she crawls over to sit next to you, gently playing with the bracelet you have on.

“I did. Has she shown you the photos of her as a bunny?”

“No.” Her eyes widen and she turns to you with a pleading look. “Can I see? Please?”

“Of course, they’re in this album.” You reach for your phone and swipe to the correct album before handing it to the little girl. Kelly stands up from her chair and walks up, reaching to pick her daughter up.

“How about we go outside and look at them, and let Max talk to her?”

“But I want to stay. Please?” 

“I’ll be back in the garage soon anyway and we can play when I’m done with work.” You smile at her and she thinks on it before nodding, a smile on her face. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She links her pinky with yours before letting Kelly pick her up.

“We’ll just be outside.” She smiles at the both of you before disappearing and closing the door gently behind her.

“Are you okay?!” The urgency and concern is back in Max’s tone and he takes a seat on the bed. His hand moves as if to grab yours but he thinks better of it and it drops beside him limply.

“I’m fine,” You insist, but your voice is slightly shaky and the smile slips. And he knows it’s a front you’ve put on for P because you don’t want to scare her.

“You fainted in the middle of the garage and had to be taken to hospital.”

“I didn’t have to be taken to hospital. They just wanted to make sure.”

“Stop. What happened?”

“I don’t know, just the heat I think and I didn’t hydrate enough and yeah.” You trail off and look down at the bedsheets, fiddling with the hospital wrist strap. Max takes the opportunity to survey you and something in his heart twists when he notices the dark circles under your eyes, general dullness on your face, and he cant help but stare the hospital tag around your wrist.

“You can talk to me. You know that right? Are you sleeping okay? Eating okay? I know how you get when you’re stressed.”

“It’s not really your job to care about me anymore, is it?” You offer him a small smile, sadness in your eyes.

“I’ll always care about you. Just because we’re not dating anymore doesn’t mean I care any less.”

“I’m fine. I’m just stressed. Obviously they’re just pushing us and there’s just a lot to do.” You avoid responding directly to his comment and look away from him, choosing to cast your gaze to the cover across your lap.

“You’d tell me, right? If things weren’t okay, if you weren’t doing well. You’d tell me and you’d let me help?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not answering the question.”

“Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to,” You shrug, giving him a sad smile. “I’m… I can’t come running to you for everything anymore.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Max, I can’t. It’s not fair to you. I can’t ask that of you.”

”You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

”We’re not together anymore and you’re in a new relationship now. I can’t keep coming to you for everything.”

”I’ll always care about you. I’ll always be there for you.”

“I know. Thank you. I appreciate it… I… Look, you should go. You’ve got to get ready to drive tomorrow.” You mumble softly, looking up at him. “Thank you for coming and making sure I’m okay.”

“I’d always come for you.”

“Max…” 

“I mean it. You could call me, anywhere, anytime, and I’d come for you.”

“I… Okay. Thank you. Could you ask Kelly and P to come in here? I just want to say thank you and bye.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Max’s eyes flicker over you one last time before he heads for the door, poking his head around it as he speaks quietly. He’s followed back in by Kelly and Penelope.

“Hi, I just wanted to say thank you for accompanying me here, it was really kind of you.” You give Kelly a smile and she returns it.

“That’s alright. It wouldn’t have been very nice for you to be here alone. And P wouldn’t have let her new best friend go by herself.” She looks down at her daughter, who peeks her head out from behind Kelly’s leg to beam at you. 

“I’ve been to the hospital before but mummy came with me. You were by yourself, so we had to come with you right?” She clambers into the bed, looking backward at Kelly.

“Yeah P. Just because you’re a big girl, doesn’t mean you don’t want someone with you,” She places a gentle hand on P’s back, smiling down at her. “Now, we should go and let her rest, okay?”

“You’re going to stay here?” Her eyes widen and she looks from you, to Max, to Kelly.

“The doctors just want to make sure I’m okay. I’ll be back soon.” You try to reassure the little girl but she doesn’t look convinced, a frown settling on her face.

“But you’ll be by yourself.”

“That’s okay, it won’t be for long.”

“I know, here! Bunny can stay with you since you don’t have yours with you.” She digs into her backpack before pulling out a beige bunny rabbit and placing it next to you.

“Oh P, that’s very sweet, but you don’t have to do that. Won’t you miss him?”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. That way you don’t have to be alone.” And the smile she gives you makes you want to burst into tears. Because you adore the little girl and she never fails to put a smile on your face.

“Thank you, I promise to take good care of him.” 

“I know you will.” She smiles at you before wrapping her arms around your neck, hugging you tightly. “Will I see you soon?”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“Alright, come on then P. Let’s let Max say goodbye, okay?” Kelly reaches out a hand that she latches onto before Kelly gives you a wave and they exit, the door shutting quietly behind them.

“She adores you.” Max says softly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, fingers fiddling with the ears of the bunny P had left behind. 

“She’s very sweet.”

“You’ve always been good with kids. They always love you, no matter what. Vic’s kids adore you to pieces.” His voice is quiet, so quiet that it almost seems as though he’s talking to himself.

“I love them too..” 

“Yeah, I know you do. Um, you should rest, I’ll leave and let you get some sleep. You need it,” He stands up, walking over to you and he hesitates before leaning over and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Rest, okay? I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you for coming.” You whisper, letting your eyes flutter close for a moment before opening them to see him staring back at you. 

“Always.” He offers you one last smile before turning around and walking out the door. And all you can do is watch him go with a heavy heart.

—&.&—

“What on earth are you doing here?” You look up from your laptop to see Max standing in front of you, arms crossed, and a frown on his face. A soft sigh escapes your lips and you close the laptop lid halfway down.

“Working.”

“Working? You were literally in the hospital yesterday!”

“They released me.” 

“That doesn’t mean you should come straight back to work -”

“Yeah, it does. I have a job to do. And may I remind you, that job is to help you win?”

“No win is worth your health and your well-being.” You give him a soft smile at his words, his concern and care shining through.

“I’m okay.”

“When did you even get back?”

“They released me a couple of hours after you left.”

”How did you get back?”

“I just took a cab.”

“You took a cab? That late at night? Back from the hospital that you had to go to because you fainted? Are you out of your mind?” Max looks furious, staring at you so intently you find yourself looking away from his gaze.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?! Of course it’s a big deal! Why didn’t you call?”

“Because you had to rest, you’re getting in the car today. You don’t need distractions.” You say softly

“You will never be a distraction. Never do that again, please. It’s not worth the risk.”

“It honestly wasn’t that big of a deal. The hospital said I was fine to go and it was like a fifteen minute Uber ride.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Max… please, just… I appreciate it, I do. But I’m not your problem anymore or your responsibility. I can’t call you every single time I need or want something.”

“You’re not a problem that someone has to take care of. Don’t you dare think that. Ever.”

“Look, I’m fine, nothing happened. Can we drop it? Please?” You watch as he fixates you with a frustrated expression, unintelligible muttering under his breath.

“Fine. But only because you’re not going to let this go. And only if you promise to let me know if anything feels off.”

“Promise. Now, go get ready or I’ll set GP on you.” He’s relieved to see a grin on your face, a flicker of playfulness in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a long time.

“You wouldn’t.” 

“I would and you know it and that he’ll listen to me.”

“Yeah, well you were always his favourite,” Max says softly, smiling when you grin up at him. “Alright. I’ll see you later, yeah? Just… take care of yourself.”

“Be safe out there.” 

“Promise.” He murmurs quietly, voice low and gentle and you give him one last smile before he reluctantly turns away and starts making his way down the hallway. You watch him until you no longer see him, and then gather your stuff and get ready for the day ahead.

—&.&—

The room is dark, only punctured by the flashing lights every once in a while and the bass is going strong. Max is enjoying himself, hand wrapped around a gin and tonic and he’s surveying the scene in front of him when he sees Charles approach. A frown comes over him when he’s close enough to see the worry on the face of the other driver. 

“What’s wrong?” Max demands, already on alert. There’s something in Charles’ tone and demeanour that worries him. He knows it can’t be about Kelly, who’s visiting her parents with P. Which leaves one person it could be. “Charles.”

“She… I, I don’t know what happened exactly. But I think someone spiked her drink and she’s… She’s safe, Alex and Lando are with her. But she’s shaken up -“

Max is already walking before Charles finishes talking and he hears the footsteps of him catching up. He can’t find it in himself to make any kind of conversation, and Charles doesn’t try to engage, only speeding up and leading them to where they want to go.

You’re sitting on the bench with your head in your hands, shaking slightly and Lando and Alex are sat on either side of you. You have what must have been Lando’s jacket draped over you and his arm is wrapped around your shoulder, with Alex holding one of your hands.

Your head snaps up and any anger Max has towards the situation vanishes when he takes you in. You’ve been crying, that much is obvious. But beyond that, there’s fear in your eyes and he knows it must have been something bad that’s shaken you like this. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He crouches down next to you and Alex and Lando both move to make room for him. He sits in Lando’s vacated spot, pulling you into him. Despite your best efforts, your tears start again, but you immediately feel safe in his arms. Max shushes you quietly, his arm coming around you with his hand moving to rest on the side of your head and you dig your face into his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.” Your apology is muffled and he sighs quietly, fingers moving through stands of your hair gently. His other hand moves to grip yours, giving it a squeeze before his thumb moves in slow, soothing circles. 

“Stop. You have nothing to be sorry about. Do you think you can tell me what happened?” 

“Some guy came up to me at the bar and we started talking. He was cute and easy to chat to so I didn’t think anything of it. Then he brought me a drink but he was being weirdly insistent on me drinking it, like, right there and then. So I didn’t and he just got pushy and tried to make a move. I pushed him off and he said some stupid shit… And Charles and Lando walked by, saw me and told him to bugger off. 

“Did you drink any of it?”

“Just a couple of sips. I stopped when he kept trying to get me to finish it and make jokes about whether I could beat him to downing it. It just felt… odd.”

“Okay. That’s good. Have you had any water?”

“Yeah, these three have been piling me with it.” 

“Do you think you can tell me what he said?”

“It’s really not worth repeating.”

“But it’s clearly made you upset, so do you not think it’s worth talking about?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Not if it’s affecting you.”

“He just, he made some comment about how I probably had to sleep around to get my job, and now you’re done with me, what’s the harm in letting him have a go and that he’d make it worth my while.” You mumble quietly, deliberately avoiding his gaze and he swears in both Dutch and English under his breath.

“What the fuck? Who is he? Is he still here?” He makes a move to stand but you’re quick to tug at his hand, shaking your head vehemently.

“Please don’t, just leave it. It’ll make it worse.” Your grip on him tightens as he tries to walk off.

“You can’t expect me to say anything when you’ve just told me someone’s gone and said that to you!”

“He said it, you can’t make him take it back. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! At the very least he should apologise!”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. You can’t control what other people say.” You shrug, but in an instance he notices something in your demeanour change. It’s miniscule, unnoticeable to most other people. But Max isn’t most other people. You’ve spent the better part of four years entwined in each other's lives. He might be the one person who knows you better than you know yourself. 

He turns around, following your gaze to land on someone by the bar and he knows instantly who it is. The guy turns around and spots you, only giving you a lazy smirk and a flick of his hand that barely counts as a wave. At your uneven intake of breath, he stands up and strides towards the man. Max ignores your pleas, your footsteps behind him barely registering as you struggle to keep up with his long strides.

“You apologise to her right now.” He pushes the guy against the wall, hand on his shoulder as the guy just smirks, unfazed by the situation.

“Should’ve known she would come running to you. She’s got you wrapped around her finger doesn’t she?”

“You shut the fuck up and apologise and I’ll maybe rethink doing your face in. And that’s not even taking into account you tried to fucking date rape her.”

“You have no proof of that. The drink is gone and she barely drank it.”

“Apologise.” Max snarls and you’re desperately tugging on his arm, trying to get the attention of Charles, Lando, and Alex who are moving through the crowds, a few minutes separating you from when they turned away to give you two privacy. 

“Mate, relax. She’s no longer your girlfriend and I was just trying to see if she was as good of a lay as she seems to be, considering how long you kept her around -” But he doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence because Max has grabbed him by the collar with both hands and pinned him to the wall. 

“Shut the fuck up, I swear to God.” You try to get his attention again but he doesn’t remove his gaze from the guy in front of him. You feel the others come up behind you and Alex has soon wrapped you in a protective hug, your head pressed into her shoulder so you can’t see what’s happening and she draws you back away. 

“Alright, let’s just sit down, okay?” She pushes you gently into a seat on the previous bench, taking a seat next to you, wrapping her arm back around you. You try to see what’s going on but Alex blocks your view. “It’s going to be fine. Charles and Lando won’t let him do anything stupid.”

“He shouldn’t have even done that.”

“Did you expect anything different? What he said was out of line and it’s you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Babe, Max is still… Crazy protective over you. Those comments were uncalled for and not to mention him trying to drug you.”

“He shouldn’t have done it. He’s going to get in trouble and get blasted over social media, and it’ll just be for me.”

“You stand up for the people you care about and he cares about you.” Alex gives you a soft smile and a hand squeeze, as Lando walks up to us.

“What’s happened? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Max and Charles are just talking to security who’ve called the police.”

“Oh, god.” You bury your head in your hands as you try to stop the tears building.

“It’ll be okay. The only person in any sort of trouble is that guy,” Lando says softly, sitting on your other side. “Look, they’re coming back.” 

“Everything’s okay. The police have arrested the guy and none of us are in trouble.” Charles speaks before you even need to ask the question and gives you a gentle smile and a hand squeeze.

“You guys should stay. You were having a nice night.”

“I can take you home, or, uh, I mean, mine, I…” Max trails off, because it’s no longer your home. The first few months after the breakup had been the hardest, the echoes of you still around everywhere he went. It hurt, it hurt when he got home and you were no longer there. When he expected to come around a corner to see you curled on the sofa reading a book. When he continued to make two cups of coffee in the morning. But you had moved away from Monaco because of a decision he made. “Or I can drop you back to Charles’ - I know you’re staying with him and Alex.”

“We can take you back if you want.” Alex cuts in, her voice soft and gentle and you both turn to look at her. 

“No seriously, you guys are having a nice night, it’s okay,” You swallow quietly, offering her a smile. “I’ll, um, I’ll go with Max for tonight, if he’s still okay with it, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Are you sure? You can stay with me as well.” Lando offers and you turn to give him a small smile. You’re grateful, you truly are. You know they’re aware of how you couldn’t even be alone in the same room as him the first few weeks after the breakup. That something like this wouldn’t have been feasible a few months ago. And even now, you’re not sure how it’ll go. 

“It’s fine. Thank you though. I really appreciate it.”

“Alright, well, let us know how you are later okay?” 

“Okay, I will, thank you for everything.” You move to shrug off Lando’s jacket but he stops you, shaking his head.

“It’s chilly outside. Keep it and give it back tomorrow or something.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Get home safe baby bull, I hope you feel better soon.” He says with a soft smile, wrapping you in a tight hug. 

“Thank you. Love you.” You mumble into his chest before being bundled into another hug by Charles and Alex, who murmur quietly in your ear about how you can call anytime you need and that they’ll see you tomorrow.

Max guides you to his car, with a hand on the small of your back and glowers at anyone that tries to look at you a second too long. He glances at you almost every other second whilst he’s driving, concern all over his whole face, but you don’t speak. You just stare at the window, watching everything flash by. 

You follow him quietly to the front door when you arrive, and despite knowing where everything is like the back of your hand, you linger behind him after taking your shoes off, unsure of what to do. 

“You can make yourself at home. I mean, you already know where everything is.” Max says softly, watching you shift from foot to foot by the living room entrance and you give him a small smile before shuffling in.

“Didn’t want to assume. Not really my place anymore.” 

“You’re always welcome here. Always.” 

“Thank you.” Your voice is quiet and he’s struck about how fragile you look. Lando’s jacket drowns your frame and although there’s an obvious size and height difference between you and him, it still look as though it’s swallowing you. He can still see the tear tracks on your face and despite your efforts to hide it, he knows you’re shaken by tonight’s events. 

“Do you want to take a shower? It’ll help you warm up.”

“Yeah, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is. I’ll lay some things out for you, alright?”

“Thank you.” You give him a watery smile before turning to make your way up the stairs as he follows behind you. 

You disappear into the guest bedroom and into the adjoining ensuite. Max tries to clear the thoughts from his head and busies himself with pulling out some sweatpants, a shirt, and a hoodie for you, before placing them on the bed. He hears the shower start and takes his leave, closing the door gently behind him as he heads back to the kitchen and busies himself with making the both of you a cup of tea.

You re-emerge back in the kitchen quickly, hair wet and hanging down your back. You’re in the midst of braiding it, fingers moving deftly as they wind strands of hair together. Max’s head snaps up and he watches your face carefully as you hover in front of him.

“Hey, feeling better?” 

“Yeah. A little.”

“How about some tea? And I have some chocolate.” He smiles at you as he holds up the packet of chocolate he’d found in the cupboards.

“That sounds lovely.” He’s relieved to see a small smile on your face and he nudges you with his elbow gently as he carries the two mugs of tea. Once you’re settled on the sofa with a blanket thrown over you, he passes you one of the mugs.

“Do you… Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was just… scary. It’s scary to think about what could’ve happened.” You whisper quietly, knuckles going white as your grip on the mug tightens. 

“I know. I’m sorry you had to feel that way and deal with that. But you’re safe now.”

“Thank you for being there.” You give him your best attempt at a smile and put the mug down so you can wipe at the tears forming in your eyes.

“It’s okay, come here.” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into him. Your head automatically finds its home on his chest and you let out a shuddering breath before you give in. You let the tears fall and you let him bundle you up and wrap his arms tightly around you. “Hey, you’re okay.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly, you have nothing to be sorry about.” He whispers, tucking your head into the crook of his neck before leaving a hand on the back of your head, thumb moving back and forth gently.

“Nothing happened, I don’t know why I’m so worked up about it.” 

“But it could’ve and his intent was there. It’s okay to be scared about what happened and you don’t have to downplay it because he got caught. But what’s important is that you’re safe now.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime,” Max says quietly as he reaches for the remote, flicking through different movies and shows. “How about we watch something?”

“Okay.” You settle back into the cushions, tucking the blanket in so you’re engulfed with only your head sticking out. Max watches you for a few more moments before he focuses his attention on the screen. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep and you’ve already shifted to lean on him.

As Max watches the even fall and rise of your breaths, he finally relaxes a little. You look peaceful, curled up against him, engulfed in one of his hoodies and he’s got an arm around your shoulders. It feels it used to, it feels right. 

He’s been on alert all night, worried about what had happened, worried about how you felt afterwards and seeing you cry about it broke his heart. He was angry, angry at what the guy had tried to do to you and what he had said to you. But all he could think about was how many times things like that had happened since you’d broken up, how much had you hidden from him. How many times had you felt uncomfortable in a situation and hadn’t had him there for you. You’re fiercely independent and headstrong and that’s one of the many things he loves about you. 

When you shift slightly, he turns off the television and slips out from under you as gently as he can before he gathers you in his arms. You’re halfway to the guest room when a quiet groan escapes you.

“Max?” Your voice is hoarse and groggy, and he watches you blink a few times and shift in his arms.

“Hi schatje, sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.” The term of endearment slips from his lips like second nature and neither of you question it. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable in bed.”

“You should’ve woken me, you don’t need to carry me.” You wriggle around in his arms, trying to get back on the ground, but he tightens his grip.

“It’s fine, it’s just a short distance. You were sleeping.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course, stop being silly,” He lets out a quiet huff, as if offended you’d even think different. Soon enough, he’s setting you gently down on the bed, pulling the duvet tight around you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, hand lingering on the back of your head for a few more seconds. “Sleep well, okay? I’ll be right down the hall if you need.”

“Okay, thank you.” You’re already dozing off again and when your eyes close and your breathing evens out again, Max closes the door gently behind him before he can linger too long.

—&.&—

Max wakes up with a groan and the clock on the bedside table is blinking 3:47 AM at him. He rubs at his face a few times before sitting up, looking around his dark room. There’s a gnawing feeling in him that has him getting out of bed and walking down the hall towards the guest bedroom. He’s not entirely surprised when he doesn’t see you in bed, with the only indication you’ve been there being a small indentation in the bed and the slightly rumpled duvet. 

It’s not hard to find you and he walks into the living room to see you under a giant fluffy blanket, a pillow from the bedroom tucked under your head as you lie on the sofa, eyes focused on the television screen. You start when you see him, pushing yourself into a seated position and pausing the television.

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t wake you, did I?” You murmur softly, guilt flooding your features.

“No, no, just woke up and had a feeling.” Max says softly, giving you a gentle smile as he sits  next to you on the sofa. 

“Yeah, I just couldn’t really sleep, so I came down here. I hope that’s okay.” 

“Of course it’s okay.” His voice is quiet and he knows you’ve never liked staying in the guest room by yourself. There’s been a few occasions, a big fight or two, and once when you were really ill and had refused to stay with him, not wanting to get him sick. The times you had fought, you had always crawled back into his arms. There was something that had just felt wrong being in there by yourself, you had claimed. And it strikes a chord in him that you still held the same feelings, even if you didn’t know it anymore, and had sought the comfort of the sofa instead. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, just… Not tired.” You give him a half-smile and a frown settles on his face. He knows that that combined with the look on your face doesn’t mean you’re not tired. It means you’re tired, but you can’t sleep. That your brain is overthinking and the thoughts are swirling around in your head. 

“Alright, come here,” Max doesn’t think twice about settling back on the sofa and lifting an arm. You stare at him for a few moments, before shuffling closer to him and he lets out a quiet sigh before drawing you into his side, arm wrapped tightly around you. “How about we just watch together for a while, okay?” 

“I don’t want to keep you up and from being comfortable.” You murmur but Max can already feel the tension melting from your body, head finding a home on his chest as you relax into his touch. 

“I’m perfectly comfortable right here.” 

“Okay.” You don’t even try to argue with him anymore, knowing that his presence and just him is what you need. He pulls the blanket back over you and unpauses the show you’re watching, fingers drawing small circles into your upper arm. 

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep again and when Max next looks down at you, your breathing has evened out and your eyes have drooped closed again. He smiles fondly at you, making sure the blanket is covering you completely and turns down the television. He’s content to stay here, especially knowing it means you’ll get a good night's sleep.

—&.&—

Max isn’t listening, not really. He’s zoning in and out but he snaps to attention when he hears your name in the conversation.

“If she does decide to take a break, or in the worst case scenario, leave, we’ll have to prepare for that and there’s a few people -“

“What?” He sits up straighter as he interrupts Hannah and everyone turns to look at him. When he sees the sympathetic looks and reluctance of everyone to speak, he knows he didn’t hear wrong.

“Max -“

“What do you mean she’s leaving? She can’t leave. She’s part of this family, this is her dream job. She can’t leave.”

“Max, this isn’t my conversation to have with you.” Hannah says softly, giving him a sympathetic look. She’s your friend too and your mentor, and she’s watched you two go from having a crush on each other to falling in love to your breakup. 

“Can I go then?” 

“Yeah sure, we’re wrapping up anyway.” He’s out of his chair faster than he can even fathom, hell bent on finding you. Max makes a mental note to apologise to everyone later but right now all he can think of is that you’re thinking about leaving. Because of him.

It doesn’t take long to find you. You’re sitting in front of a desk, AirPods in as you stare at your laptop, your brow furrowed. He stills for a moment, staring at you. You’re wearing an oversized Red Bull hoodie that looks as though it’s drowning you and he knows it’s his. One you had nicked from him before you had even made it official. One that you’ve had for so long that you’ve probably forgotten it was once his. He wishes he could stare at you longer, the familiar sight of you making his heart ache. If you were still together, he’d have snuck up behind you to wrap his arms around you, not letting go until you’d given him a kiss through giggles. But you’re not together anymore and that’s something of the past, something he can only relive in his head and you choose that moment to look up and catch his eye.

“Hey, you alright?” You remove your headphones and smile at him, and he inches closer to you.

“Why are you thinking about leaving? You love this job.” Max doesn’t even bother answering your question, instead going straight into what’s on his mind. 

“Max -“

“This is your dream job. This has been your dream job since forever. You can’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” But the hesitance in your voice says it all. You’re not leaving. Yet. You’re not leaving, but you’ve seriously thought about it.

“But you want to.”

“I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. Because you don’t know. He’s right, this is your dream job and you love it. It’s what you’ve wanted to do for the longest time. But at the moment, you’re not sure of anything in your life.

“Is this because of us? Because of me?” Max asks quietly, sinking into the seat opposite you. He watches you carefully, watches as you slowly close your laptop lid and ponder your thoughts.

“It’s a contributing factor,” You admit quietly and though he knows the answer even before you said it, it still hurts. He knows it’s been difficult, particularly since he’s been with Kelly. He’s not sure how he would react if the roles were reversed and he saw you in a new relationship. “I love you and I think we both know I’m not over you. I’m really happy that you’re happy and you have Kelly and P. But seeing you every day and seeing you with them… It breaks my heart every time -“

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I never meant to hurt you. Hurting you was the last thing I ever wanted to do. You mean the world to me and I never want to hurt you. Ever.”

“I know that, Max. It’s not your fault.” You smile softly at him, despite the unshed tears in your eyes and you reach out a hand to grasp his. “You’re allowed to find happiness again. I know how stressful it was and… why we broke up. I know you’re not trying to hurt me on purpose. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I hurt you anyway. I know how bad I hurt you.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose, Max. I know that. But maybe leaving and taking a break is what I need.”

“You’re not giving up your dream job. Not like this. Not for me. I’ll stay away, I’ll… I won’t talk to you or come near you if that’s what you want. Kelly won’t be at that many more of the race weekends.”

“It’s not just about that -.” But he continues on as if he didn’t hear you.

“I can help ask around and we can see if another team has space. You don’t have to stay here. But you can’t give up on your dream for me.”

“Max…”

“Remember when you told me how you jumped up and down screaming when you got the job offer? How you cried for two hours because this was everything you’d wanted for so long? You can’t give up on that.” You stay silent for a few moments. You had shared that story on your first date and you’re surprised he even brought it up.

“Max… I haven’t made a decision. I mentioned it briefly to Hannah that I maybe needed a break. That’s all.”

“Tell me you’ll think about it first. That you won’t make a rash decision.”

“Of course I’ll think about it. I’m not going to make this decision lightly. I love this job, I do.”

“Okay. Okay good,” Max lets out a quiet breath before speaking again. “You want to go get a coffee?” 

“I…Yeah, sure. That would be lovely.” You close the lid to your laptop and follow him towards hospitality. He’s seemingly dropped pursuing trying to convince you, instead filling the time with quiet chatter.

—&.&—

October 2024

“And Max Verstappen makes it another sprint win!” The cheers sound around the garage as Max crosses the finish line in first. His first win in many months and you’re elated for him. You know how hard the past few months have been and how the pressure has been building. He gets out of the car, removing his helmet and you can see the happiness on his face. He congratulates Carlos and Lando, smiles and laughter being passed around the three boys.

But moments later you feel sick as the camera then pans to Kelly who is at the fence and when you see the words Max Verstappen’s partner flash across the screen. It eats you up in a way you didn’t think was possible and you move to turn away, but if only you had done so a few seconds earlier. Because now the camera that’s in your garage is flashing across the screens that you know are displaying all across the track and hospitality areas. 

They flash from Christian to other members of the team, to strategists and all of a sudden you’re staring at yourself beside Hannah. And right beneath your name is ‘Red Bull strategist and former partner of Max Verstappen”. 

You struggle to maintain your facade, keeping your face neutral as you continue speaking to Hannah, determinedly not looking into the camera you know is just to your right. You can see on Hannah’s face that she’s already clocked what you’ve seen. But neither of you can do anything, she knows it and you know it. You let yourself be pulled in conversation with other members of the team, blending in and soon enough the camera moves away, instead broadcasting Lando’s interview. 

You take the moment to mumble an excuse, ignoring the calls from your friends and you don’t stop until you’re locked in a stall in the bathroom. The tears fall before you can stop them and all you can do is sit yourself down on the closed toilet and hug your knees to your chest. There’s only so much time you know you can be away for, there’s qualifying to prepare for, so you take a deep breath and wipe the tears from your eyes. When you exit the stall, you splash water over your face, trying to rid your eyes of the redness you can see there.

”Okay, it’s fine. You can do it.” You whisper quietly to yourself, clutching the edge of the basin, taking in a few deep breaths before you exit the bathroom. The hustle and bustle of the garage immediately hits you and you make your way to catering, deciding a coffee was very much in order. While you wait, you scroll through your Instagram feed, a moment you instantly regret when you see Kelly’s latest story. The photo of them kissing through the fence stings and you remember being in the same position just last year. You remember the collection of photos the two of you have just like that, they’re still somewhere in your phone. 

Grabbing your cup of coffee, you lock your phone and shove it in your back pocket, trying to clear the image from your mind. You walk in a semi-daze back to your station and take your seat. You focus on the screens and papers in front of you, using it as a distraction, but it's moot when a familiar presence hovers over you.

“Hey.”

”Hi, congratulations Max, that was a wonderful drive.” You smile up at him, resisting the urge to fidget as his eyes scan over you closely. Max can spot your red-rimmed eyes and he knows you’ve been crying. He’s known you for too long and too well to not know the signs when you’re upset.  

“Thank you,” He says softly and he takes a seat next to you. “I saw what they put on the screen. I’m sorry. I’m going to have a word and see that they don't do it again in the future.”

”It’s fine, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”

”It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to see that on screen and be worried about them constantly turning the camera on you.”

”It’s nothing new, they did it when we were together and they’d likely do it even if we weren’t. I’m a member of the team and in the garage, it’s only natural.”

”But what they put is unfair to you and it’s rude.”

”You can’t control what they put on the screen, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“But you’re upset about it, I know you’ve been crying.” 

“Max…”

”Don’t even try to lie to me, I know the signs, okay?”

”A lot has happened today, okay? And this isn’t really the place to get into it. I just…” You look away from him softly, wary of any wandering eye or camera on you. “We can talk later. You have to get ready for qualifying and so do I.”

”But we’ll talk later?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” You give him a weak smile, knowing that the end of qualifying would be hectic. You’d be busy analysing what had gone down and he’d be in his own meetings. Whilst you would come together eventually to talk strategy for the race, it would be professional, others would be there and you knew that there would be a high chance to slip away before he caught you again.

“Okay. I’ll see you later then.” He gives you a gentle smile before standing up.

“See you. Good luck. You’ll do great.” You give him a wave and your best attempt at a cheery smile before turning back to your screen, marking the conversation very much over. You hear the soft sigh escape his lips and you feel the tears prick your eyes but you push all of it away.

—&.&—

“Not trying to run away are we?” You wince slightly when you hear Max’s voice behind you. Despite what you had told him earlier, you were very much planning on trying to avoid him at the end of the day. 

“Max. Hey.” You spin around slowly, giving him a weak smile, your grip on the water bottle in your hands getting tighter.

“You said we could talk.”

“I, yeah, I… alright.”

“Shall we?” He nods to the table a few feet away and you trail after him, sliding into the seat opposite him. 

“So…”

“I know you were upset about what happened and you can’t just ignore it.”

“Max… What do you want me to say?” You sigh quietly, looking up at him. “Am I upset? Yeah, I am. It’s not exactly a nice thing to see. But it’s happened and it’s over and it’s not like it was your fault. I don’t see what else there is to talk about.”

“I just don’t want you to bottle everything up and not talk about it.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s just… It’s easier.” 

“It’s good to talk about things and not hold onto them.”  

“Max… I… Of course it hurts and it sucks and all of the above. What do you want me to say? But what I just said stands true. We can’t change it now. What else is there to talk about?”

“You say the word, and I’ll talk to someone. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. You know I will.”

“Yeah, I know you would. I… I appreciate that, I do.”

“Okay. Good. Never forget that.”

“I won’t. I, um, I should get going. We have a lot to do before tomorrow.” You say, relief flooding you when you see Hannah in the background, holding up her hand in a wave. Max turns around to see who it is and both of you stand up when he turns back around.

“Okay. Take care of yourself.” 

“You too, Max. And congratulations again. You drove beautifully.” You give him a gentle smile and he returns it. All he can do is watch you walk away from him, emotions rising up in him.

—&.&—

You can feel the pride swell in you as you watch Max pull his car in front of the number one sign. You know how hard it's been since racing resumed after summer break. You can see the signs of his frustration when things keep not going his way. But now, you see the elation and happiness reflected in every aspect of his being. It had been an incredible drive from him in torrential conditions under the São Paulo sky, and seeing him be his best self out there had filled you with immense pride. 

You watch as he hops out of the car and bounds over to the barrier, engulfed in a sea of red and blue. Everyone congratulates him, slapping him on the back and his helmet. You’re more happy for him than you could ever explain in words, but the familiar twisting in your stomach and your aching heart starts again when you see him wrap Kelly in a hug and a kiss. Even after all this time, it stings and it makes you want to cry every time you see them together. Max’s eyes scan the crowd behind the barrier, once, twice, three times and he takes a step back. He only just spots you at the very back of the crowd, bundled up tightly in your Red Bull jacket, hood pulled up. You’ve always been at the front, always been there to greet him, and even though he knows it’s different now, you being at the back doesn’t seem to sit right with him. 

He grabs several people’s attention, murmuring quietly to them before pointing at you and before you know it, hands are gently pushing you forward, guiding you to the front of the barrier before you’re standing right in front of Max.

“Congratulations. I’m so proud of you. You did so well.” You whisper quietly, before you’re wrapped in his embrace. You let yourself stand there for a few moments, the familiar touch more soothing than you would ever care to admit.

”Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Max murmurs, voice close to your ear as he squeezes you tightly. “What were you doing all the way at the back?”

”I… It’s not really my place here anymore is it?” I said softly, pulling back from him with a small shrug and a half-smile. “I’ll still be around, you know that. Just… yeah.”

”You will always have a place at the front. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. We’re going to continue this conversation later, okay?” He glances behind him, where he’s being summoned to fulfil his post-race duties and you nod. 

“Yeah, alright. Congratulations again.” You gave him a faint smile before taking a step back, blending into the members of the team and you see him reluctantly turn away. You spin around yourself, heading back into the garage and try to distract yourself with work. 

—&.&—

“Will you need me the first week of the break or is coming back the second Monday still okay?” You ask softly, shifting from foot to foot as you stare at Hannah, who blinks before putting her laptop aside to give you her full attention.

”The second Monday is still fine. Why? Are you okay?” 

“I just really need a break. Being here… around him… It’s been really difficult,” You can feel the tears welling in your eyes and you dab at them with the edge of your sleeve. Hannah doesn’t mention it, doesn’t even flinch, much to your relief and she lets you get yourself together and finish speaking. “I’ll still see my messages if you need me urgently. But I’m not really going to be replying and engaging in anything. I just wanted to let you know.”

”Do you want to stay with me and Ben for a few days?”

”No, you two already don’t have enough time together with you travelling all the time as it is. I’m not going to intrude on that. I’m fine. I just need… a break. I need to bed rot a little.”

”Okay, but you’re going to text me once every two days to let me know you’re okay. And that you’re eating and sleeping well. Or I’m sending a giant grocery delivery to your house.”

”It’s only going to be a week Han.”

“Minimum of one text every two days or I’m turning up at your front door whether you like it or not.” 

“Okay. Promise..”

“Good. Now, go get your butt into gear so that we can go celebrate tonight.”

“Hannah -”

“Just… Think about coming, okay? You deserve to have a fun night.” She says softly and there’s an expression on her face that makes you pause and not automatically reel off an excuse.

“Okay. I’ll think about it,” You give her a small smile and she returns it. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah, see you.”

You return back to your desk, finishing up the rest of your work for the day. Your plan had been to get into bed and very much avoid the festivities. You were exhausted and just wanted to crawl under some covers, but after speaking to Hannah, you leave a small part of your decision open. 

—&.&—

MV: are you coming for a drink with everyone tonight? 

MV: i can swing by your hotel room and we can go together if you want 

YN: im going to go over some data from today and get an early night

YN: but thanks. enjoy your night, you deserve it. congratulations again, im so proud of you x

MV: going over data? it’s the last race of a triple header and we have a three week break. you deserve a night off 

YN: enjoy your night max, okay?

—&.&—

When you hear the knock at your door, you’re not even a little surprised. You know who it is before you even near the door and when you open it you find Max standing there dressed in a smart pair of trousers and a white button-up shirt. A quiet sigh leaves your lips and you step back slightly to let him in.

He murmurs a quiet hi before walking in, a frown on his face as he surveys your laptop open on the bed, iPad filled with diagrams and scribbles, and at least two notebooks open. The expression on his face deepens when he catches sight of the bin, filled to the brim with coffee mugs and Red Bull cans.

”Why are you still working? We literally just came to the end of a triple header.” 

“Doesn’t mean there’s no work to do. I’m just doing some summaries from the weekend and compiling some data.”

”Why are you doing that? That’s not usually part of your job.”

”I offered. Some people went to bed since they have an early flight because they want to get home to their kids, to their family. Others wanted to go celebrate. I was just going to stay in, so I offered.” 

”You deserve to come celebrate too. That can wait until tomorrow, surely.” 

”It’s fine. The sooner it's done, the better. I’m just going to finish it and go to bed.”

”Just one drink. You deserve it.”

”Max…”

”I want you there. You’re a part of this more than you’d ever know.”

”Okay, fine. One drink,” You relented, knowing that he wasn’t going to budge and he smiled at you, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you rummaged around in your bag, pulling out a pair of black jeans and a silky black top. “Let me just get changed.”

You disappear into the bathroom, shedding the sweatpants and hoodie you threw on the moment you had gotten into your hotel room. You make quick work of getting changed, glancing at your reflection in the mirror but deciding to forego any makeup. You were going to stay for one drink, hide in the back of the club and come straight back to the hotel.

“Okay, one drink.” You say softly to him when you exit the bathroom and his smile is so large and so genuine that you can’t believe you ever said no. He doesn’t let the conversation between you lapse and continues to engage you as you make your way out of the hotel.

—&.&—

You let out a quiet sigh, knee bouncing up and down as you clasp the glass of your drink tightly. You’ve already been here much longer than you wanted to be but last time you had tried to slip out the door, Max had grabbed your hand and all but begged you to stay. You know he’s had more than a few to drink and you smile as you watch him chat animatedly to people, a smile stretched across his face.

“Hey baby bull. You doing alright?” A quiet voice breaks into your thoughts and you turn to see George slipping into the seat beside you. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” You offer him a small smile and take another sip of your drink, shifting so you can face him head on.

“If you want to head off, I can wait with you while you get a car or come back with you.”

“It’s okay, I’ll stay for a bit. Thank you though.”

“You don’t seem like you want to be here much.”

“He asked me to stay, so I did. It’s his night.” You said softly to give George a small shrug. “Even now… I can’t deny him anything.”

“I’m sure if he knew you were really wanting to go home, he’d never think of asking you to stay longer.”

“I know. But… he’s having a nice time and he asked. I already said yes and I don’t want to go back on that.” 

“Okay. Well, if you do want to leave, let me know. I’m more than happy to come with you.”

“You don’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have to rearrange your night for me.”

“I want to. And I’d feel better knowing you got back okay.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it, George. I’m going to stay for a bit longer, but I promise I’ll let you know.” You give him a smile and he returns it, giving your hand a quick squeeze. 

“Okay, sure.” George nudges you gently in the shoulder before diving into conversation. He brings up photos of his friend’s puppy who has grown significantly and a video of him racing the dog across a field that makes you grin. You know he’s doing his best to keep your mind off everything and for that, you’re grateful.

—&.&—

“Sorry, I, just, um. Sorry,” You pull back from the guy, heat flushing your cheeks as you take a further step back, letting a sizable gap settle between the two of you. His eyes sweep over you and suddenly a scoff leaves his mouth.

“What is it with girls being interested and then all of a sudden pretending to be shy? There’s no need to pretend you’re not a slut. Fucking hell.” He gives you a scathing look before stalking off into the crowd. You watch him go, just blinking a few times, your brain still trying to process what had occurred. 

You had seen him earlier before bumping into him at the bar again. He was cute and friendly, you two had talked as he offered to buy you a drink. He had made a move and you were interested. Until you weren’t. The hands suddenly felt too invasive and foreign and so you had taken a step back. A shaky breath leaves your lips and you turn around so you don’t have to watch him flirt with another girl in the crowd, your feet carrying you back to the table you were at earlier.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you lean against the wall, eyes flickering over the scene in front of you. The room is full of people, many of them drivers and team members of various teams. You know it’s been an exhausting triple header and everyone’s ready to let out some steam. 

Max is still surrounded by people, a smile on his face as he effortlessly engages with everyone. One hand is wrapped around a drink and the familiar ache in your chest returns when you see him reach for Kelly, an arm wrapping her waist without even breaking the conversation he was in. You turn around before they can catch your eye and you wonder if you can sneak out successfully this time. You’re halfway across the room when someone taps you on the shoulder gently and you see Alex by your side.

“Hello! I’ve barely seen you tonight.” She wraps you in a tight hug and smiles brightly at you.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve been… Hiding.” You trail off, ending your statement truthfully and she sends you a knowing look.

“I know. It’s okay. I get it. You don’t need to apologise.” 

“Thanks, Alex.”

“So, I saw you with that guy at the bar. He seemed cute.” Alex smiles softly, nudging you with her shoulder as she switches the topic seamlessly. But the new subject makes you wince.

“Yeah he was. And then I just… I needed a moment and he… took offence, and yeah.” 

“Wait, what happened?” Alex is suddenly on alert, standing in front of you and meeting your gaze.

“Nothing. He, just… We were having a nice time and he kissed me, and I wanted it and it was nice. But then all of a sudden it just felt wrong and I panicked and pulled back. He just made some comment about how no need to pretend I’m not a slut and why do girls pretend they’re not interested and play hard to get. Then he just stormed off.”

“He did what?!” There’s a spluttering sound as Alex chokes on her drink and she takes a few moments to collect herself before she continues. “Are you okay?!”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I just… I really am trying to get over him, you know?” You say softly, sneaking a quick glance over your shoulder at Max. “I really tried and tonight was meant to be another step towards that. But then it just started to feel wrong and he was making me uncomfortable. And… he, just, yeah, didn’t take to it kindly.”

“Where is he? Who is he? I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.” Alex’s eyes sweep the room, a determined look on her face. 

“Alex, please just drop it. It’s okay, I’m fine. It’s easier just to let it go.”

“You know, I know why Max gets so worked up sometimes. Just because nothing happened, doesn’t mean something shouldn’t be said. You stand up for the people you care about.” Her voice is soft but firm and she forces you to look her in the eye.

“I just don’t want unnecessary trouble. Not for me.”

“It’s not unnecessary trouble. You’re our friend and we care about you.”

“I know and I appreciate it, I do. It’s just… so much easier to let things like this die and not cause a fuss.”

“Fine, okay. Fine,” She lets out a somewhat frustrated sigh, but her gaze is soft. “Do you want to leave?”

“I might go, but you should stay. Don’t let me ruin your night.”

“You wouldn’t be ruining my night. I’m ready to get into pyjamas soon anyway. Come on.” She loops her arm through yours, moving through the crowd as she heads towards a group of people that contains Max.

“Thank you, Alex.” You mumble and she doesn’t respond, just gives you a gentle smile and a hand pat before you reach your intended destination. 

“Hey, we’re going back to the hotel.” Alex said firmly, raising her chin slightly as if daring anyone to argue with her. Both Max and Charles turn to look at the two of you, surprise flitting over their expressions.

“Everything okay?” Max immediately asks and his eyes are already sweeping over you intently as if assessing you for any damage.

“Yeah, I’m just tired.” You say softly, giving him a reassuring smile, but you can tell he doesn’t buy it. 

“We’re going to go back and get into our pyjamas, but you guys should stay.” Alex stares down Max when he opens his mouth to speak, a look in his eyes. You know he doesn’t believe you, that he knows something else is going on, but he doesn’t push it. 

“Okay. Well, text when you get back,” Charles fills in the silence and presses a kiss to Alex’s cheek before wrapping you in a hug. “Text me.”

“Yeah. I will. Good night,” You give him a small smile before turning your attention to Max. He’s still staring at you with a searching look on his face but when he catches your gaze, he immediately steps forward to hug you. “See you later, Max. Congratulations again.”

“Thank you. I… Let me know when you get back, okay?” 

“Yeah I will.” You know that both of you want to say more, but neither of you speak up so you turn around, Alex by your side, with all the unspoken words dying on your tongue.

—&.&—

There’s a knocking on your door that won’t stop and you reluctantly swing your legs out of bed. You rub your eyes a few times before heading towards the door and opening it to reveal Max. 

“Max? What are you doing here?” You blink slowly as you adjust to the bright light in the hallway. He’s still dressed in the same outfit he went to the bar in and he’s got an unreadable expression on his face. 

“You left.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I was really tired.”

“No. You left because you were upset and something happened.”

“No, nothing happened -“

“Stop. Give me a little more credit than that.”

“Max -“

“Can I come in? Please?” He stares at you insistently and you let out a quiet sigh and step back, letting him slip inside and the door closes after him with a quiet thud. “Are you okay?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You would never leave without saying anything. I know something happened. Now you can tell me what it is or I can keep asking around.”

“It’s not a big deal -“

“So something did happen.”

“Max -“

“Tell me. Please. I just want to help. I just need to know you’re okay.” He says softly, voice cracking as he takes a step closer to you.

“I… I met a guy and I wanted it, then I didn’t. He didn’t take to it kindly, that's all.”

“What happened? Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?” Max’s voice has taken on a sharp edge and you can see the look in his eyes.

“He made a nasty comment and stormed off. It’s fine. I’m fine.“

“Tell me what he said.”

“Max -“

“Tell me.”

“He said what is it with girls being interested and then all of a sudden pretending to be shy when I pushed him off because I… Because I didn’t want to kiss him anymore,” You mutter quietly, knowing he wouldn’t stop pushing until he had gotten the answer. “Then he said there’s no need to pretend I’m not a slut.”

“He did what? That absolute jackass.” Max is fuming, eyes blazing as he starts swearing under his breath and you wince as he begins pacing. He’s pissed off, you know he is.

“Max, so he said some words. We can’t change that fact now. Chances are I’ll never see him again, he didn’t hurt me -“

“He didn’t hurt you physically. Words hurt too and what he said was despicable and hurtful and wrong.”

“It’s happened and it’s over. He left and I chose not to engage further because it wouldn’t have done anything except make the situation worse.”

“I… I…” He huffs angrily, his pacing coming to a stop and his eyes search yours. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah. I am. I promise.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. I… I’m sorry for waking you. I just knew something was wrong. I wanted to check in on you.”

“Thank you. That’s really kind of you.”

“I’ll let you get back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah. Good night, Max.” You give him a soft smile, watching as he hesitates before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Good night.” He lingers for a few more moments before stepping back and walking down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. You watch him until he disappears into his own room at the end of the hallway. You lock the door and then collapse back in your own bed, your mind swirling with thoughts. 

—&.&—

November 2024 

You spent the first week of the break all but locked in your flat, only leaving for a run and going to the gym every day. You make sure to send Hannah the texts she demanded of you, because you know she means business and she won’t hesitate to turn up at your door. The notifications for all your social media accounts have been turned off and you don’t check them once. 

Texts from friends come thick and fast, Charles, Alex, Lando, and George, have all messaged and called you in the first two days alone, worried about your lack of response but when you explain you just need time to decompress, they accept it, and make you promise to let them know you’re okay once every few days just like Hannah. The one person who doesn’t let up, however, is Max. Even when you tell him over a call that you’re fine and you just need some alone time after the whirlwind of the triple header he doesn’t stop messaging you.

He knows it's more than you just needing time alone, he knows it's a dangerous spiral into you overthinking and getting yourself in a bad headspace. So, he texts you every morning to ask you what you’re going to do and calls you in the evenings to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. It's maddening and infuriating because at the end of the day, he knows you as well as you know yourself, maybe even better, and both of you are well aware of it.

But he doesn't stop calling you and you don’t stop picking up. And when he turns up at your front door on the Monday of the second week of the break, you’re not even surprised.

“Hi.” 

“Max. I’m fine. You didn’t have to come just to check on me.” You step back and let him in, watching as he sets the two massive bags he’s holding down and removes his shoes.

“I was in the area.” 

“Max.”

“Christian asked me if I was free to drop by the-“

“Christian is on holiday.” You fold your arms across your chest and fix him with a look that has him grinning and you’re soon trying to keep up with his long strides as he heads towards the kitchen.

“Okay, you caught me. I came to see you.” 

“Max…” You’re about to scold him when you see him upload food and ingredients from the bags he’s brought with him. “Max, why are you unloading what looks like an insane amount of food?”

“Tell me you have fresh vegetables and fruit and enough to make a decent meal or two and I’ll take it all back.” He challenges you and you deflate under his gaze.

“I’m -“

“The next word out of your mouth before not be fine or I’m throwing this yoghurt in your face.”

“I really am okay, Max. I just needed to decompress.”

“Okay. That’s fine. I never said any different.”

“Max.”

“Come on, I brought everything for your favourite dishes. Let me cook for you.”

“Okay, alright, fine.” You say wearily, because you know he isn’t going to budge. He grins happily at you before he continues to unload the bags and you start putting everything away. The two of you fall back into your old rhythms without even thinking and having him here soothes the knot that’s in your chest before you even know it.

—&.&—

December 2024

“So, will you spend time with both your parents or just one of them this Christmas?” Max asks the question casually as you sit opposite each other with your lunch.

“I, um, I’m not going to be spending Christmas with either of them.” Your voice is quiet and Max snaps his head up to stare at you. You’re aimlessly twisting a strand of hair around your finger as your other hand holds your fork, gathering food on the end of it. 

“What?”

“Dad and Carole are going to see her family in Glasgow with Maia and Ben. Mum and Mark are off to Cotswolds with the twins. So, I’m just going to be here.” 

“They didn’t ask you to go with them?” Max probes, only a small hint of hostility lacing his tone. He gets along with both sides of your family, adores your younger siblings, and he didn’t expect them to go off on holiday and leave you by yourself. 

“No, they did. They both did. I just… yeah, I don’t know.” You shrug, pushing away your bowl of food before looking up at him, a sad smile on your face. “Just didn’t feel… right.” 

Max’s heart crumbles as he watches you closely. He knows that being shunted from house to house every other weekend as a kid took its toll on you, that when your parents remarried and expanded their own families, you struggled to feel like you belonged. That you felt like they had moved on without you, built a new family without you. And he knows your breakup is likely making you feel the exact same way and he doesn’t know if he could feel worse.

“You can’t spend Christmas alone.” 

“It’s alright, it’s not as big of a deal as you think it is. Some time alone will be nice.” 

“It’s Christmas.”

“Yes, I think we’re established that.” A flicker of a small smile ghosts your lips and he smiles despite the seriousness of the conversation. Because your dry sense of humour and sarcasm is something he’s always loved about you.

“I’m sure it's not too late to tell either of your parents you want to go with them. Its the time to be with family, I’m sure they would love to spend that time with you.”

“I… I don’t want to. It doesn’t feel right. They have their own families now, their other families, and I’m just… Sometimes it just feels like I’m on the outside. They’ve moved on, you know?”

“You’re their child. They’ll never have moved on from you.”

“Yeah.” You deliberately avoided elaborating on his comment and another sigh escapes him. There’s a moment of silence, before he speaks again, his words causing your head to snap up and stare at him.

“Come home with me.”

“What?”

“I’m going to see mum and Victoria will be there. Come home with me. Don’t spend Christmas by yourself.”

“Max, I can’t do that. I, I don’t want to overstep and not to mention Kelly and P.”

“They’re going to spend time with their family. And you know you’d never be overstepping. Everyone would love to see you.”

“It seems… I…”

“Don’t spend Christmas alone. Not again. If you’re adamant you don’t want to go with your mum or your dad, come with me.”

“I haven’t got any presents for anyone and I…”

“We still have time to get some and we can add your name to all of mine.”

“I…” You’re running out of excuses and you both know it. The truth is, you do want to go with him. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Of course it is. Great, that’s settled,” Max beams at you and then starts typing on his phone. “Let me text mum, she’ll be ecstatic.” 

You just watch him, a smile spreading across your face. Part of you still feels like it’s a terrible idea, but the other part of you can’t wait for it to come around. Despite what you’ve said to everyone, you were dreading spending another Christmas alone. The idea of being there, with Max, was something you still wanted. 

—&.&—

The moment you’re out of the car, you’re being engulfed in a tight hug by Sophie. It’s not until Max comes around and pats her on the back gently that she releases you and wraps him in a hug.

“Oh sweetheart, we’re so glad you decided to come with Max. It’s so lovely to see you.” Sophie beams at you and takes your hand, leading you back into the house.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the bags!” Max calls out, somewhat sarcastically, but when you turn back to give him an apologetic look, he just grins at you.

“That boy,” There’s a fond smile on Sophie’s face as she shakes her head. You hang up your coat and slip off your shoes, placing them in the same place you always have. “We haven’t told the kids you’re coming. We thought it’d be a nice surprise. Boys, come down here!” 

There’s a smattering of footsteps and then you see Luka and Lio at the top of the stairs. Luka realises first and he races down the stairs and straight into you, quickly followed by his brother. You bend down so you can hug them back and they’re babbling excitedly. They’re still hanging onto you as you move into the living room and you let them catch you up on everything that’s happened since you last saw them. 

Max walks in and sees you on the couch, his nephews situated on either side of you, happiness all over their faces. Sophie is returning with a tray of hot chocolates and when he catches his mother’s eyes, she just gives him a gentle smile. And all that Max can think about is how this just feels right. 

—&.&—

You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and when you’re done, you slip outside into the garden, wrapping your arms around yourself as the frigid air helps to calm your racing heartbeat. Everything is all too familiar and you remember being here two Christmases ago. The framed photo in your room that you didn’t have the heart to put anywhere, is a reminder every time you walk past it. It’s so similar, yet so different.

“You’re going to get a chill.” Max’s quiet voice sounds from behind you and he’s draping a thick blanket over you, wrapping it tightly around your shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Care to share what you’re thinking?”

“I… Max… Why did you ask me to come?”

“I didn’t want you to spend Christmas alone. And I knew you weren’t going to change your mind and go with your parents. I knew you would enjoy it here. I knew everyone would love to have you.”

“And what does Kelly think about this?” You say quietly, the question weighing on you since he’d asked you to come. A quiet sigh leaves him and he drops his gaze to the floor for a brief moment before his eyes catch yours again.

“Kelly and I broke up.” 

“What?” 

“We broke up.”

“When?”

“After Brazil.”

“What? Max… This doesn’t have anything to do with you coming to see me during that break, does it?”

“No! It doesn’t, it doesn’t,” Max is quick to shake his head, trying to reassure you. “It happened before I came to see you. We just… We talked and although I still… I still care about her a lot and P as well. But… I never stopped being in love with you.”

“Max…” You turn to look at him, tears building in your eyes. Ever since you had broken up, all you had wanted to hear was that it was a mistake and he wanted to be with you again. But now, standing in front of him, after everything that had happened, you’re confused and torn. “I…”

“I know. I know this is a lot. I know I screwed up. I know I’ve hurt you beyond belief. And maybe this is selfish of me, but I couldn’t not tell you how I felt. I couldn’t have you believe for one more second that you don’t mean the world to me. Because you do. And pretending not to love you was the hardest thing I've ever done."

“Max…”

“You don’t have to do anything about it, not now. Spend the rest of the time here like we planned and just… Think about it?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, shall we head in? I hear there’s about four different desserts.” Max offers you his hand and you slip your hand in his. He gives you a soft smile and leads you back inside, where the laughter, and love, and familiarity, fill you with a warmth you haven’t felt in a long time.

—&.&—

“Alright, what’s going on?” Alex says softly once you’re settled on the sofa in front of her, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea, the other stroking Leo, who’s snuggled in your lap.

“I… I spent Christmas with Max. At Sophie’s.”

“You what?” Alex’s eyes widen, her sharp tone catching the attention of Leo, who raises his head quizzically before dropping it back into your lap.

“He asked me what I was doing before we left for the break and when he found out I was spending Christmas alone, he convinced me to come with him…”

“I… Okay. Did you have a nice time?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. It felt like it used to… It just… it just felt right…”

“Okay… So, you had a lovely time. Why do you sound so conflicted?”

“I… He… He broke up with Kelly and he wants to get back together.” You say quietly, arms wrapped around your knees as you sit on the sofa, Alex in front of you.

“Oh, and what did you say to that?” 

“Why do you sound like that?” 

“Sound like what?”

“Like you’re not even surprised.”

“Because I’m not. Just because he broke up with you, doesn’t mean he didn’t act like he wasn’t still in love with you the entire time you weren’t together. Even when he was with Kelly.”

“He… He wasn’t… He didn’t…” You trail off, unable to form a coherent sentence. 

“I’m not saying he didn’t have true feelings for Kelly. All I’m saying is he still very clearly loved you and cared about you,” Alex says softly, nudging you with her knee. “But what matters is how you feel and what you want.”

“I… I still love him. Of course I still love him. I… I just, what if he decides that he wants to break up again, even if he thinks he’s protecting me? And not to mention the past two years have been… hard. To put it lightly. I… I’m so confused about what to do.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

“What would you do?”

“I don’t think I can answer that for you,” She gives you a sympathetic smile and Leo sighs softly, burrowing himself deeper into your lap as if to offer his comfort too. “I think you have to decide whether it's worth the risk. The love you two have for each other isn't a question.”

“He was my home. He is my home. In a way no-one or nowhere ever has been before. And even after everything, he was… He was always there for me. Always.”

“It kinda sounds like you have your answer then.”

—&.&—

“Hey, come in.” Max smiles gently at you, stepping back from the door so you can slip inside. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek when you close the door behind you, his hand lingering on your waist.

“Thank you.” You let him lead you into the living room where you curl up in your favourite corner of the couch and he sits opposite you, the lightest brushes of his knees against yours. There’s a quiet purr and Sassy jumps up onto the couch, settling onto your lap and blinks softly up at you. You give the cat soft strokes, resulting in some happy and content noises.

“They’ve missed you a lot.” Max says softly, smiling at the sight. The cats had always loved to snuggle up with you, despite refusing to cuddle with anyone else. 

“I’ve missed them too,” You glance up at him, catching his gaze as you take in a deep breath. “I… I thought a lot about what we talked about. About what you said,”

“Okay.” His voice is quiet, measured, but there’s an underlying urgency to it. An anticipation that quivers underneath his calm demeanor. 

“I love you. Of course I love you. I never stopped loving you. But it’s also been the most painful two years of my life. Seeing you every day and having to work beside you when we weren’t together anymore. Seeing you in a new relationship…” You swallow, hands clamming as you twist them together. “You don’t know how difficult that was.”

“I know. I know how much I hurt you and I’m more sorry than you will ever know.”

“It was one of the hardest times of my life. I… I kept thinking I hit rock bottom, yet every time I kept going lower,” Your voice is quiet and there’s a flicker in Max’s expression. A flicker of doubt and worry as if he’s afraid of your answer. “But… But you will always be home to me. No-one else has ever felt like that. Nobody has even come close. I… Whenever I’m with you, I feel safe. It feels like I’m exactly where I need to be. It’s going to take time… But I… I want to try again. I want to be with you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“You’ve always been it. I will spend forever proving it to you if you have to. We will take this at your pace and go as slowly as you need.”

“Okay. Yeah. Yes. I want to try again.” Your words are hesitant, but you can’t stop the wide smile on your face. Max steps closer to you, one hand reaching out for yours and you let your fingers tangle together.

“Can I kiss you?” He says softly, his other hand reaching to caress your cheek.

“Yeah.” Your voice stutters slightly when his thumb brushes across your cheekbone. He gives you a smile before leaning down and presses his lips to yours. It’s slow and hesitant, like you’re exploring each other for the first time. But it’s comforting and there’s a familiarity that warms your heart. It feels like coming home.

—&.&—

“Okay, you have to put this on.” Max dangles a blindfold in front of you and you turn to look at him with an incredulous expression on your face. You still don’t know what you’re doing here - he had asked you to get in the car and all you had gotten out of him were cryptic smiles and twinkling eyes. 

“Why?”

“Just do it. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” Your answer is swift and almost automatic and he smiles at it, leaning down to kiss you gently.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, you big softie.” You smile into his kiss before pulling back and putting on the blindfold. “Okay, but don’t you dare let me trip or walk into something Verstappen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He presses a kiss to your cheek before he opens his side of the car and you hear it close before he’s around your side and opening the door. His hands grab yours and he gently manoeuvres you out.

Despite his promise, he’s already forgotten to tell you about a curb, causing you to fall forward and curse him out. His hands around your waist steady you as he laughs, kissing you again as an apology as you just grumble quietly. The two of you walk a few more minutes without incident.

“Alright, go ahead.” You remove the blindfold at his words, blinking slowly to get used to the light again and you find yourself in an empty living room. Sunlight is streaming through the windows and the room is bright and airy.

“Max? What’s going on? Where are we?”

“Home. Well, what I hope will be home… I… the other place holds so many memories for us… But we also broke up there and I know that can’t be easy. There’s been a lot of other stuff that’s happened since then and I wanted us to have a fresh start. I want a place that’s ours, fully, completely, and wholly ours.”

“Wait, you brought this place?”

“I put a deposit down. But if you don’t like it we can get it back and look at others. I just wanted… I wanted to show you that… oh god, you hate this place don’t you? We can look for others -“

“Max, no, I love to. It’s beautiful.” You breathe quietly, spinning around to face him. His face relaxes and he winds his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s beautiful. It’s really ours?”

“It’s ours. Well, once we sign the paperwork. But I put in an offer and the deposit. So, we just have to make it official.”

“Wait, we both have to sign the paperwork?”

“I want this place to be ours. Completely and fully. We’re in this together. Forever.”

“Forever and a day.”

“Forever and a day.” You repeat softly, smiling up at him before you bury your head into his chest. His arms tighten around you and you feel his lips at the top of your head.

And here in Max’s arms in what will be your home together, you feel a sense of calm and belonging that settles deep in your bones.

Home.

—&.&—

yourusername and maxverstappen

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yourusername to forever (and a day) and new beginnings

maxverstappen i love you 

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[angelsueeeeeee]

all i know is pain

i can do it with a broken heart — mv33 (part 1)

when max breaks up with you, you’re left heartbroken and confused. you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with him and your world is turned upside down. even more so, when his new relationship emerges. but you're determined to carry on and you're still perfectly capable of doing your job, even with a broken heart. (40.3k total; 21.0k in this part)

max verstappen x red bull strategist! reader

warnings/contents: please PLEASE read these carefully because there is a lot (these cover both parts)! swearing, suggestive content, mentions/references to struggles with eating, panic and anxiety attacks, mentions of the aftermath of a car accident, fainting incident, hospital visits, drinking and alcohol, there is a drink spiking incident, max and kelly’s relationship is a major focus but hate of any sort will be deleted and blocked (for plot purposes they only start dating in 2024), family dynamics mentioned, use of YN but only in texts and social media posts, some old ig handles lol

a/n: hello! first of all, once again, please read the warnings! this will deal with a lot, so please be aware! secondly, well this was an absolute heck of a fic to write! fun fact, it was meant to be a short fic that got me into posting but it spiralled and here we are... as you can see there will be 2 parts and there may also be an alternate ending... title from i can do it with a broken heart by taylor swift. soooo with that, make yourself a cuppa, a drink, a snack, whatever tickles your fancy, enjoy! and please let me know your feedback!

2022

You’re lying on the sofa with Max, head on his chest as you curl up into his side. His fingers are running through your hair gently as you both focus on the movie on the television. You hum quietly, perfectly content with where you are and you’re almost falling asleep to his soothing motions when Max speaks up.

“I’m going to marry you someday.”

“What?” You laugh, lifting your head from his chest to stare at him. He was staring back at you, a serious look on his face.

“I’m not saying now. I’m just saying that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re it for me. I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too Maxie. Forever and a day.”

“Forever and a day.” He confirms, pulling you in for a kiss that only lasts for a few seconds before you pull away giggling. “How about, if I win three championships, I’m getting down on one knee and proposing.” 

“If?” 

“It’s not a guarantee, schat.” 

“I believe in you. You are amazing,” You take a break in between words to press kisses to his lips. “Plus, now you have extra incentive.”

“That I do.” Max beams up at you, one hand tangling in your hair. “I can’t wait to be able to call you mine. Forever.”

“I’m already yours forever. I always will be.”

“Then I can’t wait to put a ring on it.”

“Alright, well, when you win your third championship, we’ll get engaged.” You said through giggles as he wraps you in his hold, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“It’s a deal.” He breathes against your skin before pulling you for a long kiss and you spend the night in each others arms, quiet laughter and soft words spoken in your own little bubble. 

—&.&—

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yourusername its me and you, thats my whole world. forever and a day with you x

tagged: maxverstappen

maxverstappen forever and a day my love xx

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maxverstappen holiday snaps 

tagged: yourusername

yourusername i love you x

landonorris invites much

↳ maxverstappen yes my first thought when i want to go on holiday with my girlfriend is invite you

↳ yourusername dont worry, you’re invited next time lan xx

georgerussell looking like a wonderful time team! i hope you're having a lovely time

↳ maxverstappen thanks mate!

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yourusername sleepy holiday mornings 

tagged: maxverstappen

landonorris can you please have a warning next time? i don’t need to see that many photos of shirtless max

georgerussell i agree with lando 

alexalbon i also agree with lando

charlesleclerc yeah we so need a warning next time please 

maxverstappen i love you x

user1 this is so cute, i want what they have 

user2 don’t know who im more jealous of tbh??? 

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yourusername i’m so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished. i can’t imagine doing life with anyone else and im so grateful we get to go on this journey together

tagged: maxverstappen

maxverstappen i love you, forever and a day x

landonorris you guys are kind of cute i guess

redbullracing that’s our RB couple!

charlesleclerc less kissing at the barriers, there are kids around 

—&.&— 

January 2023 

“What are you saying? Do you… do you want to break-up?”

“I don’t know, I…”

“What’s bringing this on Max? I thought we were happy. I thought…” You’re unable to finish your sentence but the words flit through your head regardless.

I thought you wanted to marry me. I thought we were ready to spend the rest of our lives together. 

“We were, we are,” He insists, taking a step closer to you and grabbing onto your hand. “It’s just that I know the upcoming year is going to be so much and I don’t want to not be able to commit time to you, to us. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“We’ve never had an issue before. Not about this. That’s never been a problem.”

“I know that. But I can already see this season being bigger and more than ever -”

“We’ve literally never had that issue before so I don’t know why you think it’s suddenly a reason to break up. We’ve always been this, been us. There’s a reason it works well. We understand what the other goes through. I would never stand in the way of what you’re trying to achieve and if you want to take more time to train, put in the hours, whatever, you don’t have to worry about me. I get it and I’d support you however you need,” You’re trying not to let the tears overwhelm you but you know you’re fighting a losing battle. He’s got a determined look in his eyes, one you know only too well. “You don’t need to be by my side all the time. I’m a fully functioning adult with a full time job too. I don’t need you to entertain me and look after me every minute of every day. We can work around it all.”

“I know you are. I know you don’t need me there all the time. I just think you deserve someone who can give you the time and I don’t think that’s going to me next year -“

“Don’t tell me what I deserve. This isn’t the real reason and I know that!” The tears are fully falling down your face now but you’re beyond caring. “We have always been open about our jobs and what it entails and none of this has ever been a problem! I don’t know why you’re lying but I know there’s more to this. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course you didn’t.” Max breathes quietly, surprise flitting over his face that you could even ask that question. 

“Then why? I thought we were building a life together, I thought…” You swallow hard, wiping your face with your hands hastily. The words are still unable to be spoken out loud by you. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know why you’re trying to lie. I… but I know you’re not going to budge on this. If this is what you truly want, then okay. I’m not going to make it hard on you…”

“Just give me time, give me… I… I still love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” His voice is barely above a whisper and he stares at you, tears in his eyes.

“I love you too. You’re it for me. You’re the only person that’s ever felt like home.” You’re crying softly again now, tears slipping down your face but you don’t make a move to wipe them off your face. 

“I’m sorry. Give me… I’ll always love you.”

“Me too. I… I’m going to see if I can stay with Charles tonight. I…” You take a step back, unable to look him in the eye anymore. He has the same heartbroken expression on his face as you’re sure is on yours and it makes it all the more difficult to turn your back on him. You can't help the sob that leaves your throat as you exit the room and head towards the bedroom. 

YN: hey, are you busy?

CL: just at home. why? you alright?

YN: will you come pick me up?

YN: please? 

CL: yeah of course 

CL: give me 10 minutes

CL: everything okay?

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did you and Max get into a fight?” Charles asks quietly, as you scramble into the car, dropping your bag at your feet.

“You can say that. He broke up with me.” You choke out, trying not to let the tears fall as you turn to stare out the window and you hear Charles’ sharp intake of breath.

“Merde, shit, I… I’m sorry. Are you okay?“

“I don’t know, I just… I can’t even think straight,” You exhale shakily, shoving your trembling hands underneath your thighs. “Can I stay with you, just for tonight and then I’ll work something else out -“

“Stop being stupid, you can stay as long as you need or want.”

“Thanks Charlie.” You turn to give him a weak smile and he returns it, hand reaching to squeeze your shoulder gently.

“Anytime. I’m here for you. However you need.”

“Thank you.” You whisper quietly before you turn your head to look out the window, not wanting him to see the tears fall. But you know he’s already caught them from his quiet sigh and the hand he keeps over yours. 

The rest of the short car ride is silent and you don’t speak, not even as he guides you inside gently, taking your bag from you and carrying it into the guest room.

“I might just take a nap if that’s okay.” You murmur quietly, tears still glistening in your eyes as you turn to him and his face softens.

“Yeah, of course that’s alright. I’ll be downstairs, okay? Come get me if you need anything or text me.”

“Thanks Charlie.” You give him the best smile you can manage and an involuntary hitch in your voice comes out. He gives you a hand squeeze before drawing you into a hug.

“Anytime.”

“Not even going to reprimand me for calling you Charlie?”

“I’ll let it slide this time. Now, get some sleep in, okay? And drink some water.” 

“Yeah, okay.” He draws back, giving you one last smile before he closes the door gently behind him. You stare at the closed door for a few seconds, until the sounds of his footsteps are no longer audible. It’s not until you’ve changed into pyjamas and you’re under the covers, with the room plunged in darkness that you let the tears fall. 

You wake up a few hours later with your head pounding and dried tears on your face. It takes you longer than it usually does but you eventually make your way out of bed and wash your face. As you make your way out of the bedroom, you pull on a hoodie before you slowly make your way down the hallway.

“Hey.” Charles shoots up from the sofa when you shuffle into the living room and you give him your best attempt at a smile.

“Hi.”

“Want to come sit?” You slowly make your way and settle onto the sofa next to him. He passes you a blanket and you curl up underneath it as he wraps an arm around you. “Do you want anything? Is there anything you need?”

“No, I’m okay, thank you though.” 

“Okay,” Charles says softly, giving you a squeeze on the shoulder. “I was going to get started on some dinner. Is there anything you feel like?”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“You’re going to eat something for dinner. Don’t even bother arguing.” He says flatly, eyebrows raised at you and you hold his gaze for a few moments before sighing quietly.

“I’m fine with anything. Do you need some help?

“I was going to make chicken and leek pasta. How about you help with chopping some vegetables?” 

“Okay.” You give him a small smile, before moving off the sofa and shuffling behind him into the kitchen. He hands you everything he wants chopping and sets you up beside him on the bench. 

You know he’s trying to distract you as he talks away, telling you stories about Christmas and the antics him, Arthur, and Enzo got up to. He puts music on and dances, terribly, and teases you gently. When a slightly slower song comes on and he senses your mood drop, he gently takes the knife from you before pulling you into some open space. One arm wraps around your waist and the other takes your hand and he dances with you. You can feel tears building in your eyes as he spins you around before wrapping you tightly in his arms.

“It’s going to be alright, I promise.” He whispers in your ear quietly and you bury your head in his chest and try to believe him, even with tears slipping down your cheeks.

—&.&—

MV: hey

MV: how is she? 

CL: max… how do you think she is

MV: i know, i know i dont have the right to ask that but i just need to know shes okay 

CL: she’s… i don’t know what to tell you max

MV: the truth. is she eating and drinking water? because she’s really bad at that sometimes 

MV: she forgets especially when she’s working and she’ll try tell you its fine but don’t believe her

MV: and you have to make sure she doesn’t drink coffee after 4pm or she wont sleep 

MV: and she’ll try tell you it’s fine but it’s not 

CL: ill look after her. i promise

MV: thank you  

—&.&—

Max shifts from foot to foot as he waits outside the door. He knows that he shouldn’t be there, that he doesn’t have the right anymore, but his need to know you’re okay wins out. He doesn’t have to wait long as Charles opens the door almost immediately. His face is sympathetic but also guarded. He deserves it, he deserves Charles to turn around and slam the door in his face because he knows that you’re like a sister to Charles.

“Hey Max, do you want to come in?” 

“If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Charles lets out a soft sigh and steps back, letting him in and the two walk silently to the living room. “Can I get you anything?

“No, I’m okay, thank you,” Max says softly, sitting down as he ponders how to start talking. “I…”

“She’s not here anymore.” Charles takes pity on Max, answering the question he can’t even ask.

“What do you mean she’s not here?

“She… she’s moved back to the UK,” Charles says softly, giving him a sympathetic look. “She left yesterday.”

“What?”

“Max…”

“But this is her home. I… I… this is her home...”

“This was her home with you. She moved here to be with you.”

“But… but…”

“Imagine if the roles were reversed. Would you want to stay in a place that holds so many memories?” Charles asks gently and Max knows he doesn’t deserve his kindness. He would rather Charles berate him and yell at him, because he knows he deserves it. 

“Where did she go?”

“Milton Keynes. Close to the Red Bull headquarters.”

“Is she okay? Have you talked to her? She hates living by herself and being alone. She -“

“I’ve been calling her every day and I’m going to see her next week. George saw her last week and Lando’s got plans with her tomorrow,” Charles claps a reassuring hand on Max’s shoulder. “She’s got a lot of people looking out for her.”

“She hates living by herself, it’s always too empty, too big.” Max repeats so quietly he may as well have been talking to himself. 

“We’ll look out for her. I’ll look out for her. If it gets bad, I’ll move her in with me.”

“Fuck.” Max drops his head in his hands and Charles pats him on the back softly. He doesn’t know what happened between the two of you and he doesn’t want to pry. But you’re both some of his closest friends and you both look as cut up about it as each other.

“Are you okay?”

“I broke up with her. I’m not really sure I have the right to not be okay.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I’m not going to ask what happened because it’s not my place and if you want to keep it private, then I respect that. You two are both my friends. But it’s quite clear you’re just as cut up about it.”

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love her,” Max says quietly, head still buried in his hands. “I was going to marry her. I just… This upcoming year, there’s something about it. There’s so much pressure and I don’t want her to be there if it gets ugly. I don’t want to take it out on her, even if it’s accidental. I don’t want to not be able to give her the time, and love, and attention she deserves. I…”

“Okay, but you two have been doing this for years together and it’s always worked. You two have been setting the standard for the rest of us since you got together,” Charles says softly, placing a gentle hand on Max’s back. “Why would this season be any different?”

“I don’t know, I just,” Max trails off, shaking his head and when he looks up, his eyes are glassy. “I feel so much pressure already and I’m scared I’m going to do something like snap at her and I don’t want to ever hurt her.”

“So, breaking up with her is the next solution? Max. You’re not your father, you know that right? She knows that. Of course the two of you will fight, but that’s normal. But you’d never treat her the way your dad treated you as a kid. You’re not him. Not even close.”

“I know, I just… Everything got in my head and…” “Everything? Or was it someone…”

“Someone, everyone, everything. God, I don’t know.” Max buries his head in his hands again, hiding away his red eyes and all Charles can do is pat him on the back gently and offer soft words of comfort.

—&.&—

February 2023

Of all things Max expected to happen on a Thursday night, your name flashing up on his phone isn’t one of them. He debates not answering it, but the need to know you’re okay wins out. 

“Max?” Your voice is shaky and you’ve been crying. You still are and he can hear you struggle to take breaths in. He’s immediately on alert, sitting up straight and turning off the television so he can focus on you.

”What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

”How can I be okay when we’re no longer together and I don’t know what to even make of my life anymore?” Your sobs break Max’s heart apart and he tries to remain calm, remain rational, but the more he hears your cries, the more frantic he feels. Because in the time he’s known you, in the time you’ve been together, he can count on one hand the number of times you’ve cried like this.

“Where are you? Are you safe?”

”I’m at Jimmy’z.”

”You’re in Monaco?” Max freezes, before standing up and striding towards his front door, gathering his keys from the key hook by the door. He tries to ignore the fact that you’re the one that had gotten it, years ago, teasing him about how he always misplaced his keys.

”Yeah.”

”I’m coming to get you. Can you stay there?”

”Okay.” You sniffle and before he can tell you to stay on the phone until he gets there, you’ve already hung up. 

He drives as fast as he safely can, pulling up to a space just outside the club. It’s relatively quiet, unsurprising given the day. You must have been waiting just inside the doors, because you come out the moment he pulls up. Your arms are wrapped around yourself as you walk towards him and he can already spot the tear tracks on your cheeks and the redness in your eyes.

”Hey, are you okay?” Max is thankful for his quick reflexes because the moment you’re close enough, you’re collapsing into his arms, face buried in his chest as the tears start again. He wraps his arms around you, holding you up as you cling to him. 

”No.”

”Come on, it’s alright. Let me take you home, okay?” He tries to soothe you, seeing the way you have a visible reaction to the word home, because it’s not really your home. Not anymore. 

“Okay.” You let him bundle you in the car and neither of you speak until you arrive back at the house, following him inside silently and moving to sit on the edge of the sofa next to him.

”Come here.” Max doesn't have to ask twice and you’re in his arms, the tears flowing again. You can’t even form the words you want to say, the sobs racking your body as you bury your head in his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you. You don’t know how long you’re there for but when your tears finally stop, you have a headache and you’re exhausted.  

“I’m sorry, I…” You sniffle quietly, sitting up and shuffling away slightly from him. You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them, pulling them close to you. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I didn’t even mean to call you. You’re just… you’re the first person I thought of.” 

“I’ll be here every time you need.” 

“Okay,” You say after a few minutes of silence. You want to argue but decide to drop it at the last minute and you give him a small shrug and an attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

“Do you want a shower and something to change into?” 

“Yes, please. If that’s alright.” 

“Yeah, of course that’s okay,” He lets out a quiet sigh before standing up and offering you a hand. You take it without hesitation and he leads you into the bedroom and the adjoining ensuite. “I’ll leave some clothes out for you, will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“I’ll fix us some tea and maybe a snack, how about that? Come down when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” You gave him a faint smile and Max watches as you disappear into the bathroom and he listens for the water to turn on. There’s a few shuffling sounds from inside as he leaves some joggers and a cosy shirt he knows you’ve always favoured out on the bed, alongside a hoodie, before he leaves.

You emerge from the bathroom and a faint smile comes over you when you see the outfit he’s laid out. The familiar feeling of the shirt against your skin and the thought that he still remembered the little details made your heart twinge. 

“Hey, I made some tea,” Max smiles softly at you when you pad your way into the living room. He stands up and waits until you’re settled in the corner of the sofa before passing you a mug. “And I’ve got some biscuits.”

“Thank you. For everything. For picking up the phone and picking me up. I… I’m sorry that I called you.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad you called.” 

The two of you share a soft smile and you burst into laughter when he attempts to dip his biscuit in his tea and ends up dropping the entire thing in. It feels like it used to - there’s no awkwardness or uncomfortable silences. It could be just like every other night where you’re both snuggled on the sofa at the end of the day. But it’s not and that much is apparent when later on, you come to a halt outside the bedroom, suddenly unsure about everything.

“Can I stay with you? Please?” 

“Yeah. ‘Course you can.” Max breathes quietly, grabbing your hand and leading you into the bedroom. He can hear your shaky breaths from behind him and he turns around. You look nervous, shifting from foot to foot and the hand not attached to his is fiddling with your top. With his top. “Hey, it’s alright. Come here.”

You let him pull you closer and after a brief hesitation, he bundles you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. The tears fall faster than you can even comprehend, but you can’t even think about that, because all you know is you feel safe in his arms. He heads for the bed and brings you with him, holding you close to him.

“You’re alright, sweet girl, it’s okay.” Max runs a hand through your hair gently, continues to murmur to you quietly and you just stay stuck to his side, curling your body into his. 

“I’m sorry -”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay, you can sleep, alright? You’re safe. I’m here.” Max murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he tightens his arms around you. You let out a soft sigh and your breathing evens out as you rest your head on his chest. You already feel calmer, his familiar touch grounding you. The past month on your own has been more difficult than you could’ve imagined. Sleep has been futile, you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore, and you had been tossing and turning every night until you had given up. It had resulted in you going days without sleep until you finally crashed.

“I miss you so much.” Your voice is barely above a whisper and Max feels you crowd even closer to him, pressing yourself into his side. He moves a hand to the back of your head, stroking it in gentle movements. 

“I know, me too.”

“Why did you break up with me? What did I do wrong?” A fresh wave of tears starts and he can feel your body shake with the sobs and his heart breaks even more.

”You did nothing wrong. It’s not anything you did.” He whispers against the crown of your head, tightening his arms around you.

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“I’m sorry.” Those are the only words he can muster up and this time you don’t respond. He hears the quiet whimper that leaves your lips and the way you cling tighter to him. Only quiet sniffles escape your mouth once in a while but soon he can feel you relax fully against him and your breathing slows. He glances down to see you fast asleep, tucked against him, and although there are still tears glistening on your cheeks, there’s a look of peace and calm that wasn't there before and he just tightens his grasp around you.

—&.&—

Max misses the first call from you, having left his phone in the kitchen whilst he was finding something in the bedroom. He sees the second one but stares at his phone until it stops ringing and your photo disappears from the screen. Almost every part of him is screaming to pick up, because its you. But the call ends before he can make a decision, it falls silent again and he’s left staring at the black screen of his phone.

Then it rings again not even ten minutes later and dread and curiosity fills him because something in his gut says there’s something terribly wrong. And he’s right because though it’s your number, it’s not your voice that answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, who is this sorry?”

“This is Carolina, from the Princess Grace Hospital. You were the emergency contact on this phone -.” But everything else fades and he doesn’t take a single word in the moment he hears it’s the hospital. He’s already moving for his keys and out the door as the other person on the phone keeps talking. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Sorry. Yes. I’m still here. What happened? Is she okay?”

“There was a car accident - someone crashed into her. But she’s stable and sleeping right now.”

“I’m on my way now. Thank you for calling.” Max hangs up the phone, half running to his car as the dread in him continues to rise. Guilt pricks at him for not picking up the phone earlier and he’s imagining the worst case scenario in his head. He drives faster than he probably should but he’d take all the speeding tickets right now. All he can think of is getting to you. 

He rushes into reception and when they finally get around to telling him where you are, he’s striding the hallways until he finds the room you’re in. He doesn’t think anything could’ve prepared him for the sight of you in the hospital bed, a bandage around your head and around your left forearm. A bruise is already blossoming down your neck and he sees tiny nicks and scratches amongst the IV and lines coming from you.

His footsteps are slow and cautious and you don’t stir, not even as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. One hand moves to brush the hair off your face and he’s struck by how fragile you look. All he can do is stare, almost afraid of touching you in case he hurts you. He hates that he wasn’t there for you and he’s just imagining how terrified you must have been.

“They’ve given her some strong pain meds, she might be sleeping for a while.” A soft voice says and he looks up to see someone in scrubs standing in the doorway, a tablet in hand. She walks in quietly, giving Max a gentle smile. 

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be sore for a bit, but she should be fine. It seems mostly superficial but we are monitoring her for a concussion.”

“But she’s okay?” Max repeats, looking up from you to her again. 

“I’m not going to make any promises, but it does look good.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” His voice is soft and he glances back at you, hand tight around yours. 

“She was asking for you earlier. I’m sure she’ll love to see you when she wakes up. I’ll leave you to it. Just press the call button if you need anything.” She says quietly, a smile stretching across her face as she watches how lovingly he looks at you, before she leaves and shuts the door quietly behind her.

Max settles himself in the chair in the corner, throwing a blanket over his legs and getting comfortable. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be here, but all he knows is he’s going to make damn sure he’s going to be here when you wake up. His fingers hover over a contact in his phone, hesitating slightly, before he presses call.

“Max? Is everything alright?” The familiar voice of his mother fills his ear and it immediately puts him at ease.

“Yeah, I mean, no, I don’t know… I’m at the hospital -”

“What? Are you okay?!”

“I’m okay, it’s not for me… I…” Max’s voice tells Sophie everything she needs to know and she lets out a long breath. 

“Is she okay?”

“I… I think so… She was in a car accident and I was still her emergency contact so they called me. When I heard it was the hospital I was so scared… I… The doctors said she’s just a bit banged up but seeing her in the bed, she looks so fragile and there’s nothing I can do.” 

“Sweetheart, you’re there for her. That’s all you can do.” Sophie says gently, her voice soothing and quiet. 

“She must have been so scared and she was all alone -”

“Max, listen to me. You can’t change what has happened, okay? But you can be there for her. You’re there for her now and that’s what matters. You showed up.”

“Yeah…”

“Do you want me to fly over?”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine. Thank you, though. I appreciate it,” Max lets out a long breath, pausing momentarily when he sees you shift slightly, but you remain asleep. “I’ll wait for her to wake up and then see what the doctors say. But she’s not flying back to the UK by herself, not like this.”

“I think that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I think she’s waking up, I should go.” Max’s eyes snap to you again when you shift again, this time a little more aggressively. 

“Okay, give her my best and give me any updates. I love you.”

“I love you too. Thank you.”

“Of course, any time.” Sophie says softly and they hang up, Max shoving the phone back in his pocket when he sees you blink awake, head turning to take in your surroundings.

“Hey, hi, be careful, let me help.” Max shoots off his chair when he sees you try to move and he’s by your side in a blink of an eye, his arms supporting you as you sit up against the headboard.

“You came.”

“Of course I came. Do you know how scared I was when I got that call saying you were in the hospital?”

“I… sorry.”

“What on earth are you apologising for?”

“I forgot you were my emergency contact. I’ll change it, I promise -“

”Stop being a bloody idiot,” Max mutters quietly, cutting across you. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. And don’t change your emergency contact.”

“Max -”

“We travel together so much anyway. It just makes sense.” 

“I don’t want to overstep. Hannah’s mentioned I can use her -“

“You’re not overstepping. Keep me as your emergency contact, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Don’t be stupid.” Max’s voice is gruff, but his gaze softens when he catches your gaze. 

“Okay, thank you.”

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“Some idiot just decided to run a red light. I’m fine. Just a little bruised.” You let out a laugh, but stop when you feel pain course through you. You wince slightly and he notices it immediately, because of course he does. 

“Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Do you want me to call someone in here?”

“No it’s okay, just a little bit bruised and battered. Some rest will be fine.”

“You’re sure? You’re not just trying to put on a brave face or anything like that?”

“I’m sure. I’m just a bit sore.” You’re saved from trying to convince him further when there’s a knock at the door and the same woman from earlier walks in.

“Hi, it’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Just a bit banged up, but that’s it.”

“That’s good to hear. We still want to keep you at least overnight, just to make sure, but you should be free to go tomorrow morning. Do you live alone or?”

”She’s coming home with me.” Max says immediately and you go to open your mouth but he raises his eyebrows at you and you know you’d be fighting a losing battle if you tried to argue. 

“Okay, she mainly needs to rest. She’ll be a bit sore for a while, but just keep an eye out for concussion symptoms. I’ll grab you some pamphlets and get all the paperwork sorted.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Max nods and smiles and the nurse leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“It’s fine, Max. I’ll just fly back to the UK -“

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion because are you actually insane? You just got in a serious car accident. There’s no way you’re in actual shape to do anything, let alone get on a plane.”

“I just don’t want to be a bother.” You mumble quietly, staring down at your hands as they twist themselves around the bedsheet.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re never a bother. At least stay for a few days and make sure you’re okay. Then I’ll fly back with you and help you get settled.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t. Besides, I was going to call Christian anyway, so may as well go see him in person.”

“Max.”

“We’ll talk about it later, okay? We don’t have to decide anything right now.” He decides on an ambiguous comment, knowing you weren’t going to let the discussion go. But he was just as stubborn as you, and there was zero chance he was letting you leave by yourself at this very moment. 

You stare at him silently, but you eventually cave, realising that he wasn’t going to budge. He sighs happily as you collapse back onto your pillows silently and you let him organise everything with the doctors.

Several hours later you’re back in Max’s flat, with everything you need and an incident where you tripped getting out of the car, that almost had Max calling the hospital back. Despite your insistence that it was due to your clumsiness and not a product of a concussion, you had to practically knock the phone out of his hand to ensure he didn’t press call.

“Alright, are you comfy? Do you need anything? Do you want another blanket?” Max hovers over you protectively as he immediately goes to grab the blanket on the other side of the sofa and tucks it around you gently.

“Max -”

“I’ll get you some water and some tea and then we can talk about dinner. I’ll see what I have in or I can do a shop or order something in. I’ll make sure it’s healthy and nutritious.”

“Max -”

“You should use the bathroom in the main bedroom because its got the bath as well and there’s more space so you can get around -”

“Max.” Your insistence finally gets his attention and he spins around to see you trying to extract yourself from the cocoon he’s wrapped you in. His eyes widen and he rushes over to help you and when your arms are free, you grab onto one of his hands before he can run off again. “Max, I’m fine. Why don’t you sit down and just take a breath?”

“But -”

“I’m fine, I promise. I just need to rest and sleep.”

“You sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t we just watch a movie or something, yeah?” You tug at his hand until he focuses fully on you.

“Okay. Can I at least get you some water or something to drink?”

“Some water would be really nice, if that's okay.” You offer him a smile, knowing that he wouldn’t rest until you accepted his help. 

“Of course.” Max shoots up from the sofa and he’s halfway across the room before he spins around and heads back towards you. Despite your protests, he tucks the blanket back around you, offering you another pillow that he helps wedge behind your back. He’s back in a flash, handing you a glass of water and hovering close by as you drink from it.

“Max, I’m okay. You can relax a little.” Your voice is soft and when you grab onto his hand again, he slowly sinks into the sofa, eyes on you the whole time.

“I was so worried when I got that phone call and I heard you were in a car crash. Then seeing you in the hospital bed…”

“I know, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You’re the one who got in a car accident and you’re the one apologising? Same old you.” Max gives you a wry smile and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“I’ll be okay. Let’s just watch a movie and relax for now, yeah? And if anything feels weird or off, I’ll say something.”

“Yeah, alright. Okay. As long as you promise you’ll say something.”

“I promise.” You hold out your pinky finger and he chuckles quietly before linking your pinkies together, shaking your hands up and down. As Max gets himself comfortable, he draws you into his hold, movements cautious at first as if he's still afraid you’ll break. 

You spend the night in his bed, curled up close to his side. He had initially proposed sleeping on an air mattress, just so he could be there if anything happened. But you had promptly dismissed the idea and pulled him in next to you. The two of you fall back into a comfortable routine the next few days, except for the fact Max doesn’t let you lift a single finger. You have to stop him from panic-calling the hospital twice. Once when you get the day wrong and he’s convinced you have a concussion and the other when you slip on the floor and narrowly miss banging your head on the floor. So you really shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction when you come to him a week later with your news.

“I booked a flight. It’s going to leave tomorrow.”

“What? I said I’d take you back, that I’d come with you and help you get settled.” He looks up at you in shock and alarm, immediately dropping the chef’s knife he’s using onto the counter.

“I know. And I really appreciate that, but I… I need to do this myself. I want to rely on myself.” You say quietly and his face crumples. Because he knows what you mean when you say that. Because it’s a reminder that you two are no longer together and to you, it means you’re alone and by yourself. You’re so fiercely independent and it's one of the many reasons he loves you, but he knows that you see it as further evidence you can only rely on one person. Yourself. 

“Can I change your mind?”

“No. I’m sorry, I… I have to do this.”

“Okay, okay. Can I at least drive you to the airport tomorrow?” Max asks quietly, eyes searching yours as if he’s looking for something that he can use to help change your mind. 

“I would really like that. Thank you.” 

“Anytime. Well, dinner’s almost ready.” 

“Do you need help with anything?”

“Maybe just setting the table if that’s alright.”

“Of course. Do you want anything to drink or just water?” You call over your shoulder as you gather some glasses and at his response you pour two glasses of water before heading towards the dining room. You hum quietly to yourself, still hearing the faint tunes of the music Max has playing in the kitchen. 

The two of you spend the rest of your night in your own little bubble, talking and laughing together. There’s an ease you feel around Max that you’ve not felt around anyone else. You don’t have to pretend or put up a front or anything around him. He’s home. 

—&.&—

March 2023

You thought you’d be more prepared for it, seeing him again. He’s greeting some of the team, slapping hands and bumping fists as they catch up on the last few months. His hair has been freshly cut you notice and he’s shaved recently.  You haven’t seen him since the aftermath of your car accident in Monaco and it’s certainly the first time you’ve been around friends, around colleagues, around everyone since you’ve broken up. 

You shift from foot to foot, wondering whether or not you can make a break for it when he spots you. His eyes light up and he wraps up the conversations he’s in and soon enough, he’s right in front of you.

“Hi. It’s good to see you.” He says softly, blinking at you a few times before he steps forwards and wraps you in a tight hug. 

“Hey Max, yeah you too.” You breathe quietly as you step out of his embrace, immediately missing the safety of his arms.

“And you’re alright? After the car accident and everything?”

“Yeah, yeah, completely fine.”

“And you got a follow-up to make sure everything’s alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I promise.” You give him a smile and reach out to squeeze his hand, which seems to calm him down. 

“Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

“Thank you. I know I’ve said it before, but thank you for coming and all the help and… Taking care of me.” 

“I’ll always take care of you,” Max says quietly, his hand still intertwined with yours and his thumb brushes featherlight touches against the back of your hand. “I know how much you hate hospitals and I couldn’t let you be there by yourself.”

“I really appreciate it. All of it. You,” You let out a quiet exhale and give him a small smile and he returns it. The two of you are broken out of your small bubble when there’s a small crash and you jump apart, turning to see a box with its contents all over the floor. Bystanders jump in to help gather it up and it's then you realise where you are and you put space in between the two of you. “I’ve got a meeting to go to. Um, I’ll catch you later?”

“Yeah, later will be nice. I’ll see you soon.” Max says quietly, taking a small step towards you and hesitates slightly before pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“See you soon.” You echo and walk down the hallway and towards your meeting. Max wants to call after you, to say something, but he doesn’t know what. So, he just watches you until you’re gone and then heads towards his own meeting with a heavy heart.

—&.&—

April 2023

Max frowns when he sees the missed calls from you on his phone - he hasn’t spoken to you since the race in China, and you seemed fine, if not just a bit tired. But something in his gut tells him there’s something wrong and when he sees a three minute long voicemail you’ve left half an hour ago, the feeling gets worse. You haven’t tried to call him since you’ve left the voicemail and he hesitantly presses play and the sound of you crying fills his ears.

“I miss you so much and I don’t know how I’m even supposed to live without you.” You’re sobbing and he can hear you struggle to breathe, your words punctuated by small gasps. “And I hate living alone, I hate it so much. It’s scary and I feel so anxious all the time. And it feels so lonely and empty. Nothing has ever felt like home except for with you.”

Max’s heart sinks with every word and all he can do is listen to you cry. There’s nothing he can do and he knows you’re panicking and he’s just praying you’re okay.

“And I don’t even know why I called you but you’ve been the one person I’ve been able to count on for the last few years and you’ve always picked up. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when you still tell me you miss me and you let me stay and you say you still love me, and you hug me until I fall asleep.” A series of hiccups breaks up your words and you pause for a few seconds. “You tell me it’s not because of me and that you still love me. That it’s because you don’t think you can give me or us the proper time but that’s never been an issue for us. We’ve always been a team and we’ve always worked like this. Our whole relationship has been us in these roles so I don’t understand why now it’s a problem? And if you needed to take some time away from us to focus on yourself and racing or whatever, that’s okay. You could’ve done that. I would have supported you in whatever you needed. I still would, I always will. It’s just always been us and now it’s not and I don’t know what to do.” 

There’s silence for a few moments, only the sounds of you sniffing audible. Your cries have slowed down but one still slips out once in a while. 

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore but I miss you so much. Loving you has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anymore…” Your voice trails off again and the sounds of your shaky breathing fill his ears. Then all of a sudden the voicemail ends and the dull beeping tone fills his ears.

He immediately hangs up and tries to call you but he’s immediately sent to your voicemail. He know its futile but he tries again and again, only to be met with the same result. 

MV: long shot, but are either of you close to milton keynes right now??

GR: im up north at the moment sorry

GR: is everything ok?

LN: im home for the next week, i can get there if needed

LN: what’s wrong

MV: she’s just called me a few times and left a… voicemail and im just worried 

MV: like really worried, ive never heard her like that

LN: let me try call her 

GR: ill give her a quick text as well

GR: im sure itll be fine mate

—&.&—

YN: im sorry, i shouldn’t have left that voice message

YN: im fine 

YN: i just… didn’t think 

MV: call me 

MV: please x

YN: im fine, i promise

MV: call me 

MV: please

—&.&—

August 2023

liked by maxverstappen, alexandrasaintmleux, and others 

yourusername another lap around the sun. thank you for the love and birthday wishes x

charlesleclerc joyeux anniversaire xx thanks for being the bestest friend ever, lots of love for you xx

↳ yourusername love you charlie x

alexandrasaintmleux HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRETTY GIRL! love you so much. can’t wait to celebrate with you soon xx

↳ yourusername love you alex xx

landonorris happy birthday baby bull!! i love you, can’t wait to celebrate soon!

↳ yourusername love you lan xx

maxverstappen happy birthday, i hope you have a wonderful day xx

↳ yourusername thank you max x see you soon x

oscarpiastri merry birthmas!!! time to go drink and celebrate soon! xx

↳ yourusername osc, merry birthmas isnt a thing…

↳ yourusername but thank youuuu can’t wait to party soon! x

georgerussell happy birthday baby bull!!xx

↳ yourusername thanks georgie x

francisca.cgomes happy birthday beautiful girl!! love you to the moon and back xx

↳ yourusername love you kika xx

carlossainz55 feliz cumpleaños! xx

↳ yourusername muchas gracias carlito! xx

victoriaverstappen happy happy birthday from all us!! we love you so much and cant wait to see you xx

↳ yourusername so much love to you and everyone, miss you xx

sophiekumpen happy birthday lieverd! cant wait to see you soon sweetheart xx

↳ yourusername thank you, i cant wait to see you xx

user1 max not posting a birthday tribute to her and their love story feels so wrong 😭

user2 HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

user3 still the best wag ever, happy birthday hope you have a great day! 

user4 THEY CALL HER BABY BULL?? why did we not know this earlier?? why is that so cute?!

user5 her telling max she’ll see him soon, victoria and sophie saying they can’t wait to see her soon?? the fact they’re still all so close, like shes still family to them?? 

comments on this post have been limited.

—&.&—

MV: happy birthday, hope you have a good day and thinking of you xx

MV: looking forward to being able to celebrate you soon x

YN: thank you x see you soon max x

—&.&—

October 2023

You watch as he lifts the trophy above his head and tears fill your eyes as pride fills you. You know how hard he’s been working, how much he deserves this. It’s been a dominating season for him and it’s all culminated in his third world championship. And suddenly the memory comes rushing through you and you feel like you can’t breathe.

“When I lift that third championship trophy, I’m getting down on one knee straight after and proposing.” 

The words flit through your head on repeat as you think of that scene from all the time ago and it's suddenly all too much. You choke back your tears and take a few steps back. You bump into Hannah, who reaches for you, a concerned look on her face but you shake your head.

“I’ve, I’ve got to go, I… I’ll see you back in the garage.” You manage to get out before you turn and push your way through the throngs of people. The tears have already started flowing and you wipe them away hastily, tugging at the cap on your head to mask your face.

The image of him on the podium with his third championship trophy combined with what you had promised each other is tearing you apart inside and soon you’re sobbing, unable to stop the sharp rises and falls of your chest. You’re not even paying attention and you end up walking right into someone.

“I’m sorry -“

“Woah, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” It’s Alex, who catches you by the arm, stopping you in your tracks before you can slip into the Red Bull garage and concern floods her face when she takes you in. 

“I just can’t do it, I can’t, it hurts too much.” You’re past the point of caring as you sob into Alex’s chest as she pulls you in, wrapping her arms tightly around you. 

“Oh, lovely, I’m sorry. Hey, hey, take a breath okay?”

”I thought I was finally getting over him, but seeing him up there and everything we’d talked about. I, just, I can’t.” The rest of your words are lost in your sobs and Alex shushes you quietly, tightening her arms around you, a hand coming to move up and down your back.

”Okay, okay, how about we sit down for a bit okay? Just to catch your breath.” She pulls back from you, only to wrap and arm around you and lead you towards the Ferrari hospitality and into an empty room. She sets you gently down on the sofa, sitting beside you and you can’t stop the tears from falling.

“We agreed, he said… he said he’d propose when he won his third championship. We had talked about it and seeing him up there winning… All I could think of is how we were supposed to spend the rest of our lives together and now we’re just…” You sob into your knees, arms wrapped tightly around your legs.

”Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Alex murmurs quietly, nudging your head onto her shoulder as she wraps an arm around you. You can’t even respond, tears wracking your body as the feelings overwhelm you. 

You don’t know how long you spend there, sobbing into Alex’s shoulder. But when you finally feel the tears easing, you’re exhausted and your eyes are puffy.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, using the sleeve of your shirt to dab at your eyes.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“It just feels so stupid sometimes.” 

“It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to be upset and feel what you feel. Never apologise for it.” She says softly, squeezing your hand and giving you a gentle smile.

“Yeah… I… I should get back. I… I… It’s been too long.” You whisper, voice hoarse and Alex hesitates, as if though she wants to argue. But then a quiet sigh leaves her lips and she just wraps you up in a tight hug.

“Okay. Call or text me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“And I’ll come get you later tonight and we can go together.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Charles and I both want to. So, we’ll see you later, okay?” She says firmly and you give her a shaky smile.

“Thank you. Both of you,” You stand up, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “How do I look? Not too terrible?”

“You look beautiful,” Alex smiles at you and wraps you in one last hug before she walks you back to the Red Bull garage, your hand in hers. You can already see and hear the celebrations and you hesitate for a brief moment. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. Thank you. I’ll see you later.” You squeeze her hand and she smiles gently before she disappears and you’re left to walk into the garage. It’s chaos in there and someone grabs you a tight hug, cheering loudly. When you look around, you catch Max’s gaze and the two of you stare at each other. He looks as if though he’s making a move towards you, but there’s too many people in the way and everyone is stopping to congratulate him. You mouth a congratulations to him, offering up a smile when you see his thank you, and you melt into the crowd.

—&.&—

You sigh quietly, turning to each side a few times as you watch your reflection in the mirror. You’re suddenly regretting your choice in dress and even going in the first place. But the buzz from your phone and the resulting text from Charles letting you know he was waiting for you downstairs has you reluctantly heading out the door.

“Hey, you look beautiful.” He smiles gently at you and wraps you in a tight hug. 

“Thank you. You don’t clean up bad yourself.”

“Something I found in the back of my closet.” A grin spreads across his face and you can’t help but laugh. Charles offers you a hand and you walk together to the car, where Alex gives you a smile and a wave from the front seat.

“That dress is lovely on you, you look gorgeous!” She beams, reaching over to squeeze your hand in lieu of a hug as you settle in the car.

“Thank you, you too.” You smile, but there’s a shakiness to your voice that has both of them giving you a sympathetic look as you start moving.

“You don’t have to go tonight, you know that right? It’s alright.” Charles says quietly, eyes moving to glance at you in the car. 

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“It’s not just about celebrating him. It’s about celebrating everyone, the team. I want to be there for everyone.” 

“Okay. We’ll be there if you need us. And if you want to leave, then tell us, okay?” Alex shoots Charles a sharp look before turning to you, smiling gently as she reaches over to squeeze your hand.

“Okay. Thank you.” 

The two of them draw you into conversation and laughter for the rest of the car ride. You know they’re trying to distract you, trying to keep your mind off of everything, and it almost works. But all of that goes away when you step into the venue and see  Max right by the entrance. His eyes immediately find yours and he’s walking towards you before you can even formulate a response in your head. You turn to see Charles and Alex have been caught talking to someone else and you’re alone when Max steps in front of you.

“Hi. I’m so glad you’re here.” He says softly, hovering in front of you. He’s slightly out of breath and his hand drifts to the back of his head again, rubbing slightly, but he stops when he catches your eye.

“Hey. Congratulations world champ,” Your voice wavers slightly and you step forward and wrap your arms around him. Your breath hitches when you feel him wrap his arms tightly around you, head buried in the crook of your neck. “I’m so proud of you.” 

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you. Any of it.” He breathes quietly, lips right by your ear, hugging you close. You shut your eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay but tonight and what it could’ve been is bringing up waves of emotions you’d rather keep hidden. Taking in a deep breath, you step back from his arms, putting a few feet of distance between you.

“Yeah, you could’ve. You always had it in you.” 

“Thank you. You look beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do, but you look extra gorgeous tonight.”

“I, thanks Max. That’s very kind of you.”

“Thank you for coming tonight. I’m glad we can celebrate it together.” He says softly and you know from the look on his eyes that he also remembers every word you two had shared. That you’d be celebrating something else had you still been together. That it’d be the start of your new life together. 

“Always. I’ll, um, I’ll see you later, okay?” You cast a scan around you, seeing multiple people wanting to congratulate him and you take a few steps back.

“Yeah. I’ll find you.” Max smiles softly at you and you give him a small smile and a nod before melting away into the crowd, letting him accept his well-deserved accolades. You keep to yourself for most of the night, ducking in and out of conversations, and now you find yourself tucked in a corner, hand wrapped around a glass of water. You had long stopped drinking, the alcohol intensifying all the feelings you’d rather keep buried deep within you. Both Charles and Lando had convinced you to venture onto the dancefloor, but after a while, you had snuck off back to your corner. 

After a few hours, you tell Lando you’re leaving and after you assure him you’re okay and that you just want to sleep, he sends you off with a giant hug and multiple promises that you’ll text him when you’re back. 

The moment you’re back you strip off your make-up and get into pyjamas, curling up under the soft covers. In the darkness of the room, you’re left to your own thoughts and once again you can’t help but think about what tonight could’ve been in another lifetime. 

A few hours later, you’re still able to get to sleep, continue to toss and turn in the bed. You’re saved from the overwhelming thoughts in your head when you hear a quiet knock at your door. You debate not answering it, sure they’ve got the wrong door. But when the knock sounds again, more insistent this time, you reluctantly swing your legs out of bed and open to the door to find a slightly disheveled looking Max. 

“Hi.” 

“Max? What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” You blink, staring at him for a few seconds before you step back and he slips inside, the door shutting with a soft thud.

“Is everything okay?” 

“I… You left. I was looking for you and you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I… Sorry, I was tired. I wanted to get to bed.”

“I missed you.”

“You’re drunk. Go back to your room.” You say softly, watching him carefully as he takes another step closer to you.

“I’m not. I stopped drinking hours ago,” He immediately responds, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m not drunk.”

“Okay. But it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” A soft sigh leaves your lips and you continue on when you realise how harsh it sounds. “You should be celebrating. Having fun.”

“It’s not the same without you. You should’ve been there by my side. Tonight… tonight should’ve been so different.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that. I…”

“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t fair to you. I just… I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Max.”

“Can I stay with you? Please.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you just won your third world championship, that you can get any girl you want. You don’t have to spend it with me.”

“I don’t want them, I don’t want any of them. I want you.”

“Max…”

“If you want to kick me out, then you can. But don’t think it’s because I want to be with some other girl. Because I don’t.”

“You’re… allowed to, you know? It’s okay.” You whisper softly but inside every part of you breaks at the thought of someone else loving him. Of him loving someone else.

“I want to be here. With you. If you want me.”

“Of course I want you here,” You say quietly and you let out a quiet exhale. “Come on, I’ve got some clothes you can probably sleep in.”

“Thank you.” Max watches you closely as you hand him an old shirt you both know are his and a pair of boxers you’ve been using as sleep shorts. He disappears into the bathroom and when he re-emerges, you’re already back under the covers. There’s hesitation in his movements when he’s at the edge of the bed and you reach out to grab onto his hand.

“It’s alright. Come on.”

“Okay.” He lets you tug him into bed and the moment you’re both under the covers, you’re already entangled together.

“I just want you to know I’m so proud of you.” You whisper quietly into the night, wrapped tightly in his arms. Your head is on his chest and one hand traces patterns into your upper arm ever so gently.

“I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Not just what you do with the team. But what you’ve done for me. To be by my side through it all. Thank you for everything.” 

“You’re welcome. I’m glad that I could be around to witness this.”

“I’m glad you were there too. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.” He pulls you closer into him and between his familiar hold and the soft, soothing touches on your skin, you’re asleep in minutes.

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yourusername max, im proud of you forever. congratulations on your third wdc, you deserve this so much and it’s been a pleasure to witness what you’ve done. thankful to the red bull family and very grateful to be a small part of a much bigger team and family x

tagged: maxverstappen, redbullracing

maxverstappen thank you for everything. you’re a much bigger part of this than you even realise, in so many different ways and i wouldn’t be able to do this without you. thank you for everything and for being you xxx

redbullracing what a season, let’s go!

user1 her saying forever but not following it up with and a day feels wrong… 

user2 god she’s still supportive of him and he acknowledges and loves it so much 

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—&.&—

December 2023

You collapse onto your sofa, leaving your bags by the front door, only bothering to grab your phone, keys, and wallet out. Flopping back on to a pillow, you drag a blanket over yourself, turning the television on. The screen immediately illuminates the dark room and you mindlessly choose a cheesy Christmas movie that pops up. 

It’s been a long week - you’ve driven from your place in Milton Keynes, to South Cambridgeshire to see your mum, step-dad and younger siblings, before heading to Norwich to see your dad, step-mother and your siblings there. In all honesty, you were meant to stay longer, to spend Christmas day with your dad, after spending the week with your mum. However, you had shortened your stay to only a few days at each house, claiming you weren’t feeling well and didn’t want to get anyone else sick. 

But the truth is, you weren’t in a festive mood and you didn’t feel like you truly belonged in either household. You loved your parents and you were lucky that both your step-parents were lovely people. You loved your younger siblings, them never failing to put a smile on your face. But the reality was they had started their lives again and you felt like an outsider looking in sometimes. 

You didn’t want to dampen anyone else’s festive spirit so you had driven back earlier, having to pull over several times due to the tears slipping down your face. It was your first time in several years not being with Max during the holidays and it had left you feeling impossibly lonely. 

You’re half an hour into your movie when there’s a knock at your door. You’re not expecting anyone and you’re wondering if you can ignore it, when a few more knocks ring out. Reluctantly, you sit up, abandoning the cocoon you’ve wrapped yourself in and head to the front door. Your eyes widen when it swings open to reveal Max, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and his face lights up when he sees you.

“Max? What are you doing here?” Seeing him on the other side of your doorstep was the last sight you expected. “I… Do you want to come in?”

“Thanks.” He steps inside and you close the door behind him, watching as he hangs his coat up and removes his shoes.

“Um, can I get you a tea or anything like that?”

“Just some water will be fine, thanks.” He follows you quietly into the kitchen, eyes flitting around. It’s the first time he’s been here. But it’s not the first time he’s wondered what your flat is like. It keeps him up at night and when it’s not a race weekend, he worries about how you’re doing, living by yourself when he knows you hate it.

“Here,” You hand him a glass of water, shuffling from foot to foot before pouring one for yourself and you lead the way back into the living room and onto the sofa.

“Thank you.”

“So, um, is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

“I got the notifications you had been doing drives and then I saw you were back here. I knew you said you were going to stay with your dad until boxing day so I got worried. I wanted to see if you were okay.” 

“Yeah… I… I’m fine,” You forget that you had never removed each other from your live locations. There was little point in a way, you saw each other for most of the year when you travelled for races. “Wasn’t really feeling great so just decided to come ho -, come back here.” You shrug and you hope he doesn’t pick up on your slip but of course he does. Because it’s Max and he knows you.

“This place doesn’t feel like home yet?” His voice is soft, gentle, like he’s trying to reassure you. But as he looks around, he notices how the flat is void of personal touch, not like you had done with your place in Monaco. There are no photographs up and no form of decoration. As if though this is only temporary. He sees a few books scattered on your coffee table alongside a journal and pen but other than that the place seems empty. 

“It’s… it’s… I’m not really here enough with all the travelling, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“You still deserve a place that feels like home. That’s yours.”

“Only one place felt like home in a long time and now it’s… It’s not mine anymore.” You whisper quietly, the confession spilling out of you almost unwillingly and he gives a visible flinch. 

“You’re always welcome there, you know that right? It’s your home as much as mine.”

“That’s very kind of you but it’s not the same anymore and I think we both know that.” You offer him a soft smile, trying to ease his discomfort because the words weren’t meant to hurt him. 

“It will always be open to you. Always.”

“Thanks.” You say softly, looking away from him and into your lap. “Look, you don’t have to stay. I’m sure you had other plans in the UK.”

“I mostly came to see you. I wanted to check in on you.”

“I’m fine. Just tired. There’s been a lot of driving,” Max watches you carefully as you shrug, but he knows that you’ve never liked to drive all that much. Especially long distances and he wonders how you fared doing that many miles in such a short amount of time. “You really don’t have to stay. I’m okay.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He says firmly, squeezing your hand gently and your heart stutters at the contact. “Now, what Christmas movie are we watching?”

You let out a slightly strangled laugh, handing him the remote as he gently teases you about the movie you have on, before you both settle on Home Alone, a movie you both love and watch every Christmas.

The both of you move into the kitchen, you set about making two mugs of hot chocolate while he rummages about in your cupboards for some snacks. You move about with a practised ease around each other, despite him never being in this flat before. When you two collapse on the sofa with a blanket thrown over both of you and you tucked into his side, it feels like things have never changed. 

When Max looks down at you barely an hour later, he smiles softly. You’re fast asleep, chest rising and falling evenly and you’re curled into his side, a blanket thrown over you. He sees the dark circles under your eyes and he wonders how many sleepless nights you’ve had in the months you’ve been broken up. Your sleep schedule has never been great, years of working all throughout the night the culprit. The constant travelling and being on the go also didn’t help, but the two of you had fallen into a routine together. 

If he had to guess, he would say you hadn’t been sleeping well at all. You had looked exhausted every time he’d seen you in the garage, in the offices, at races, a cup of coffee with you almost every time. He had also stumbled across you multiple times taking a nap during a break, hidden away in a back room. And every time he had put a blanket over you and closed the door, making sure everyone knew not to disturb you.

He watches you for a few more seconds before he shifts as gently as he can without disturbing you. He stands up and scoops you in his arms and you barely even stir. He carries you to your bedroom, settling you down before he tucks you in. Your room seems as empty as the rest of the flat - there are only two photos of you and your family, both tacked on the wall and something in him twists when he sees a framed photo of the two of you. It lies on top of a box in the corner, as if though you’ve unpacked it and left it there because you didn’t know what to do with it. He recognises it from Christmas last year, where you had spent it with his family. You’re wrapped in his arms beside a Christmas tree, snow falling in the window behind you. You’re both laughing, not even looking at the camera properly, eyes only on each other.  

“Max?” You stir from your slumber, rubbing your eyes a few times to clear your vision. You push yourself into a sitting position, eyes searching for him and they land on the picture he was staring at. He sees the lump in your throat as you swallow but both of you choose to ignore it.

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. It’s okay.”

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah… I… Will you stay? Please?” Your voice is barely above a whisper and he sees the fear in your eyes that he’ll say no.

“Yeah, of course I’ll stay. Just sleep, I’ll be here.” Max says softly and presses his lips on top of your head. You let your eyes flutter close and you curl into him, head on his chest as his arm comes around you. He falls asleep soon after you , just as easily as you do, because having you by his side is so normal, is so second-nature, is so right. 

—&.&—

Morning comes and neither of you mention what occurred the night before, except a quiet thank you for staying, courtesy of you. But you go about making breakfast from what little you have in the kitchen after being away for a week and you eat it together as he updates you on his family and what he’s doing for Christmas. 

He tries to convince you to come with him, that you can’t spend Christmas alone. But you fend off his attempts, feeding him the same lie you’ve told your parents. That you’re not feeling well and you’d rather just get as much rest as you can before the season starts. He doesn’t pull you up on the lie and promises to send you updates. He tells you his nephews and niece miss you and that he’ll call you, so they can talk to you. 

Max reluctantly leaves your flat after wrapping you in a tight hug and the texts come through almost immediately after he’s out the door. He updates you on the drive to the airport, during the flight, and you know when he’s gotten home because suddenly selfies of his nephews and niece start coming through. You video call whilst you cook dinner and eat, and then the call is hijacked by three tiny children who are all clamouring to speak to you. Then at the end of the night, you fall asleep with him on the other end of the phone, a small smile on his face because he feels comforted that you’ll get a good night’s rest.

—&.&—

MV: merry christmas x

MV: i hope you have a wonderful day. take care of yourself x

YN: happy christmas to you too xx 

YN: give my love to everyone x

MV: they all pass on their love and say they miss you a lot xx

MV: i also miss you

YN: i miss you too 

MV: can i see you after christmas?

YN: you don’t have to come check up on me, i promise im ok

MV: im not, i promise. i just want to see you 

YN: you’re always welcome, wherever i am x

—&.&—

“Hi.” Max beams when he sees you on the other side of the door, eyes crinkling when you catch his gaze. You step back to let him in and when the door closes and he drops his bags on the floor, he wraps his arms tightly around you.

“Hi Max.” 

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You breathe softly, burying your head in his chest. His lips brush the top of your head and you remain in his hold for a few more moments before reluctantly stepping back.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” You fall in line as you walk towards the living room and when you settle onto the sofa, Max sits down and pulls you right beside him, one hand interlacing with yours.

“It was alright,” You shrug and you can see the frown on his face, but you continue so he can’t interject. “How about you? How is everyone?”

“They’re good. They all really miss you. Half my bags are full of presents and handmade cards all for you. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get the glitter out.”

You burst out laughing when he reaches for a few neatly wrapped boxes that indeed does bring a shower of glitter with it, coating your floor. He grimaces slightly in apology but you wave him off with another laugh. The two of you spend the night opening the presents as he patiently explains everything the kids have made him promise to say and you end up on a call to them. They’re ecstatic when you show them that you’ve pinned their cards up and how much you love their presents. 

The two of you spend the rest of the night curled up on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background. And when you fall asleep within the same minutes in the same bed, you feel like this is right where you’re supposed to be. 

—&.&—

May 2024

f1gossip almost a year and a half after his break-up with long-time girlfriend and red bull strategist, max verstappen has been spotted on a date with model kelly piquet in monaco ahead of the miami grand prix in a week. she is the daughter of former f1 champion nelson piquet and shares a daughter with ex-f1 driver daniil kvyat. the couple were spotted grabbing dinner before going for a walk, holding hands and seemingly very close.

ASM: hi, we saw the news. im really sorry. are you okay? x

YN: no, not really. it’s been over a year but I’m just still not over him and i hate that i have to see him every day and be okay 

YN: and she’s so goddamn gorgeous its really hard not to be insecure

KG: im sorry. we love you so much

KG: you’re beautiful and smart and the kindest person i know 

LH: im so sorry lovely, we’re here for you. what do you need? 

RD: im in scotland for a shoot but im done tomorrow. im going to drop by for a few days before going to spain to see carlos x

YN: you really don’t have to do that, i dont want to be a bother

YN: ill see you guys in miami anyway x

RD: dont be silly, you are NOT a bother 

ASM: i can be there too just give me the dates

LH: me too x

KG: and meeee

YN: guys you really dont have to drop everything just for me

ASM: we’re not. youre our friend and we care about you and we love you

ASM: we know you’re going through a hard time. we want to be there for you x

RD: you show up for the people you care about and we care about you.  if we can all come to see you, we’re going to take that opportunity x

LH: plus girls night! xx

KG: GIRLS NIGHT!!

—&.&—

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yourusername forever grateful x

tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, iamrebeccad, lilymhe, fransisca.cgomes

alexandrasaintmleux love love love you to the moon and back x

iamrebeccad more girls nights in future my love x

↳ carlossainz55 and what am i??? 

↳ charlesleclerc a side piece, get used to it

lilymhe LOVE YOU THE MOSTEST FOREVER 

↳ alexalbon um, hello???

↳ charlesleclerc you should know the drill by now

charlesleclerc glad you had a wonderful night xx

↳ yourusername thanks charlie x

landonorris I DEMAND AN UNO REMATCH x

↳ yourusername time and place x

fransisca.cgomes yay for girls night!!! love you forever wifey xxx

↳ pierregasly you’re my girlfriend, you know that right? 

↳ charlesleclerc just accept its like this and move on mate

charlesleclerc where was my invitation 

↳ alexandrasaintmleux its called GIRLS night for a reason

user1 news of max’s new relationship drops and girls night? no way its a coincidence 

user2 this is so cute LET ME IN THE DOOR

user3 how do i be a part of this

user4 aww hope you guys had a lovely time!

user5 charles telling all the boys to get used to being second best in their girlfriends lives because he knows how much they love her 

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—&.&—

“Hi, can we talk?” You wince when you hear the voice behind you and you’re debating whether you can make a run for it but you decide you’d probably not make it very far before he caught up. Tightening your grip around your laptop and notebooks that are bundled in your arms, you slowly turn around to face Max. It’s the first time you’ve seen him since the news of him and Kelly surfaced and it hurts more than you expect. 

He looks slightly out of breath, and one hand moves to rub the back of his neck, something you know to be a nervous habit of his. When he notices you watching, he drops his hand back to his side, giving you a sheepish smile.

“Um, yeah, I guess, everything okay?” You fall into step as he leads the way to a small bench and you both take a seat. He clears his throat a few times as the silence ebbs between the two of you and you fixate your gaze on where his knee is bouncing up and down gently.

“Yeah. I just wanted to… I’m guessing you’ve seen the articles and I wanted to say I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you in private first but… well clearly the media outlets beat me to it.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Max.”

“I still care about you, I still love you. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s sweet of you, but you don’t owe me anything. We broke up… You’re allowed to be in a new relationship.”

“I know… I… I know when we broke up I said I wasn’t in the right place for a relationship anymore and I wasn’t. Not then. But now, I am and I just don’t want to hurt you. It’s nothing to do with you or what we were. I…”

“Max, it’s fine. You don’t have to explain yourself,” You offer him a soft smile, trying to ignore the tightening in your chest. Because that’s all that’s been going through your brain since you’ve seen the news. That he wasn’t in the right headspace for a relationship, with you. That it was your problem and you were the issue. It had kept you up for hours last night until you had finally dragged yourself out of bed and to work in the wee hours of the morning. “I… we’re fine.”

“It still should have come from me. You shouldn’t have to have found out from the Internet.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I do. I owe you a lot. This should have been something you heard from me, not someone else, and certainly not some online gossip trail.”

“Well, thanks, you know, the thought was there. I appreciate it.” You smile gently, shrugging your shoulders as you sweep your gaze over him. “It’s not your fault it got leaked. These things happen.”

“I hope you know that I’ll always care about you. That… us breaking up wasn’t ever about you not being enough, or anything silly like that. Because I know how your brain works. I just… I genuinely didn’t think I was in the right headspace to continue to be in a relationship… And I… I still love you and I still care about you. A lot.”

“I know. Me too, Max.” You try to keep the smile on your face but you know it’s wavering. His words, meant to be comforting, instead hit you like a ton of bricks. You know the cause of your breakup wasn’t due to a lack of love. Which made it all the more difficult. 

“I saw some of the girls came over to see you.”

“Um, yeah, yeah. We’re still friends, I…”

“Of course, sorry. I’m not trying to say you can’t still be friends with them. I’m glad you’re still friends and they can be there for you.”

“Yeah. I’m very lucky to have them… Look, um, I should go. Got lots of data to crunch so we can get you a win this weekend.”

“Okay, yeah, alright. Don’t work yourself too hard. Remember to drink enough water and eat.” He gives you a soft smile, knowing of your tendencies to be so invested in your work you forget to look after yourself.

“I’ll do my best. See you later Max.” You offer him a smile and a wave before walking off. Max watches you go, your head already buried in one of your notebooks. You always had a habit of reading on the go and the amount of times he had to pull you out of the way of something or someone were countless. A slight twinge pulls at his heart but he doesn’t have the courage to call after you and all he can do is watch you walk off.

—&.&—

“You’re here early.” Your head snaps up at the familiar voice and you meet the gaze of Max. He’s dressed in Red Bull gear, a travel mug in one hand, and his eyes sweep over you in concern.

“So are you.” 

“Early morning meeting. You?”

“Couldn’t sleep so I went for my run and gym, and then came here.” 

“Did you eat breakfast?” A frown settles on his face and he slips into the seat in front of you.

“No, don’t really get hungry after a workout. You know that.”

“Did you eat enough dinner last night?”

“I was working late so had some toast and then a bunch of fruit.”

“That’s not dinner.”

“I wasn’t that hungry and I didn’t want to have a big meal that late. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine. You have got to start taking care of yourself.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“What does that even mean? What are you trying to say?” Panic replaces the previous disapproval in his tone and he grabs onto one of your hands, tugging until you look at him.

“Nothing, it was a stupid comment. I’m fine, I’m just tired. We’ve been pulling a lot of late nights.”

“You say the words I’m fine so many times they don’t even sound like fucking words anymore,” His sharp tone and vulgarity cause you to wince and his face softens, grip tightening on yours. “I’m just worried about you. 

“It’s just been busy. You know better than anyone how crazy it all gets. I’m okay.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Let me take you to dinner when we’re both done at the track.”

“Max, you really don’t need to that -”

“I want to.”

“Max -“

“You know I’m not going to leave until you say yes.”

“You have to be up early tomorrow to be here. We both do.”

“Right, so you better say yes quickly so we can both go back to work and then can leave for dinner sooner.”

“Max…”

“I’m not going to budge, you know that. So, we can do this the easy way, where you say yes. Or we can do this the hard way, where I won’t leave you alone and I’ll physically pick you up and drag you if I need to.”

“Okay, yeah, fine. That sounds… Really lovely.”

“Great. I’ll see you at the end of the day.” Max smiles widely at you, giving your hand one last squeeze before he stands up.

“See you later.” You echo quietly, watching as he heads down the hallway and disappears. 

True to his word, he turns up at the end of the work day and he waits quietly, even as you finish off the work you’re doing and try to drag it out. Eventually, you have to admit you’re done and you slowly pack up your belongings. Max patiently waits for you, not speaking, not fiddling on his phone, just watching. Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself sitting opposite him, at a small family owned restaurant you two used to frequent. The couple who own it immediately wrap the two of you in a hug when they see you, talking about how long it’s been and sit you down at your favourite table.

“Does it not taste good? Do you want to order something else?” Max frowns at the sight of you pushing your food around the plate, taking small mouthfuls here and there.

“No, it’s delicious. I’m just not that hungry.” 

“You had what could barely count as dinner last night, went for a run and to the gym this morning and didn’t have breakfast after. I’m guessing you barely had lunch considering I’ve seen you do nothing but run around and work. There’s no way you’re not hungry.”

“I’m just… not. Okay?” You let out a quiet sigh, dropping your fork and looking at him. “I’ll take it back with me and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

“Except you won’t eat it tomorrow,” He says flatly, staring at you, a challenge in his eyes. As if daring you to argue with him. “Just… try a few more bites, okay? Please.”

“I’m just not that hungry.” You mumble quietly, looking down at your food but you spear a bit onto your fork regardless and chew it slowly. When you finally swallow it, you mindlessly push things around for a few minutes before taking another small bite.

“So, how are you doing?”

“Max… Please let’s, just… not.” You let out a quiet sigh, looking up from your food to meet his gaze. You were exhausted, having barely slept last night and being alone with Max was putting you on edge.

“I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m -“

“If you’re going to say you’re fine, don’t even bother. I know you. I know you’re not doing okay.”

“What do you want me to say Max? That seeing you with your new girlfriend doesn’t hurt? That having to be around you doesn’t hurt?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s… Whatever. It’s not your fault,” You mumble softly before pushing your bowl away forcefully. “I’m done, I’m not hungry.” 

“Come on -“

“No. I said I’m not hungry, okay? Now do you want to finish it or shall I ask for a takeaway container?” Your tone is more sharp, with a bite to it that has Max surveying you before swapping your plates with a quiet sigh. But he shoves a few bites onto the plate in front of you and he stares at you until you pick up your fork, pushing the food around before taking small bites.

“I’m still… me. We’re still us. I’m still always going to be here for you.”

“Yeah,” You blink at him a few times and then look down at your plate. You know he truly means it but you also know that everything has changed and that nothing will ever go back to the way it was. “If you’re done eating, can we please go? I have an early start tomorrow.”

“You don’t even want your favourite dessert from here?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.” You say quietly and Max meets your gaze, eyes searching you closely and when he knows you're not going to budge, a quiet sigh leaves his lips and he nods.  

“Okay, yeah. We can go,” He settles up the bill and you follow him silently to the car. You don’t miss the small paper bag he holds onto and when he walks you to your door, he presses it into your hands. “Just… Take it okay? You deserve it.”

“I… Thank you. Thank you for taking me to dinner - it was really nice.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Good night, sleep well.”

“Night,” You reply softly, watching as he gives you a soft, sad smile. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Drive safe. Text me when you’re back, okay?”

“I will. Bye,” He lingers, before stepping closer again and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“Always.” You give him a final wave and you watch as he walks back to his car and he’s still for a few minutes, head resting against the steering wheel. The car eventually starts and you watch him drive off until you no longer see the tail lights. Only then do you make your way into the kitchen and open the paper bag. You’re not surprised at what you find inside - you almost always got the same dessert when you two visited that restaurant and so you slowly start eating it with a slightly heavy heart and memories swirling in your head.

—&.&—

May 2024

You knew she was going to be here, you had tried to prepare yourself but you were stupid to think you could ever be okay seeing Max with his new girlfriend. You turned on your heel before he could spot you, heading back to your workstation as quickly as you could. 

You’re not beyond admitting you had stalked her the moment the news had come out and it had caused all your insecurities to surface. She was gorgeous - a model, and exactly the type of girl that people expected to be the partner of a Formula 1 driver. You couldn’t help the spiral you had gone on, scrolling and scrolling until the thoughts consumed your brain. And now seeing her in person made everything worse.

CL: where are you?? i thought we were meeting outside red bull garage and getting lunch?? 

CL: lando and i are here 

YN: we are 

YN: sorry 

YN: im just… stuck

CL: you’re stuck?? what do you mean? are you okay?

YN: stuck because max is in my direct line of path with kelly and i can’t do it

CL: you can x

CL: do you want me to come in to get you?

CL: lando says he will make a scene to distract everyone and then you can sneak out x

YN: no it’s fine, gimme a minute 

You take a deep breath before releasing it, clutching your phone in one hand and you peek your head out from around the corner again. Max and Kelly are still right in your path, the only path towards the exit and you duck back around, back flat against the wall. You’re internally cursing yourself, there’s no way this needs to be so difficult and a frustrated huff leaves your lips.

“Stop being an idiot.” You mutter quietly and you take one more breath before you stride out towards the entrance. You wave and greet a few of your coworkers, smiling at them as everyone mills about. You start to walk towards the entrance, eyes fixated on where you can see the figures dressed in red and papaya, and you almost make it when you hear your name.

“Hey.” Max calls after you in a soft tone and you curse in your head before turning around. Of course you couldn’t get by without him spotting you, because he seems to have a knack for knowing where you are no matter what. 

“Hi. You alright?” You plaster a smile onto your face, one you know doesn’t fool him based on the slightly frown on his face, but you turn away from him and towards the woman by his side. “Hi, you must be Kelly. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Yes, you too. Max has nothing but good things to say about you.” She smiles warmly at you, wrapping you a quick hug, with nothing but honesty and genuine kindness in her tone. You almost wish she wasn’t because it’d make it so much easier to dislike her. But you can’t. 

“Oh, I’m sure he’s just being kind.” You turn to him with a quiet laugh and he just gives you a shrug and a lopsided smile.

“Only telling the truth.”

“Are you enjoying the weekend so far?”

“Yeah, it’s been very fun. I’m glad I could make it. It must be busy for you.”

“Oh, yeah, race weekends are always hectic. I always feel like I’m running around like a headless chicken,” I let out a quiet laugh as they join in. “Probably look like one too.”

“You always do an amazing job. Always.” Max interjects quietly, eyes fixated on you and you fight the urge to fidget under his scrutinising look.

“Thank you. It’s not just me though, a small part of a very big team… I, um, I’ve got to go, though. I’m really sorry. Charles and Lando are waiting for me so we can go to lunch,” You take a tiny step back, raising your hand in a wave. “It was really nice to meet you. I’ll see you guys later.”

“It was nice to meet you too.” Kelly smiles at you, a large, genuine one that eats away at you. 

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Max asks quietly, hesitation in his voice as his eyes sweep over your face.

“Yeah. Definitely. Bye.” You give them both a wave before letting your feet carry you towards the entrance, where the figures of Charles and Lando are getting closer. They’re talking in quiet tones but they fall silent and turn to you as you walk up to them.

“You alright?” Charles asks softly, nudging you gently with this shoulder. 

“Yeah. Not as bad as I thought, but doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.” You let out a strangled laugh, sneaking one look over your shoulder at the couple, only to find Max already staring at you, a faraway look in his eyes. You quickly turn back around, face flushing and Charles and Lando are both kind enough to not say anything. 

“Hey, let’s go get some food, okay?” Lando smiles gently at you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you away from the Red Bull garage. The two of them distract you with chatter and jokes that make you roll your eyes and clutch your stomach with laughter. It’s almost enough to make you forget seeing Max and his new girlfriend. Almost. 

liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen and others 

yourusername thanks for always being my second home monaco, ive missed you. charlie, congratulations on winning your home race, words cant explain how proud i am of you, feeling very lucky to be your best friend xx good work from the team and as always, upwards and onwards.

tagged: charlesleclerc, redbullracing 

charlesleclerc you’re the best, always grateful for you and your support. you’re the greatest friend. you’ll always have a home in monaco xx

↳ yourusername love love love you x

landonorris always got a room at mine, monaco misses you too x

↳ yourusername thanks lan, love you xx

redbullracing 💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼

alexandrasaintmleux move back, we can live together with leo and get another dog

↳ charlesleclerc excuse me?? you’re MY girlfriend and that’s MY dog ?? 

↳ yourusername maybe one day ill move back, just not now x 

↳ fransisca.cgomes you could come live with me 😘

user1 her still calling monaco a second home when she’s obviously moved away since the breakup but she clearly loves it there 😭

user2 we love you 💓

—&.&—

You sit in a booth at the back of Jimmy’z, doing your best to stay hidden. You’re by yourself now, Alex, Kika, and Rebecca unsuccessful at dragging you onto the dancefloor. Your eyes flicker over the scene, you can see the girls dancing around and laughing, smiles etched onto their faces. Some of the drivers are by the bar, ordering more drinks and the room is filled with people, music and lights flashing across the space. 

You’re doing your very best to not look for Max who you know is somewhere in the club. You had greeted him when you had first arrived, trying not to let the sight of Kelly by his side shake you. But you had spent the next fifteen minutes after that in the bathroom trying to collect yourself. Seeing him with someone new is something you don’t think you’ll ever get used to.

“Hey, you alright?” You look up to see Max slipping into the booth next to you and it takes everything in you to not burst into tears. The images of him kissing Kelly when he got out of the car still run through your brain and seeing them at the club together had been another blow. You also knew the amount of alcohol you had wasn’t helping, you had never been a huge drinker but you were hoping it would help dull the feelings, make you forget. However, all it had done was make you even more sad, the emotions rising and crashing over you. 

“Fine. You?” You give him your best attempt at a smile and a shrug, but it doesn’t fool either of you. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Please just drop it, I really can’t do this right now Max.” The words come out of you in a whisper and you drop your face into your hands when you feel the tears rising. You hear and feel him shifting about and when you look up again, he’s in front of you, blocking you from the view of anyone behind him.

“Do you want me to take you back?” He asks quietly, eyes scanning over you carefully.

“It’s fine. You’re having a nice time and you can’t just leave Kelly here.” 

“She went home already. And even if she was still here, she’d understand I would want to get you back safely.” It’s the first sentence that gets you, because you realise that home probably means his place and that alone makes more tears fall down your face.

“Please, please, let me help. I just want you to be okay.”

“There’s nothing you can do, it’s fine. I’ve just been drinking and I’m just tired, it’s been a long weekend.”

”Then let me take you back.”

“It’s not your job to take care of me anymore.”

“So, what does that mean? I can’t care about you anymore?”

“It means… It means we’re not in a relationship anymore and that you have a new girlfriend. It means you can’t come and cater to my every whim. It means… I’m by myself and I have myself to rely on.” 

“You will always have me. I will always pick up your call. Always. Don’t you ever think otherwise.” 

“That’s not the point. The point is that we aren’t together anymore and I shouldn’t be coming to you for everything. I, just, I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t want to get in the way in your new relationship.” You swallow hard, some of the harsher comments on the internet you’ve seen floating around swirling in your head.

“You shouldn’t be reading any of that. You know that. You know it's bullshit.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Let me take you back.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry. Look, just… Have a nice night, Max. I’ll… I’ll text you when I’m back, okay?” You use the back of your hand to wipe away the tears as you stand up and move away from the booth. You don’t stick around to hear what he has to say and you’re heading towards the entrance when you walk straight into someone.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Lando grabs onto your hand, eyes widening when he sees the tears in your eyes. He tugs you closer to him, offering you a tissue before wrapping an arm around you. 

“Even if I said yes, would you believe me?”

“Probably not, sorry.” He gives you an apologetic smile and you let out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“I didn’t think it’d be this hard, you know? But I also never saw us apart, so what do I know?” 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help. I wish there was something I could do.”

“It’s fine. Thank you for being my friend and being there for me.” You give him a shaky smile and he tightens his grip around you, pulling you into his embrace.

“Hey, anytime baby bull. You know that.”

“I’m just… I’m going to go. I really just want to be in bed.”

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine. Let me walk you out.” You can see him scan your face carefully and he can clearly see that you’ve made up your mind. 

“You don’t have to do that, Lan. You should be enjoying your night.”

“I want to.” 

“Okay, thank you. I’d really like that.”

“Come on then.” Lando gives you a smile and nudges you gently as the two of you walk out, before his arm wraps around your shoulders holding you close to him. Meanwhile, Max is staring at you, watching you fall apart and it breaks him in a way he can’t explain.

—&.&—

f1gossip red bull strategist and former long term girlfriend of max verstappen was seen leaving jimmy’z in tears. drivers and loved ones were seen entering the exclusive nightclub after the monaco grand prix. inside sources say it was her first time seeing her former partner verstappen and his new partner together. she was with verstappen’s fellow driver lando norris with whom she remains close friends. click the link in our bio to learn more and see the exclusive photos.

user1 christ leave her alone! 

user2 jesus how would YOU react if you had to see your ex be with someone new? they were together for years!! people taking photos and submitting them online is low

user3 oh that’s heartbreaking, i can’t even imagine what she’s going through 

user4 it’s a break up get over it she just wants the attention

user5 i cant believe fans took photos and posted them online…

user6 she has to work with her ex bf and now see him with his new gf? poor girl 

—&.&—

August 2024

“Hi baby bull, you look gorgeous.” Lando smiles at you, wrapping you in a hug before giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, give us a spin.”

“Lan,” You let out a laugh, but you let him take your hand and spin you around, the skirt of your dress fanning out around you as you do so. He gives you a smile and a wink as you turn back to face him and he steadies you with a reassuring hand on your waist.

“See? Beautiful.”

“Thank you, Lando. That’s very kind of you. And thank you for coming with me, I really appreciate it.” 

“Hey, any excuse to have a gorgeous girl on my arm.” He grins as you blush again, slapping him on the shoulder gently. You’re used to his antics - he’s always been charming and sweet and you wish you possessed even an ounce of his charisma.

”Stop,” You roll your eyes at him, sticking your tongue out at him but he only laughs, offering you his arm and you take it gratefully, linking your arm through his. “So naturally charming. How is it you don’t have a girlfriend?” 

“Because I only have eyes for you.”

”Alright, alright, settle down.” You shake your head at him but there’s a smile on your face. You and Lando have been friends for years now. He knows when to tease you to put a smile on your face and when you just need a hug and someone to talk to.

“You do look beautiful though. I’m very honoured to have you on my arm tonight.”

“Thanks Lando.” You give him a soft smile and lean into him, giving him a side hug. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, squeezing tightly.

“Anytime baby bull. I’m always going to be here for you.”

“I’m very lucky to have you as a friend.” You rise up on your tip-toes to give him a kiss on the cheek before stepping inside the car and he closes the door behind you before getting in the other side.

“Hey, it’s going to be a fun night. We’ll have a drink, a small boogie, and then we can go anytime you want.” Lando whispers softly, reaching for your hand and squeezing it gently. 

“Yeah.” You turn to him with a shaky smile. He sings along to the songs on the radio in a loud, exaggerated voice, making you giggle and eventually you find yourself singing along.  

It’s not until you get inside the venue for the wedding reception that the nerves start again. You come to a sudden stop by the entrance, tugging back on Lando’s hand causing him to turn back to you. When he sees the expression on your face and your sudden stillness he steps back towards you.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, I just, I…” You trail off when you see Max and Kelly over his shoulder and at your sharp intake of breath, he follows your gaze. Max has immediately clocked you and raises his hand in greeting and is already making his way towards you.

“Hey, breathe, you got this. And I’m right here.” He whispers softly, giving you a reassuring pat on the back. You give him a weak smile and you take a tiny step back into his arms. You can feel the panic rising in you as Max and Kelly come closer, and before you know it, they’re standing right in front of you. 

“Hi, you look lovely.” Max says softly, stepping forward and wrapping you in a hug, lips brushing the side of your cheek. He lingers there for a few seconds before stepping back.

“Thank you.” You clear your throat, taking another tiny step back, bumping into Lando on your way and he puts a reassuring hand in the small of your back.

“Hey, mate. How are you? Good to see you.” Max turns to Lando and the two slap hands, patting each other on the back.

“Hi, you look beautiful. I love your dress.” You smile, almost shyly, at Kelly. In truth, she intimidates you a little. She’s older, more mature. She’s beautiful. She carries herself with a grace and elegance you wish you possessed even an ounce of. She’s never been anything but kind to you, never holding your previous relationship with Max against you. You wish you could have a reason to dislike her. But you don't. 

“Thank you. You look stunning too. You really suit that colour.” 

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” A quiet breath leaves your lips as you smile, crowding closer to Lando as you feel Max’s gaze flicker over you. You haven’t seen him since Spa and seeing him now, at an event you were supposed to attend together, hurts you deeply.

“Can I tempt you for a spin on the dance floor?” Max asks softly, offering you a hand and you stare at it for a few seconds before taking it hesitantly. There’s already a small crowd dancing to the music that’s coming from the live band.

“Yes, sure. That would be lovely.” 

“How about we go get a drink then?” Lando turns to Kelly with a smile on his face after giving me a soft pat on the back.

“Sure, that sounds great.” She gives us both a smile before her and Lando walk off, conversation flowing easily between the two of them. You stare after them for a few moments before a gentle tugging on your hand turns your attention back to Max. 

“Shall we?” 

“Okay.” You let him lead you into the middle of the dance floor and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in and when you hesitantly wind your arms around his neck, his other hand settles on your waist as well. You avoid looking directly at him, your heart skipping erratically at his familiar touch around your waist. 

“You really do look beautiful. You always do.”

“Thank you.” You say softly, your gaze fixated on his bowtie. It’s the exact same shade of blue as the dress you left hanging on the back of the spare bedroom in Lando’s home. It’s another reminder that you were supposed to be here with him. That you made plans that had stretched months, years, into the future. Now all of that was in the past.

You avoid eye contact the entire dance, mostly silence stretching between the two of you as you let yourself be swept across the dance floor. You let yourself imagine what this moment could’ve been like in another universe and you hold onto that until the song ends.

“Still a wonderful dancer I see.” Max says quietly, giving you a small smile when you finally turn to meet his gaze. You let your arms drop back to your sides and you keep a small gap between the two of you as you make your way back towards Kelly and Lando. 

“And you.”

“I suppose I had a good teacher,” He chuckles quietly, almost to himself as you reach the table where the others have settled themselves. “Thank you for the dance.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“Hey, looking very flash out there. You’ll have to teach me a thing or two later.” Lando smiles at you and you settle close to his side again, craving his comforting presence. 

“Sure.” You give him a small smile and you settle into a conversation, soon interrupted when you see the bride and groom. There are hugs and compliments and congratulations exchanged. The rest of the night is a whirlwind of music and laughter. Lando does this best to make you at ease, make you feel comfortable and to just enjoy the night. You really do enjoy the night for the most part, but you can’t ignore the small twinge in your heart every time you catch a glimpse of Max.

—&.&—

You press the doorbell, shifting from foot to foot as you stand in front of Max’s door. You’re still in your dress from the wedding, except you’re drenched from the rain and the wetness on your cheeks is a mixture of tears and the weather. There seems to be no answer, and you’re already turning away, convinced you’ve made a terrible mistake when the door opens. Max is staring at you with wide eyes, but there’s concern all over his face.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Max demands, but you act like you haven’t even heard him, a faraway look in your tear-filled eyes. “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“You walked? In the rain?! Are you crazy -”

“Hey, who was at the door - oh goodness, Max, why haven’t you asked her inside?” Kelly stops short when she sees the two of you, cutting off the rest of his sentence. She shoots him an exasperated look before reaching past him and guiding you inside gently. “Oh, you’re freezing. Let’s get you into the shower and into some warm clothing.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m here… I, I… I’ll leave.” You make a move to turn around but this time it’s Max who grabs onto your arm. 

“No. You can’t leave like this, you’ll get sick.” 

“Why don’t I make some tea for us while you get warm and dry? Max?” Kelly smiles at you gently before placing a hand on Max’s shoulder, who seems to jolt to attention. 

“You need to get in the shower or you’re going to get sick.” He says firmly, placing a hand in the small of your back and guides you upstairs. Your feet automatically take you to the guest bedroom and into the bathroom where you stare blankly at the wall. “Hey. Will you be okay to take a shower? I’ll leave some clothes for you on the bed, okay?”

“Um, yeah, okay. Thank you.” You mumble quietly, blinking at him and he casts you a worried look before closing the door behind him. It takes you another minute or so to snap back to attention, stripping off your soaking wet dress and into the shower. You spend the next few minutes letting the hot water scald your skin, scrubbing at your face as if that would help with your red-rimmed eyes.

When you’re dressed, you stare around the guest bedroom for a while. It’s mostly the same as it used to be, but there are subtle differences. The duvet cover is one you haven’t seen before. The vase on the dresser that is home to a fresh bouquet of beautiful pale pink peonies is new. As is the crocheted blanket that lies at the foot of the bed. You turn away and head towards the door, no longer able to look at the reminders of how this is no longer your home.

“Hey, are you feeling better?” Max shoots to his feet when you appear in the living room and is by your side in an instant. “Warm?”

“Yeah, fine. Thank you.” Your voice is slightly scratchy and you hover in your spot, not sure what to do. Max leads you gently towards the sofa and settles you in the corner spot. Your favourite spot. The fluffy blanket that he gently places over you is also new, you realise.

“I have some tea.” Your small inner spiral is interrupted when Kelly hands you both a steaming mug of tea and you take it gratefully.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for ruining your night, I -” 

“It’s alright, you didn’t. How about I let you two have a chat?” Kelly gives you a genuine smile, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and squeezing Max’s hand, before disappearing from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” You repeat quietly, looking down at where your hands were wringing themselves together. “I didn’t meant to ruin your night -“

“You didn’t. It’s fine. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“It was only like a five minute walk.”

“And it’s raining outside.” 

“Really? Didn’t notice.” You say wryly, managing to crack a small smile and Max chuckles quietly.

“Sarcastic as ever I see,” He shakes his head, fighting the grin on his face, because you joking around is a good sign. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

“I just… I… You know, we were supposed to go together and that’s all I could think about.” You say softly, wrapping your arms around yourself as tears form again. Your hair is still damp, hanging down your back, and you look so vulnerable that Max wants nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and hold you tightly. 

“I’m sorry.” Max whispers, because there’s nothing else he can say or do to make you feel better. 

“You’ve moved on and I’m so happy for you. You deserve all the love in the world. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Everything reminds me of you. Everything in my life has you in it. Everything.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse as he repeats the apology. His heart is breaking seeing you in this state, especially when he’s the cause of it. 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You continue as if you didn’t hear him and he sees you swallow hard before meeting his gaze with teary eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.” Max doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know what to do when you’re breaking down in front of him and he’s the cause of all your pain.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come like this. It’s not fair for me to come here and say what I said… I… I’m going to leave.” You exhale after a long silence, giving him the best smile you can muster. Max wants to argue with you, insist that you can’t just leave but he knows you’ve made up your mind.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Look… I.... I’ll give you a lift back to Lando’s.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, I’m not taking no for an answer. So, come on.” He offers you a hand and leads you to his car. You spend the short car ride in silence, only the soft music from the speakers breaking the silence. When you arrive, he kills the engine and the two of you continue to sit in silence before you clear your throat.

“Thank you.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you in.” Max says softly, opening your car door and offering you a hand. You take it silently and let him lead you to the front door. He knocks quietly and it doesn’t take long for it to swing open, Lando on the other side, looking comfortable in some joggers and a hoodie. 

“What? Are you okay? When did you leave? I thought you were asleep.” Lando’s eyes widen in shock when he sees you on the doorstep with Max behind you and he immediately steps back to let the two of you in. 

“I went for a walk.” You say softly, your voice scratchy as you stand between the two boys, not looking at either one of them. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just want to get into bed.”

“Okay. Why don’t you head in and I’ll come by with a cup of tea in a bit, okay?” Lando gives you a soft smile, placing a hand in the small of your back and the touch is comforting and you welcome it, taking a step closer to him. 

“Okay,” You do your best to offer him a smile and he responds by squeezing your shoulder gently. “Um, thank you again, Max. And Kelly too. I’m sorry for ruining your night, both of your nights. Tell her I’m really sorry and I really appreciate… Just everything.”

“Don’t be silly. You didn’t ruin anything. You can come to me any time you need.”

“Thank you.” You give him a small smile before backing away slightly, turning to face Lando. “I’ll be, um, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in soon.” He squeezes your hand before you turn your back and disappear from sight. You can hear the quiet murmurs from the two boys, but can’t make out what they’re saying. Lando doesn’t take long to appear in the living room where you’re already buried under a fluffy blanket. 

“Hi.”

“Hey. Do you want a hug?” Lando asks gently, taking a seat next to you. When you nod silently, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him, squeezing tightly. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble against his chest, feeling the tears start to fall again.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I’m a mess. I have been since the breakup. And all I do is cause trouble and you guys have to constantly look after me and look out for me and -”

“We do that because you’re our friend. You’re family. You always have been and you always will be. We all care about you,” Lando says firmly, cutting off your words and he tightens his grip around you. “You are allowed to grieve and process your breakup however you need or want.”

“I love you, Lan.”

“I love you, baby bull.” He presses a kiss against the side of your head and squeezes you one last time. “Now, come on, what movie shall we watch?” 

You let out a quiet laugh, pulling the blanket tighter around you as you go back and forth on movie suggestions before you both settle on one. You don’t make it to the end of the movie, falling asleep halfway through. Lando just turns off the television and lifts you gently into his arms, settling you into the guest bedroom. You don’t even stir and he closes the door quietly behind him, letting you sleep.

[angelsueeeeeee]

brand new | op81

a/n: idk what this is other than me thinking abt going shopping with oscar and surprising him by trying on lingerie and it's been stuck in my head for the past few weeks so YEAAAAH whtever enjoy this brain rot :3 xx word count: 2.4k (no warnings other than suggestive language)

--

it was just meant to be a harmless suggestion, swear. 

“osc! i’m going shopping, baby,” you say, grabbing your purse and keys from the rack by the door. your boyfriend’s disheveled face appears from behind the couch cushions, hair pushed off his forehead from his gigantic gaming headphones. 

“wait, you’re leaving?” oscar pouts, hooking his chin over the back of the couch. he looks so forlorn, giant brown eyes shining that you melt, padding over to cup his cheek. you can hear his friends yelling over his headset, video game forgotten.

“i’ll only be gone for a few hours,” you say, brushing his hair away from his forehead. he leans into your touch like he was made for you, pursing his lips. then you smile, crouching down so you’re eye-level with him and press a kiss to each cheek. “orrr…you could come with me.” 

oscar’s face pinches. “i mean…” 

with one last little tug to his ear, you shrug and stand, making your way back to the front door. “that’s fine. i was planning on looking at some pajamas. maybe something else if you’re being good.” you add the last part on for effect, shooting a cheeky little look over your shoulder. (knowing full well you were notin the market for lingerie, but if it got your boyfriend to hang out with you–well, it couldn’t hurt.) oscar’s eyes widen just a fraction. 

you pause with your hand over the doorknob. “are you sure you don’t wanna come with?” 

the ride to the mall is pleasant as you chatter about some of the items you were looking for, the tops you had seen in ads on your socials, celebrity gossip, anything you can think of. oscar listens on in amusement, chiming in every so often with his thoughts. his hand rests on your thigh, thumb skirting lightly over the inside of your knee. 

it surprised you when you started dating to learn how touchy oscar actually was, always wanting to have you within an arm’s length of him. now his touch is as normal as breathing. 

“mm, osc, what do you think about this?” you ask innocently, holding up a photo on your phone of a pink and girly babydoll lingerie set on a model. oscar hums, flicking his eyes to your phone unknowing, before turning bright red. he pulls his hand from your knee to the steering wheel, suddenly very interested with the road and the cars in front of you. 

“yeah, it’s-um- pretty,” oscar replies and clears his throat. 

you smile to yourself, brush your knuckles against his flaming cheek affectionately, and resume browsing on your phone like nothing had happened. 

oh, this was going to be very fun indeed. 

the first place you stop in is a swanky department store, dragging oscar behind you. always a good sport, oscar agrees to try on a few fancy shirts and suits, protesting all the way. 

“i don’t understand why you’re making me do this,” he grumbles, throwing his t-shirt over the dressing room door. 

“because we’re shopping, oscar, that’s what you do,” you roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “it’s just for fun.” 

the lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing your boyfriend in a black silk shirt, fitted around his shoulders and loose around the waist. he sighs, turning around to look in the mirror, giving you a nice view of the contours of his back peeking through the thin fabric. you stand, laying your hands flat against his shoulders. 

“you look very nice, osc,” you say, tiptoeing around to face him, smoothing your hands down his chest, plucking at one of the buttons. “very handsome.” 

he turns pink, tugging on the collar of the shirt and mumbles under his breath. you just laugh, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you both turn to look at him in the mirror. 

“i mean why would i even need this?” he complains, tugging at the collar again. you grab his hand, interlacing your fingers together and wrap your arm around his waist. the color makes his eyes look darker and richer, brown against black. he looks so handsome it makes your stomach hurt.

“please, you don’t have any nice shirts like this.” oscar makes a sound of protest and you flip back around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck in the process. “you have to admit–” the flush creeps down from oscar’s cheeks to his throat as you lean in close. “–it looks very sexy.” 

oscar coughs– hard– jerking away from you. he waves you away as you hover around him in amusement, smacking a hand hard against his back. 

“you’re so lame,” you tease, drawing the door closed behind you over oscar’s embarrassed face. 

you manage to convince oscar (with plenty of kisses and some mild pleading) to try on a few more items, like a Hugo Boss suit jacket and a beautiful Balmain cashmere sweater. oscar isn’t the type to care about fashion or brands, really, but it’s fun to run around shoving articles of clothing at him to try on like your own personal fashion model. 

“i feel ridiculous,” oscar grumbles, coming out of the dressing room again, tugging at the sleeve of the sweater. his face is still pink from embarrassment as you fawn over him in the mirror. honestly, it’s infuriating how good some of the things look on him, elevating his boyish features to that of a high-end J-Crew model. 

it takes everything in you not to pounce on him in the middle of the store. 

“i don’t know, osc, it looks pretty good,” you say, using your sweetest voice possible. it works, and oscar tilts his head in the mirror, considering the sweater for a beat longer. 

“it’s not bad, i guess…” 

you fiddle with the collar of the sweater, pressing it flat under your fingers, smoothing out the shoulders, admiring your boyfriend’s athletic build. while the clothing may have been for him, the show and tell was absolutely for you. similar to the black silk, the deep blue brings out the warmth of his skin and hair, turning his undertones gold even in the harsh store lighting.

“you look so good, baby,” you whisper against his ear.

twenty minutes and many stolen kisses later, you and oscar walk out of the store with one new shopping bag and pockets considerably lighter than when you started. 

“we should go out tonight,” you say a few hours later. you gaze into store windows, pointing out some things to oscar as you pass. your linked hands swing loosely between the two of you, shopping bags crinkling loudly as they bump oscar’s leg every so often. being who he is, oscar is more than happy to carry all of them, quietly taking them from your hands after the cashier gives them to you.

oscar hums in response. “i don’t know, i’m kind of tired. i was thinking we could just hang out tonight and maybe order a pizza.” 

you pull your face into a pout. “osc, it’s been ages since we’ve gone out to dinner… plus you should show off your new sweater. it makes you look very dashing.” oscar shakes his head, mortified but secretly pleased as he bites back a smile. 

“what were you thinking?” he asks, but your attention has already been caught by a different store.

“oh, let’s go in there,” you say, barely giving your boyfriend the chance to respond before you’re dragging him through the front door. oscar’s hand goes stiff in your grip as he freezes, suddenly surrounded by hot pink, frills, and a considerable lack of fabric. 

“oh, i mean, i can wait for you outside–”

you sneak a look back at oscar and gently extract your hand from his nervous grip, smiling sweetly. “no, baby, stay. you were sooo gracious to try things on for me, now it’s my turn.” you press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the heat from oscar’s skin under your lips and flit away to one of the lit wall racks, leaving your flustered boyfriend to scramble after you. 

it’s cute how nervous he gets around you sometimes, hovering behind you as you feel lace and silk and velvet between your fingers. 

“what do you think about this?” you hold up a strappy emerald green number with less coverage than you would ever consider, keeping your face as straight as possible. oscar’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates. 

“it’s– yeah, it’s–“ he clears his throat, and jerks his head in what you think is a nod. or he might be seizing; it’s difficult to tell. 

“should i try it on? what do you think?” your boyfriend looks at you with something akin to fear, shrugging and fumbling for words. “ok, hold this please.” 

you drag him around the rest of the store, picking out sheer babydoll dresses, lacy bodysuits, and even a few bustiers. oscar takes every new piece from you without a fight, and from far away it might’ve looked as if he was unaffected if not for the flush deepening with every second that passed. 

only when oscar looks like he’s on the verge of potentially blacking out, you drag him to the fitting room. 

“no, i really think i should wait out here,” he murmurs, looking mildly panicked amidst a pile of shopping bags and lingerie. 

you shush him, pulling him into the biggest dressing room and sitting him down on the little seat in the corner. 

“i’ll be fast, ok?” you hang the assortment of hangers on the wall, pulling at the zipper of your jeans. “no peeking,” you tease. oscar’s ears go pink, and he squeezes his eyes closed, obediently turning towards the wall. 

it’s extremely difficult to wrestle yourself into the first piece, a little black teddy with more straps than fabric, and about a million clasps up the front of the bodice. you feel a little foolish looking at yourself in the mirror, like a teenager trying to be more grown up than they really were. 

you clear your throat and spin around to face your boyfriend, who still has his eyes adamantly closed. without warning you capture oscar’s mouth in a kiss, pulling a sound of surprise from his throat. his fingers find lace and elastane on your hips instead of denim and he frowns.

oscar’s eyes fly open, his face once again flushing when he sees what you’re wearing. 

his lips form words, but no sound comes out. you giggle, pulling away to do a little twirl in the mirror. oscar’s gaze is hot on your skin and you suddenly feel self-conscious, arms wrapping protectively around your stomach. 

“what do you think?” you ask, voice coming out much quieter than you anticipated. oscar is at a loss for words, rising to his feet as if in a trance. your heart rate spikes as he steps close, eyes roaming across your body. 

“wow,” is all he says at first, pulling your arms away from your body to spin you around again. you laugh breathlessly as his hands skim across your hips, feeling the lace under his fingers again– as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. “wow.” oscar’s cheeks are flaming as he struggles for words. 

then he murmurs, “you look so pretty, baby,” as he turns you around to look at yourself in the mirror. gone is the nervous man from earlier, replaced instead by the cool-headed version of oscar you only ever saw at home. goosebumps erupt across your skin as he gives you another once-over. 

“beautiful,” oscar mumbles again, and you hide your face in your hands, flustered by his quiet reverence. he’s seen you entirely butt-naked before, but the look in his eyes feels like this is the first time all over again.

“ok, that’s enough,” you say, fanning your face. “close your eyes.” 

oscar pouts. “but i’ve seen you before.” you shake your head, fingers fumbling with the first few clasps. 

“we’re in public right now, and i can’t say i trust you to behave,” you reply, voice teasing. oscar makes a sound of protest, but closes his eyes anyway, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. 

you try on the next item, a pretty maroon babydoll dress that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, splitting down the middle to reveal your bare stomach. the fabric is cool against your skin, and soft enough to feel like you’re wearing nothing at all, and when oscar opens his eyes, he’s even less collected than before. 

oscar groans, shaking his head as you do another spin for him.

“this is so mean of you.” he beckons you closer, thumbs skirting over the expanse of your stomach, grinning up at you through his lashes as your muscles jump under his touch. 

you gasp as his lips find your skin, right above your bellybutton and you jerk, shoving his head away in shock. 

“oscar!” you hiss, and he laughs, the flush now creeping from under the collar of his t-shirt. you look in the mirror again, blushing seeing oscar behind you in the reflection. “yes or no?” 

he comes up behind you, pressing against your back, arms looping around your waist. he noses along your throat, lips finding the ticklish spot under your ear. 

“i think yes,” oscar murmurs against your shoulder and you shiver, “just so i can take it off you later.”

you’ve never gotten dressed so fast before.

at the register, you lay the garments on the counter, offering the cashier a shy smile, and after your items have been rung up and totaled she asks, “cash or card?” 

“uh, card.” you rummage around in your purse for your wallet when oscar appears next to you, quietly offering his card to the cashier. despite yourself your heart feels like it could burst in your chest and you smile sweetly at your boyfriend, kissing oscar on the cheek and beaming at the cashier.

she eyes oscar curiously, plucking the black card out of his hand without much more thought, and you take the bag from her graciously as the two of you finally leave the store.

“are you ready to go? i think i’m ready to go home,” oscar says casually, but you see the tense set of his shoulders. you feel his palm pressing into the small of your back, warm and insistent. 

you simper, pursing your lips. “are you sure? there’s nothing else you wanted to see?” 

oscar groans, already steering you towards the entrance of the mall. he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “i can think of a few things.”

the drive back home has never felt longer. after all, you have a fashion show to attend.

--

twt

[angelsueeeeeee]

i want to go back to 30 mins ago when i decided to read this … so i can read it again for the first time

operation drs — OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all. tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni wc: 13.8k words :D a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas

Oscar could not let go of his phone. 

It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you. 

Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.

His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other. 

And he thought media day was tedious. 

He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile. 

He thinks it’s jealousy. 

The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever. 

Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.

This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.

You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it. 

They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.

You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation. 

He’s proud of you. 

No one can discount your credibility. Raised on stagecraft with enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats.

You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor. 

But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long. 

They’re literally in love. 

Just date already. 

There it was—a flicker of insecurity.

Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world. 

He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.

And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.

God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.

He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his. 

Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling! 

It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst. 

You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.

After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him. 

His phone dings. 

you you have NO idea what we did today. oscar Nothing dangerous, I hope you we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.  I named him Oscat :) Sent an image

It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.

oscar What an honor Any chance I could meet Oscat? you Tom said we should adopt it

The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.

oscar Do you want to? you even if I did we couldn’t  we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.

He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis. 

Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?” 

“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.

oscar Next time then :) Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world Don't you worry you 💔💔💔💔💔💔 gotta go now love you raceboy good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!

He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.

“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch. 

He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”

“Still keeping it under wraps?”

Oscar sighs. “Yep.”

“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.” 

“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.” 

Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”

“The problem is you have no rage.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy. 

“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”

Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”

Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.” 

“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!” 

He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler. 

“And you can do something about it, actually.”

His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.

“…What do you mean.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”

“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”

“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.” 

And Lando leaves it at that.

It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment. 

Until Entertainment Weekly. 

It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.

They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.

If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.

There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.

It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.

Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.

The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.

Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.

Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN

Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.

She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her… 

He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain. 

He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they? 

He does a quick Google search. 

Hollywood co-stars turned couples. 

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.

It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.

Fine. He is jealous. 

Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.

The nerve of this man. 

Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.

He hates imagining himself in the same frame.

Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit. 

He hates imagining himself at all.

Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up. 

you hi baby my handsome boy just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁  I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one

Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.

oscar Are you a ghost? you ??? oscar Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in

Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.

“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.

“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.

There’s a pause. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.” 

He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs. 

“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?” 

“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.

“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.” 

He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast. 

When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing. 

“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table. 

“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.” 

You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end. 

“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.” 

“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”

“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”

Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.

You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.” 

It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see. 

You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”

“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”

“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”

“Wow.”

“You sounded just like me.” 

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh. 

Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”

“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”

Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”

“Exactly.”

Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved. 

His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.

It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”

He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.

He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.

“I love you, softy. Just you.”

When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.

“I mean it. No acting here.”

All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck. 

Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.  

I love you. You were so sure. 

He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.

So you say it again. Firmer.

“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”

He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover. 

You take home all.

He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”

You scoff. “Sure you did.” 

“I swear.”

“Pffft.”

Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”

The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.” 

He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes. 

And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh. 

You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.” 

He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”

A message comes through a couple of minutes after.

come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇

This time, he really laughs.

He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace. 

By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.

you sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With  oscar You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄 you 😛 oscar Oh wow these shots came out well you right!! 🥹

Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.

Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household. 

He scrolls daringly. 

The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.

His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.

One comment makes his thumb pause

⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me

Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something. 

He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.

⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO ⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh ⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on ⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them  ⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend

He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.

It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment. 

“Ah shit.”

He immediately unlikes. 

Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough. 

Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…

Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.

There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁

Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool. 

He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.

But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim. 

Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.

user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?  ⇢ WHAT do you mean  ⇢ this is the comment he liked ⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol ⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?

Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.

He’s surprised it’s gotten this far. 

Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team. 

Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.

One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!

Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads formatted like crime scene dossiers.

It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.

To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.

You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”

All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.

Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.

“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs. 

He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”

He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.

You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side. 

“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ” 

He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”

“Ish.”

Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”

“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.” 

As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”

You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?” 

The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”

“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it. 

You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?” 

Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”

You hum in response. Distant. 

“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.” 

“Hm?”

“I said get out of your head, baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.” 

He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”

The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.

Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in. 

“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.

It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR. 

They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off. 

“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”

On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown. 

He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”

She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.” 

It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”

“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”

“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?” 

“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”

“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?” 

“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.” 

“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”

“Mate.” 

“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”

“Pardon?”

“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”

“We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”

“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”

Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”

“Operation Soft Launch?”

“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”

Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can. 

“Osc?”

“No. Can we go home now.” 

“Just one bloody name.”

Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”

Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.” 

“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”

“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.” 

Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”

Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.” 

His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.” 

“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.” 

The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.

OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan

Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP. The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.  I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any. Chrissy sent a file. 

Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.

Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.

And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.

Your call is out of the blue. 

Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are. 

He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”

“Hi. No, I’m okay.”

“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”

“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”  

Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.” 

“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”

“When do you leave for Miami?”

“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”  

He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”

You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.” 

He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster). 

“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”

“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.

He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”

“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”

Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled. 

His heart starts to pick up. 

He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver. 

He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app. 

He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie. 

His blood begins to hum. 

If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.

“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”

It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”

You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.” 

“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”

You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.” 

“Love you most.”

When the call ends, he laughs to himself.

He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.

He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.

Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.

He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.

It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.

The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.

His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.

Oscar peers through the peephole.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.

There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air. 

“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”

His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.

“Ack! Oscar, the food—”

“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. 

He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth. 

Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual. 

He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.

Too long. Too goddamn long.

“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie. 

Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.

You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.

A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless. 

He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter.  You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.

“Surprise,” you grin. 

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”

Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”

“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling. 

You kiss him again.

When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side. 

It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.

He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight. 

When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem. 

And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug. 

You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.

God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine. 

He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.

If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her. 

Alas, he was just Oscar. 

“You are not real,” he murmurs. 

“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket. 

You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.” 

Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”

He gently lowers you onto the bed. 

This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime. 

There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby. 

You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks. 

Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks. 

“Babe—” you gasp.

It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed. 

He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name. 

Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head. 

Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. 

He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.

Training can wait.

Operation DRS is divided into three phases.

“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.” 

It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better. 

Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it. 

Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites. 

But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day. 

The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave. 

He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.

You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”

“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”

“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.” 

“This is abandonment.”

“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”

He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected. 

You go still in his arms.

“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?” 

He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.

You twist around and cup his face in your hands. 

His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours. 

A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.

“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious. 

His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.” 

You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.

You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.

It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now. 

“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his. 

“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.

A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you. 

You were everything to him.

Warmth simmers in your bones.

“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”

A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”

You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.

Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.

In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.

He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake. 

Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling. 

You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.

user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware ⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho ⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars  ⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????   user: Tom liked!!!!!

Your phone pings. Several times.

Nellie (PR) PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase. 

Oscar Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you

Tom You are honestly so obvious

The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS. 

Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami. 

It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.

Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass? 

Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?

“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.

Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.

There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears. 

You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.” 

“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!” 

You pose with a wink.

Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz. 

Fast times with @ mclaren ! Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname 

You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷‍♀️

He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.” 

You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”

Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.

The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.

You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.

When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.

Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.

You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back. 

You’re already opening up your photo gallery.  

You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind. 

It becomes your new wallpaper. 

It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online. 

A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl? 

You put your phone aside, appeased. 

Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either. 

Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.

Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.

You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door. 

Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan. 

“Longest session of my life.” 

You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.

“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.

He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow. 

He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.

You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What?”

“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards. 

“Stop that.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.  

“Stop looking at me funny.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not a stress toy.”

“You are to me.”

“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration. 

Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips. 

The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.

“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”

Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?” 

“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.” 

His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”

You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow. 

Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly. 

PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.

You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case. 

You wish him luck on the sprint. 

Still, no direct interaction is advised. 

Soon. 

Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.

Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.

The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.” 

You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.

When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps. 

You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win. 

P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns. 

You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :) 

He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you. 

You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you. 

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week. 

“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”

“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.” 

On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.

Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.

Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.

user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…  user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest ⇢ Well now that’s pushing it user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage

He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.

In his shorts. Shirtless.

Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink. 

He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.” 

“Nap first. Talk later.” 

He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”

Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say. 

It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over. 

“And put a shirt on.” 

He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway. 

When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.

Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.

“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already. 

“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”

He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”

And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared. 

You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.

You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing. 

Ten minutes is up. 

“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”

When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.

“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.

“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave. 

“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.

“Only during Q3, if you get there.” 

Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.” 

The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.” 

Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.

By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation. 

It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole. 

When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision. 

You try not to pay attention. Try.  

He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.

The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.

Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks. 

The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence. 

He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world. 

He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup. 

Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it. 

P4 feels like a slap in the face.

The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2. 

But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place. 

No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.

The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.

And yet.

He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now. 

It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.

Still, there are eyes everywhere. 

Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole. 

He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach. 

It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away. 

It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.

Oscar pulls his gloves off. 

He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours. 

He doesn’t have to do more. 

The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough. 

When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him. 

Race day. Ground zero. 

Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥

It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things. 

“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself. 

The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle. 

Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general. 

Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids. 

You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all. 

The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’

Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable. 

You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations. 

At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested. 

You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin. 

You try not to dwell on it.

Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one. 

There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.

You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.

But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.

It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.

Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.

He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.

You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.

Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.

It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.

The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast. 

Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.

Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough. 

A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.

Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.

Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind. 

The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance. 

The checkered flag zooms by.

He wins.

🔍 Recent Searches   oscar yn dating oscar griddy oscar piastri miami oscar tom yn yn tom movie release date yn miami gp yn reaction

user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭 user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life user: this obvious wag treatment user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT  ⇢ you’re not alone dw ⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando ⇢ ?  ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ur sick user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️

Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands. 

“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.

“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Not a bad win, eh?” 

“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.” 

You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?” 

“It was Mark, actually.” 

Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards. 

George comes out. Then, Lando.

And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar. 

The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound. 

You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.

Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him. 

Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting. 

Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter. 

“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.

“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”

He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.” 

“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”

You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs. 

His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.

Something violent overcomes you. 

You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.

“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.

The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory. 

Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.

Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.

Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly. 

You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat. 

I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound. 

A stilted croak trickles out. 

Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”

When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest. 

Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”

Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Supersonic.”

He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.” 

Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.” 

Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life. 

“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.

“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”

“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”

“Huh!” You react out loud. 

“See you at 8?”

“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.” 

Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.

There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace. 

“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team. 

“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”

Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both. 

“This must be what birds feel like.” 

What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”

“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.” 

There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.

But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.” 

You freeze. Glitch. 

What in the world—

The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.

“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.” 

You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way. 

He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”

“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”

Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love. 

You are so in love. 

‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world. 

It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers. 

People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.

But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld. 

The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.

user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol user: her vibe is weird idk user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played  user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks ⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP user: yntom is So over user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.  ⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night user: what do they even have in common /gen ⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple

It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.

Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer

Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports

Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends? 

You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast. 

The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin. 

You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow. 

It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense. 

He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish. 

tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)

He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over. 

It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference. 

Tom Sent an image You're welcome Have you seen my post? 😝

It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back. 

You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.

You weigh the consequences.

You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.  

This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.

You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember. 

The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep. 

Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.

You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.

“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”

You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.” 

He makes a rough sound of assent.

You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.

The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium. 

The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid. 

You type out a caption. Pick out a song. 

Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel. 

You can’t—you can’t do this. 

It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of. 

You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial. 

Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.  

The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.

Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.

Playing safe never hurt anyone. 

yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?

You send it for checking and are given a green light.

Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands. 

Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.

When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend. 

“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot. 

You see the notification. 

oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

What? 

You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?” 

oscarpiastri liked your post. oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️ oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.

“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”

You swipe through his post.

oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend

His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé. 

The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.

But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.

You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is. 

A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you. 

It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change. 

Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.  

You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches. 

Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth  Kept it quiet long enough :) 

It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok. 

You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”

He kisses you flat on the lips. 

“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.” 

“Still a piece of shit-”

“Who you still love?”

“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”

He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”

It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.

“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.” 

Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”

“I’m internet savvy enough.”

“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.

He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you. 

Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.

“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?” 

He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.” 

You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”

“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”

You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf. 

Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”

“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.

“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”

The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”

He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “Try me.”

Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.   

The jealousy never really went away. 

Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.

tomblyth replies: 🤨 tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver yourname reposts: skill issue

Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ. 

Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now. 

Oscar Sent a link. “F1 driver” I have a name you know 🙁

Oscar Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever. How is it your co-star tells me before you do

Oscar Hey so Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :) Sneak. Round 2 this summer break? Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail

Oscar Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?  I got Tom a pass if he wants to come Missing you a little extra tonight

Oscar is on his phone.

He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.

But.

It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture. 

He finds peace in that.

He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet. 

His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.

The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.  

He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.

1 new message. You booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3 

Even then. 

They didn’t get to have you. No one did. 

Though by some miracle, you let him.

They loved you. But he had you. 

It’s something. 

Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for. 

(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.) 

It’s commitment, he realizes.

He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too. 

Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.

Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.

whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)

[angelsueeeeeee]

having one too many drinks at rita’s at & forgetting you’re dating az so you start flirting with him and he plays along until he drops the bomb that you’re dating and you’re like 🤯🤯

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word count: 300

Warnings: Drinking

a/n: Drabble masterlist can be found here. I'm writing a bunch of drabbles today!! <3 This was a fave hehe

____________________________________________

Azriel was having the time of his life.

He couldn't fight the smile on his face as you playfully swatted his bicep, tossing your head back in a fit of giggles. He was sure he was blushing, but he also did not care one bit.

"You're so funny," you laughed, eyes hazy and more drunk than he'd ever seen you. "Sooo funny."

Azriel looked down at the bartop with a hidden grin. "Thank you." Tongue against his cheek, he found your unfocused gaze once more. "You're very beautiful."

You choked on the drink he'd bought you—just juice, but you'd never know. According to Mor, you'd had more than enough before she'd called for him.

Setting the glass down and blinking hard, you fiddled with your fingers. A nervous habit he knew well.

"Thank you," you slurred with a bashful smile.

"Of course. I've never seen anyone more beautiful. I had to tell you."

Your face heated. Azriel found an opportunity as your gaze fell to the floor from a shyness he didn't often see. He tilted your chin with his fingers, leaning closer to your face. "Don't hide," he softly encouraged. "I want to see you."

You took in a deep breath, looking down at his lips and back up. You really were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen—all windswept and messy hair and vibrant from the night.

"Do you—Are you single?" you blurted out, catching your mate by surprise.

He blinked, and then his smile spread wider. "I am not," he revealed, watching your shoulders slump and a small pout form on your lips. "My silly girl. I'm in love with you. You are my mate."

Shock cleared your face first. And then the lights changed within Rita's, purple flashing over your disbelief. "You're mine?"

"Of course I am."

[angelsueeeeeee]

This could be for Azriel or Cassian but what if he causes a sparring injury and bros like so guilty

Pairing: Cassian x Reader

Word count: 315

Warnings: Injury, blood

a/n: Drabble masterlist can be found here. I'm writing a bunch of drabbles today!! <3

____________________________________________

"Oh Gods."

"No, no, it's okay."

"It's not. Let me see."

"Cass, it's okay. Just give me a moment."

"Please, let me see. Move your hand."

The strain in his voice was what did it. You winced and followed his command, pulling your hand back from your throbbing nose. The blood came next, gushing down your chin even though the hit hadn't felt that hard. Of course it hadn't—Cassian never meant to hurt you.

"Shit. I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he lamented, hands soft on your jaw. "Might've broken it. Can I touch?"

You braced yourself, but nodded, closing your eyes against the morning sun. Cassian was still gentle as he brushed his thumb up the bridge of your nose, but it didn't matter. It was definitely broken.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, baby. I'm stopping," Cassian rushed, eyeing the blood still flowing down your face with so much guilt it was starting to hurt your chest. He pulled his shirt over his head and carefully wiped your face. "Gods, I shouldn't've—I thought you were ducking and—"

"Cass, it's really okay," you repeated, words slightly muffled by his shirt. Cassian had moved to hold the back of your head with one hand and the shirt to your nose with the other. "It'll heal. Just an accident."

He didn't look convinced. Cassian shook his head in disappointment, his next words low, almost to himself. "I never want to hurt you."

"I know that."

"I'm so sorry."

"Cass, honey, it's okay. I promise."

Cassian bit into his bottom lip and tilted his head, bringing the shirt away to look again. "It's gonna bruise."

"I'll look really cool then."

Cassian tsked, moving your hair away from your face too gently. He looked sad now—sad and guilty and worried over a simple bruised nose.

"Kiss me?" you requested.

His eyes met yours. "I just punched you in the face."

"Kiss me anyway."

[angelsueeeeeee]

i love the way you write sm omg!! i was wondering if you'd write something where the reader breaks up with max (maybe she thinks he should focus on racing instead)? please make it really really angsty

If You Let Me Go

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: He’s chasing a championship. You love him too much to stand in the way. (Requested)

1.8k words / Masterlist

You don’t tell him over dinner. That would be cruel. He’s still sweaty, still breathless from post-race media, helmet hair sticking up in different directions and adrenaline still buzzing through his system.

And he’s smiling.

You haven’t seen that smile in weeks. Not the forced, press-conference one. The real one. The one that reaches his eyes and softens his whole face.

It makes this a thousand times worse.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, lips pressing into the side of your neck like he always does, a habitual comfort. “Did you see the lap times? I told them mediums would work. Nobody listens to me.”

You nod, forcing a smile, even though your heart is already splitting.

You’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Ever since that quiet moment in the motorhome when Max stared blankly at the telemetry screen and muttered, “I can’t afford distractions right now.”

He hadn’t meant you. You’re almost sure of it.

But the way his tone dipped, the way he said it to no one in particular… you felt it.

You’ve been watching him stretch himself thinner and thinner, juggling press, sim training, briefings, travel, expectations. The sport devours every part of him. And you, standing next to him in the shadows, you’re just another thing he has to make room for.

So you’ve made a decision.

“Can we talk?” you ask softly, pulling away from his embrace.

Max blinks, slightly confused. “Sure. Everything okay?”

You wait until the hotel room. Wait until his shoes are kicked off, until his hoodie is tugged over his head, until there’s no one else but the two of you and the night air heavy between the walls.

You don’t sit. You don’t want to make this harder. You breath in deep.

The air sticks in your lungs like something you’re not supposed to hold.

Your fingers twist and your throat burns. He’s standing there still looking at you like you're his safe place.

You wish you could be softer. You wish you didn’t have to say it at all.

But you do.

“I think we should break up.”

He laughs at first an awkward, confused laugh like you’ve made a terrible joke. “What?”

You swallow. “Max. I’m serious.”

He stares at you and in an instant you see the change. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then the fear the panic buried in those icy blue eyes.

“Why?” His voice is sharp now. A little rough around the edges. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You try to stay steady, but your legs are already trembling. “I think… you need to focus. Fully. You’re chasing another title. You’re carrying a team Max. And I—”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t make it sound noble. Like this is some kind of sacrifice I didn’t ask for.”

You look down. “It’s not about me.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

You exhale shakily. “I heard you the other day talking about distractions.”

Max goes still. “I wasn’t talking about you!”

“But you were thinking it.”

He steps back like you slapped him. “Are you serious right now?”

Your arms wrap around your own body like a shield. “I’m not stupid Max.”

“No,” he spits, “you’re not. But you’re being insane if you think I meant you.”

Your breath catches.

His voice is sharp now, tight with hurt. “I was talking about media. About sponsor shit. About fake interviews and social posts and people getting me involved in nonsense.” He runs a frustrated hand down his face. “Not you. Never you.”

“Max—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “You heard one sentence — one — and decided I saw you as something that was holding me back? That’s what you think I see when I look at you?”

You don’t answer.

Max steps closer, eyes stormy, wounded. “Do you think I’d be doing better if you weren’t around?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been exhausted yeah but not because of you. Because of everything but you. You’re the only thing that keeps me sane. And now you want to throw it all away over something I didn’t even say to you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“But you are,” he says. His voice is quieter now, but it’s no less intense. “You’re walking away based on a lie you told yourself.”

Your heart breaks at the way his chest rises and falls like he’s struggling to breathe. At the way his eyes burn but never look away.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out. “You’re really doing this.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself trying to hold the pieces together. “I can't be the reason you don’t win.”

His voice is quiet now, dangerous in how calm it becomes. “You think you’re what’s holding me back but have you ever thought maybe you’re the only thing holding me together?”

Silence.

You want to believe that. God, you do. You want to believe you’re not the reason he’s exhausted. Not the reason his eyes are bloodshot in every morning briefing. Not the reason he’s chasing time in the car, in the gym, on his phone when he’s late texting you back.

But your mind is cluttered with too many moments you can’t forget.

Early wake-ups where you watched him slip out quietly, thinking he was doing you a favour. Missed calls that piled up while he was on back-to-back simulators. Half-eaten cold dinners you both pretended tasted fine despite the silence hanging over the table. Long flights where he held your hand, but couldn't meet your eyes.

And that one night, the one that never left you where you found him sitting on the edge of the bed at 3 a.m. staring blankly at data sheets on his laptop. In the morning he whispered, “Sorry. I should’ve come to bed.” You kissed his cheek and said it was fine, but it wasn’t. Not because he stayed up working but because you never wanted him to feel guilty in the first place.

You shake your head now, voice quiet. “You don’t need me Max not right now.”

He flinches like the words cut deeper than he expected.

“You need focus,” you continue, forcing yourself to say it, even though your chest is tightening with every word. “You need space. Not someone you have to text between back-to-backs or stay up late comforting. You don’t need to carry me and the weight of the season. And if I love you, really love you, which I do then I let you run without looking back.”

He looks at you like you’ve just knocked the air out of him.

“I don’t want space from you.” Max turns away sharply, hands in his hair, pacing like he’s trying to outrun the truth. “This is insane. You’re breaking up with me for my benefit?”

You can’t breathe.

“Max,” you say gently, “I love you enough to let you go.”

He turns, broken now. “You don’t break someone’s heart and call it love.”

“I’m not breaking your heart to hurt you,” you say, almost begging him to understand. “I’m doing it because I think it’s what’s best for you.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” he fires back. “You think this helps? You think waking up without you, going to races and not knowing if you’ll even be watching you think that’s what I need?”

“You need clarity. You don’t need me weighing you down!”

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “I’ve given you everything. Every spare second I had. Every bit of me that wasn’t on track it was yours.”

“I know,” you say, tears in your voice now. “I know, and that’s why I have to do this! Because I can’t keep being another thing you have to manage it's not fair and it's killing you.”

“You’re not a thing,” he says sharply. “You’re not an obligation. You’re my person.”

You close your eyes, like maybe if you stop looking at him this won’t hurt as much. “I have to go Max.”

He steps closer. “No you don’t. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. I choose you, always, racing or not. That doesn’t change.”

You reach out instinctively, but he jerks back like your touch burns.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice shattered. “Don’t touch me like you love me and then leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck sorry,” he snaps. His chest is rising and falling like he’s mid-race, like he’s seconds away from spinning out. “You think you’re doing this to protect me. You’re not. You’re just—” he chokes on the words, “—you’re just giving up.”

You shake your head. “I’m giving you what you need. You don't see it now but you will.” Your voice softens, even as your chest tightens. “I’m just… one more thing you have to think about. One more person to reassure, to make time for. You’re already stretched so thin Max. And I see it every time you’re pulled in ten different directions. I don’t want to be one more thing costing you this championship.”

He glares at you like he doesn’t recognise the person standing in front of him anymore. “No. You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it so you won’t have to wonder if you played a part if I fall short. And if I’m standing on the podium you can tell yourself it was because you stepped away. That it was worth it. This is for you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“That’s not—”

“Maybe I’ll win,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. “You’ll be watching wondering if I could’ve made it there with you next to me. And you’ll never get the answer because you never gave us the chance.”

That’s what breaks you. The rawness in his tone. The grief and anger tangled together in the spaces between every word.

You turn, grabbing your overnight bag. If you stay, you’ll take it back. You’ll beg. You’ll cry. And you can’t.

Max watches you move toward the door, arms limp at his sides like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Just tell me one thing,” he says hoarsely. “Is there someone else?”

You freeze. “No. Never.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing this?”

Your voice is so small it’s barely audible.

“Because I love you.”

Silence swallows the room. When you glance back one last time Max’s face is blank. He looks like a statue, like if he moves he’ll break apart.

You leave anyway.

One Month Later

You see him on TV. Monaco podium. Champagne soaking his fireproofs, cameras flashing, fans screaming his name.

But his smile never quite reaches his eyes.

When the reporter asks, “You’ve been in great form lately does it feel like everything is finally coming together?”

Max just shrugs.

“Not everything,” he replies.

And walks off.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w @abcdefghi09lmnopqrstuvwxyz

[angelsueeeeeee]

summary: you’re sick for the winter break, ruining yours and oscar’s plans. he takes care of you, only to wind up sick himself in the end

oscar piastri x reader

w/c 1291

Getting sick the second Oscar was free from the commitments of racing felt like just your luck. All season long you’d been fine, travelling with him where you could to show your support, and now you’d finally headed back to Australia to relax, you’d been hit with a wave of illness. You had so much stuff planned and you didn’t know if you’d be able to do any of it.

At first you were unaware it was illness. It started with fatigue. You’d slept for most of the flight, something that wasn’t usual for you. The pair of you just put it down to exhaustion after a busy few weeks. It wasn’t until the next morning in Oscar’s childhood bedroom when your head grew heavy, chills racked your body and your sniffles could be heard from all the way downstairs, that you pieced it together. 

Oscar felt horrible. He had woken up rather perky at the idea of being home for the winter break. Today you were supposed to get the grand tour around his neighbourhood for the first time. But when you woke up groggy and complaining that everything hurt, he knew that wasn’t happening. Annoyingly, he didn’t know how to help. “Oh, baby,” he frowned, petting your hair. The warmth of his hand on your skin felt nice. The sight of you made his chest ache. Even in the summer heat you were freezing, blanket wrapped tightly around your body in a desperate attempt to get warm. It wasn’t helping. “Do you need anything?”

He felt terrible. If he possessed the ability to do so, he would take away every bit of discomfort you were feeling right now. 

“No.” It hurt to talk. 

He nodded. “I’ll let you get some sleep.” And you definitely weren’t going to protest that. For a second or 2 he just looked at you, his heart throbbing in his chest at how sad you looked. This was supposed to be a good few weeks. You deserved a relaxing vacation. This whole thing was unfair. “Sleep tight.”

You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up later that day– it felt like you actually had no concept of time anymore at all. You roused due to the quiet callings of your name, squinting your eyes open to find your boyfriend standing over you with a hesitant look on his face. He hadn’t wanted to wake you up but he was worried that you hadn’t eaten yet and surely that was only going to make you more ill. At least that was what his mum said. Oscar wasn’t good with the whole sickness remedies thing. But he trusted a woman who had raised 4 children. 

It was like he knew the second you opened your eyes. He creeped into the room, a frown on his face at your demeanor. You felt so small like this. “Feeling any better?” he asked, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t make your headache any worse.

You shook your head. If anything you felt worse than you had that morning, despite all the sleeping, you hadn’t been instantly cured. It seemed like an illness that was going to take you a few days to recover from.

He leaned down to where you were tucked up under the covers, pressing his lips to your slightly sweaty forehead. If you were in your right state of mind you would have cringed, maybe pushed him away out of fear of grossing him out, but it felt like way too much effort to even lift a finger right now. Besides, he didn’t care about that. Your wellbeing was far more important to him than you being a little sweaty. 

“You feel really warm.”

The look on his face made your heart clench. You firmly believed there should always be that beautiful smile on Oscar’s face and right now you were the reason it wasn’t there. But your pitiful thoughts were brushed away as his hand came up to stroke your hair. His touch was soothing in a way nothing else was. 

“My mum made you some soup. Used to work wonders as a kid when we were sick.” 

He watched you perk up a bit at that. Your eyes were fully open and it looked as though you were prepared to make a sad attempt at pushing yourself into a sitting position. Your cheeks warmed at the idea of his mum thinking about you like that. 

“Oh, thank you.” She had never shown you anything but hospitality, but it still left you with a flutter in your heart at the idea she would do something so generous. 

Only then did you notice the steaming bowl in his hand. He set it down on the table next to the bed, helping you sit up properly. You thought he was going to hand you the bowl and spoon and head off to do whatever he had planned for his day. The last thing you expected was for him to pick up the spoon himself and sit beside you. He was going to feed you. 

You thought that was unnecessary. “Oscar…” You were sick, not a child. 

He pouted, looking at you with eyes you couldn’t say no to. He should be out there having fun. Spending time with his family who he didn’t see all that often. Yet here he was, hand feeding you soup while you were sick with a smile like he’d just won the Australian grand prix. He was happy exactly where he was. 

Food did make you feel better. It certainly helped that Nicole was a fabulous cook. Oscar was just glad you weren’t going to starve. 

“Do you want to get some more sleep, or?”

You shook your head. You sort of just wanted to be with him. In his arms. But that wouldn’t be fair. You were all germy right now. He knew from the way you were looking at him. Whenever you wanted a kiss or a cuddle, you got that same look in your eye. 

He smiled. His hands came to cup your face, but you pulled away. “What’s wrong? Let me kiss you.” He sounded so desperate. In any other circumstance it would’ve made you laugh.

“No, you’re gonna get sick,” you whined. Oscar had had a gruelling season. With all the travelling and the racing, etc. The last thing he needed in his brief downtime was to be ill. Especially because of you. 

But he didn’t care. You mattered a million times more to him than a couple weeks relaxation did. Not being able to kiss you was like pure torture in his eyes. So, despite your complaints, he still leaned in and kissed you sweetly. A lingering kiss that would have made your knees week had you been on your feet. You were actually kind of glad he’d done it. It was nice.

Mere seconds after your lips disconnected, you turned your head and sneezed heavily. He blinked, you stared shyly. Then he broke out into laughter. Where you thought he might be grossed out, instead he thought it was hilarious. Especially with the little sickly pout on your face. “Osc,” you frowned. 

He grinned. “‘M sorry. You’re just so lovely.” He tucked your hair behind your ear. “I love you. Sick and gross or not.” Annoyingly, he meant it. 

Just a few days later when you woke up able to breathe through your nose for the first time in a week, it was his turn to wake up all groggy. His head pounded and he hated the smug look on your face. But he wouldn’t take any of it back. He would kiss you again a million times over. “Totally worth it.”

[angelsueeeeeee]

birthday pastry

@ oscar piastri

caption can oscar live up to his infamous nickname?

tw tooth rotting (literally and figuratively) fluff

wc 1,220

l4ndoflove this is my (very belated) birthday gift for @vettelsvee 🫶🫶🫶 love you girl, feliz cumple <333

p.s. i hope this helps after the race :)

OSCAR PIASTRI HAD NEVER BEEN A GREAT COOK. Everybody was painfully aware of that: you, his family… even Lando knew it by now. Still, the McLaren content team, who’d witnessed countless of his culinary disasters, didn’t seem to care one bit.

That was the reason why your boyfriend currently found himself seated at a table scattered with toppings, a whole crew filming him.

“So,” he cleared his throat, eyeing the ingredients as if they were little bombs about to go off. “We are here at Spa for the Belgian Grand Prix, and as you can see, we’re going to decorate some waffles.”

“Uh huh,” his teammate confirmed, already stacking three of them on his plate.

Meanwhile, just off camera, you were bracing yourself for the inevitable chaos that was about to unfold judging by Lando’s grin and Oscar’s lost look — the one he usually gave you whenever you asked him for a hand in the kitchen.

“I think I’m going to start with…” His eyes roamed over the colorful garnishes, landing on a small bottle that he immediately picked up. Then, without missing a beat, he held it up and showed it to you. “You like chocolate sauce, right?”

Saying that he caught you off guard would’ve been an understatement.

You blinked at him, confused, not sure if you’d imagined it or he’d actually asked you something before the soft ‘hm?’ which left the back of his throat confirmed the latter. He was waiting for an answer. The one you gave him was barely audible, a whisper you hoped the microphone wouldn’t catch, but it was enough to bring a faint smile to his lips.

“Coming right up,” he muttered to himself as he squeezed a generous amount of said syrup on the plate in front of him. Well, tried to. When nothing came out, he frowned, eyebrows drawn together — partially in concentration, mainly in confusion — and used both hands to apply more pressure. Still nothing. “What the…”

Despite his visible distress, you couldn’t help but snort. Because the way Oscar always struggled with literally anything that didn’t involve racing cars had something comically endearing to it, even though you would’ve never admitted it. Not that he hadn’t figured it out on his own, anyway.

“Baby,” you called out, stifling a laugh, “you’re supposed to–”

“Remove the foil! Thank you,” he finished your sentence right as he popped open the bottle and revealed the thin material sealing it, which he then proceeded to peel off. After that, he managed to pour a drizzle of chocolate on his dish with a dramatic flick of the wrist, just like an artist painting on white canvas.

Once he was done, he cocked his head to the side and gave his… whatever it was a better look.

“Does this look like a heart to you?”

Lando, who had been sneakily stuffing his pockets full of Kinder Schoko-Bons for the last five minutes, glanced down at his teammate’s failed attempt at drawing and scrunched up his nose at the sight.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He paused.

“It does look like an ‘O’, though. ‘O’ for Oscar.” He nodded at the crew, clearly pleased with himself for coming up with such a brilliant last-minute save.

So brilliant that it earned him a deadpan stare from you and a very judgy side eye from the Brit next to him.

“Whatever you say, mate. Whatever you say.”

The Aussie ignored him, already scouting for his next victim in the crowd of bowls laid out on the counter. It took him a surprisingly short amount of time to find one because, as soon as he recognized the mini chocolate candies that Lando kept avoiding, his eyes lit up. Bingo.

“These are my girlfriend’s favorite,” he beamed, taking a handful of the Crispy M&M’s he was referring to. “I always carry some with me for when she gets hungry.”

Somewhere beside him, Lando sighed. “Ah, love. Couldn’t relate.”

Oscar’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink at his comment. He fumbled with the waffles that he was clumsily attempting to pile up in the middle of his chocolate decoration, and, of course, he dropped them right away. Swearing under his breath, he rushed to fix the mess, ears as red as some of the sweets still clutched in his fist.

“Uh, this is not good,” he chuckled awkwardly. “But I’ll make it work. Hopefully.”

‘Hopefully’ was definitely the right word because hope was the only thing holding together your boyfriend’s creation when he finally sat back, gave it a proud once over, and considered himself happy with the result.

He sounded almost relieved when he spoke again.

“Hard part’s done. My teammate here might disagree, but I think I did a pretty good job.” He shrugged. “And, umm... yeah, that’s it for today.”

Apparently, it wasn’t.

The camera was still rolling when he stood up, lifted his precarious construction from the table, and walked out of frame — straight toward you.

In two strides, he was there.

“Hi,” he murmured with a sheepish smile.

“Hi,” you echoed him, tilting your head back to see his face. “What are you doing?”

“I made you something.”

Your heart did a stupid, little somersault in your chest. “Really?”

“Mhm. Do you like it?”

You followed his gaze as it settled on the plate squished between the two of you, where a leaning tower of waffles was miraculously defying gravity. A bunch of colorful M&M’s were tucked into its square holes, and the white porcelain beneath it was dotted with crooked hearts. The bright orange writing running along the edge, however, was the first thing that caught your attention:

Happy birthday, I love you

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Just stared at what was quite literally the sweetest gift anyone had ever given you.

Unfortunately, Oscar couldn’t read your mind.

“I know we ate a real cake with the team this morning, and it probably tasted way better than this, but I wanted to do something for you, and I can’t exactly bake, so–”

He never finished the sentence — not everyone is able to when they have another person’s mouth pressed against theirs.

Your lips captured his in a kiss that was meant to shut him up yet spoke louder than words ever could, tongues deep in a conversation of their own.

It wasn’t rushed. You took your time with it, breathing in the delicate cocoa scent that clung to him, a mix of his deodorant and the sauce streaking his skin as your fingers trailed up his arm, slow and deliberate, and wiped away a remnant of syrup from his jaw. He melted under your touch.

“You guys are disgusting.” The sound of Lando’s voice momentarily drowned out that of your breaths intertwining, reaching you from his place in the background. “Get a room.”

Oscar smirked. “Might as well,” he muttered lazily into your mouth, eyes half-lidded with affection. You rolled yours, amused.

“Later,” you cooed, pulling away only to give him another quick peck on the lips. Then another one. “Ask me again.”

“What?”

“If I like it.”

He exhaled, already preparing for the worst. “Be honest. Do you like it?”

Your fingertips grazed the light stubble on his chin, as gentle as your next words.

“I love it.”

[angelsueeeeeee]

one step at a time

by Jordan Sparks

pairing: Azriel x reader ~ 2.7k

warnings: reader is on their cycle, some-ish angst, some cussing, blood mention (not graphically)

summary: you push Azriel, your newly-found mate, away when your cycle comes and he worries that something is severely wrong only to find you in need of his help

Your cycle was fast approaching.

Two days before you had made frequent trips to the pantry in order to scrounge for any sweets you could find. When you came up empty-handed on your fourth visit, you couldn't be bothered to go out and buy some more. The nearest shop was a couple of blocks from your apartment and you could already feel the dull ache in your lower back due to your impending cycle.

There were many reasons you despised this time of the year. The horrible smarting of your body, the fluctuation of your emotions, the shocking amount of blood you lose, etc. But the worst had to be doing it alone. You didn't have anyone to check on you when you developed a fever. No one to hold you close in silent comfort. Nothing. But you had been doing this alone for the few centuries of your life and you could do it for the rest.

You prepared all the necessary supplies to help you through these next grueling, pain filled days: a hot water bottle, soothing incense, fluffy blankets, a shirt you'd stolen from your mate, and a copious amount of pain tonics—thank the gods for healers.

Everything was set and you were ready to wallow in your suffering when—

knock knock

You looked at the front door and groaned. Who would be here? You weren't expecting any mail or visitors, were you?

You considered ignoring it and swallowing yourself in the nest you had made until you made out the tall, winged figure through the glass. You would know that silhouette anywhere.

You trudged over to the door and opened it, not at all surprised to find your mate standing at your porch, a look of concern on his devastatingly handsome features. You noticed that his shadows were restless around him, bobbing up and down, a few wisps curling through your hair and clothes, inspecting.

"Az?"

Azriel himself studied you, scarred hands coming to grip your arms as worried hazel eyes scanned your body. For what? You had absolutely no idea.

"Is everything alright?" you inquired, a quirk of a smile on your lips. He was being very silly.

"You sent distressed signals down the bond. I thought the worst," he explained in that deep, spine-tingling voice of his, "maybe your bookshelf had fallen on top of you. Or you touched something hot out of the oven. Or—"

You rested your own hands on his forearms in a reassuring manner. "None of that happened, thankfully. I'm just..."

Do you tell your mate, who you've only known for a good four months now, that you were so distressed over your cycle? That you hadn't meant to send those feelings down the bond? That you were still getting used to someone feeling what you feel?

No.

Azriel was a male. And as wonderful and thoughtful as he was, he obviously wouldn't care too much to hear about the painful and bloody contracting of your—well. He just wouldn't wish to know and would probably just cringe in disgust. So you decided to tell a small fib.

"I just read an upsetting scene in my book." You explained, hoping that the gods-damn spymaster of the night court, whose job it was to find the truth, couldn't see through your lie. You smiled wider.

Azriel's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Your heart picked up its pace. please please please— "Alright then," he said slowly, fingers climbing to hold your face. "Is there anything I can do to help? Burn the book? Maybe track down the author?"

Your resolve nearly crumbled at the crooked smile he gave you. Cauldron, what did you do in your past life to deserve this male?

You nuzzled your face into his warm palms, wishing you crawl under his skin and live there forever. Alas, slowly, you pulled away. "You came here just to check on me?"

"And to see you." A soft pink tinged his otherwise tan cheeks.

"You saw me yesterday."

"Is it so wrong of me to want to see my mate everyday? Even when I'm not with you you're on my mind. It's like you're haunting me or something." He huffed a small, bashful laugh.

Ugh. It was growing difficult for you to not want him to stay. Surely, with the adoring way he beheld you, he wouldn't mind taking care of you? Right?

An unsolicited memory came to your mind.

"That's fucking disgusting," snarled the male you thought you loved, his features twisted in disgust. "I'm not sticking around for this. Find me when you're back to normal."

You blinked back into reality. You swallowed thickly. "You should head home, Azriel."

Azriel stiffened at the stiff recommendation. He peered down at the space you had created between each other. His eyes flashed with embarrassment. Regret knifed through you, urging you to make things right. To say something to erase that look on his face. But you couldn't. You wouldn't.

Thick silence ensued and you could feel Azriel's confusion through the golden bond strung taut between you.

After a breath, he stepped back, "I'll head back. I just...if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to call for me."

And you had an inkling that he would drop anything to get to you. Despite the short time you've been together, Azriel had felt comfortable enough to spill his guts. He told you all about Mor, the Archeron sisters, how he fancied himself in love with the middle one, how he felt unfavorable in being the only one of his brothers who didn't have a mate. Until he found you.

You could remember the day so vividly. You had been perusing the apothecary for essential oils, the ones you had at home were dwindling. A large male entered the small store not long after you and he asked the healer on shift about anti-itch cream. It seemed a friend of his mistook poison ivy for another, completely different looking plant and couldn't stop scratching himself.

As the healer went into the back to find some remedy, you sidled up to the Illyrian and gave him some advice. An oatmeal bath. Cool compresses. He wouldn't stop staring at you as you listed off treatments. You searched your face with your fingers for something. A lingering piece of chocolate from your breakfast muffin. Botched makeup. Something.

Then he said one word. Mate.

From that day, on you took the time to get to know one another. You went out on dates. Azriel walked you to and from your work, although he had to make the commute from the House of Wind—which was on the other side of Valeris—every time. You met his family once or twice. He met yours. You were well on your way to falling irrecoverably in love with him.

But you couldn't let him see you like this. You knew of no male that sacrificed their time in helping their significant other while they were on their cycle. Hel, your own moronic brother-in-law took a small vacation every time your sister was on hers.

"Thank you, Azriel. I'll reach out if something comes up." You resisted the urge to close the space and clutch onto him. "And thanks for stopping by. Fortunately I wasn't in any real danger." You laughed through your nose to ease the air.

Azriel's fingers twitched at his side, as if he, too, wanted to reach out to you. Your heart dropped. "Anytime," he said quietly before turning and walking down your front steps. You were just closing the door when you saw him look over his shoulder once more.

You had once read a novel about an invisible man. And you were now sure that he wasn't fictional. He was very much real and stabbing you in your stomach with a dull knife, no doubt smiling cruelly as you writhe in pain, pale and weak.

The first day was always the most excruciating. You woke up this morning in cold sweat, the sun still asleep, and limped into your bathroom to cry on the floor. This was only the beginning.

You spent a couple of hours in the bath before forcing yourself out to continue suffering on your bed. You refused heating up the hot bottle you took out the day before, seeing as it required you to travel downstairs and boil water. Your legs protested at the mere thought.

You laid in bed for Mother knows how long, staring at the ceiling, wishing you had something to eat or a hand to hold.

Through the pain, you could hear the faint sound of someone knocking. You couldn't make out if it was real or just your imagination.

It stopped and you closed your eyes, intent on losing yourself to a fitful nap.

Something warm pressed against your forehead and then a soft curse. You blinked open heavy eyelids and found... "Azriel?"

Azriel, maybe Azriel, you still weren't sure if this was just a dream, knelt at your bedside, looking at you worriedly. "What's going on? I came to check on you, you acted out of character yesterday." he rambled, "You didn't answer the door, but I knew you didn't have a shift today, then I could smell blood through the door, and I-I thought you were—" Azriel's head suddenly dropped into the crook of your neck and he...sniffled?

You brought a hand to the nape of his neck, soothing your thumb along his pulse. "Azriel?" you asked quietly, confused. "Why are you crying?"

He muffled something into your skin but you didn't understand. You tapped his jaw to have him repeat his words. He lifted his head, letting you take in his tear-streaked cheek and wobbling chin. This wasn't your mate. The warrior who had endured Hel at the hands of his family and enemies and still fought. He looked like a child, lost and alone and yearning for someone to hold him and tell him everything will be alright.

He said, in a quiet voice, "I thought you were dead."

You frowned deeply. "Oh, Azriel."

"That," he chuckled wryly, "is all you've said since I came. Azriel. Azriel. Azriel."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me why you were so strange yesterday. That the blood I smell isn't yours." He pleaded.

You swiped a tear from his lashes. You couldn't lie. Not anymore. "The blood you smell is mine, but it's nothing perilous. I'm on my cycle."

You waited in anticipation for Azriel to scoff and leave but he didn't. He just sighed in relief and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering. "You have no idea how wonderful that is."

"It's not wonderful in any aspect," you groused. "It feels like I'm being exorcised and I've lost so much blood—probably more than you've seen in your entire life. And it's disgusting. So, so disgusting."

Azriel seemed undeterred as he whispered softly to his shadows in some unknown language, the wisps darting out of the room in a hurry. Then he stood and said, to your complete surprise, "I've led wars, killed them myself, seen the most horrific gore you could imagine. This—" he gestured to you, "—is anything but horrific. If natural, pure, beautiful."

A blush crept onto your cheeks. "This isn't beautiful."

"It is, my beautiful, stubborn, mate." He brushed the hair from your damp forehead. "It might hurt like a bitch, and I wish I could take it from you, but it means you can have children. Our children. And I think that is the most beautiful thing in the world."

Tears pooled in your eyes at his sincere speech. Azriel must have mistakenly thought that they were because you were dismayed. "Unless you don't want children. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you into something. Even if we adopted a cat or two I would be—"

"Stop," you laughed wetly, "you know, you must be really distraught considering you haven't stopped yapping. Usually you're more composed than this."

"Usually I'm not afraid my mate isn't pushing me away because she's secretly dying."

You winced. "I'm sorry you ever thought that."

Azriel perched on the edge of the bed. "Don't be. You obviously have your reasons for not wanting me here while you endured this."

You hesitated. You loved Azriel. That much you knew. And obviously he felt something strong for you. He should know about your past if you wanted to continue forward.

"I had a boyfriend two decades ago," you started, "I think I settled for him because he was charming and handsome. I never felt anything for him the way I do with you. Anyway, the further into our relationship, he started showing his true colors. He made me a second priority, took advantage of my gentleness, even tried to convince me that I had to ask for permission with anything I did. He was controlling. The first time I had my cycle with him, he wouldn't stop making these hurtful comments. Like how it was disgusting or that he didn't want to be around me. He left me alone after I tried to beg him to stay. I broke up with him a week after that when I could finally stand without leaning on something. He blamed everything on me but I knew the truth."

A long, alleviated breath left you. It felt releasing to get that off your chest. To say the words out loud and have someone hear them.

You dared a glance at Azriel to find him seething. You tensed up again. Then...

"He's a fucking bastard," Azriel growled, a mass of shadows gathering at his clenched fists. "I'll find him and gut him and make him beg for mercy."

You melted and fell just a little more in love with him.

Just then, something plopped onto the space beside you. You looked over and gasped. Chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. And your hot bottle, heated and ready. And a pain vial. You looked to Azriel to find his brow softened.

"Took you long enough." He grumbled to his shadows, scolding

You could only giggle. "You sent them out to run errands?"

Azriel shrugged and unwrapped a chocolate bar. "I've lived around enough females to know what they want during this time of the year. And I know you probably haven't taken a tonic in a couple of hours."

You ate the piece he pressed to your lips, watching in amusement at your pleased moan.

He helped you sit up, take the tonic, and had you drink a full glass of water, then pulled you into his arms. "That old boyfriend of yours deserves to be eaten by Byraxis. I hate knowing that you wasted a part of your life with him."

"Me too. But it led me to you, somehow, and I would endure him all over again if this is what I find next every time."

Azriel spanned a large, warm hand on your lower stomach, fingers gently kneading into the muscle there. You softened further into his arms. "I hope I'm doing this right."

"What? Massaging?"

"Us." He corrected, nosing along your hairline. "I want to do everything good by you."

"You're doing a magnificent job. I've never felt so seen." You blushed.

And Azriel was truly wonderful at that. He was always selfless, an admirable trait you wished to adopt from him.

"In a completely unrelated note, what was the male's name?" Azriel asked, deceivingly calm and curious. You would have believed it too if not for the cold anger you felt through the bond.

"He's received his revenge," you assure, burrowing into his broad chest, inhaling his calming scent, and the strength of his arms wrapping around you. "I spread the rumor that he had contracted a gruesome case of genital warts."

Azriel chuckled, in turn making you smile. "Have I ever told you how much I adore you?"

"Once or twice,"

"Obviously not enough." He pressed kisses along your face and scalp before offering you some more chocolate.

"Azriel?" you felt yourself dozing off, feeling far more comfortable than you ever have during a cycle. "I do want children with you. I'm glad, in some masochistic way, that this happens."

He held you tighter. "You'll let me take care of you from now on? Won't push me away?"

"Only if you let me do the same." You slurred, sleep pulling at you.

"I love you," he murmured to which you said, "I love you more," and he kept you close as you finally let yourself be looked after.

author's note: this one took me sooooo long to dish out 🫠 please enjoy, anon, this is for you 💋

[angelsueeeeeee]

HE'S ON THE RUN AND YOUR DADDY'S HERE!

MAX VERSTAPPEN X READER

SUMMARY: After you established a relationship with a new man, you've noticed that your daughter has started to favor him. When she begins to refuse to listen to anyone but him, you have to call him in to help you out.

WORD COUNT: 2K

WARNINGS: Slight angst w/ comfort, single parent reader, Max being an absolute darling angel, reader is insecure as a parent

FEATURING: Max Verstappen x Single Parent!Reader

NOTE: I’ve had this on my mind for ages…

You were just beginning to relax after a hard day of work. It was one tiring thing after another, and then to come home to a daughter going through her rebellious phase as a young girl was just the cherry on top of your frustrations. You kept a calm face as you gently talked her through each fit, but inside, you were just on the brink of losing it. It wasn't her fault; it was just the way her brain was developing. In fact, you had chosen to take all the blame yourself for not being able to figure out a solution.

After a lot of coaxing and reading the same storybook again and again, she had eventually dozed off against her own will, another unread book and her cat stuffed animal tucked into her arms against her chest. You let out a sigh of relief as you lie back on the sofa, hands pulling your phone from the pocket of your pajama shorts. You slowly scan over the notifications, but then swipe up to unlock the screen and dismiss all the unimportant messages.

Your fingers trek along the familiar route to Max's profile. It was a fresh relationship, and yet it was second nature to navigate your way to his contact. You hit the call button, holding the phone to your ear as you listened to it ring.

One ring.

Two rings.

It had gotten halfway through the third when he picked up, his sweet voice greeting you with a, "Good evening, Y/N." You smiled so easily. Your soul felt like it was walking on clouds. He hears your sigh and mistakes it for something weary. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah!" You reassure, though he can sense the hesitation. "Just had a long day, and it took a while to put Wren to sleep." Max hums, and even though you can't see him, you know he's thoughtfully nodding his head. "She's been going through it lately."

"How so?"

"Refusing to eat the dinner I make, even when I know she likes it, staying up late, throwing tantrums over the smallest things." You're not complaining, but rather reciting the truth. "I just... I don't know what to do. I try to correct it, but it ends with tears that last for far longer than I can handle, and I eventually fold."

"I see," The call falls silent for a moment, the two of you each deep in your individual thoughts. "How long ago did it start?"

"Maybe two months. It wasn't as bad in the beginning, but the past two weeks have been really bad for her." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I'm sorry, I meant to call you to relax, but I ended up ranting instead."

He laughs with ease. "I don't mind.” Quiet. For only a moment. “That’s about when we first started dating.”

You open your mouth to talk, but the sound of soft, small footsteps interrupts you. You pull the phone from your ear and sit up, peeking over the couch to watch your daughter slowly descend the stairs. "Wren, sweetie, what's wrong?"

"I can't sleep," she replies as she groggily rubs her eyes. You chew the inside of your cheek as you survey the situation. It's been like this the last few nights: an endless, repetitive cycle of waking up way too early.

"Could you lie down and keep trying?" You suggest, even though you know that's not the proper solution. You watch her bottom lip tremble, and her hands rub at her eyes furiously as tears begin to well. You pull the phone back up, whispering, "Sorry, can I call you back?"

"Did she wake up?"

"Yeah..."

"I'll come over then.” You can hear shuffling on his end, and you assume he’s probably getting up to gather his things. His answer shocks you, and you find yourself stumbling over your words.

“No, it’s fine—”

“I’m already on my way,” he says, interrupting your attempt at refuting. You bite your tongue and give a little sigh. “Besides, I wanna see you. So just hang tight.” He ends the call before you can even get a word in. You look back at Wren, and your heart clenches with uncertainty.

“Wren, come sit down.” She stares at you with that soft pout before she carefully makes her way over to the couch, plopping down next to you. She leans against your side, staring at the TV which is currently in an idle position, the logo bouncing around the screen hypnotically. “Max is gonna come over,” you say with some hesitation, unsure of how she’ll react.

He made a good point earlier. Her misbehavior had begun around the same time they started to see each other, which made you feel uneasy. Was she acting this way because she was struggling to accept a new potential father figure? Maybe she didn’t approve of Max. You liked him— you liked him a LOT— but you would always prioritize the feelings of your daughter. You ran your fingers over her scalp, placing a kiss there not long after. “Okay…” She whispered, hugging her plushie tighter to her chest.

You fill the silence of the next few minutes with your humming. You can tell she’s fighting off sleep, intentionally keeping herself awake despite the soft lull of your melodic voice. When a knock on the door finally arrives, you gently pull yourself away from her to answer it. She leans back against the cushions, burying her face in her plush so that only her eyes are visible. You answer the door, and Max greets you with a hug and a kiss to the cheek.

He enters the room, shouldering off his jacket and hanging it on the rack, as well as sliding off his shoes. He approaches your daughter slowly as you stand back and watch, surveying the situation with practiced caution. Max sits beside her, rearranging the pillows to make room.

“I like your pajamas, Wren,” he says with a big grin, his eyes crinkled up in unadulterated joy. Of course he did! They were white with kittens plastered all over them sporadically. She pulled her face away from her stuffed toy and smiled back at him, albeit sleepily. “I heard you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

He talks to her so easily. Every guy you’ve met was intimidated by the idea of you having a daughter. You always figured it stemmed from the fact that there was, at one point, another serious person in your life that abandoned you for whatever reason. Or maybe it was that they weren’t looking for anything serious, and the idea of meeting her made it too real too fast. Max, however, was delighted to meet Wren without any hesitation.

You sat on a nearby armchair, watching everything unfold. “Yeah,” Wren finally replied, looking away to play with the whiskers of the cat stuffie. Max watched her hands, laughing under his breath at the reoccurring theme of felines. “Why can’t you be here all the time?” Her voice was soft and shaky, and when she looked up it had folded into a heartbreakingly sad expression.

Max frowned when she began to cry, but he immediately pulled her into his arms, tucking her face into his shoulder. He glanced over at you, and you both shared comedically deep frowns to reflect the bittersweet moment. “Your parent works hard for you, Wren,” he reasons with the young girl, gently patting her back.

“But I want you to live here too!” She wails, nearly choking on her sobs. Max pulls back, encouraging her to take deep breaths with a little smile.

“Honey,” You begin, moving to sit beside both of them. Your shoulders brush against Max’s, and your eyes lock with your daughter’s. “Max has his own home he stays in, he can’t live here.” You, of course, would love for him too, but you also had your reservations about it. It had only been two months, and moving in together seemed like it would progress things a lot faster than intended.

“Maybe I can stay the night,” he suggests, and you smile and nod at Wren who seems to light up at the idea.

“Yes!” She cheered weakly, still recovering from her hysterics. “And then in the morning… We could have pancakes!”

“We sure could,” he agrees. “I’ll stay more often, and maybe you both can come stay at my house too.”

“Did you know Max has two cats?” You stand up, and he takes the hint to do the same, carrying your daughter as you slowly make your way back up to her bedroom.

“Really?”

“I do, and you can play with them as much as you’d like.”

The chatter continued as you opened the door to her bedroom, stepping aside so he could lay her down on her bed, decorated like that of a princess. You lean against the door frame, watching as he sits in the rocking chair next to the bed and accepts the book she handed him.

When the lights go out and the book closes, Wren is fast asleep, this time with a big smile and the hopes of tomorrow in her mind. Max shuts the door behind him, greeting you with a big grin in the hallway. “See? All better,” he leans in for a quick peck, his hands settling on your hips, and yours settle on his chest.

“Yeah,” you hum and nod. He can sense your hesitation, even as you both move down the hallway towards your own room. You can feel his eyes boring into your soul. He doesn’t even have to ask. “I just feel like I’m failing.”

“You’re not.” He immediately responds, helping you sit back on the bed before climbing in beside you. You roll over to lay on his chest, and his arm wraps around you securely. You stare at the ceiling that’s invisible in the dark. “And she’s not a bad kid, either. It’s just hard for you both, and that’s okay.” He kisses your head. “It’s okay to need help.”

“Thank you…” You whisper, closing your eyes as sleep begins to creep up on you.

“Of course.” He whispers back. Right before you drift into sleep, you hear him whisper again, “I’ll always be here to help. I love you.”

“I love you too,” your words are barely incoherent. You then doze off.

When you awoke, the bed beside you was completely empty. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You could faintly hear Max’s voice, mixed in with your daughter’s. The pair was quite loud.

“Not like that!” Most definitely your bossy child.

“What? How do I do it then?”

“Like this.”

“Ohhh, okay well then they get two. One from me, one from you.”

You could only assume they were talking about you. You slowly climbed out of bed and made your way into the kitchen, following the scent of delicious breakfast. There you were met with a painfully adorable sight. Both had their backs to you, tending to pancakes. Wren was standing on a stool, holding a small spatula while Max had a large one. You watched them collaborate to flip one pancake, cheering at the success.

“What’s going on in here?” You ask, smiling when they whip around to face you. Max had terrible bed head, and his pajama pants hung low on his hips while his shirt clung to his muscular form. Wren was still in her PJ’s, although some sort of red liquid had splattered all over it. Your mind immediately assumed the worst, but it was too vibrant to be blood.

“We made you pancakes!” The girl cheers, holding up a plate. Your mind connects the dots, and you laugh. They had dyed separate batter to form red hearts in the center, which would explain why she was covered in it.

“How sweet.” You walked over, accepting the plate with two pancakes. One had a beautifully done heart, while the other was… Well, we can just say it was more anatomically correct. You knew that was Wren’s. You set the plate down for a moment, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s waist and resting your chin on his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered, kissing his jawline.

“Ew!” Wren squealed, covering her eyes.

You both laughed, and Max whispered back, “Anytime.”

[angelsueeeeeee]

first time for everything

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: a lot of things were in the cards for oscar’s first home race. he just wasn’t expecting confessing his love for you to be one of them. (3.3k)

warnings: maybe a swear word idk

a/n: my first oscar fic! not sure if i've got his personality down quite yet but hopefully i've done him justice :)

“You’re nervous.” 

Oscar tore his attention from his phone camera, where he was messing with the swoop of his hair for what had to be the fifth time. He shook his head, though you could probably see right through him. “No, I’m not—I just didn’t sleep that well last night.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you were nervous for today.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s okay to be nervous, Oscar. I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”

You were right, he was nervous about a lot of things—this weekend was his first home race, the first race you were able to attend during his time as a driver for McLaren. But the first thing he learned from competing at this level was to never let his nerves show. Put up a front, make it seem like he was cool as a cucumber so people wouldn’t doubt him, let his skills on the track do all the talking. 

Normally, Oscar was good about that. But you could see right through him. You knew him well enough to know how he was feeling and how to help, even if he himself didn’t quite understand it. 

The story of you and Oscar was quite the cliche, really. He knew of you through a friend of a friend and was instantly intrigued without even meeting you, managed to reach out, and the rest was history. 

You hadn’t even met each other face to face until a month into your constant texting, but when you did finally find the opportunity to meet up in person, it was like you’d both found the other half of yourselves in each other. While Oscar was more of a straight to the point, cut and dry kind of guy, you managed to bring him out of his shell a little bit, to get him to expand his horizons (within reason, of course). 

You were the opposite—always smiling, always happy to try new things, warm and sunshine-y and everything in between. Oscar toned you down without holding you back, reminded you to take a breather before immediately jumping into the next exciting thing, to enjoy what you had while you had it so you wouldn’t miss anything. 

He’d only just gained the courage to ask you out a few months back, but it only seemed fitting that you were here with him for his first race in front of his home crowd.

“It’s a lot to process.” Oscar admitted, letting his shoulders creep up towards his ears in a shrug. You leaned against him, looping an arm through the crook of his elbow and slipping your hand into his for a reassuring squeeze, pressing your chin against his bicep. “I just don’t wanna let anyone down, y’know? Wanna make everyone proud.” 

“You’re going to do great. I promise.” You said firmly, reaching up to push his hair into its perfect place. Oscar nuzzled into your touch on instinct, letting you cradle his cheek in the palm of your hand. Your thumb swept over his cheek a few times, lulling him into a sense of contentment. 

“Forget me. How are you feeling?”

“I’m excited! I’ve never done something like this before.” You replied, letting your hand drop. “And kinda nervous, but it’ll be fine, right?” 

“Yeah, ‘course it will.” 

“Have any sage words of wisdom for a first time paddock goer?” 

“Oh, you know me. Keep your head down, walk fast. There’s gonna be a lot of cameras, lots of fans, they’re all gonna want something from you. I’ll be with you as long as I can, so I’ll be there in case things start to get out of hand.” 

“Can I say hi to the fans?” 

“If you want to, yeah. They already love you.” 

That was another thing Oscar had to be worried about. Today was a day full of firsts, it felt like, because it was also the first time you’d be making your public debut as a couple. You’d already become a fan favorite when the two of you were just friends (two very mutually pining friends, no less), but making your relationship paddock official seemed daunting. 

Oscar wasn’t at all worried about what people would think. In fact, he didn’t really care. He was happier than he’d been in a long time and nothing would change that. What he was worried about was how you’d be treated. Oscar loved the fans, he really did, but there were always that handful who thought they knew him—knew what was best for him. Knew who was best for him. 

If he could protect you from any harm that could possibly be aimed your way, he’d do it in a heartbeat, but things could get so very unpredictable out there. The best he could do was keep you close. 

Your grip on Oscar’s hand tightened just the slightest bit at seeing the sheer amount of people outside the window. Noticing this, he rubbed his thumb along your knuckles soothingly. 

“You don’t have to come along.” He said softly. You tore your eyes away from the passing crowds to look at him. “There’s a back entrance, you can go through there.” 

“No, it’s alright! I’ll be fine.” 

“You sure? It’s okay if you're having second thoughts, sweetheart.” 

“I’m not, I promise. It’s kind of a lot, but nothing I can’t handle.” You said firmly, more for yourself than anything. Oscar squeezed your hand with a soft smile. “If you can do it, I can do it.” 

“There you go. You’ll be the star of the show. Everyone’ll be like Oscar Piastri who? There’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and just some guy.” 

You had to bite back a laugh at his words paired with the deadpan expression gracing his face. Oscar always seemed to know how to get you to relax. 

“Well, you’re the hottest just some guy I’ve ever seen.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiling at how his fair skin immediately flamed hot under your lips. 

Despite your previous hesitation, you looked entirely in your element as you made the walk hand in hand, looking around with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. Oscar couldn't help but watch you take it all in, not bothering to mask the awe in his eyes as he did so. He wouldn’t be surprised if photos of him looking at you made it to fan Twitter by the end of the day. 

Oscar was whisked away as soon as you got through to hospitality, giving him barely enough time to say goodbye to you before he was shuttled to meeting after meeting, press conferences and pre race interviews, a thousand things to do in the few hours he had before he had to get ready for free practice. 

He was already exhausted by the time he made it back to his driver’s room, pushing open the door with a heaving sigh. You glanced up at the commotion he was making, smiling at him warmly and setting aside your phone.

“Hey, you,” You hummed, holding out your arms towards Oscar as soon as he closed the door behind him. 

“Hi.” Oscar sighed, folding you into his embrace as comfortably as he could in the cramped alcove. There was barely enough room for one person on the bench, let alone you and your boyfriend with his broad shoulders. You shifted sideways to solve the problem, throwing your legs over Oscar’s lap, to which his hand immediately came to rest on your knee. “I missed you.” 

“Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.” You teased. Oscar rolled his eyes goodnaturedly, giving your leg a gentle pinch that you giggled at before leaning in to press a quick peck to his cheek. “I missed you too.” 

“What did you get up to while I was gone?” 

“Oh, so much! I took a walk around the paddock just to check everything out, and I kinda got lost, but someone helped me find my way back eventually.” You shrugged, not noticing the way Oscar’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline. 

“Wait, you got lost? Why didn’t you call me?” 

“You were busy.” You said, very as-a-matter-of-factly. He blinked at you slowly, a blank expression present on his face. “I’m a big girl, Osc, I can find my way around just fine.”  

That made Oscar falter. You were right. He cared so much, especially about you—so much so that sometimes he forgot you were entirely capable of taking care of yourself. 

“A lot of people asked to take pictures with me. Me! Isn’t that crazy?” You exclaimed, beaming bright. “I promised one of them your sweaty fireproofs in return, but that’s beside the point.” 

“You what?” He spluttered, eyes widening almost comically. His fingers froze in their fiddling with the rings adorning your fingers. 

“I’m kidding, obviously. Lighten up, Oscie, jeez.” 

Oscar rolled his eyes playfully. “Right, well I’m glad you’re having fun.” 

“You know what would make this day even more fun?” 

“I don’t think I want to.” 

You stuck your tongue out at him before continuing. “Can I meet Charles Leclerc? Is that something you can pull off?” 

Technically speaking, it would be extremely easy for him to pull off. All he really had to do was bring you over to the Ferrari motorhome for a quick introduction, and he was sure Charles would take a liking to you, just like every other driver you’d gotten to meet so far. You had that kind of persona; one that made people want to get to know you. 

Oscar quite liked that about you. What he wouldn’t like as much was you being immediately wooed by the driver’s seemingly irresistible French charm. And yeah, you were Oscar’s girlfriend and Charles also had a girlfriend of his own, but still. Nobody wanted to see the girl they loved fawning over another man, even one as cool as Charles Leclerc.

But Oscar would never tell you that, because he loved you, and he’d do anything to make you happy. 

“Uh…yeah, sure. I could probably get you an intro, if that’s something you really want.” He heard himself saying, scratching the back of his neck. His heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the way your face lit up. 

“Really?” 

Oscar smiled tightly. “Why not? D’you wanna go now? There’s some time before we need to be on track.” 

“That would be amazing, Osc.” 

“Right then, let’s go.” He nudged your legs off him, heaving himself to his feet with a groan that would usually be associated with someone much older than him. You threaded your fingers through his as soon as he finished popping all his joints like an old man, following his lead out of the room and the motorhome, all the way to the bright Ferrari red building a few doors down. 

Luckily, Charles was sitting at one of the tables in the main area, so you didn’t have to look far to find him. 

“Charles, mate, you got a second?” 

The aforementioned Monegasque tore his attention from his phone upon hearing Oscar’s voice, an easygoing smile already present on his face. “Oscar! What can I do for you, mate?” His eyes found you next, and he nodded politely. “Hello!” 

“Hi.” You said quietly, clinging to Oscar’s hand tightly. This feeling was foreign to you. You’d never been so stunned into silence by someone before, but maybe that was because you’d never met someone as well known as the Charles Leclerc. 

“This is my girlfriend. It’s her first time in the paddock and she’s a big fan of yours, figured I could introduce the two of you. Y/N, Charles. Charles, Y/N.” 

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard much about you!” Charles exclaimed, popping to his feet. He moved forward to embrace you, wrapping you in a warm hug like he’d known you for a long time, let alone just met you not even fifteen seconds ago. 

Oscar never really understood the whole hugging thing Charles had going on. Maybe it was a French thing. Either way, the hug seemed to have shaken you out of whatever starstruck daze you were in, because you straightened up. 

Charles smiled warmly. “Welcome to your first race. I trust they are treating you well over at McLaren?” 

“There’s definitely a few perks.” You replied, returning his infectious smile. You squeezed Oscar’s hand as you said it, and part of him felt a smidge proud that you considered him a perk. Charles laughed goodnaturedly. “I hate to sound so forward, but I wanted to say I love your music. The way you play piano is…the only way I can think to describe it is beautiful.” 

“Oh wow, you—thank you! That means a lot, thank you. Do you play?” 

“A little bit, but I haven’t had much time to sit at the bench lately.” You replied, giving a haphazard shrug. Charles nodded sympathetically, like he understood the troubles of carving out time to play. “D’you mind if I ask you a bit more about your inspiration while I’ve got you?”

“Of course, yes, yes, I would love to talk about it!” 

Oscar touched a hand to the small of your back to snag your attention for a second. He liked music as much as the next person, but not as much as you and Charles, it seemed. “I’ll be over there.” 

You nodded, popping up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek before returning to your animated conversation with Charles. 

Now, Oscar wasn’t a jealous guy by any means. On the contrary he was always quite calm and collected, so he thought he’d be fine. Secretly a little miffed, sure. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but actually seeing you go starry eyed while talking to Charles sparked something inside him. He didn’t know how hard he was squeezing the can in his hand until he felt liquid trickling down the sleeve of his fireproofs. 

“Ah, shit.” He muttered, shaking out his arm frustratedly. 

“Stare at her any harder and she might burst into flames, mate.” 

Oscar glanced to his left to see Lando standing there, arms crossed over his chest, expectant brow arched. 

“Dunno know what you’re talking about.” Oscar grumbled, moving to toss the now crumpled can into the nearest rubbish bin. Lando looked wildly unconvinced. “What?” 

“Don’t feed me that shit, Oscar, you’re way too easy to read for me to believe you’re not absolutely fucking in love with Y/N.” 

Oscar made an offended noise from the back of his throat. “I am not easy to read.” 

“Mate, you’re the openest book in the history of open books right now.” 

“Openest isn’t a word.” 

“Whatever! Stop deflecting.” Lando scoffed, wrinkling his nose. “You love her. Tell her that.” 

“I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“What if it’s too soon? What if she doesn’t feel the same way yet?” 

“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.” Lando groaned, letting his head tilt back in exasperation. Oscar squinted at him, unamused. “Oh, you’re serious? Mate, come on. Just today, in the half a day I’ve known her, I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. I see the way you look at her when she’s not looking. It’s obvious. You’re both obnoxiously in love with each other, and it’s sickening.” 

The corners of Oscar’s mouth lifted into a grin. “Really?” 

“Oh my god, yes, really. I mean honestly, how dense can you be?” 

“A lot, it seems.” Oscar cast another glance at you, feeling a lot better than he had a few minutes ago. You were laughing at something Charles had said, but now all that was running through his mind was how pretty you looked when you laughed. How happy you looked talking to a person you held a lot of admiration for. Professional admiration, nothing more. 

Part of him felt a little guilty. He should’ve been supportive the whole time, not sulking around being a jealous little prick thinking you would ever choose Charles over him. 

“No point in overthinking it now, bro.” 

“Since when did you become such a wise old man?” 

“Oi, watch it, you muppet. I’m only two years older than you.” Lando huffed, rolling his eyes. “And I’ve always been wise, thank you for noticing.” 

“Sure you have.” 

“Tell her.” 

Oscar nodded once, accepting the clap on the shoulder Lando gave him. “I will. Thank you.” 

“Of course. And if you ever need any more advice, come on down to Lando’s love shack, where you can get—” 

“Leave now, I’m begging you.” Lando took the hint, wandering away to go wreak havoc somewhere else, leaving Oscar alone with his own thoughts as he waited for you to finish up. It wasn’t long until you were making your way back over, practically aglow with excitement as you approached him. “Made a new best friend, have you?” 

You snorted, clearly amused. “Oh, of course. We’ve already arranged to go on a double date when we’re all in Monaco at the same time.” 

“Ha ha, very funny. You do know Ferrari’s one of our top competitors, right?” Oscar laced his fingers through yours once more, letting your joined hands swing between the two of you as you walked. 

“You know what they say—keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Consider my blossoming friendship with Charles your way into the heart and soul of Ferrari’s strategies. You’re welcome.” 

You were just joking, of course, and it made Oscar smile. Lando was right. Oscar was in love with you. He tugged you off the main path suddenly, leading you to a more secluded area between motorhomes. 

“Osc? What’re you—” You were entirely cut off by him stopping in his tracks, and before you could comprehend what was happening, he was kissing you. He curled a hand around the back of your neck, the other coming up to cup your cheek gently. 

It was by all means a sweet kiss, but a completely unexpected one nonetheless. Oscar had never been a public display of affection sort of guy before, so for him to kiss you out of the blue where anyone could see you…well, let's just say there was a first time for everything.

To say you were taken aback was an understatement. You let out a noise of surprise, but returned his kiss wholeheartedly as soon as you realized what was happening. 

“That was new.” You breathed as soon as he pulled away, splaying your palms across the firm plane of his chest to steady yourself after he’d kissed the living daylights out of you. Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, a dazed grin stretching his lips. “You feeling alright, babe?” 

“I love you.” 

Immediately, you beamed, lighting up faster than a bonfire on a warm Melbourne night. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, it’s about damn time you said it.” You poked his chest playfully, stifling a giggle at the way he did the biggest double take ever at your words. 

“You—hang on, what?” 

“I was waiting for you to be the one to say it first.” You shrugged. Oscar’s brow scrunched in confusion now. “Didn’t wanna scare you off and lose one of the best things in my life.” 

“So…you do feel the same way?” 

You reached up, smoothing a stray curl away from his forehead fondly. “Do I love you? ‘Course I do. I think I’ve loved you since the first time we met.” 

“That was a good one, I should’ve said that. You’re so much better at this than I am.” 

“What can I say? I’ve got the best just some guy as my inspiration.” 

“I see what you did there. That’s gonna become a thing now, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, Osc,” You sighed, patting his cheek affectionately. “It already has.” 

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[angelsueeeeeee]

Sleeping Medicine

Summary: Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?

Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean

Taglist: @dtsyoongs

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.2k

MASTERLIST - F1

The hushed hum of the McLaren Technology Centre was a familiar symphony to Oscar Piastri, a backdrop to endless hours of simulation, debriefs, and training.

Yet, no matter how demanding his days, he always returned to a sanctuary where sleep came as naturally as breathing. That sanctuary was you, his unbelievably warm, astonishingly cuddly girlfriend.

You were his human weighted blanket, his personal white noise machine, his ergonomic pillow all rolled into one. Your presence beside him in bed wasn’t just comfort; it was a physical manifestation of peace.

Your arm draped across his chest, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo – these were the lullabies that lulled Oscar into the deepest, most restorative sleep of his life.

He’d wake most mornings before you, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across your face. He’d lie there, just watching you, the quiet contentment settling deep in his chest.

Your hair splayed across the pillow, a soft exhaled sigh from your lips. Sometimes, he’d gently untangle a strand of hair from your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, feeling the steady beat of his own heart, grateful for this quiet, uncomplicated peace.

Because of you, Oscar always clocked his maximum eight, sometimes nine, hours. He’d bounce into the MTC each morning, alert and focused, his mind a steel trap, his reflexes sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.

His engineers often remarked on his consistent energy, his uncanny ability to absorb complex data even after gruelling race weekends.

He just smiled, knowing his secret weapon wasn't some cutting-edge sports science or a special diet, but the soft, warm body curled beside him each night.

But then, the summer break ended. Your university called, pulling you away from the quiet suburban house you shared, back to the bustling campus life, the shared kitchen, and the towering piles of textbooks.

The goodbye had been bittersweet, a lingering hug at the train station, a promise to call every night, to visit whenever possible.

You’d tried to sound strong, to reassure him, but a strange tremor in his hand as he squeezed yours had hinted at something deeper.

The first night alone was a rude awakening. Oscar had tried to replicate the conditions. He’d stolen one of your favourite hoodies from the laundry basket, pulling it close, inhaling its faint, lingering scent.

He’d even tried to arrange the pillows around himself in a way that mimicked your presence. It was futile. The bed felt vast, cold, empty.

He tossed and turned, his mind racing, replaying scenarios from the last race, drafting strategies for the next. The silence of the house, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive, amplifying every tick of the clock.

He finally drifted off sometime after 3 AM, only to wake feeling heavy-lidded and sluggish. The usual morning energy was absent, replaced by a dull ache behind his eyes.

He poured himself a strong coffee, dismissing it as a one-off.

The next few days didn't improve. He was irritable in debriefs, his concentration wavering during simulator sessions.

He found himself hitting the wrong buttons on the steering wheel more than once, his reaction times noticeably slower. His engineers, typically stoic, exchanged concerned glances.

"Everything alright, Oscar?" his race engineer, Tom, asked after a particularly sloppy sim run where he’d spun out on a virtual Silverstone. "You seem… a bit off your game."

Oscar forced a smile. "Just a bit of jet lag, mate. Long week." He knew it was a lie. He hadn't left the country in days.

Weeks blurred into a hazy succession of sleepless nights and draining days. Oscar tried everything. Blackout blinds transformed his bedroom into a cave.

He meticulously followed a wind-down routine: no screens an hour before bed, a warm bath, herbal tea. He even tried listening to ambient noise tracks – rain sounds, forest sounds – but they only made him miss the soft cadence of your breathing more acutely.

The cumulative sleep deficit began to wreak havoc not only on his performance but on his entire demeanour. He was perpetually tired, a dark smudge under his eyes that no amount of concealer could truly hide.

He’d snap at his trainer for minor things, his usual patience worn thin. The media, ever watchful, started to pick up on it. Whispers circulated about a "sophomore slump," a loss of confidence.

During a Thursday press conference before the Singapore Grand Prix, a journalist, emboldened by the speculative buzz, aimed a direct question.

"Oscar, you've had a strong rookie season, but your recent performances seem to have dipped. Is there a particular issue you're struggling with, perhaps outside the car?"

Oscar felt a flush creep up his neck. He stammered, searching for an answer. "No, not at all. Just… navigating a tough patch. We're working hard internally." Inside, a desperate voice screamed, It's because I can't sleep! She’s not here!

He called you every night, of course. Your voice was a balm, a temporary comfort. But he censored his struggles, always painting a picture of competence and control.

"Yeah, practice was good, just a few tweaks for tomorrow," he’d lie, when in reality he’d nearly binned the car twice. You, however, had a sixth sense. "You sound tired, Oscar. Are you sure you're getting enough rest?" you'd ask, your concern palpable even through the phone line. He’d brush it off, promising to catch up on sleep.

The breaking point arrived after the Japanese Grand Prix. It had been a disaster. He’d qualified poorly, struggled with pace in the race, and finished outside the points, a truly uncharacteristic performance.

Back in his hotel room, the adrenaline of the race slowly draining, he felt a crushing exhaustion like never before. He lay on the crisp, white hotel sheets, staring at the ceiling, the room spinning slightly from fatigue.

He tried to close his eyes, but his mind refused to shut down. Hours passed. The sun began to peek through the curtains, casting a sickly grey light.

"That's it," he muttered to the empty room, pushing himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't go on like this.

His career, the very thing he'd dedicated his life to, was suffering. And it all came down to one simple, undeniable fact: he couldn't sleep without you.

He called Mark Webber, his manager, early that morning. Mark, usually calm and composed, listened intently as Oscar, voice cracking, laid bare his predicament. "I… I just can't sleep, Mark. Not properly. Not without her. Everything feels wrong."

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Mark’s voice, surprisingly gentle. "I understand, mate. It happens. We all have our anchors. What do you need to do?"

"I need to see her," Oscar said, the words a desperate plea. "I need to go to her. Just for a night, or two. Before the next race. I don't care, I just need to sleep."

Mark, ever the pragmatist, was already thinking logistics. "Alright. There's a short break before Qatar. We can get you on a private jet. Tell me where she is."

It felt absurd, flying across a continent just for a good night's sleep. But as the jet touched down in the UK later that week, Oscar felt a flicker of hope he hadn't experienced in weeks.

He grabbed a taxi, clutching a small duffel bag, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Your university accommodation was an uninspired brick building, row upon row of identical windows. He found your flat number, his throat suddenly dry. He knocked, a soft, tentative rap.

The door swung open, and there you were, a surprised gasp on your lips, a textbook clutched in one hand.

Your eyes widened, then filled with a mixture of disbelief and pure joy. "Oscar? What – what are you doing here?"

Before you could finish the sentence, he pulled you into a desperate hug, burying his face in your neck, inhaling your familiar scent. "I missed you," he mumbled into your hair, the words heavier with unsaid meaning. "I really, really missed you."

Behind you, a figure emerged from the small kitchen area, mug in hand. Your roommate, Chloe, a whirlwind of vibrant hair and sardonic wit.

She stopped dead, her eyes going from your tear-filled eyes to the internationally recognised face of Oscar Piastri.

"Well, well, well," Chloe drawled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the Piastri couldn't sleep without."

You pulled back, a blush creeping up your cheeks. "Chloe! This is—"

"Oscar Piastri, yes, I gathered," Chloe interrupted, a smirk playing on her lips. "Welcome to our humble abode, champion. Heard you’ve been having some trouble in the sack." She winked at you.

Oscar, despite his exhaustion, managed a sheepish smile. "Something like that," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

The dorm room was small, certainly not the sprawling master bedroom he was used to. Your single bed looked impossibly tiny.

Chloe's bed was directly opposite yours, separated by a flimsy curtain she sometimes pulled for privacy.

There was a desk overflowing with books, a makeshift wardrobe of hanging clothes, and the distinct scent of instant noodles.

"So," Chloe said, gesturing to your bed, "I gather you're here to... resolve some sleep issues?"

Oscar nodded, his gaze fixed on you. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all, mate," Chloe said, practically vibrating with suppressed amusement. "Always happy to facilitate a good night's rest. Especially when it involves a Formula 1 driver. Just try not to snore too loud, my beauty sleep is precious."

You shot her a warning glare, but a small smile was playing on your lips. You knew how much this meant to him.

Later, after a quick, slightly awkward dinner in the communal kitchen (where Chloe made sure to introduce Oscar to every single person she encountered, much to his chagrin and your mortification), Oscar finally found himself alone with you in your tiny room.

He sat on the edge of your bed, feeling the soft springs, the familiar texture of your duvet. You turned to him, your eyes full of concern. "Oscar, you look absolutely shattered."

He lay down, almost collapsing, pulling you down with him. You curled into him instantly, your body slotting against his as if you were two perfectly shaped puzzle pieces.

Your arm draped over his chest, your head tucked under his chin. He felt the familiar weight of your leg thrown over his. The subtle scent of your skin, the warmth of your body radiating against his, it was like coming home after a long, arduous journey.

A profound sigh escaped his lips, a release of weeks of pent-up tension. He felt the rapid beat of his heart begin to slow, the frantic thoughts in his mind gradually quiet.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his body relaxed. He didn't have to try to sleep; it just came. The world outside the small dorm room faded away, replaced by the comforting cocoon of your embrace.

He was asleep before you could even finish whispering, "Good night, love." Deep, utterly peaceful sleep, the kind he hadn't experienced since you left.

You lay awake for a while, just listening to his steady, even breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

It broke your heart that he’d been struggling so much, yet a part of you swelled with a peculiar kind of pride that your presence meant so much to him.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Oscar stirred, a slow, languid stretch, before his eyes fluttered open.

He blinked, the room slowly coming into focus, then he turned his head to look at you. You were already watching him, a soft smile on your face.

A genuine, unburdened smile spread across his face, the first one you'd seen in weeks. "Morning," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. "That was… the best sleep I've had in forever." He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. "Thank you. Seriously."

Just then, Chloe's voice cut through the quiet, ridiculously loud from her side of the room, though you hadn't even heard her wake up. "Well, well, well, Sleeping Beauty has awoken!"

She pulled back her flimsy curtain, a wide grin plastered across her face. "Looks like someone finally got their beauty sleep. Did you snore, Oscar? I could have sworn I heard a McLaren engine revving at 4 AM."

You groaned, pulling the duvet over your head, mortified. Oscar chuckled, a genuine, joyful sound that made your heart sing.

"Aw, don't be shy, lovebirds!" Chloe chirped, getting out of bed and stretching. "It's rather sweet, actually. The mighty Formula 1 driver, brought to his knees by a lack of cuddles."

She turned to Oscar, a mock-serious expression on her face. "So, is this going to be a regular thing? You just pop over whenever you need a human sedative?"

Oscar pushed himself up on one elbow, a sheepish grin still on his face. "If it means not crashing out of Q1, then yes, Chloe, it might have to be."

He looked at you, his eyes full of gratitude and a depth of affection that made your stomach flutter. "I really needed this, you know."

He left later that day, visibly re-energised, the dark smudges under his eyes noticeably lighter, his shoulders less hunched.

His team, utterly bewildered but relieved, noticed the immediate change. His performance curve started to climb again, his lap times dropping, his focus sharper than ever.

Chloe, however, never let you forget it. "So, when's your personal teddy bear visiting next?" she'd tease, or "Heard Oscar had a great race. Must be all that extra snuggle time!"

You'd blush, of course, but deep down, you knew she was right. Oscar Piastri, the fiercely independent, ruthlessly competitive F1 driver, needed his warm, cuddly girlfriend more than anyone knew.

And the best part? He wasn't ashamed to admit it anymore. He'd found his unique secret to success, and it was nestled right beside him, heart to heart. . . .

The initial surge of energy Oscar had gained from his secret university visit had been phenomenal. For weeks, he’d felt sharper, more focused, the familiar dark circles replaced by genuine sparkle in his eyes.

His team, utterly mystified but endlessly grateful, had seen the results: consistent points, a podium finish, even a pole position.

Chloe’s teasing had been relentless, a constant reminder of his “human sedative,” but you’d both laughed, knowing how much truth there was in her jests.

But Formula 1 was a demanding mistress, relentless and unforgiving. The jet lag, the constant travel, the media obligations, the intense pressure – it all chipped away at even the most robust constitution.

Slowly, insidiously, the sleep began to elude him again. The dreamless, profound slumber you provided was replaced by fitful tossing and turning, his mind racing with data points and cornering speeds even in the fleeting moments of rest.

The dark smudges returned, deeper this time, a perpetual shadow beneath his blue eyes. His shoulders started to slump, his usual quick wit dulled by a pervasive weariness.

Phone calls became shorter, his voice laced with an exhaustion that tore at your heart. You were still diligently pursuing your degree, buried in textbooks and assignments, but a part of you was always tuned to Oscar, sensing his struggle from thousands of miles away.

You tried everything you could from afar: late-night calls filled with whispered reassurances, sending him comforting playlists, even compiling a "good sleep" care package with lavender oil and a weighted blanket, knowing full well it was a poor substitute for the real thing.

He’d dutifully tried them all, grateful for your efforts, but the fundamental problem remained. He just couldn’t switch off without you.

The tipping point came during a particularly brutal triple-header. Three races in three consecutive weekends, spanning continents. By the third race, in a humid, bustling Asian city, Oscar was running on fumes.

You watched the qualifying session from your dorm room, a knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach. He was quick, undeniably, but there was a ragged edge to his driving, a lack of that fluid precision that defined him at his best.

He qualified P4, a strong result for anyone else, but for Oscar, who was always striving for perfection, it felt like a concession to his fatigue.

You called him that night, your voice soft with concern. He sounded distant, almost hollow. “I just… I can’t sleep, love,” he’d confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “My brain won’t stop. I lie there and I just feel… wired. And then angry that I’m not sleeping. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I know, Oscar,” you’d murmured, tears pricking your eyes. “I wish I could be there.”

“Me too,” he’d said, and the profound sadness in that simple phrase had shattered your resolve.

The next morning, driven by an impulse you couldn’t ignore, you booked the first available flight. It was reckless, unplanned, and would certainly mean missing lectures and scrambling to catch up on assignments, but you knew, with a certainty that resonated deep in your bones, that you had to go.

He needed you. He was more than a celebrated athlete; he was your Oscar, and he was hurting.

The journey was a blur of cramped airplane seats, stale air, and a frantic race against time. You landed just hours before the race, bypassed your own exhaustion, and navigated the sprawling, security-heavy paddock with a mix of sheer determination and a little help from a sympathetic McLaren team member you’d often chatted with on FaceTime.

You found yourself waiting, heart pounding, outside his driver’s room. The roar of the engines, the electric energy of the crowd, the frantic pace of the pit lane – it was all a cacophony you barely registered. All that mattered was the man inside.

The race itself was a testament to his grit. He fought tooth and nail, pushing the car, and himself, to their absolute limits. He lost a position early but clawed his way back, making daring overtakes, his focus a laser beam despite his underlying fatigue.

In the final laps, a rival suffered an engine issue, elevating Oscar to second place. A podium finish. A fantastic result for the team.

But as the cheers erupted, as the commentators lauded his resilience, you knew. You knew he wasn’t celebrating. He was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

You stood there, your hands balled into fists, watching the telemetry screens, until the race ended.

As the immediate post-race chaos began – the parc fermé, the cool-down room, the media obligations – you saw his engineer, an older, kind man named Mark, direct him away from the immediate media scrum.

Oscar, head down, shoulders noticeably slumping, was guided towards his driver’s room.

This was it.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’d arranged it with Mark; he would ensure Oscar came directly here.

And then, the door swung open. He stepped in, his racing suit still damp with sweat, his eyes glazed with the fatigue of the race and the emotional turmoil of the last few days.

He saw you, and the shock hit him like a sledgehammer. You raised your hands up to hug him, and for a split second, he froze, as if you were a mirage, a figment of his desperate imagination.

Then, reality crashed over him like a wave, and his eyes lit up with a joy that seemed almost painful in its intensity.

Oscar didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He just moved. His arms snapped around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. You melted into his touch, feeling the tremble in his muscles, the racing beat of his heart.

He held you so tightly it was almost painful, but you didn’t mind. It was the first time in weeks you’d felt truly safe. The smell of him – the faint hint of sweat and burning rubber and something uniquely Oscar – filled your nose, and you felt your own heart start to slow.

You could feel the tension bleeding out of him, the tightness in his shoulders loosening as he held you closer, as if you were the anchor keeping him tethered to the world.

He buried his face in your hair, and for a moment, you could almost hear him inhale, as if he was trying to suck in every part of you, as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

His breath was hot on your neck, and his fingers dug into your back, leaving little half-moons that you knew would fade into nothingness in a matter of minutes.

The silence between you was profound, filled with unspoken words of love and fear and frustration. The only sounds were the distant murmur of the paddock outside and the steady throb of his heart, which seemed to sync with yours.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, but it felt like an eternity. A beautiful, perfect, endless moment where the world didn’t exist, and it was just the two of you, holding on for dear life.

Finally, Oscar’s grip on you loosened, and he leaned back, his eyes searching your face as if he was afraid of what he’d find.

You gave him a gentle smile, the kind that reached your eyes and promised him everything would be okay. “I’m here, Oscar,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

The relief in his expression was palpable. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you so much for coming.”

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you reached up and stroked his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse stubble.

You felt the shiver that ran through him, the way his body responded to your touch. It was like you were speaking a language that didn’t need words, a conversation that was all about comfort and care.

With a gentle nod, he scooped you up into his arms, as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. You wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling the heat of his body, the solidness of his muscles beneath the fireproof suit.

He carried you to the sofa that was pushed against the far wall of the driver’s room, and you felt the world shift as he laid you down.

The plush cushions enveloped you, and for a moment, you were suspended, floating in the warm embrace of Oscar’s arms.

He sat next to you, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline from the race. You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the layers of fabric.

The room was a blur around you, the only focal point the steady beat that matched your own erratic pulse.

Gently, you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent that was uniquely his – a potent mix of sweat, burning rubber, and Oscar. His skin was warm, the pulse at his throat a comforting metronome to the symphony of his emotions.

His arms tightened around you, one hand moving to stroke your hair, his fingertips tracing the line of your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You sighed contentedly, the sound lost against the thunderous applause from the distant grandstands.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, a question lingering in the depths of his gaze. "You should take a shower," you whispered, your breath a soft caress against his skin, "but I'm letting you off until after."

A smirk played on your lips, the tension in the room shifting from one of painful longing to one of playfulness. The unspoken understanding passed between you, and his expression relaxed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a hint of amusement.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, resonating through his chest and into yours.

He leaned back, his eyes tracing the contours of your face, the smudged mascara, the flushed cheeks. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, catching the slight tremor there. "Until after what?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

You leaned in closer, your breath warming his neck, and whispered, "After I make sure you're relaxed enough to sleep." You felt the tension coil in him, the anticipation thick and palpable.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

His gaze dropped to your lips, hungrily, as if parched. “Promise?” he breathed, his voice a low rumble against your ear, already tilting his head.

“Promise,” you whispered back, a smile spreading across your face, your own heart quickening in anticipation.

Then his lips were on yours, tentative at first, a soft brush, as if he was still testing the reality of your presence. But then, as you responded, as your own lips parted beneath his, the kiss deepened, instantly.

It was hungry, desperate, a silent conversation of weeks of longing and separation compressed into one explosive moment. His mouth moved over yours with an intensity that bordered on ferocity, a beautiful, overwhelming demand for connection.

You met him with equal fervor, your hands finding purchase on his damp racing suit, gripping the thick fabric, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between you.

The kiss went on, and on, a ceaseless exploration. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, then dipped inside, a slow, sensual dance that sent shivers of pleasure cascading through you.

You tasted the subtle salt of his sweat, the lingering metallic tang of adrenaline, and underneath it all, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him.

His hands left your hair, roaming down your back, pressing you tighter, then slipping under your shirt, his warm fingers splaying against your bare skin. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat, absorbed by his lips. Every nerve ending in your body sang.

He broke the kiss for a moment, just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed. His chest rose and fell rapidly against yours.

“God, I missed you,” he rasped, the words thick with emotion, a raw confession that tore at your heart.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he found your lips again, the kissing resuming a more frantic pace, as if he worried this moment might vanish.

You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands tangling in his short, damp hair, pulling gently. The world outside the small room faded completely, replaced by the intoxicating sensations of his lips, his hands, the beat of his heart.

The passion was a balm, a powerful antidote to the disappointment and pressure that had been crushing him. With every kiss, every touch, you felt him relax a little more, the deep-seated tension in his body slowly unwinding.

It wasn’t just physical; it was soul-deep, a profound emotional release that you were both desperate for.

He shifted, his body pressing down on yours, as he deepened the kiss, his leg sliding between yours, the bulk of his racing suit a comforting weight.

You whimpered softly, a sound of pure pleasure and relief, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders. Time ceased to exist.

You moved together instinctively, a rhythm building between you, a silent conversation of need and reassurance. It was a symphony of soft moans, ragged breaths, and the insistent press of bodies seeking solace and connection.

He kissed your jawline, your neck, then returned to your mouth, each kiss deeper, more consuming than the last. You felt utterly consumed by him, by the intensity of his presence, the profound love that flowed between you.

Eventually, the initial fire began to ebb, replaced by a profound sense of peace and exhaustion. The kissing slowed, growing softer, laced with tenderness.

His lips trailed across your cheek, then settled on your temple. He pulled you even closer, tucking your head under his chin, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other cradling your head. Your legs were still tangled together, his heavy against yours.

You could feel the profound exhaustion radiating from him now, the adrenaline finally giving way to bone-deep fatigue. He was practically asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, his breathing evening out to a slow, steady rhythm.

You lay there, on top of him, feeling the comfortable weight of his body, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. The faint scent of racing fuel and rubber still clung to his suit, but it was now mixed with something else, something soft and warm and uniquely him.

You drifted off to sleep to the steady thrum of his heart, feeling utterly safe, utterly loved.

Hours later, you stirred, a soft groan escaping your lips as you stretched. Oscar shifted beneath you, a low murmur in his throat, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

You blinked, slowly taking in the dim light filtering through the drawn blinds of the driver’s room. You were still on the sofa, tangled together, your heads pillowed on each other, his racing suit still on.

You felt sticky with sweat – your own, and his – and the lingering scent of the race.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open, a sleepy, contented haze in their depths. He blinked at you, a slow smile spreading across his face, a stark contrast to the despair you’d seen there hours ago.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

You giggled, a soft, happy sound. "Or evening, more like. We're both incredibly sweaty now."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I suppose that means the shower is no longer optional." His eyes held a playful glint, a silent invitation.

You nudged him gently with your elbow. "Definitely not. But for once, I think we both need it. Together."

He didn't need any more convincing. With a groan of protest, more from the discomfort of his suit than from reluctance, he slowly untangled himself from you, then reached out a hand, pulling you up.

You both stretched, limbs stiff, but a profound calm had settled between you. The disappointment of the race lingered in the background, a faint echo, but it was overshadowed by the warmth and comfort of your shared intimacy.

He led the way, his hand taking yours, his stride still a little heavy with fatigue but now imbued with a quiet strength. The small en-suite bathroom was just a few steps away.

The door opened to reveal a simple, functional space, but right now, it felt like another sanctuary. You stepped in together, the humid air of the small shower stall already welcoming.

As the warm water began to stream down, washing away the sweat, the lingering tension, and the last vestiges of the day's disappointment, you leaned into him, feeling the last knots of stress unravel.

His arms wrapped around you under the spray, and you pressed your face into his wet shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of soap and fresh skin.

Here, in the quiet intimacy of the shower, with his arms around you, everything felt right again. The world could wait. . . .

[angelsueeeeeee]

Who I Do It For |MV1|

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Summery: In the stillness of early morning, Max prepares to leave for another race, weighed down not by pressure but by the ache of leaving his young family behind. He moves quietly through the house, saying silent goodbyes to his sleeping daughter and newborn son, deeply affected by the moments he's already missed and fears he’ll miss more.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: Based on Brett Young and Lady A's song who I do it for

The house was still — the kind of stillness only found in the early hours before the world remembered to stir.

5:03 a.m.

Max hadn't slept. Again.

Not from nerves, not from pressure — God knows he'd grown used to the weight of a nation on his shoulders — but from something heavier. Quieter. Something that pressed against his ribs in the final hours before he had to leave.

He sat at the edge of the bed in silence, the small suitcase already zipped at his feet. You were curled up in the blankets, your breathing soft and even. Part of him wanted to stay, just crawl back in and forget the private jet waiting on the tarmac. But his phone had already buzzed twice with reminders from his assistant.

He stood slowly and moved down the hallway, barefoot, careful. He knew exactly which floorboards creaked and which door would give him away if he didn't ease it shut gently.

First, he stopped at his daughter's room.

She was four now, impossibly bright and fiercely attached to him. Max leaned on the doorframe, just watching her for a moment. She slept like she played — limbs everywhere, hair wild, stuffed animals scattered around like they'd joined in the adventure and lost. One of her drawings was still pinned beside her bed: a crooked F1 car with what he assumed was him inside — "Papa Max" scrawled across the top in purple crayon. He smiled faintly. Purple had apparently replaced Red Bull blue as the fastest color.

He tiptoed in and knelt beside her bed. Quietly, he kissed her forehead, brushing a curl out of her face.

"Lieveling," he whispered. "Papa's going now. I'll be back soon."

He didn't expect a reply — she didn't stir.

In the nursery, the faint white noise machine hummed over the quiet breaths of their 2-month-old son. Max stood over the crib, one hand on the railing, the other pressed softly to the baby's chest. His eyes fluttered for a second — dream sleep — then settled.

That's what broke Max.

Because no matter how much he loved the track, no matter how much winning filled a part of him... it never filled this.

This ache of leaving his children while they were still young. He'd missed her first words, and he had a sinking feeling he'd miss his son's too.

He bent and pressed a gentle kiss to his son's head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, throat tight. "One day... I hope you understand."

As he turned to leave, the nursery door gave a soft, familiar squeak — the same one he never got around to fixing. He winced and glanced over his shoulder.

No crying. No movement. Just silence.

He exhaled through his nose and walked toward the front door.

You were already there — wrapped in your robe, cup of coffee in your hands. Hair messy. Tired eyes.

But you smiled anyway.

Because you knew this version of him. This was Max — not the racer, not the world champion, but the man who kissed his kids goodbye like he was giving away pieces of his heart, one by one.

"You didn't sleep again," you murmured.

He shook his head, pressing a palm over his eyes for a second. "I tried."

You handed him the coffee, already fixed the way he liked it. "I tucked the drawings in your bag. And a picture of the four of us."

He blinked hard and nodded. "Thank you."

You stepped forward, resting your forehead against his chest, the steam of the coffee caught between you. "You're doing this for them. Don't forget that."

"I know," he whispered. "But that doesn't make it easier."

You looked up at him, thumb brushing beneath his eye. "It's supposed to be hard. You're a good dad. That's why it hurts like this."

Max let the words settle for a long beat. Then: "I missed her recital. I missed his first laugh."

"You're giving them something else," you said, quiet and fierce. "A home they'll never have to question. A backyard they can run barefoot in. A life you never had."

He didn't answer — not with words.

He kissed you instead, slow and deep, like he didn't want to forget the shape of your mouth before takeoff. His hands rested on your waist like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled away, his voice cracked just a little.

"I just hope... they know who I do it for."

You didn't hesitate. "They will."

He lingered at the door. One last look. The baby monitor's soft hum. The drawing on the fridge. Your silhouette holding a half-finished cup of coffee in the light of dawn. Then he stepped into the quiet morning, duffel bag over his shoulder.

The car was already waiting.

And as it pulled away, and the house grew still again, you looked toward the hallway and whispered it to the silence:

"You do it for us."

You stood in the kitchen long after the car disappeared down the road, coffee now cold in your hands. The hum of the baby monitor was the only sound in the house, soft and steady, like a reminder: life still moves here, even when he's gone.

You rubbed your thumb against the ceramic mug, eyes drifting to the fridge. The drawing was crooked — she insisted on putting it up herself — with the purple race car and four stick figures outside of it. "That's Papa," she'd said proudly, pointing at the tallest one. "And that's me. And that's you. And that's the baby. We're all together, even when he's at work."

Even when he's at work.

You hated how young she already understood that.

There was no glamour in this part of the season — no red carpets, no roaring crowds, no champagne-soaked celebrations. Just early mornings like this, pacing the kitchen, answering endless questions of "when will Papa be home?" and sending Max voice notes he might not get until hours later in a hotel room far away.

And still... you wouldn't trade it.

Because the same man who drove 300 kilometers an hour with steel nerves and relentless focus was the same one who cried quietly when he missed her first dance recital, the same one who FaceTimed from the paddock just to say goodnight, even if the call only lasted two minutes.

The same man who whispered over your son's crib, "I hope you understand someday," not realizing you already knew: He wasn't choosing the sport over you.

He was choosing all of you, every time.

You moved through the morning slowly — poured out the untouched coffee, picked up a sock from the hallway, nudged a toy truck out of the way with your foot. The baby started to stir around 6, and your daughter padded in half-asleep a little after that, crawling into your lap on the couch without a word.

The three of you sat together in that heavy, beautiful quiet, curled beneath a blanket with the sunrise stretching over the backyard Max fought so hard to give them.

And when your daughter asked, voice still raspy with sleep, "Is Papa racing today?"

You shook your head. "Tomorrow baby."

"Can I draw him another picture?"

You smiled and kissed the top of her head. "He'd love that."

She looked up at you, wide-eyed, the same kind of determined fire you saw in Max's stare when the lights went out on the grid. "I'm gonna draw the whole family again. So he remembers we're always with him."

Your throat tightened, but you nodded.

"He remembers, sweetheart," you said gently. "He never forgets. We're who he does it for."

That night, after bedtime routines and toy cleanup and a quiet dinner eaten mostly in silence, your phone buzzed with a voice memo.

It was Max.

He sounded tired. Worn thin. But you could hear the soft smile in his voice.

"I saw the drawing you put in my bag. Tell her it's perfect. Tell her I put it on my locker next to the track notes. Tell the baby I miss him. Tell them both I'll be home soon. I love you. I miss you. And just... Thank you. For holding it all down when I'm not there. I know it's not easy. But I hope you know... You're who I do it for, too."

Tears slipped down your cheek as the message ended. Not from sadness — but from love. The weight was still heavy, but you weren't carrying it alone.

And Sunday, when he climbed into that car — visor down, engine screaming — he wouldn't just be racing for a trophy. He'd be racing for the drawing taped to his locker. For the goodnight calls. For a quiet house with creaky floorboards, a fridge covered in crayon art, and a love that stretched across every time zone.

[angelsueeeeeee]

the two kiss strategy | OP81

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!gf!reader

✎ — summary: You have a little ritual to celebrate Oscar's races – not victories. Still everyone stresses when you are missing in the paddock mid-race, while Oscar is out on the wet track of Spa fighting for his life. Little do they know you are preparing his post-race gift.

✎ — chapter word count: +3.3k

✎ — warnings: fluff, use of [Y/N], not proof-read

The rain has been coming down in steady lines all morning, like threads unraveling from a low-hanging sky over the Ardennes. It mists against your cheeks the moment you step out of the car and you already know this is gonna mess with your hair in a way no amount of hairspray could ever measure up to. Spa smells like wet tarmac and earthy musk from the forest surrounding the circuit — a kind of charged electricity hovers just beneath the noise. You like it. It smells like a proper race day. You flash your pass at the security gates outside the McLaren motorhome and duck inside, the low hum of staff chatter wrapping around you immediately. Everyone’s in their own bubble of focus — crew members in papaya shirts rushing toward the garage, guests lingering near screens, media people huddled over shot lists and schedule printouts.

And then there’s you, weaving through it all in a weatherproof McLaren leatherjacket that cuts at the waist, navy straight-leg jeans skimming over papaya Sambas that squeak slightly on the damp floor. You’re layered for the drizzle and the cameras alike, practical but polished. The garage opens up ahead — all LED lighting and metallic shine, the sharp scent of petrol clinging to the walls. You step inside just as someone from the crew hands you a pair of padded papaya-coloured headphones. You thank them with a nod and sling them around your neck. Oscar hasn’t seen you yet, since he left the hotel room early this morning. He’s further down in the garage, half in shadow, talking to his engineer, arms crossed over each in front of his chest. He looks focused, serious. The kind of serious you’ve come to recognize — not nerves, not stress, just that sharp-edged clarity that hits him like instinct before he jumps in the car to accelerate to 300 km/h. And still, when he turns slightly and catches you in his periphery, something in his expression softens. He walks toward you in smooth, unhurried strides, racesuit zipped halfway up, the collar slightly turned from where he’s run a hand along the seam. There’s a low murmur of the team radio crackling, the clink of tire trolleys behind you, but none of it really registers. Not when Oscar’s eyes are on you like that. “Hey,” he says, voice quiet but warm. His smile isn’t for show — it pulls slow at one side, small and private. “Didn’t think you’d be here already.” “You kidding?” you say, matching his tone, smiling back. “How could I ever miss seeing you before race start. I don’t care if the weather is bad.” His fingers brush against yours briefly as he takes a step closer, the fabric of his suit cool and stiff where it brushes your arm. You tilt your chin up slightly, catching his gaze, then nod toward the pit lane where the rain has only just started to ease. “You ready?” you ask. Oscar’s lips curve into a familiar, knowing smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes — not yet. But his voice is low when he replies, steady and certain: “Always am when you’re here.” And maybe it’s the way he says it — not teasing, not performative, just fact. Quiet as a promise. He leans in without hesitation, ducking his head slightly to press a quick, grounding kiss to your lips. It’s nothing flashy. Just a heartbeat’s length of contact. The kind that tells you he needs it more than he lets on. You reach up and run your fingers lightly along the edge of his fireproofs, dusting off imaginary lint with theatrical precision. You just want to touch him anyway you publicly can. It makes him huff a soft laugh under his breath. The moment stretches, warm and suspended, and then you lean in close — so only he can hear you — and whisper: “Be bold and smart, and keep it clean out there, okay?” His eyes flick back to yours. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Always do,” he murmurs. “I’m a professional.” Behind him, someone calls his name. The garage shifts into motion again, like someone hit play on a paused scene. You squeeze his hand once, briefly, and he squeezes back before stepping away, slipping into that razor-edged version of himself the world knows best. You take your place in the guest area, headphones slipping into position on your ears, heart beating like a drum against your ribs — steady and sure. Let the race begin, you think.

But at the formation lap behind the safety car, the rain is still coming down heavy and water is literally standing on the cool tarmac. Steady sheets of water are slicing across the pit lane, blurring the outlines of everything beyond the garage threshold. Cameras try to make art of it — slow pans across puddles, drivers inside cockpits blinking up at the grey, tire warmers coiled like sleeping snakes. But inside the garage, time has slowed. The adrenaline of the initial rollout is gone, replaced by a strange, weightless pause. You’re leaned casually against the barrier that separates the team zone from the guest area, one headphone still resting on your ear, waiting for any message that might explain what will happen next, the other pushed back. Beside you are Oscar’s parents and his granddad — all of them equally confused about why they aren’t racing yet, but also each wearing the same kind of quiet composure that only comes from being here before. You’d only met them a handful of times since gotten together with Oscar in the off-season, but it doesn’t feel like that now. There’s an ease to it, standing with them in this bubble of diesel-scented warmth, waiting.

Ever since the cars were brought back into the garage, Oscar has been moving like a current in and out of the frame — consulting with his race engineer, checking telemetry, giving someone a nod. His race suit is unzipped to the waist now, fireproofs clinging to his shoulders, curls slightly damp from the helmet and the moist air. When he finally returns to the guest zone, it’s like gravity remembers where it's supposed to pull. He drapes an arm across the barrier, fingers curling just slightly at your waist, and settles in beside his granddad, who’s already mid-story. “…and your uncle Rob, back in the eighties, used to swear Spa was the most technical thing he’d ever seen. No simulators back then. So the drivers just had to learn in in real-time.” Oscar chuckles, chin dipping slightly as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “And now we’ve got twelve onboard cameras and a playbook thicker than War and Peace.” His granddad raises a brow. “Doesn’t necessarily make you faster in the wet.” Oscar smirks. “Touché.” You glance up at him, catching the faint curve of affection at the corner of his mouth. He’s relaxed in a way you rarely get to see when watching him at his races — shoulders loose, hand still a quiet weight on your hip, eyes flicking occasionally between the people he loves and the chaos just beyond the garage. His mom laughs at something he says next, a dry observation about Lando stalling in iRacing once because he tried to eat toast mid-lap. You feel yourself laughing too, in that low, caught-off-guard way that warms your chest. For a moment, the rain outside doesn’t matter. Neither does the race. It’s just a group of people waiting for the next thing together — like family. Then Oscar leans in a little closer. “I love that you’re here, by the way. Would be boring if I didn’t have anyone to chat with.” You nudge his elbow. “Well, you do have a teammate, you know?.” He turns toward you, eyebrow raised. “But Lando doesn’t kiss me for good luck before I get in the car.” Before you can roll your eyes at him, someone from his team comes up from behind and taps him on his back. “Ten-minute warning. Race will resume,” he declares, sharp and direct. And just like that, the stillness breaks. Oscar straightens instinctively, pulling the top half of his race suit back over his shoulders in one fluid motion. His crew is already in motion behind him — mechanics checking tire sets, engineers adjusting headsets, radios lighting up like warning signs. But he doesn’t move away just yet. Instead, before you can say anything, he leans over the barrier and kisses you again— this one a little longer, a little deeper than the first, like muscle memory took over before his consciousness could. It’s not performative, not posed for the cameras that definitely catch it. It’s simply his. Yours. A moment stolen like breath before a plunge. You blink up at him when he pulls back, smile tucked against the curve of your cheek. “You’ve already had your good luck kiss,” you tease, voice soft but teasing. “Yeah,” he says, grinning down at you with that low, crooked smile that never fails to disarm. “But it’s kinda a second start. Don’t want to risk it.” You shake your head, brushing your fingers just once against the edge of his sleeve. “Then go out and win this thing.” He squeezes your hand once — firm, grounding — before stepping back toward the car, slipping into focus with terrifying precision. And you watch him go, heart ticking upward in time with the clock.

Engines roar back to life like thunder cracking over the Ardennes, and just like that, the world shifts into motion again. Oscar’s car slices through the spray after Eau Rouge, the papaya blur ghosting past Lando in one clean, ruthless move on the Kemmel straight. It happens before the cameras even finish panning — a flash of orange, a downshift, a perfectly timed overtake. And he’s in P1 by the time they hit Les Combes. The tension of the race doesn't fade, though. It simmers instead. Wet track slowly drying up, intermediate tires slowly overheating, a mist of water constantly thrown into the air — overtaking is rare. Risky. Strategy becomes the battleground. Every decision down to tyre temps and delta gaps is its own kind of war. Back in the McLaren garage, the world is watching. You’re standing beside Oscar’s mum Nicole, headset back in place over your ears, your feet tapping the floor a little too visibly. She leans in, murmurs something dry about how Oscar’s probably in the car cool as a cucumber and not worried at all about Lando closing in on quicker tires. You snort, stifling a laugh behind your knuckles, and for a moment, the camera lingering on the guest zone captures it perfectly — the tight, familial circle, watching the race together hoping for a win. They cut back to the track. The cars thread through the corners like beads on wire, barely visible through the fogged camera lenses. The next time the broadcast checks in on the McLaren guests — you’re gone. No shot of you watching the screen, fidgeting with your fingers, no glimpse of you laughing with Oscar’s granddad. Just an empty spot next to Nicole Piastri and a faint buzz of speculation already beginning to ripple across timelines.

username1 why is no one talking about how [Y/N] disappeared mid-race like??? girl where are you going your boyfriend is leading username2 you’re telling me she LEFT the garage in a race THIS tight??? 😭 i need answers. did she have to pee? did she get a phone call? is she gonna walk out on track and keep Lando off her man’s back herself? username3 meanwhile I can’t even leave my bed during quali without a panic attack 🥲 username4 oscar really out there defending P1 like a knight in rain-soaked armor and his girl said “brb” and left username5 someone start tracking papaya sambas across the paddock, we have a situation username6 imagine Lando pulls off a late overtake and [Y/N] comes back with a smoothie like “what happened??” 😭😭 username7 honestly?? if she shows back up holding flowers again like in silverstone I will cry. she’s so real for having her own race rituals mclaren Don’t worry, she’s not missing in action. Just on a little mission 👀🧡

What they perhaps don’t know: you’re slipping through the paddock at a brisk but purposeful pace, head tucked slightly against the drizzle, one hand gripping the black and orange umbrella you were handed like you are on a mission looking for something. And indeed you are. You are out of the dry safety of the garage to meet the florist who is supposed to deliver a bouquet of Hydrangeas. They’d been pre-ordered, of course — you placed the request two days ago with a florist just outside the track perimeter. It’s not about superstition. It’s about showing up. The same way you did in Silverstone, in Monaco, in Melbourne even when Oscar only finished P9 and still deserved flowers for putting up with dnfing and getting back into the race. Winning was never the point. The gesture always was. You thank the courier at the paddock entrance and duck back into the paddock, the bouquet held carefully to your chest to shield it from the rain. You don’t rush — not exactly. But your steps are quick, practiced. A familiar rhythm by now. Somewhere between the Haas hospitality unit and the edge of the media pen, someone lifts a phone. Click. You don’t even notice being watche. But by the time you reach the entrance of the McLaren garage, that photo has already begun to travel online — you in profile, mid-step, the grey sky blown out behind you and the flowers cradled in your arm like something sacred. You're smiling faintly, almost unconsciously. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the image of Oscar in P1, still holding off a charging Lando.

username3 i’m sorry who gave this woman the right to be this poetic just by EXISTING username4 she out here making sure someone’s getting this man his flowers username5 no bc the fact that this isn’t a celebration thing because he’s p1, it’s a devotional thing. silverstone. monaco. melbourne. now. it’s about love, your honour username6 she’s not even looking at the camera. she doesn’t know she’s just broken the internet. mother is FOCUSED username7 imagine leading a Grand Prix and your girl is literally walking through rain to hand you flowers after. every romance novel wishes username8 btw google says the flower shop is closed on sundays, which means she must have ordered them ahead of start and probably even ahead of qualifying yesterday… like girlie never cared what position he would finish username9 idk why we were so stressed ten minutes ago, it’s not like she’s never done this before, we should know by now username10 i want @/mclaren to post his reaction when he sees them username1 i just what what Oscar and his flower girl have username2 piastri’s girl getting him flowers is just icon behavior

Back inside the garage, you find your place again beside Oscar’s family. His mum doesn’t even blink at your return, just takes one look at the flowers and grins like she knows exactly where you’ve been. The cameras don’t catch that moment. Not the soft way you hold the bouquet the entire team until someone from the team brings you a glass of water to store them in. Not the way your shoulders relax as Oscar rounds La Source again, still in the lead. Not the quiet pride blooming quietly, perfectly — like petals opening toward the noise. Not everything has to be seen to be real.

The final laps are a blur. Your hands haven’t stopped fidgeting since Lap 34 — fingers tapping against your thigh, then against the glass the bouquet is in. You forget that you still have a headset on and can hear Oscar calmly ignore that Lando is closing in on him. He is still leading, but Lando’s shrinking the gap each lap with the quiet threat of quicker tyres and clean air and years of knowing exactly how his teammate thinks. You don’t blink during the final sector. You hardly breathe. And then, just like that— Oscar crosses the line. P1. The garage erupts in front of you. Mechanics leap to their feet, someone throws both fists in the air, comms are buzzing with cheers and laughter and chaotic back-pats. You exhale like you’d been holding the weight of the entire Ardennes forest in your lungs. You stand, still gripping the stems of the hydrangeas before remembering yourself — they’re not for now. The spotlight belongs to Oscar. And you’ve always known when to wait. You leave the bouquet behind in the garage, gently handing it off to one of the younger interns who beams at you like they’re holding an heirloom. They nod seriously, and you catch a glimpse of them hustling to find a proper vase and a clean surface to put them on — the spot where Oscar’s helmet will rest in the garage when he returns. Then you step out into the wet light of parc fermé with his family by your side. Everything feels slightly blurred, like the rain smeared the edges of the world just enough to make it cinematic. Flashbulbs pop. Someone’s shouting over half the pit lane. The air smells like gasoline and burnt rubber. And then you see him on the other sides of the barricades — Oscar, climbing out of the car with practiced ease, peeling off his gloves, his helmet. Hair tousled, fireproofs rain-dampened at the collar, chest heaving with adrenaline and exertion. He does the signature fist-bump with Lando, who claps him on the shoulder with a grin that’s somewhere between rivalry and pride. But Oscar’s eyes are already scanning the crowd. And the moment he spots you — standing just behind his granddad, your smile too big to contain — he walks straight over**.** A brief hug for his granddad, a pat on the shoulder for his dad, a kiss to his mum’s cheek. But it’s you he reaches for last. He pulls you in like the noise doesn’t exist. Not the cameras. Not the yelling. Not the dozens of people watching. It’s not even a dramatic kiss, just a long, grounding hug — one arm wrapped tightly around your back, his forehead pressed lightly to the side of your head. Like he’s catching his breath in your arms. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, grinning so hard it makes your cheeks ache. “One pit-stop and two kiss strategy worked well,” you murmur, teasing under your breath. Oscar laughs — that soft, delighted sound only you ever get this close to. “I’ll tell Tom to include that in the debrief of what went exceptionally well.” You lean back just enough to look at him properly, your palms still braced against his racesuit. “I got you flowers, by the way.” His brows lift in mock surprise. “Oh?” “They’re waiting for you in the garage. With me. When you’re ready.” There’s a flicker in his eyes then — something quiet, something full. He shakes his head, fond and disbelieving all at once. “I don’t deserve you.” You just smile. You mean it when you say: “You drove like hell. You deserve everything.”

He looks at you like he’s already won more than a race. And maybe, just maybe, he has.

✎ — radio: had this thought in my head for a while, thought i might as well bring it to paper after this race :) i hope you enjoy it and have a pleasant day! (PS: I know the title has barely anything to do with the plot but i really liked it when brainstorming and thought it was way better than all the other stuff i came up with)

[angelsueeeeeee]

WHEN THE SLOW BURN IS SLOW BURNING

cold coffee ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“best thing about your hometown?” “apparently it’s the coffee. i don’t drink coffee so i don’t know. for me, it’s just that it’s home.”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mention of food. set in melbourne, spans a couple of years (alleged slowburn), oscar pines!!! so much!!!, cameos from oscar's sisters. ꔮ commentary box: lots of love all around i.e. contract renewal + home race. had to do it to 'em. inspired by this video, where two of my friends immediately demanded to see a barista!reader. did a bit of a spin on it, but the concept is intact! ☕ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cold coffee, ed sheeran. something, somehow, someday, role model. i'd have to think about it, leith ross. time, angelo de augustine. keep the rain, searows. the view between villages, noah kahan.

It starts with Hattie.

Oscar’s younger sister had spent the morning badgering him, pleading in the way only a sibling with endless energy and zero regard for his sanity could. She’d tugged on his sleeve, whining about the new café down the street, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

“We’ve been home for two weeks, and you haven’t done anything fun,” she’d accused, arms crossed as she blocked his way to the fridge. “Come with me. Pleeease?”

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal. 

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door. 

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else. 

A snack, maybe. 

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.) 

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree. 

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night. 

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look. 

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street. 

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not. 

And yet.

Fine. 

It’s over. He’ll get over it. 

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape. 

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way. 

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back. 

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something. 

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer. 

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real. 

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye. 

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café. 

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either. 

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life. 

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be. 

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is. 

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world. 

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel. 

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations. 

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed. 

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend. 

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.” 

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back. 

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss. 

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go. 

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning. 

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly. 

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead. 

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says. 

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab. 

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens. 

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone. 

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this. 

Still want him. 

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck. 

Not when he finally, finally got the win that mattered most. ⛐

[angelsueeeeeee]

THE WRITING IS SO BEAUTIFUL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

And you are not going to mess this up.

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

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

Hard.

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

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

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

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

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

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

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

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

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

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

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

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

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

“She’s what?”

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

Max doesn’t respond right away.

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

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

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

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

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

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

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

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

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

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

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

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

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

“You are.”

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

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

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

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

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

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

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

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

You’re also annoyed.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

Charles grins. “He never does.”

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

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

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

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

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

You follow him, head held high.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

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

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

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

You sign, So are you.

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

You’re not expecting it.

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

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

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

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

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

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

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

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

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

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

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

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

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

Charles doesn’t answer.

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

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

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

They all fall silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flinches.

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

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

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

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

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

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

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

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

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

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

“She didn’t hear you.”

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

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

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

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

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

***

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

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

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

They’re starting to see you.

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

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

You turn.

It’s him.

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

You raise an eyebrow.

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

H … E … L … L … O.

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

You stare at him.

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

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

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

And whatever Max just spelled?

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

You blink.

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

You burst out laughing.

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

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

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

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

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

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

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

You shake your head, still grinning.

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

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

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

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

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

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

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

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

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

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

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

You nod. Always.

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

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

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

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

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

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

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

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

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

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

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

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

You give him a look.

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

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

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

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

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

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

Charles stares at you across the garage.

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

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

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

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

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

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

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

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

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

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

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

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

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

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

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

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

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

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

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

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

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

He shrugs. Maybe.

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

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

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

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

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

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

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

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

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

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

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

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

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

Your brows rise.

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

Not many ask what you do.

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

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

You pass the napkin over.

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

You grin. Correct.

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

You nod. Probably.

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

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

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

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

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

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

You stare at the napkin.

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

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

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

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

No one asks about your code.

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

Except him.

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

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

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

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

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

You nod. I get that.

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

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

You turn to him.

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

You blink. You researched it?

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

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

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

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

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

You hesitate.

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

You push it across.

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. Then nod.

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

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

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

But not before you look back.

***

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

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

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

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

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

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

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

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

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

You fold your arms.

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

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

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

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

That’s not your choice.

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

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

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

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

You sign faster now, sharper.

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

“That’s not-”

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

His jaw tightens.

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

“That’s not fair-”

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

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

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

You stare at him.

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

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

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

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

You hate that your hands shook.

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

You hate that people still don’t listen.

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

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

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

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

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

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

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

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

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

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

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

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

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

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

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

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

You keep writing.

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

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

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

He stares at the words. Then at you.

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

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

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

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

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

***

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

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

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

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

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

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

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

To her left sits the interpreter.

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

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

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

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

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

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

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

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

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

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

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

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

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

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

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

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

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

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

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

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

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

You’ve survived harder things.

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

Gone with a headline.

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

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

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

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

Max cuts in. Instantly.

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

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

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

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

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

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

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

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

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

And nothing else.

***

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

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

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

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

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

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

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

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

You don’t move.

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

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

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

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

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

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

Not for a long time.

***

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

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

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

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

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

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

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

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

Which would leave you starting fourth.

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

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

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

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

He turns to face you fully.

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

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

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

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

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

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

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

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

You blink. Why?

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

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

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

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

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

You don’t.

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

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

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

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

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

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

Outside, the storm rages on.

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

***

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

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

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

Charles approaches with purpose.

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

For a beat, it’s just them.

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

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

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

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

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

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

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

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

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

“It’s what you meant.”

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

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

“I know what she’s been through.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles doesn’t respond.

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

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

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

Silence hangs thick between them.

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

***

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

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

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

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

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

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

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

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

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

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

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

Optics?

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

You don’t flinch.

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

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

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

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

A beat.

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

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

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

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

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

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

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

Until later.

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

“Wait.”

You turn.

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

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

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

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

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

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

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

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

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

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

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

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

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

You pause.

Why did you?

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

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

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

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

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

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

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

***

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

You tap his shoulder.

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

He trusts me now.

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

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

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

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

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

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

You walk through the paddock with Max.

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

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

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

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

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

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

He stops.

Looks down.

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

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

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

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

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

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

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

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

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

He signs back, My name is Michel.

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

The mother covers her mouth.

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

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

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

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

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

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

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

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

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

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

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

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

Michel nods enthusiastically.

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

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

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

But the quiet between you two lingers.

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

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

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

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

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

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

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

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

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

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

You don’t kiss him.

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

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

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