annaswrites00

[annaswrites00]

Unscripted

fc43 x singer!reader

(4.2k)

Summary - It was all staged. The trips, the photos, the headlines. Franco knew the rules—don’t blur the lines, don’t want what you can’t have. But she wasn’t following the script anymore. And neither was he.… warning - none

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The cameras loved her.

That much was obvious.

The moment she stepped onto the carpet—white dress, soft fabric clinging to her frame like it had been sewn onto her skin—the static hum of camera shutters swelled like a heartbeat. She didn’t flinch. She smiled like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times, like she knew exactly where to tilt her chin, where to cast her gaze.

Franco Colapinto watched it all unfold from a step behind her, his jaw set, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. He wasn't exactly a stranger to media obligations, he usually enjoyed them, but this—this was something else. Manufactured, delicate, strung together by a team of people who wouldn’t blink twice before swapping him out for the next available headline.

His agent’s words replayed in his head:

Just a few months. Just until the press cools off. Good for her image, good for yours. Nothing complicated.

Yeah, right. He had liked Alpine so far. He couldn't say the same for their PR team.

"Look alive, Colapinto," her voice cut through the haze, soft but sharp-edged as she glanced at him over her shoulder. "You’re supposed to look happy to see me."

He arched a brow, lips tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Do I?"

"You look like you're thinking about crashing into the pit wall."

"I wish,” he mumbled under his breath.

She shifted closer, the train of her dress brushing his shoe, the scent of her perfume settling in the space between them—clean, expensive, like white flowers and cold metal.

He offered his arm, the gesture stiff, mechanical. She took it anyway, curling her hand around his bicep like it belonged there.

“Smile like you mean it,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear as they stepped toward the waiting cameras.

“I don’t need to mean it,” Franco replied, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “I just need to sell it.”

The bulbs flashed, rapid, blinding.

His hand found her waist, fingers splaying over the silk like muscle memory, and she leaned in—too easily, too believably. Her nails brushed the fabric of his jacket, soft but deliberate.

They made it look real. That was the job.

But her grip was firm, grounding. And her pulse, when his thumb grazed the bare skin of her back, beat a little faster than he expected.

Interesting.

Not that it matters. He wasn’t here to get curious.

The reporters called their names, questions sharp and insistent, but the script had already been written. The team had emailed him bullet points on the way over: how they’d met, why they'd clicked, the timeline to memorize. A perfectly digestible, Instagrammable love story.

Together, they sold well.

They drifted through the press line like professionals—polite smiles, half-lies, her fingers brushing his just often enough to be caught on camera. It wasn’t hard. She knew how to work a crowd. And Franco… well, he knew how to survive one.

When they finally ducked past the velvet ropes, into the cooler quiet of the side hall, she let out a slow breath and unhooked her arm from his.

“Well,” she said, twisting a ring around her finger, “that wasn’t terrible.”

Franco leaned against the wall, studying her like a puzzle he hadn’t decided if he wanted to solve. "That’s what you call not terrible? I've never had so many cameras in my face before.”

"We made it out alive." She glanced at him, her lips curving into something like amusement. "And you only looked mildly homicidal."

He let the smallest smirk slip, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s my charm." His smooth accent brushed over her skin.

"Oh, is that what you’re going for? I thought it was accidental.”

“You always this difficult, or is it just for me?” he asked, the words lazily drawn, but with something sharp laced underneath.

She shrugged, cool as glass. “Only with the people I like.”

Franco’s laugh was soft, unexpected. “You must like me a lot, then.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I don’t hate you.”

“That’s generous.”

Their handlers reappeared, brisk and businesslike, ushering them toward the next checkpoint. Photo ops. Dinner seating. A brief, staged moment where he’d pull out her chair, maybe tuck a strand of hair behind her ear for the cameras if they really wanted to sell the narrative.

Before they parted, she caught his arm again, her fingers lingering.

“Just so we’re clear. I’m not exactly elated to be here either. But the least you could do is make it slightly enjoyable. We both signed that contract,” her voice was somehow demanding and soft at the same time.

Franco’s jaw tensed.

“Enjoyable? I thought you wanted believable. Not sure if we have time for both.” He tipped his head, lazy and cold, but there was something dangerous in his smile. "If you want me to make it fun, amor, that's extra."

"Trust me, I’m not here to fall in love with you." Her voice came out quieter than before.

"Good," he shot back. "Because I don’t have the time to break your heart."

Her laugh echoed behind her as she disappeared down the corridor, slipping back into the role with effortless precision.

Franco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

This was going to be a problem.

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Franco remembered the moment when everything started to go sideways.

It wasn’t the cameras or the contract or even the cold press releases that would come later.

It was the room.

A hospitality suite at the Austrian Grand Prix, Alpine’s signature blue stitched into the chairs, cold water sweating on untouched glass bottles, the quiet hum of air conditioning struggling against the summer heat. Neutral territory, technically. But Franco knew what it really was: a negotiation.

When he stepped inside, there were already too many people waiting. His agent. Her manager. PR consultants. Brand representatives. Smiling too wide, speaking too fast.

And her.

She was sitting like she owned the place—legs crossed, chin resting against the back of her hand, nails tapping a slow rhythm against the armrest. Sunglasses still on, despite being indoors, her phone in her hand, as if none of this required her full attention.

She didn’t look up when he entered. Not right away.

He could’ve left then. Should’ve, probably.

Instead, he dropped into the seat opposite her, one arm slung lazily over the back of the chair.

"You're late," she said without looking at him, her thumb still scrolling across the screen.

Franco huffed a quiet laugh. "You're not my race engineer. You don’t get to tell me when I’m late. I’m not sorry I have a grand prix to prepare for. Didn’t really want this penciled into my schedule anyway.”

“I wasn’t dying for this either,” her soft voice snapped back.

A beat passed.

Then she smiled—sharp, electric, like she'd just been waiting for someone to swing first.

Across the table, the PR teams launched into their well-rehearsed pitch. Mutual benefits. Cross-industry exposure. Social reach. Controlled narratives. Blah, blah, blah.

Franco let it wash over him, the words flicking past his ears like static.

But she was still watching him, one brow raised, as if he were some curiosity in a glass case.

Her manager slid a printed draft of the contract across the table. Franco's agent pointed out key clauses—appearance requirements, shared interviews, social media posts, expected public moments.

Franco tapped a finger against the paper. "You really think people are going to buy this?"

The PR rep shrugged. "They don’t need to buy it. They just need to talk about it."

"And you—" Franco turned his attention back to her, the corner of his mouth twitching into something resembling a smirk. "You’re fine with this? Letting people think you’re wasting your time with me?"

She finally took her sunglasses off, folding them neatly and setting them on the table like it was a deliberate choice to let him see her properly now.

"Wasting time is relative, Colapinto."

His name sounded different in her mouth. Something about the way she let it roll, half-teasing, half-daring.

"I thought singers were supposed to write love songs about heartbreak and longing. Not fake boyfriends and staged vacations."

"Heartbreak sells better when it’s real." She sipped her coffee slowly, deliberately. 

His smile came quick, unexpected. Real. "Careful. You're almost convincing."

The meeting dragged another thirty minutes. Negotiations, schedules, event mapping. Franco let most of it slide past him like background noise. His agent would chase the details. His job was simple: look the part, play along, don’t make it complicated.

And yet—he found his attention snagging on her in the quiet pockets between conversations.

The way she twirled the thin gold ring on her index finger when she wasn’t speaking. The faint edge of exhaustion beneath her otherwise perfect presentation. The practiced ease in her posture, like someone used to being stared at but rarely seen.

When the final agreement was laid out, she signed first, pressing the pen with a little more force than necessary.

Franco watched her name curl across the page. Deliberate. Final.

When he scrawled his signature beside hers, it felt a little like the lights going out one after the next.

As the teams packed up, her manager nudged her phone toward her. "We’ll send the rollout plan. You two will do a soft launch first—maybe a candid photo at the paddock tomorrow morning, keep it low pressure."

Franco rose from his chair, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "So we’re starting tomorrow?"

"Apparently," she replied, swinging her bag over one shoulder.

He expected her to walk away then. But instead, she lingered, hovering just in front of him, her expression cool but not unfriendly.

"Do me a favor," she said, tilting her chin up slightly. "Don’t make this boring."

Franco’s smirk softened into something dangerously close to a real smile. "Only if you try to keep up."

He said it like this was some game. Like this wasn’t already slipping out of their control.

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Franco had agreed to this weekend the same way he agreed to most things these days—with a shrug, a quiet sigh, and the steady hum of his agent’s voice reminding him that this was good for his profile.

Exposure. Buzz. Headlines.

Lake Como during summer break. Expensive villas, still water, just enough cool grey light to make everything look like it belonged in a high-end perfume commercial. Picturesque. Curated. Precisely the kind of thing that would send social media into a frenzy.

Their teams had staged it down to the last detail.

The right people tipped off. The right photographers waiting just out of frame. The right restaurants, the right dock, the right villa with wide glass windows designed for perfect, accidental-on-purpose photo ops.

Franco sat in the back seat of the sleek, black car as it snaked along the winding roads, sunglasses low on his nose, the faintest ghost of irritation tugging at his mouth.

Next to him, she sat with one leg slung lazily over the other, her phone cradled in one hand, an earbud tucked in, the soft hum of music just audible when the road noise dipped. She scrolled like she didn’t care what she was looking at, like the endless stream of curated snapshots barely touched her. Detached. Effortlessly indifferent. Untouchable in the way only the truly famous learn to be.

Her hair caught in the late afternoon light, the strands glinting like fine-spun silk as they slipped behind one ear, framing the delicate line of her jaw. The sun flirted with the thin gold chain resting at her throat, catching on the edges as if even the light couldn’t resist lingering there.

She looked exactly like the person the world thought she was.

The girl from the magazine covers. The one who wrote the songs people blasted in their cars with the windows down. The one with captions that sounded just the right amount of intimate, the right amount of mysterious.

The one who smiled like she was in on some secret no one else would ever be cool enough to know.

Except Franco knew better. He knew that half those Instagram posts weren’t written by her at all. He’d seen the PR drafts on her phone. 

And maybe it was all the time they’d been forced to spend together lately, the endless flights and dinners and hotel lobbies where they sat side by side like perfectly staged furniture—but he had started to notice the things she didn’t post. The things no one else seemed to see.

The way she tugged at the dainty gold chain around her wrist when she was anxious, looping it once, twice, tightening until it bit into her skin. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to say something. The way her teeth dragged over the corner of her lip when her guard slipped, just a fraction, and something real tried to break through.

She was still doing it now. Biting the soft swell of her lower lip, a tiny mark blooming there in the shape of her impatience.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted to reach over and press his thumb against her mouth. Smooth the tension away. Steady her. Make her stop before she bruised herself.

The thought struck him so quickly it nearly unspooled him.

Where the hell had that come from?

It rattled him in a quiet, lingering way. Not a crash. Not a burn. Just a low, rising heat under his skin. The kind that didn’t let you go. The kind that demanded to be noticed.

He shifted, dragging his gaze back out the window like the lake might have answers for him.

It didn’t.

Because nothing about her was supposed to feel real. Not the way she looked in the dying light, not the press of her shoulder against his when the road curved too sharply, not the way she’d started to exist in the smallest corners of his attention.

She was supposed to be a headline.

A contract.

A game.

So why the fuck did she suddenly feel like something else?

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The villa was made for this—

The wide, open balcony. The carved stone railing. The lake stretched out in front of them like liquid gold, shimmering under the weight of the sinking sun.

It was almost laughable how perfectly staged it all was.

Even the wine had been selected by someone on her team. Vintage, photogenic, the kind of label that would end up in tagged Instagram stories by morning.

Franco sat opposite her at the small round table, a faint breeze tugging at the ends of his hair. His sunglasses were abandoned somewhere inside. The air was warm, humming with the low thrum of cicadas, the sun softening into something syrupy as it slipped lower in the sky.

She poured the wine herself. Not for the cameras. They weren’t here now. It wasn’t a moment designed to be captured.

And maybe that’s why it started to feel different.

She leaned back in her chair, cradling her glass between delicate fingers, letting the stem spin absently as she stared out over the water. Her hair was mussed from the wind, loose from its earlier styling, a few tendrils curling against her skin. Her lips were still faintly pink from the sun, the same lips she bit when she was nervous, the same lips he couldn’t stop noticing.

“I’ve always hated this part,” she said, her voice light, but there was something brittle underneath it.

Franco glanced at her, the lazy spin of his own wine glass faltering just slightly. “Hated what? Drinking wine on balconies of million-euro villas?”

A small, humourless laugh slipped from her. “No. This part. The part where I start to feel like I’m vanishing.”

His brows pulled together, the edges of his irritation softening, replaced by something slower. Something like understanding.

“You?” He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re everywhere. Billboards. Charts. Pap shots. Your face is practically its own currency.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she murmured, tilting her head, watching the light fracture across the lake’s surface. “People don’t actually see me. They just see the pieces that are curated for them.”

She paused, dragging her thumb over the rim of her glass, tracing the circle over and over again. “Sometimes I think… I’ve been marketed so carefully that I’ve forgotten what parts were really mine to begin with.”

The honesty of it landed like a weight between them. Unstaged. Unsanitized.

Franco’s throat tightened. He let his gaze drop to the table, the wine glinting ruby red in the light.

“I get that,” he said finally, the words low, a little rough. “Being watched. Being followed. Answering the same questions until you forget how to talk like a real human being.”

His hand drifted to his wrist, fingers grazing the leather bracelet he always wore, tugging at it, the tell he didn’t realize she’d already memorized.

“You’re good at that,” she said, eyes flicking back to him, the smallest tilt of a smile tugging at her lips. “Talking like a headline. Winning over reporters and outlets.”

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out until his foot nudged hers beneath the table. He didn’t move it.

“And you’re good at pretending you don’t care what people think.”

Her gaze pinned him there, sharp and steady. “And you care more than you admit.”

It was nothing. It was everything. A casual accusation dressed up as a joke, except it didn’t sound like a joke at all.

The silence between them stretched, the air thick with something that wasn’t scripted.

Her foot slid against his, just a little, the slow drag of skin to skin like it wasn’t even intentional. Like maybe she didn’t realize she was doing it. But he knew she did.

And maybe he didn’t move away because he didn’t want to.

The sun slipped lower, casting her in a soft amber glow, outlining her like something worth worshipping.

“I don’t even know what your real laugh sounds like,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her brows lifted, playful, but her voice was quieter when she replied. “Maybe you don’t deserve to.”

His pulse thudded somewhere in his throat. “Maybe I want to.”

That made her falter, just for a breath. Her wine glass stopped spinning. She set it down, the clink of glass on glass almost startling in the quiet.

She shifted her chair, just a little closer. Her leg brushed his, her knee pressed against his thigh, and she didn’t pull away this time.

The heat in his chest bloomed low and slow, like something that had been waiting for permission.

“You don’t get to want things, Franco,” she whispered, leaning forward, her elbow resting on the table, chin tipped just slightly toward him, the curve of her mouth dangerous. “That’s not part of the contract.”

His voice dipped, syrupy, steady. “Fuck the contract.”

Her breath caught, a sharp little sound. She recovered quickly, but he’d already seen it.

“Careful,” she warned, the edge returning to her tone, but it frayed in the middle. “You’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

He reached out then, almost without thinking, his thumb brushing over her wrist, right over the delicate chain she always played with, his touch soft but heavy with intent.

Her pulse jumped under his skin.

“And if I do?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his thumb circling once, slowly.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, just for a second.

“I told you,” she murmured, her voice breathy now, laced with something like panic, like want, like surrender. “I don’t want to fall for you.”

His thumb stilled. The air snapped tight between them.

“Good,” he said, leaning in until their faces were separated by a breath, by a choice. “Because I don’t have time to break your heart.”

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them pulled away.

Because maybe it was already too late.

His thumb still lingered at the fragile hinge of her wrist, a ghost of contact, his skin a slow burn against hers. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

A gesture. An accident. An echo of the script they were supposed to follow.

But it didn’t feel staged. It didn’t feel safe.

The sun melted low across the lake, dragging streaks of soft gold and bruised lavender over the water, catching on the curve of her jaw, lighting the faintest shimmer along her collarbone. She hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

The distance between them evaporated, but neither of them crossed it. Not fully. Not yet.

His thumb traced lazy, dangerous circles over her pulse, memorizing the stutter there.

She should have pulled away. She should have laughed it off, thrown some sharp, teasing remark between them to shatter the quiet.

But her chest was tight with something else—something slow and wanting, something that made her breath catch and stutter.

And she let him keep touching her.

The heat built like a storm trapped in glass, pressing against the edges, begging to crack.

His hand drifted higher, a careful path up the inside of her arm, his fingertips featherlight but purposeful, like he was learning her in pieces, like he wanted to burn the shape of her into his memory.

She couldn’t look at him. Not fully. The pull was too much, too dangerous. His mouth was too close. His breath brushed her cheek, the edge of her jaw, a quiet tremble in the air.

His lips hovered at the corner of hers—almost, almost—but the kiss didn’t land.

The ache of it was worse than if it had.

This wasn’t in the contract.

This wasn’t for the cameras.

This was the part they weren’t supposed to touch.

Her body tilted toward him anyway, the smallest betrayal. Her skin humming, her breath thinning.

Franco’s eyes flicked to her mouth, dark, a question written in the shadow there, a cliff’s edge they’d both been circling for weeks.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers sifting gently through the loose strands of her hair, holding her there like she might vanish. Like if he let go, she’d dissolve into the sunset and slip out of reach entirely.

His breath was warm against her lips, his voice low and aching when he finally spoke,

“No te vayas todavía.”

Don’t leave yet.

His thumb brushed over the delicate chain at her throat, feeling the quick, shallow beat of her heart beneath it.

The restraint in him trembled.

She let out a shaky exhale, her nose brushing his, the smallest tilt toward him, aching to fall, desperate to stop herself.

Her hands hovered at his waist, not quite brave enough to pull him closer, not quite strong enough to push him away.

If she kissed him, she wouldn’t stop.

If she kissed him, she’d fall.

And the worst part? She wanted to fall.

His lips barely grazed hers, a cruel, featherlight touch, like he knew exactly how to unravel her without even trying.

Somewhere in the hazy moments of photo ops and organized lunch dates, the lines blurred.

The edges of the script curled inwards and caught fire, the ink bleeding into something messier, something they couldn’t quite name.

And maybe that’s why she stopped fighting.

The contact was featherlight at first, a delicate press of lips, like a secret traded in the quiet between heartbeats. But when she breathed him in, when she tasted the faint trace of wine on his tongue, something in her caved.

Her hands tightened at his waist, pulling him closer, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt like she’d been waiting to do it for weeks. Her mouth parted against his, deeper now, less careful, more desperate. The kiss tilted out of balance, out of caution, all slow-burning want and the crackling ache of something they couldn’t unwind.

Franco’s hand slid from her neck to her jaw, thumb skimming along her cheekbone, holding her like she was precious, like she was fragile—but his other hand found her waist, his grip firmer, grounding, as if to remind her that he was real, that this was real.

His heart thundered in his chest, pulsing in his throat, his skin, everywhere she touched him.

Her lips were soft, but the kiss wasn’t. It was a collision—a slow, deliberate unraveling, the kind that burned. The kind that lived in the bloodstream long after it ended.

Her breath hitched when his teeth grazed her bottom lip, the faintest scrape, like he couldn’t help himself. She chased him when he pulled back just slightly, like she already couldn’t bear the distance.

His mouth ghosted over hers, a soft, aching press. He was tasting her now. Like he’d been starving. Like he’d been waiting for her to break first, and now that she had, he didn’t want to stop.

His name slipped from her lips, a low, trembling sound that sent something sharp through his ribs.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. More deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth, the way she sighed into him, the way her fingers curled tighter when he deepened it.

And maybe they both knew they’d ruined it.

That whatever game they’d been playing, they’d crossed the line and wouldn’t be able to pretend after this.

But neither of them stopped.

She broke first, pulling back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead resting against his, her lips tingling, swollen from the weight of his.

The silence stretched between them, thick, fragile, reverent.

She let out a shaky laugh, almost bitter, almost in awe. “I didn’t want this to be real.”

His thumb swept over her lower lip, slow, careful, his voice a rough hum against her skin. “Too late.”

And it was.

Because the fall had already started, and neither of them had bothered to stop it.

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Thanks for reading!!

💋ྀིྀི💋ྀིྀི💋ྀིྀི

[annaswrites00]

All In

LN4 x gf!reader

(3.1k)

Summary - She gets stuck in her head, in all the noise, but he’s steady, warm hands, quiet rooms, soft mornings—and maybe that’s enough… warning - slight angst

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The apartment was quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be—soft and slow, like the world itself was tipping into sleep. The Monaco sun poured in through the glass doors, settling in golden puddles across the cool marble tiles. Somewhere down the hill, the streets hummed with the faint buzz of mopeds and the occasional clink of café glasses. But up here, it all felt far away.

Suspended.

She moved through the apartment like she was underwater, half-heartedly folding a throw blanket over the back of the couch, smoothing out creases that didn’t matter.

The sea glittered just beyond the balcony, calm and indifferent. She stared at it, let her fingertips drag across the edge of the counter, let the silence breathe.

The door clicked open behind her. Keys, trainers, a soft thud of a gym bag hitting the floor.

“Hey, baby,” came Lando’s voice, low and familiar, a little worn from the day.

His footsteps padded across the floor, steady, unhurried. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a kiss into the curve of her temple. His skin was still a little warm, his scent tinged with salt and cologne and the last ghost of sunshine.

“Miss me?” he murmured, lazy and sweet against her hair.

She smiled, but it was one of those small, quiet smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Always.”

Lando’s hands slid up, fingers spreading over her ribs, holding her like he could keep her steady if he just stayed there long enough.

“You okay?” he asked, chin resting on her shoulder now.

“Yeah.” The answer came quickly, too easily. “Just…long day.”

She wasn’t lying. It had been a long day. Just not in the way he might think.

Not in hours or errands or exhaustion.

Long in the way thoughts sometimes stretch too wide, pulling at the edges of your chest until you can’t quite breathe right.

Lando hummed against her skin, but didn’t push. He squeezed her gently, a little anchor, then let go to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

The apartment filled with the quiet sounds of the ordinary; the pop of the cap, the soft creak of the cabinet as she tucked away a book, his footsteps wandering out toward the balcony.

“You’ve been tidying?” he asked, half a smile in his voice as he leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “I can tell. Looks suspiciously neat in here.”

She shrugged, a delicate lift of her shoulders. “Just keeping busy.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Familiarity, maybe. He knew her tells.

Knew when ‘keeping busy’ meant chasing quiet, trying to outpace the noise inside her own head.

But Lando wasn’t the type to drag it out of her. He’d always been patient like that. Gentle in the way he noticed things, but didn’t rush them to the surface.

“Come here,” he said instead, reaching out a hand.

She crossed the space between them, let his palm settle against the small of her back.

“Let’s make dinner,” he said, pressing another kiss to her hair, “and you can tell me all about your long day. Or not. I’m good just hearing about how you alphabetized the spice rack.”

A soft laugh slipped out of her, caught somewhere between gratitude and guilt.

She leaned into his touch like it could tether her there. Maybe it could.

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The kitchen had always been their quiet middle ground. Not quite his chaotic racetracks, not quite her spiraling thoughts—just a simple space where things could simmer and slow.

“Pasta?” Lando offered, rifling through a cabinet like he might suddenly become someone who had any clue what he was doing. His voice was bright, teasing, still wrapped in that casual charm that always made her want to smile without thinking.

“Pasta’s safe,” she agreed, pulling out a pan, settling into the familiar rhythm of their makeshift rituals.

“Safe for you, maybe. I’m the liability here.” He shot her a grin over his shoulder, already tugging at the bag of penne like it was a Formula 1 car that needed coaxing.

“That’s why I supervise.” She leaned her hip against the counter, soft amusement slipping into her voice.

“Supervise? Harsh. I thought I was improving.” He turned to face her, leaning in just enough to bump her hip with his. “Didn’t I make eggs last week without nearly burning the place down?”

“Congratulations. You’ve mastered the same cooking skills as a twelve year old.” She quirked an eyebrow, letting the playfulness mask the dull ache still tucked somewhere under her ribs.

His laugh warmed the space between them. Easy. Light. But his eyes lingered on her longer than they should have, like he was reading past the edges of her smile.

They worked together, their movements overlapping in small, domestic brushes—his chest grazing her shoulder as he reached for the salt, his palm steady on her back as she drained the pasta, his fingers ghosting along her wrist when he passed her the olive oil.

It was always like this with Lando.

Effortless closeness. The kind that didn’t ask permission.

But even as the air filled with the soft clatter of dishes and the low simmer of sauce, she felt like she was somewhere else. A little too quiet in her own head. A little too weightless.

She stirred absentmindedly, zoning out as she watched the bubbles rise and break.

“Hey.” His hand slid to rest just above her waist, his voice pulling her back to the kitchen. “You’re miles away.”

“Just thinking,” she said, the words slipping out like muscle memory.

His thumb moved in slow, steady circles against her shirt.

“You think a lot,” he murmured, not accusing—just noticing.

She hummed in response, not trusting her voice to carry much else.

When they sat down to eat, the plate in front of her felt heavier than it should have. She twirled the pasta around her fork, pushed it through the sauce, but her appetite had folded in on itself somewhere along the way.

Lando was watching her again.

Not in a loud way. Not in the way people stare when they’re waiting for answers.

Just quietly, like he was trying to figure out which part of her had gone soft around the edges today.

“You don’t like it?” He nudged her foot beneath the table, a soft tap against her ankle.

“No, I do. It’s good.” She forced a small bite, a weak smile. “You’re getting better.”

His gaze didn’t waver. He took another bite, slow, but his attention stayed fixed on her like he was cataloging every detail—the pace of her chewing, the way her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, the fact that she’d only eaten a few bites.

She could feel the weight of his noticing settle in the space between them.

“I’m not hungry, that’s all,” she offered, before he could ask. Before she’d have to lie worse.

He didn’t call her on it.

Didn’t press.

Just let it sit there, like an unopened letter on the counter.

“Okay,” he said softly, twirling his fork through his own pasta, like maybe if he moved slow enough, she’d come back to him. “But I made you pasta. That’s a big deal, you know.”

“Massive milestone,” she whispered, a real smile this time, but her chest still felt tight.

“Could’ve ordered pizza,” he mused, his voice deliberately light. “But no, I wanted to impress you with my skills.”

“You have,” she said, and she meant it, even if she didn’t have the room for more than a few bites.

Lando didn’t push her to finish.

Didn’t try to fix the thing she wasn’t saying.

He just reached across the table, curled his pinky around hers, and kept eating like nothing was broken.

Like he had all the time in the world to wait for her to meet him where he was.

And somehow, that made her feel closer to breathing again.

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The evening slipped into something quieter after dinner, the sky bruising purple over the sea, the streets far below softening into a hum. They had settled on the couch, a half-hearted movie flickering on the screen, but her mind was somewhere else. 

Somewhere further.

Lando’s legs were stretched out, ankles crossed, one hand lazily tracing shapes against her knee. His other arm slung along the back of the couch, loose and open like always. His body was here. His mind, probably here.

But hers had drifted.

She tried to pretend otherwise, nodding along at the right beats, letting her head tip against his shoulder when he shifted.

But she wasn’t really watching.

She wasn’t really here.

Her head was back on the carousel she’d been spinning on all week. The posts. The comments. The photos that slipped across her timeline like paper cuts.

Not even bad ones. Not really.

Just the same cycle of glossy people with glossy lives, always somehow circling Lando’s orbit. Models draped over yachts, influencers with perfect hair caught in the golden spill of sunset. Laughing girls on the paddock fringes.

It was the way people spoke about them online. Like they belonged there. Like they made sense beside him.

Sometimes she’d scroll without even realizing her thumb was moving. Sometimes she’d stare at a photo until it blurred, until she wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or detachment or something worse clawing at her throat.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t accusing him of anything.

But the weight of comparison was a slow, constant thing. It gathered like condensation on glass—quiet, steady, impossible to ignore.

His fingers tapped gently against her knee. “Hey,” Lando murmured, voice soft in her hair. “You’re somewhere else today.”

“I’m here,” she said quickly, pressing her cheek closer to his shoulder as if proximity could sell the lie.

“You’re not.” His tone was patient. Not pushing, not heavy. Just… waiting. “Talk to me. Please.”

She hesitated. She always did. She was good at filing things away in the corners of her chest, keeping them stacked and orderly, like maybe they’d dissolve on their own if she ignored them long enough.

But Lando nudged her foot with his. Just once. Small, but grounding.

A silent promise... I won’t rush you. But I won’t let you go quiet on me either.

Her throat tightened. She untangled herself from his side slowly, tucking her legs beneath her as she sat up straighter, facing him now.

“I don’t know,” she started, barely more than a whisper. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he said, immediately. “If it’s sitting on you like this, it’s not stupid.”

She stared at her hands, picking at the edge of her sleeve. The words felt messy in her mouth, like strings she couldn’t untangle.

“It’s just…sometimes I don’t know if I fit in your world,” she said finally, the words falling out in soft, unfinished shapes. “It’s not even about anyone else. I just… I see things. Online. Photos. The way people talk. The girls everyone expects to be next to you. The life they expect you to want. It’s so—”

She broke off, exhaling through her nose.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“It’s so shiny,” she finished, voice smaller now. “And I’m not. I’m not shiny. I don’t know how to be.”

She loves university—the quiet hum of the lecture halls, the feel of books under her fingers, the way ideas swirl and settle inside her head like gentle waves. There’s something grounding about it, something real in the mess of deadlines and long nights spent scribbling notes under flickering desk lamps. It’s a world she’s carved out for herself, one filled with small victories and soft moments of discovery.

But when she steps back into Lando’s world, it feels different. The rhythm changes, the air shifts. His life moves too fast, too bright. A constant flood of flashes and crowds, of people who live in photographs and headlines.

She’s not part of that current.

Not really.

The weight of it sat between them now. Solid. Real.

Lando didn’t rush to answer. Didn’t fall into the trap of quick reassurances or dismissive jokes.

He just reached out, slow and steady, and hooked his fingers around hers, thumb brushing the inside of her palm.

“You know what I love about you?” he asked, his voice a low hum, almost like he was speaking to the night air. “You don’t post things just to post them. You don’t chase rooms you don’t want to be in. You let me be Lando. Not the version people see in pictures. Not the interviews. Just…me.”

His thumb traced soft circles over her skin.

Her throat ached. She blinked down at their joined hands, his warmth folding over hers like something solid enough to anchor to.

“I like the quiet,” he said. “I like you in it.”

Her chest cracked a little under the weight of that—how simple it was for him. How steady.

“I know it’s loud out there,” he continued, voice softer now, thumb still moving. “I know what they say. I know what people expect. But I don’t want the life that just looks good online. I want this. I want you. That means more than any kind of status or online appeal.”

The breeze from the open balcony doors slipped across her skin, carrying the faint salt of the sea. The sky was almost fully dark now, the city lights smudged like brushstrokes in the distance.

“It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted, the words finally loosening. “Not because I don’t trust you. Just… because I get stuck. In my head. In the noise.”

“I get stuck too,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “But I don’t want to feel unstuck with anyone else.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It slipped from her like something fragile.

“You’ll tell me,” she whispered, “if I start disappearing again?”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead, lingering there like he could press the promise into her skin.

“Always.”

Silence settled over them, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft. She shifted closer, tucking herself into his side again, the weight in her chest loosening bit by bit.

Out on the balcony, the vanilla candles burned low, their little flames flickering against the breeze.

And for the first time that night, she felt like maybe she could stay here.

Like maybe she belonged.

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She didn’t move when Lando’s arms found her again, wrapping around her like a quiet promise. The weight of him settled over her, solid and steady, and she let herself lean in, sinking into the calm of his chest. His chin rested lightly atop her head, his breath warm against her hair.

His fingers began tracing slow, absent movements along her back, each touch a soft thread weaving them closer together. There was no rush. No words pressed between them. Just the steady rhythm of quiet comfort, the gentle rise and fall of his breath syncing with hers.

Outside, the balcony doors were cracked open, letting in the faint murmur of the sea. The sound was distant and soothing, a steady pulse that wrapped around the edges of the room like a lullaby.

Lando shifted slightly, tilting his head as if to listen more closely to the night. 

“You want to sleep on the couch tonight?” he asked softly. “We can crack the doors open, hear the sea. Wrap up in blankets together.”

She nodded without hesitation, the thought of lying here with him, so close and unspoken, enough to ease the tightness curling in her chest.

He rose carefully, pulling a thick, soft blanket from the back of the couch and spreading it wide. Together, they settled into the worn cushions, her head fitting perfectly against the hollow of his shoulder. The blanket enveloped them both, warm and safe, a little world apart from everything else.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close, and she curled into him, the heat of his body melting some of the chill inside her. His fingers found her hair again, weaving gently through the strands, the simple act grounding and tender.

The quiet stretched between them, comforting and still. The sea whispered beyond the glass, the city lights flickering softly in the distance.

His voice was barely above a breath when he finally spoke, “You’ll tell me if you get too in your head again, won’t you?”

Lando’s hand paused for a moment, then tightened ever so slightly, a small reassurance in the dark. “Always,” she replied.

She closed her eyes, letting herself drift, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear the only thing she needed to hold onto. Her breathing slowed, deepening into the soft rise and fall that came when the weight of the world lifted, if only for a little while.

Lando stayed awake, his gaze tracing the patterns on the ceiling above, fingers still threading through her hair. Quiet thoughts swirled in his mind—how much he loved her, how she made him feel like he’d found the only place worth racing for. The only finish line that truly mattered.

As she slipped deeper into sleep, warm and safe in his arms, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, the softest promise that he was here.

Always here.

The night held them close, the sea’s distant song lulling them into a peace neither had dared to speak aloud.

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The morning sun poured through the windows like warm honey flooding the room. Light draped itself over the couch and spilled across their tangled blankets. The city outside was waking slowly but inside the apartment time felt softer, slower, like it belonged to them alone.

She woke first, eyes fluttering open to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. For a moment she just breathed him in — the quiet warmth, the faint scent of shampoo mixed with sea salt and sleep. Then she pressed a gentle kiss along his jaw, careful not to disturb him too much.

She slid out from the blankets and padded softly to the kitchen, the cool floor waking her feet. The kettle hissed and she watched the steam curl up, smelling the rich earthiness of the coffee grounds she measured out. The world outside the windows felt far away, softened by morning light and the quiet stillness of their space.

Suddenly Lando’s arms wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her close with sleepy strength. His breath tickled her neck as he murmured, “Morning already? You’re quicker than me.”

They stood together in the warm kitchen light, hands entwined, the ordinary magic of the moment wrapping around them. 

For the first time in a long while, she felt lighter — like the weight of the world was just a little less heavy. Like maybe she could carry it, here, with him.

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Thanks for reading!!!!

🐻‍❄️ྀིྀི🐻‍❄️ྀིྀི

[annaswrites00]

Damage Control

OP81 x mediamanager!reader

(3.7k)

Summary - Oscar’s still wired from the chaos of Monaco, and she knows just how to push his buttons… warnings - smut, explicit content, public setting, language. 18+ ONLY!!!!!

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The applause faded behind the press barricades, but Oscar could still feel it crawling under his skin.

He’d smiled on the podium, sure. Said the right words. Let the champagne spray across his fireproofs. Even laughed when Lando poured the sticky liquid down his neck.

But it wasn’t real.

Not today.

P3 should have felt like something. It should have meant something.

But all he could feel was heat.

Heat at the base of his neck, prickling under the collar of his suit. Heat rising behind his ribs. A low burn of resentment he couldn’t shake.

Stupid mistakes.

That was all standing between him and something more.

He tugged at the Velcro near his neck as he stalked down the paddock corridor, jaw locked, mouth set in a tight line. The noise of the crowds, the calls of crew and media, the subtle roar of the harbour still pulsing with celebration—it all blurred into a kind of pressure behind his eyes.

He needed space. Silence. Cold water. Anything but—

“There you are.”

He stopped.

She was standing just past the media tent, iPad tucked under one arm, headset hanging around her neck. No clipboard this time. Just her, in the McLaren black polo that was one size too big and didn’t quite hide the nerves in her posture.

“Media starts in ten,” she said, softer than usual. Not a command. Almost… a question.

Oscar stared at her for a second.

The last few weeks had made her too familiar—a constant shadow in the garage, in the hallways, in his periphery. She was always hovering, always coordinating. Efficient. Polite. Unshakable, until now.

Now she looked almost unsure.

He didn’t answer.

Just tugged at the top of his suit and wiped at the sweat behind his ears. The scent of champagne still clung to him. He hated it. Hated that it meant celebration when all he felt was disappointment.

“I can—” she started, adjusting the tablet against her chest, “—I can see if they’ll push the first interview back a few minutes if you want. If you need a breather.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “That's your call now?”

She hesitated. “No. But—”

“Then don’t offer things you can’t deliver.”

The words came out sharper than intended.

Her lips parted, like she might argue—but she didn’t. Just swallowed once, visibly, and nodded.

“Sorry.”

The silence that followed made it worse.

He wasn’t trying to be a dick. Not really. He just… couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t fake the right sound bites when his blood was still boiling from a race that felt like settling.

She took a step back. “You’ve got a few minutes if you want to clean up. Water’s just inside. I’ll wait here.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Didn’t thank her.

He pushed through the side door of his driver’s room without looking back.

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When he returned, his suit was tied at the waist, sleeves hanging limp. He’d splashed his face and rubbed a towel through his hair, but the tension hadn’t eased. If anything, it was worse now—trapped under his skin like static.

She was still waiting.

“You don’t have to follow me around, you know,” he muttered as he passed her.

“Actually. I do.”

She fell in step beside him.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The corridor toward the media pen narrowed, the buzz of voices growing louder. Crew, reporters, photographers—all gathered like sharks that could smell blood.

She glanced sideways at him once. “I can brief the first two outlets to keep it short.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it with a sigh.

And when they reached the edge of the media tent, he finally stopped.

“I don’t want to do this.”

It wasn’t loud. Just kept between them.

But it was the first honest thing he’d said since the podium.

She looked up at him, eyes soft, uncertain. “I know.”

He should’ve hated the way she said it. Gently. Like she saw something he didn’t want her to.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched loosely at his sides.

Something flickered between them—an imbalance shifting. She wasn’t giving orders now. Wasn’t pushing. Just waiting. Letting him decide.

And maybe that was what made him speak again.

“It was just silly mistakes. I could’ve had it. I can do so much better than this.”

“I know,” she said again.

Oscar’s breath caught. He looked at her—really looked.

No headset now. Just her. Her mouth pressed tight, like she didn’t trust herself to say more. She was younger than most of the team. New. Still finding her place. And yet, somehow, she’d found him.

Found the part of him that wasn’t polished or press-ready. The part that cracked.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered.

“I might,” she said, voice quiet.

That made him pause.

He stared at her for a beat too long, jaw working like he was chewing down something bitter. Then he glanced past her toward the growing swarm of cameras and flashing lights.

And he shook his head.

“No,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Not doing it.”

He turned away, started back toward the corridor—toward escape.

“Oscar—” she started, catching up, voice sharper this time.

He didn’t stop walking.

“You have to—”

He did stop at that. Pivoted with a quickness that startled her into stillness, his eyes dark with heat. The kind of heat that came from pressure.

“No,” he said again, firmer now. “I don’t have to stand in front of ten different microphones and act like I’m happy to settle for third.”

Her mouth opened, closed.

He waited.

“Look,” she tried, a bit breathless now. “It’s not about pretending. It’s just a part of the job. It’s about showing up—for the team, for the sponsors—”

“For the cameras,” he cut in, stepping in closer. “For the show. For the headlines. I know.”

Something about the way he said it—like a weight around his neck—made her temper pull back, just slightly. But she held her ground.

“This isn’t personal,” she said, quieter. “It’s just the media schedule. You know that.”

His jaw ticked. “You think I don’t give enough already?”

“No,” she said immediately, which surprised him. “That’s not what I’m saying. I get it. You’re pissed about the race, this weekend. Ok. That doesn’t mean you get to skip out on the rest of your job.”

Oscar looked at her, gaze flicking down for just a second—at her hands clutching the tablet again, knuckles tight with strain. She was flustered. She didn’t hide it well.

“You’re new,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You’re still trying to prove yourself.”

That landed somewhere deep. She shifted her stance. A slight defensive tilt to her chin.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied, quick, sharper than she meant to. Then her voice dipped. “I’m just trying to do my job, Oscar. Same as you.”

The silence between them was taut, wound tight like a snapped cord.

Somewhere behind them, a camera flash popped. Someone was shouting a name—his name—but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and jerked his head sideways.

“Come on.”

She blinked. “Where—”

“Driver’s room,” he said, already walking. “Unless you want to argue in front of a dozen journalists.”

She hesitated. Then followed.

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The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside noise like a switch had been flipped. The air inside Oscar’s driver’s room was chilled—almost aggressively so—but it didn’t do anything to cool the heat tightening his shoulders.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just threw the towel from earlier onto the bench and paced once across the room like he was too wound up to sit still.

She hovered by the door, hands at her sides now, iPad forgotten. Only a half-step into his space.

He turned on her.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said, voice low and sharp, “to have a car capable of a win and then spend the whole weekend trying and failing to execute?”

She swallowed.

“No, of course you don’t.”

“That’s not fair. That's your job. not mine."

“I know it’s not fair,” he bit out. “But neither is a weekend where I know I should’ve been better, and instead of getting to deal with it, I’m being pulled in a dozen directions to smile for cameras and say how great it is to come in behind my teammate. How great the weekend was for the team.”

Her brow furrowed, her tone finally defensive again. “I never said you had to smile.”

Oscar let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “You don’t have to. Everyone expects it anyway. Because I’m always a class act after the race, right?”

She opened her mouth—then closed it. There was a flush in her cheeks now, subtle, but rising. She wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to him like this.

He knew he was pushing. Knew he was being unfair. But it felt good, in a twisted way, to finally let some of the pressure bleed out. And she was here, in the target zone. Because she hadn’t backed off.

Because she’d followed him.

“I’m not your enemy,” she said finally, voice low. Steady, but with an edge of vulnerability under it.

He blinked. Something in him paused at that.

“No,” he muttered. “But you’re always there.”

“Because it’s my job, Oscar. I don’t know why we're wasting time arguing over media. You have to go back out there. You know that.”

Oscar stared at her.

There it was again—that tension. That tether pulled taut between them.

She was right.

She was always right in these moments. Level. Composed. Doing her job while he cracked under the weight of his own perfectionism.

But tonight… he couldn’t do level. Couldn’t do composed. Couldn’t take the neat little box she kept placing him in—the driver, the brand, the polished professional. He was more than that tonight. He was tired. Raw. Burning.

“You say that like I’m some kid who doesn’t know how this works,” he said, stepping toward her. Just one step. Close enough for her breath to catch.

She stood straighter. Didn’t back down. “I say it because you need reminding.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be reminded tonight.”

His voice dipped lower.

She should have backed down, let him stew in his own frustration. But instead, she stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

“You don’t get to take this out on me,” she said, voice low but steady. “I’m not the one who cost you the race.”

Oscar’s gaze snapped to hers, like a whip.

For a second, just one, she thought maybe she’d gone too far.

But then he laughed. A short, bitter sound.

“No,” he said, “you’re just the one standing in front of me acting like you get it. Like you know what it feels like to be this close and then have to walk away smiling like it doesn’t hurt.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but he was already moving.

His hand found the door handle behind her, clicking it locked before she could take a step back.

Her breath hitched.

Oscar’s voice softened, but not kindly.

“You don’t get to act like you know how this feels. You don’t get to stand there and tell me what I have to do when you don’t even…” His jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

Her throat was tight. She could feel it.

But she forced her chin up. Forced the words out.

“Then let me.”

That made him stop.

“Let me know you,” she said, barely a whisper now, but steady enough to hold his attention. “Not the headlines. Not the driver the team parades around. Just you. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re pissed and tired and—”

She didn’t finish.

Because he’d stepped closer again.

Close enough that the tension snapped like a live wire between them.

Close enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her cheek when he spoke.

“You’re playing a risky game.”

Her pulse jumped, but her voice didn’t shake. “Maybe I don’t want to play safe anymore.”

Oscar’s lips twitched like he almost wanted to smile, but it was too bitter to surface. His hand came up, fingers brushing the curve of her jaw, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

When she didn’t pull away, he let his thumb trace lightly along her skin.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

His hand dropped from her face to her waist like the tether between them finally snapped.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice dropped with him. “Then tell me to leave.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say it.

His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. His other hand braced against the door behind her, caging her in without ever touching her fully.

“You’re going to make this complicated.”

“It already is," she spit out. Chest tight.

His head dipped, forehead brushing against hers like he was still deciding whether or not he should cross the last inch.

“Oscar—” 

His mouth was on hers before she could finish.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was all heat and static, frustration blooming into something that felt like collapse.

His hand slipped from her collar to the nape of her neck, threading through her hair as he tipped her head back, kissing her harder—like he was chasing quiet, or trying to press something out of himself.

And she let him.

She kissed him like she’d been waiting. Like she had nowhere else to put the slow-burning ache she’d been carrying for weeks.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t neat. His fingers dragged rough along the line of her waist, catching the edge of her polo, tugging it up without finesse. Her skin buzzed under his touch—bare fingertips skating over ribs, tracing the curve of her breast through the lace of her bra.

She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

“Still want to send me back out there?” he asked against her lips, voice syrupy, slow, dripping with something like amusement.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have the air.

His mouth ghosted over hers once more before he dropped to his knees in one fluid, unhurried motion, tugging her skirt down her legs with the kind of carelessness that made her dizzy. One hand braced at her waist, holding her steady, the other brushed the fabric of her underwear aside with a lazy slide of his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, like he wasn’t speaking to her, like it just slipped out. “You like being told off?”

She made a noise—half protest, half plea—but before she could spit something sharp back, he slid two fingers into her, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor it.

Her head tipped back, landing softly against the door.

“God—fuck, Oscar—”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

His fingers moved with a rhythm that made her legs shake—cruel in precision, but never rushed. She gripped his hair, unsure whether she was pulling him closer or steadying herself, but his gaze flicked up to her, eyes dark, mouth set in something close to a smirk.

“Look at you.” His voice was a low drag, almost bored. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

Her breath faltered. She dug her nails into his shoulder, but he didn’t stop.

“You play at being difficult, but this is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” His thumb pressed against her just right, coaxing a desperate sound from her throat. “This is what shuts you up.”

Her moan cracked sharp in the air, and still, he didn’t let up. His palm ground against her, his pace merciless, like he was methodically pulling her apart just to see how fast he could do it.

Her hips jolted forward, desperate and messy.

His smile barely touched his mouth.

His lips brushed lazily against the inside of her thigh, breath hot against flushed skin. “Deep down, you want me to ruin you.”

It hit her like a wave—sharp, hot, blinding—and she cried out, thighs tightening around his shoulders as she came, as he worked her through every tremor, every breathless shake of her body.

His hand skimmed her inner thigh, dragging his thumb across tender skin like he was leaving a signature.

“You’re a mess,” he said softly, almost like it amused him.

When he stood, he loomed over her again, catching her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him like she was something to inspect.

Then—without hurry—he slid his fingers past her lips.

“Now,” his voice dropped to steel, molten and heavy. “Get on your knees and show me just how badly you want me to go out there and do my job.”

She sank to her knees in front of him, breath still ragged, body buzzing with the echo of what he’d just done to her.

His fingers slid from her mouth with a slow drag, grazing her bottom lip like he wanted to feel her pulse there.

He murmured, thumb brushing over her jaw, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.

Her hands were already at his waistband, tugging open the drawstring with shaky fingers.

His smirk deepened, head tipping back as he let her work, as if her urgency was some small entertainment.

“You’re always so mouthy,” he said, looking down at her like he was considering what to do with her now. “Funny, isn’t it?”

She glared up at him through her lashes, half tempted to bite something just to wipe that smugness off his face.

But then she had him in her hand, heavy and hot, and the ache in her throat overrode everything else.

She leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base of him, slow, deliberate, like she could make him feel the weight of her silence.

He hissed through his teeth, his fingers sliding into her hair again—less to guide her, more to keep himself steady.

“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?” he muttered, half-laughing, like the patience she was showing now was the cruelest thing she’d ever done to him.

She hummed against him in response, dragging her tongue up the length of him with a kind of lazy precision, keeping her pace maddeningly slow.

“Oscar,” she breathed against him, voice sticky, clinging to the syllables like sugar melting in the heat. “You wanted this.”

He tightened his grip in her hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who started this.

“Don’t get clever.” His voice dropped, frayed around the edges now. “You needed to be put in your place, didn’t you?”

She flicked her tongue over him, then took him deeper, answering without words.

His groan broke the stillness like a crack through glass.

And suddenly his restraint was gone.

He thrust forward, not rough, but decisive—forcing her to take more, forcing her to feel the weight of him, to let him chase his own undoing in the heat of her mouth.

Her hands caught at his hips, nails biting into his skin as she tried to steady herself, breath stolen, eyes watering—but she didn’t pull back.

Didn’t want to.

“Look at you,” he gritted out, watching her, gaze molten and unblinking. “Fucking taking it. So desperate to prove something.”

She hollowed her cheeks around him, dragging another ragged sound from his throat. Drool starting to slide down her chin.

The push and pull of his hips set the rhythm now—sharp, controlled, but relentless—and she let him, let herself unravel around the edges, chasing his pleasure like it was something she could claim for herself.

His grip in her hair tightened, a sharp pull that made her whimper, made her thighs press together.

“God, you’re such a mess for me,” he rasped, chest heaving, pace faltering just enough to let the words slip out. 

Her nails dug harder into his hips in answer.

He groaned, head tipping forward, his free hand cupping the side of her face, thumb brushing over her cheek like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, voice dissolving into something raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

She didn’t.

She swallowed him deeper, worked her tongue in ways that made him curse, made his hips stutter, made his control slip just enough for her to feel it in the way his body tensed beneath her hands.

His thumb dragged across her lower lip, slick from her, from him.

“I should’ve made you beg for this,” he said, breath hot and ragged, like the thought alone might undo him. “I should’ve made you fucking crawl.”

Her whimper vibrated against him, pulling another curse from his throat.

But it was too late to be careful now.

His grip tightened—desperate, aching—and his rhythm stuttered as he came, head tipped back, breath caught somewhere between a groan and her name.

She took all of it, swallowed him down like it was a quiet kind of victory, like she wanted to keep him there.

He barely gave her time to catch her breath before he was pulling her up, crashing their mouths together in something messy, something breathless, tasting himself on her tongue and not caring in the slightest.

His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs brushing along her cheeks with a reverence that didn’t match the bruising heat of the kiss.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he whispered against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. “And you know it.”

She smiled, faint but sharp, fingers still curled in the hem of his shirt.

“Still want me to go back out there?” he asked, voice a little hoarse, a little smug now.

His chest rose and fell against hers, the weight of their bodies still tangled, the heat still thick in the air.

“I think I’d rather stay right here for a bit,” she breathed.

And she kissed him again—slow, soft this time—like maybe they both knew this was the part they wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Thanks for reading!!!!

[annaswrites00]

Just Making “Friends” - Part Three (final)

Part One, Part Two

Franco Colapinto (smau) - fc43 x liliana sainz (OC) face claim - madison beer (all pics from pinterest)

Summary - Franco and Liliana Sainz hit it off his first race back on the grid in Imola

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

Grid Chat 🏁

Lando Norris

Franco.. are you like on a date with Lili right now??

Pierre Gasly

Bro I had to double check if I was seeing that right.

Alex Albon

Carlos what are your thoughts?

George Russell

Yeah. I want to know your thoughts Carlos.

Carlos Sainz

My thoughts are not appropriate for this chat.

Lewis Hamilton

Let’s remember Lili is her own person. She can make her own choices.

Franco Colapinto

I’m having a really great time with her :)

Isack Hadjar

Define "great time" 👀

Kimi Antonelli

This is hilarious

Ollie Bearman

I'm pissing myself mate

Yuki Tsunoda

Franco… I do not see this ending well for you.

Carlos Sainz

Everybody Stop. Now.

Franco Colapinto

Do not worry you all. I have a nice night planned. Very sweet.

George Russell

Woah

Alex Albon

Oh wow

Lando Norris

I am slapping my knee mate. omg.

Oscar Piastri

I sense bad things are about to happen

Isack Hadjar

I second that

Max Verstappen

I third that

George Russell

I third that

Gabriel Bortoleto

You cannot both third that... someone has to fourth that

Isack Hadjar

Oh that's good.

Max Verstappen and George Russell have left the chat

Carlos Sainz

WHAT KIND OF "SWEET NIGHT"??? This is my baby sister we are talking about.

Pierre Gasly has added Max Verstappen and George Russell to the chat

Charles Leclerc

I think Franco should share every BIG detail from the night with us...

Liked by Pierre Gasly, Liam Lawson, and Lance Stroll

Carlos Sainz

Hey Charles, send it into the pit wall your first lap of quali mate.

Lewis Hamilton

Ok now. Settle down

Carlos Sainz

YOU settle down. Old Man

Lewis Hamilton has removed Carlos Sainz from the chat

Pierre Gasly

The chat is safe now. Proceed, Franco

Franco Colapinto

I will be sure to make her night unforgettable. 😊

Charles Leclerc

Post-race debrief. In detail please.

Liked by Pierre Gasly, Kimi Antonelli, and Isack Hadjar

George Russell

Let’s hope he doesn’t suffer from premature pit stops.

Isack Hadjar

Don't box too soon

Lewis Hamilton

I should’ve removed all of you.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

Sainz Familia

Carlos

Liliana, does he make you happy?

Lili

Yes. Is this drama over now??

Carlos

As long as he doesn't hurt you. If he does... I will see to it that he never makes it past lap one. Ever.

Carlos Sr.

Wow. I applaud your maturity Carlos. Big steps.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

lilianasainz

lilianasainz cats out of the bag

Liked by francocolapinto, landonorris, and 12,815 others

Comments on this post have been limited

francocolapinto Mi amor

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

francocolapinto

francocolapinto Happy

Liked by pierregasly, lilianasainz, and 813,688 others

Comments on this post have been limited

pierregasly my children

lilianasainz eres mi todo

carlossainz my eyes are on you

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

[annaswrites00]

Dress

IH6 x bestfriend!reader

(2.2k)

Summary - Say my name and everything just stops I don't want you like a best friend… Inspired by Taylor Swift’s Dress… warning -suggestive content

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The streets of Monaco hum with celebration, golden light bleeding over the white yachts and pastel balconies as the evening folds into itself. The air is thick with the sharp fizz of champagne, with the clatter of heels against stone, with the sound of the sea breathing against the docks.

But you’re not watching the harbor, or the crowd pressing against the barriers, or even the podium celebrations you’ve pretended to care about all afternoon.

You’re watching him.

Isack’s hair is still damp, curls clinging to his forehead in unruly spirals as he ducks his head through the crowd. His race suit hangs half-unzipped, fireproofs bunched around his waist, a glint of silver chain catching the low sun as he moves. He should be glowing—he scored points today. Monaco points. He should be swept up in the tidal wave of his team, of the cameras, of the podium’s distant spray.

But his eyes are flicking through the bodies like he’s still racing. Like he’s looking for something.

Like he’s looking for you.

You raise a hand without thinking and the moment he finds you, something in him softens. It’s a crack down the middle of his tightly drawn face, a breath he finally exhales, like you’ve flicked the world back into color.

And then he’s moving, jogging the short distance until you’re within reach, his grin stretched so wide it barely fits on his face. His palm is warm when he cups the small of your back and pulls you into him, forehead leaning into your neck, breathless and giddy and all yours.

“P6,” he pants, as if you didn’t already know, as if you hadn’t screamed yourself hoarse when he crossed the line. “P6 in Monaco.”

You smile, pressing your thumb to the soft curve of his cheekbone. “I’m proud of you.”

He leans into your touch without hesitation. It’s natural now, the way he lets you steady him, like you’ve been doing it his whole life.

“They’re probably waiting for me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move away.

“So go,” you whisper, though your hands stay on him.

His eyes flick to your lips and back up. He wets his own nervously, tongue darting out quick and unconscious. “Will you come later? To the party?”

“Of course.”

His relief is palpable. His grip tightens, just briefly, before he finally pulls back, still smiling like the city is his.

“Save me a dance,” he calls over his shoulder as he jogs back toward his team.

You don’t tell him you’d already bought a dress just for that.

Just for him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’ve known Isack Hadjar long enough to remember the buzzcut era.

Long enough to remember when his arms were all awkward elbows, when his knees were perpetually scabbed from karting crashes, when he would grin with a mouthful of braces and talk about Formula One like it was a place he could walk to if he just kept moving forward.

You’d sit on cracked sidewalks outside karting circuits, sharing melting ice cream and big, ridiculous dreams. He’d always tell you the same thing.

“When I get there, you’ll be there too.”

You didn’t know then that he’d mean everywhere.

The memories bleed in quietly, like warm syrup pooling in the cracks of your ribs. You remember his hair bleached blonde one summer on a dare—how you teased him for weeks, how the color made his skin glow even more golden. You remember the nights you stayed awake in his family home, your bodies folded into the familiar grooves of his soft couch, the static buzz of late-night racing replays humming in the background.

There’s an indentation in the shape of him on the beanbag in your room now—a worn dip on the right side where he always sits, where his body has pressed into the cushion so many times it’s as if they remember him even when he’s gone.

Sometimes, when you get home after a long day, you sit there, in his space. It fits you, but it’s still his. A mark he’s left without even trying.

It’s not just the seat.

It’s the hoodie draped over your chair, the way your playlists have quietly reshaped themselves around his favorite songs, late nights you've stayed up reading about pit strategy, the unopened bottle of his shampoo he left in your bathroom after a race weekend last year—never taken back, never questioned.

There’s a gravity to him. A pull you’ve felt for years but never followed.

There were moments, though. Almosts.

One rainy night at home. He was wet and shivering on your doorstep. Holding a blue and white VCARB hat. You had jumped up and screamed for him. Then wrapped him in your biggest sweater, curled up on the couch, his head against your shoulder, his breathing slow and steady against your neck. You’d thought, for one dangerous second, that he might kiss you.

But he didn’t.

At a school party, in a basement bedroom too small for the weight of what neither of you said, you’d brushed his hair out of his eyes, your fingers trembling, and he’d caught your wrist, holding it there, his thumb ghosting across your pulse point.

You’d laughed it off. He’d let you.

All this time, you’ve been waiting. All this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting

He’s so tangled into your life you don’t even know where he ends and you begin. He’s carved his name into the edges of your world, stitched himself into the fabric of your days like some golden tattoo you never asked for but could never scrub away. A thread of silver pulled taught in a little bow.

And you’ve never told him.

Not once.

But maybe tonight.

Maybe Monaco.

Maybe now—you will.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The memory of him lingers like salt on your skin, like sun-warmed silk, like the faintest pressure where his palm cupped the small of your back just hours ago.

The shape of him is everywhere.

In the indentation on your beanbag.

In the playlists that accidentally became his.

In the unspoken almosts that stitched themselves into your ribs.

And yet, tonight feels different. Like a page is curling, ready to turn.

You’re not sure what makes you braver tonight—maybe the Monaco air, thick with champagne and sea breeze, maybe the way he looked at you in the paddock, or maybe it’s just the dress.

You’d bought it weeks ago. Hung it in the back of your closet and pretended it was for some other night, some other reason. But when you slipped it over your skin tonight, you knew the truth.

You bought it for him. And you want him to notice.

The party hums around you, electric and untamed. Someone’s yacht, all sharp lines and soft lighting, anchored just far enough from the dock to feel like a world suspended. Music thrums through the deck, the bass curling in your ribs, the smell of salt and sweat and celebration thick in the air.

You arrive late.

When you step onto the boat, there’s a pulse that travels through the room. You catch the way people turn, how heads tilt in your direction. The fabric clings just enough, the hem skimming higher than you’d usually dare. And though you’re smiling, soft and sweet, your pulse drums against your throat.

And then you see him.

Isack, drink in hand, half-listening to something one of his friends is saying. He’s laughing, head thrown back, curls even messier than they were this afternoon. The chain at his neck glints under the yacht’s soft lights, and when his gaze finally finds you across the deck, the laugh dies in his throat.

His lips part. His grip tightens around his glass. And for a heartbeat, everything else melts away.

Say my name, you think. Say it and everything will stop.

And when he does—when your name drops from his mouth, barely audible over the music—it feels like the earth tilts, just slightly, just enough to send you spinning toward him.

"Finally decided to show up, huh?" His grin is quick, familiar, cocky—his comfort zone. But there’s something else in his eyes, something unsteady.

"I had to make an entrance," you tease, leaning in just enough for the warmth of him to skim your skin.

His gaze drags over you, slowly, like he's memorizing. His hand lifts halfway, like he might touch you, but he drops it before he can.

"You—" He clears his throat, trying for nonchalance. "You look… different."

"Good different?"

"The best kind," he murmurs, his voice low, sticky with the weight of something he doesn’t know how to say yet.

Before you can answer, you’re swarmed—mutual friends tugging you toward the drinks, arms slung around shoulders, laughter loud and unfiltered. Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand, the fizz tickling your skin, and the night tumbles forward in a blur of music and clinking glasses.

Isack stays close, always hovering near you like some invisible tether binds you together. When you talk to others, his gaze drifts. When you laugh, his smile returns, lazy and soft, like it’s reflex now.

At some point, Liam slings an arm around both of you, swaying with the movement of the boat, his voice loud with the casual, sharp-edged humor of people who think they know everything.

“You two,” he slurs, pointing between you with mock accusation. “When are you gonna admit you’re more than best friends?”

You both laugh. You’re good at this part—the pretending. The easy deflection.

But when you glance at Isack, his smile falters, just for a flicker of a second, like he’s tired of the joke. Like maybe he’s wondering the same thing you are.

When the group dissolves, scattering toward the next round of drinks, Isack hooks a hand around your wrist and tugs you gently toward the edge of the deck, where the air is cooler, salt-laced and quiet.

The city glows across the water, all soft golds and silvers, like the world’s been dipped in sweetness.

“You know,” he says, voice slurred just slightly, his words looser than usual, “I hate when they say that.”

“Say what?”

“That we’re just friends.” His thumb brushes across your wrist absently, circling over your pulse point like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“That’s what we are, though. Right?” you say it like a joke, but it sticks in your throat.

Isack’s smile twists, like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmurs, stepping closer, until there’s nothing between you but the thin air of the Monaco night.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you like a best friend.”

The world stills. The sea, the music, the pulse of the party. All of it fades under the weight of those words.

His hands find your waist, clumsy but careful, his fingers warm against the fabric of your dress.

“I bought this dress because—” your voice wobbles, your throat thick, “—because I thought maybe you’d notice.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, leaning in until his forehead nearly rests against yours.

“I noticed.” His voice drops, just for you. “You’re all I ever notice.”

You’re both drunk. Drunk on champagne, on years of pining, on the sheer relief of finally saying what’s been trembling between you all this time.

His thumb slips under the strap of your dress, just barely, tracing lazy circles into your skin, and your breath hitches.

“Do you remember when you signed for VCARB?” you whisper, heart thudding wildly against his chest.

His eyes darken, his grip tightening.

“I remember thinking if I kissed you then, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Your laugh catches, soft and disbelieving. “Idiot. I wanted you to.”

His hands slide up to cup your face, his fingertips brushing your jaw as if you’re something breakable.

“I want you now.”

Your name falls from his lips again, and this time—this time—you let everything stop for it.

And then he’s kissing you. Sloppy, champagne-sweet, all teeth and desperation and years of holding back. His hands cradle your face like he’s terrified you might disappear, and you fist your fingers in the front of his shirt to keep him anchored to you.

It’s not perfect, not practiced—it’s a collision. But it’s yours. Finally.

When you pull back, dizzy and breathless, you don’t let him go far.

“You really are an idiot,” you murmur, resting your forehead against his.

“Yeah,” he breathes, grinning like you’ve just handed him the entire world. “But I’m your idiot.”

His thumb drags softly under the strap of your dress again, a subtle, teasing pull.

“Was the dress really for me?” His voice is low now, playful.

You hum, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Only bought this dress so you’d take it off.”

His breath catches, his hands stuttering against your waist.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s so stunned, so perfectly him that you laugh, giddy and weightless and warm.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, trailing your fingers along his jaw, “you’ve got time.”

And as the music swells behind you, as the sea laps against the hull and the city flickers like a heartbeat across the water, you realize you’ve stopped waiting.

Because he’s yours now. And maybe he always was.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Thanks for reading!!!

[annaswrites00]

I’ve Always Known - Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz x Isabella Larrea (OC)

(5.3k)

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Summary - Isabella has always known that her feelings for Carlos Sainz run deeper than friendship. This story follows the timeline of their complicated bond, from childhood to the present... warnings - discussion of social anxiety/panic attacks, suggestive content 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Christmas Time - Madrid 2015

The house was loud, buzzing with the kind of warmth that clung to the air during the holidays. Laughter drifted through the halls, the scents of ginger and cinnamon weaving around the clatter of glasses and the soft hum of music in the background. Outside, the winter air bit at the edges of the windows, but inside, everything glowed.

Isabella sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her hands worrying the delicate fabric of her dress. Her mother’s voice still echoed in her ears, sharp and purposeful from earlier when she’d adjusted the fit at Isabella’s waist with a critical frown.

“Stand up straight. Tuck your stomach in a bit, Isa, it’ll look better. You’re not a little girl anymore, you should be more mindful of how you present yourself.”

The words had landed softly, like snow, but their weight settled heavily in Isabella’s chest. She’d nodded, said nothing, and smoothed the fabric just as she was doing now. Her brothers, Lucas and Mateo, had barely noticed. Lucas was already deep into the evening, drinking with his friends from karting and football, their easy laughter filling the room with a rhythm Isabella couldn’t quite join.

She felt stranded, her thoughts fluttering at the edges of the gathering, trying to find somewhere to land. Her brothers had carved their places in the family—in sport, in social circles, in the effortless charm they carried. Isabella, by contrast, felt like she was always watching life from a step behind, unsure of how to catch up.

The door swung open with a rush of cold air and familiar voices.

“Carlos is here!” someone called from the front hall.

Isabella’s heart jumped. She didn’t turn immediately, though she knew his voice instantly as he greeted the others, warm and smooth with that signature laugh she could pick out anywhere.

He was back from his first full Formula 1 season. The entire family had followed his year religiously, crowding around the TV to watch his races, celebrating his points finishes, his fearless overtakes. To Isabella, he wasn’t just Lucas’s friend anymore—he was something else entirely.

And she was sixteen now, old enough to understand the flutter in her chest when she saw him.

When she finally looked, there he was, standing in the middle of the room like he belonged there, his coat still draped over his arm, his hair a little longer than she remembered, a little less controlled. His eyes scanned the room as he smiled at the familiar faces, his posture loose, easy. When his gaze landed on her, his smile softened.

“Isa,” he greeted, crossing the room with a few long strides.

She stood, her heart thudding wildly, trying to summon something to say that wouldn’t make her sound like a child.

“Hey, Carlos,” she managed, her voice steadier than she expected.

“You look grown up,” he said with a fond smile, a hint of teasing in his tone as he ruffled her hair, just like he used to when they were kids.

Isabella flushed, both flattered and faintly embarrassed, smoothing her hair back down. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“First season was busy,” he said, his eyes brightening. “But I missed this. Missed all of you.”

Lucas came up behind Carlos, slinging an arm around his shoulders, already pulling him toward the group with a drink in hand. Isabella watched them go, her gaze lingering on Carlos’s easy smile, the way he fit so comfortably among everyone. He belonged, completely.

She wasn’t sure she did.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The party blurred around her after that. She floated from room to room, exchanging quiet pleasantries, laughing softly when expected, but mostly lingering at the edges, watching Lucas and Carlos move through the space with the kind of confidence that made her ache.

At one point, she caught her reflection in a hallway mirror—the soft curve of her waist, the way her hair was a bit longer than she liked. She pressed her hand against her stomach, frowning at herself, remembering her mother’s words. Around her, girls seemed to glide effortlessly, all long legs, shiny hair, and polished smiles, their voices bright as they drew the boys’ attention without even trying.

Carlos moved past her then, deep in conversation with Lucas, but his hand brushed briefly against her back in greeting as he passed. It was such a small thing, a thoughtless gesture, but it sent a shiver through her.

Later, she slipped away to the back terrace, the chill of the evening settling into her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, breathing slowly to keep the edges of panic at bay, that familiar tightening in her chest that came when the noise of the night grew too much.

She heard the door open behind her and closed her eyes, half-hoping it was him, half-hoping she could stay invisible.

“It’s cold out here,” Carlos’s voice cut through the quiet, soft and warm. “You okay?”

She startled slightly, looking over her shoulder at him. He had shrugged on a jacket, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he watched her.

“Yeah, I just needed a little air,” she said, her voice tight.

“You always do this at parties,” he said, stepping closer. “Find the quiet corners.”

She smiled faintly. “Not really my thing, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” He leaned against the railing beside her, their shoulders nearly brushing. “You’re like your dad that way. He always avoids these big family things too. He used to sneak out early whenever he could.”

She let out a small, genuine laugh, the tension in her chest easing slightly.

“It’s just…” She hesitated, words tangling on her tongue. She couldn’t tell him about the anxiety, the way her skin sometimes felt too tight, the way she couldn’t stop comparing herself to the girls who seemed to float through life. “I just feel a little out of place sometimes.”

Carlos glanced at her, his gaze steady, thoughtful. “You’ve always had your own rhythm, Isa. That’s not a bad thing.”

The simplicity of his words landed somewhere deep inside her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of how close he was, how easily he seemed to see her.

“You know, I was terrified most of the time this season,” he admitted, breaking the silence. “New team, new tracks, pressure to prove myself. Everyone thought I had it together, but inside I was just trying not to mess up. I was trying to live up to my last name.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You always seemed so confident.”

“It’s easy to look like that from the outside,” he said, his smile a little softer now. “But you never really know what someone’s carrying unless they tell you.”

His gaze flicked to hers, as if inviting her to tell him something. She almost did—almost let the words fall out, almost told him about the way her chest tightened in crowds, about the mirror and her mother’s voice and the way she sometimes felt like she was disappearing.

But instead, she just whispered, “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said easily, bumping her shoulder with his. “And I’m glad you’re here too.”

The warmth of his presence lingered long after they went back inside.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Christmas Eve - Madrid 2015

Christmas Eve at the Larrea house was quieter than the party from earlier in the month, but it still pulsed with a kind of familiar, golden warmth. The long dining table had been carefully set, candles flickering against wine glasses, bowls of steaming food scattered between them. Laughter carried easily through the house, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the soft rustle of wrapping paper waiting by the tree.

It was just their two families tonight, a tradition that had cemented itself over years of karting weekends, football matches, and late summer nights spent together on the coast. Isabella sat between her mother and Lucas, listening as their father animatedly discussed the latest Real Madrid drama with Mr. Sainz across the table.

Carlos was there, of course. He’d come with his parents and brother, relaxed and smiling in the soft glow of the holiday lights, his foot tapping gently to the music playing low in the background.

She tried not to look at him too much. Tried not to notice how the sleeves of his sweater bunched at his elbows when he leaned forward, or the way his hair curled slightly behind his ear. She tried not to focus on the fact that her heart always seemed to beat louder when he laughed.

But Lucas noticed everything.

“You should’ve seen Isa at the party,” he drawled, nudging her elbow as he reached for the bread basket. “Proper fan girl moment. I think her heart stopped when Carlos walked in.”

Isabella froze, heat flooding her cheeks instantly. “Shut up, Lucas.”

“Oh, come on, it was adorable.” His grin widened, clearly delighted to have found his target. “You were sitting there like you’d forgotten how to breathe. I thought I was going to have to get you a paper bag.”

Carlos coughed, a quiet, awkward sound into his napkin, his gaze dropping to his plate as his own ears tinged pink. Somewhere at the other end of the table, Her little brothers and sister laughed. “Lucas, man—”

“No, no, she’s had this crush on you forever,” Lucas barreled on, completely ignoring Carlos’s faint protests. “Since she was like—what? Thirteen? She used to make us watch all your F3 races. Wouldn’t shut up about them.”

Isabella’s stomach sank. She wanted to disappear under the table, melt into the polished floorboards, anything to escape the sheer mortification that clawed at her throat. “Lucas, I swear to God—”

“She even has your driver card in a little photo frame in her room,” Mateo chimed in from further down the table, grinning wickedly.

“I do not!” she yelped, whipping her head toward him, her voice high and strangled.

Lucas was laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his glass of wine. “Oh, you so do. She keeps it on her shelf right next to her books and Redbull merch. Like a little shrine.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, his smile small but genuine, clearly not sure whether to join in or rescue her. “I didn’t know I had such a dedicated fan.”

“You don’t,” Isabella snapped, though her voice lacked real bite. Her face was on fire, her hands gripping her napkin like it might save her.

Their mother tutted softly but was smiling, indulgent in that way parents were when their children teased each other.

“Oh, let her be, Lucas,” Mrs. Sainz chuckled from across the table. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet, it’s not anything,” Isabella mumbled, glaring daggers at Lucas who only grinned wider, far too satisfied with himself.

“You’re going to give her a complex,” Carlos said eventually, shooting Lucas a pointed look, his own ears still faintly red.

Lucas shrugged, unfazed. “She’s already got one.”

Isabella groaned, pressing her hands to her face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Carlos caught her gaze across the table then, his smile soft and almost apologetic, like he was silently promising he hadn’t minded the teasing. Like maybe he found it… a little endearing.

Isabella’s heart betrayed her again, thudding unevenly in her chest.

The moment passed when their father clapped his hands together and demanded attention for a toast, glasses lifted as wishes for the new year filled the room. The teasing faded into background chatter, but the heat in Isabella’s cheeks lingered long after.

Later that night, when they were saying goodbyes at the door, Carlos pulled her into a brief hug, his hand warm against her back.

“See you soon, Isa.”

Her name sounded different in his voice now, a little softer, like it meant something just to him.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her heart still racing. “See you.”

As he stepped away, Lucas leaned in to whisper, “You’re not going to wash that sweater now, are you?”

She elbowed him hard in the ribs, but even as she stalked away, she couldn’t quite fight the smile tugging at her lips.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Singapore Grand Prix Weekend - September 2017 

The humidity wrapped around the city like a thick, warm blanket, the neon lights of Singapore flickering and reflecting off the slick streets after a brief evening rain. The air was heavy with the buzz of anticipation, a charged electric hum that clung to the late-night hours and spilled out from the city’s exclusive clubs and lounges. It was race weekend, and the streets pulsed with energy — fast cars, faster lives.

Carlos leaned back against the bar, drink in hand, the sharp tang of tequila cutting through the humidity and the clamor around him. He’d just finished a hard-fought race, the result still fresh and vivid in his mind: P4. Not a podium, but a solid finish that felt like progress, a quiet victory. His team was watching him closely, and every move counted.

Lucas was beside him, louder, looser, the familiar ease of brotherhood filling the space between them as he cracked jokes and tossed back another drink. The group around them was lively, some drivers celebrating, other friends from home nursing bruises from a weekend of matches. But Carlos felt oddly detached, as if a piece of him was elsewhere, somewhere quieter.

The door to the lounge opened, a cool breeze sweeping in, and then she was there.

Isa.

She looked different — taller, more poised — but that unmistakable nervous energy radiated from her in waves. Eighteen now, and yet she still carried the same hesitant, soft smile that had made his chest tighten years ago. He hadn’t seen her since Christmas in Madrid. Since then, time had folded between them, stretching and shifting.

She moved toward them slowly, like she wasn’t sure she belonged, and yet her eyes found his immediately.

“Carlos,” she said, voice low but steady.

He blinked, suddenly aware of the tightness in his throat, the heat that blossomed in his chest and spread down his arms.

“Isa,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the raw surprise caught in his voice betrayed him.

Lucas grinned, nudging Carlos with an elbow. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. The famous Isa, gracing us with her presence.”

Isabella flushed, cheeks blooming like the softest rose, and looked away briefly, tugging nervously at the sleeve of her jacket.

Carlos shook his head, trying to mask his own fluttering nerves. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” she admitted, stepping closer. The space between them shrank, charged and electric.

Lucas gave a mock whistle. “Don’t get too cozy, man.”

Carlos shot him a warning look, but Lucas just laughed, clearly enjoying himself.

Isa was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “I wanted to see you. After the race.”

His eyes flicked to hers, searching, suddenly aware of how much he’d missed the way she looked at him — with that combination of admiration and something unspoken, something tender and a little dangerous.

The room seemed to fall away, the noise blurring into a distant hum as Carlos felt the pull of her presence, the way her breath hitched just slightly when their eyes locked.

She shifted closer, the scent of her — faint vanilla and something earthy — wrapping around him. His fingers itched to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, but something held him back: the unspoken tension that pulsed between them, thick and almost unbearable.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Isabella smiled, small and shy, but the heat in her eyes betrayed a growing confidence.

“Me too.”

Lucas, ever the loud one, clapped Carlos on the shoulder. “You better not blow this, man. She’s been fan-girling over you since forever.”

Carlos flushed, the embarrassment flooding his face as Isabella gave Lucas a sharp look.

“Lucas,” she said, her voice sharp but playful. “Stop embarrassing me.”

Lucas raised his hands in mock surrender but kept grinning.

Carlos turned back to Isabella, the noise and light around them sharpening into a vivid frame of the moment — her lips just inches from his, the way her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips without even touching her, the delicious tension spiraling tighter and tighter.

For a breath, they just stood there, caught in the quiet eye of a storm neither wanted to break.

“Walk with me?” Carlos asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, and together they slipped out into the humid night, the neon glow painting their faces in soft blues and pinks.

The city was alive around them, but in that small space between buildings and shadows, the world shrank to just the two of them — a fragile, electric bubble of anticipation and longing.

Carlos’s hand found hers, tentative at first, then sure, as if closing a circuit that had always been waiting to connect.

Isabella’s breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand gently, eyes wide and bright.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” she whispered.

Carlos swallowed hard, the weight of that confession pressing into him like a physical thing.

The night stretched before them, full of promise and the sweet ache of things finally — finally — coming into focus.

Carlos’s fingers tightened around Isabella’s hand as they moved through the maze of lantern-lit paths behind the bar, the garden a quiet contrast to the pulsing energy inside. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth, and the distant hum of the city softened into a gentle background murmur.

They stopped beneath a wrought-iron trellis, vines heavy with tiny white flowers curling overhead like a delicate canopy. The warm glow of fairy lights wrapped around the metal cast a golden light on Isabella’s face, making her cheeks flush an even deeper rose.

Carlos stepped closer, his breath shallow, eyes dark and intense as he searched hers.

“Isa,” he murmured, voice rough with something he couldn’t quite name.

Her heart hammered so loud she thought he might hear it.

Without another word, he closed the distance, lips brushing hers in a tentative, teasing kiss that quickly deepened—hungry and desperate, like a spark catching flame. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, the tension between them exploding in a heat that scorched through the cool night air.

For a moment, nothing else existed but the press of lips, the rapid beat of hearts, and the shiver of breath against skin.

Then Carlos pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, eyes heavy with regret.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice thick. “Not right now.”

Isabella blinked, breathless, confusion blooming alongside a painful ache in her chest.

“I have to focus on racing, Isa. This season—everything—it’s all I can think about. I want to be the best. I need to be.”

She nodded slowly, biting her lip as the weight of his words settled like cold stone.

“You should focus on uni,” he said gently, but there was a firmness beneath the kindness. “You’ve got so much ahead of you.”

Her throat tightened, the sting of embarrassment and insecurity flaring up like wildfire. She had hoped for something more—something easier, less complicated—but the reality pressed down hard.

“I get it,” she whispered, stepping back, suddenly feeling small and exposed beneath his steady gaze.

Carlos reached out, as if to pull her back, but then his hand fell away.

“I’m sorry, Isa,” he said quietly.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned toward the path, the crunch of gravel underfoot loud in the silence.

Back inside, the noise and laughter felt miles away.

The ride back to the hotel was a blur. Isabella sat by the window, staring out at the city lights sliding past, the cool glass doing nothing to stop the heat of tears spilling down her cheeks. The ache in her chest grew heavier with every passing minute, the taste of disappointment bitter on her tongue.

Carlos said nothing, but she could feel the weight of what was left unsaid hanging between them—fragile, raw, and impossible to ignore.

She wiped her cheeks hastily and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes, trying to hold it all together.

The night was far from over, but for now, all she could feel was the quiet ache of what almost was—and the uncertain space where hope and heartbreak tangled together.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Christmas Time - Madrid 2017

It was Christmas time again. Somehow the year had slipped through her fingers, another season gone, another winter folding in around them. The house was quiet this year, more subdued. Fewer parties, fewer guests. Just family, the scent of pine and nutmeg lingering the way it always did in December.

Isabella’s heart was thudding before she even hit send. “Can you come over?”

The message blinked back at her on the screen, plain and simple, but her chest tightened anyway. The moment she pressed send, she was already pacing, already second-guessing herself.

He answered quickly. “On my way.”

She hadn’t seen him since Singapore. Not properly. There had been texts, short calls, brief moments stolen when he was back in Spain between races, but she’d buried most of it. He’d told her then that he needed to focus, that they both had things to chase.

But Christmas made people reckless. Or maybe it just made them honest.

When she opened the door, Carlos looked almost the same—his hair a little longer, his face tanned from the season. But his eyes softened when they landed on her, like he’d been waiting for this, too.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than it had been the last time she saw him. No teasing, no distance. Just her name in the air between them.

“Hey,” she echoed, stepping back to let him in.

The house was dim, the glow of the Christmas tree casting soft patterns on the walls. Her family was out—Lucas had gone to meet friends, her parents were visiting relatives. She was alone tonight, though she hadn’t exactly planned it that way.

Carlos stood in the hallway, his hands still shoved in his coat pockets, like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake.

But then she stepped closer. She touched his jacket softly, tugging it off his shoulders, folding it over the bannister like she was afraid to break the silence.

“You’re really here,” she murmured.

“I told you I would come.”

Her heart felt too big for her chest. She’d imagined this a hundred times, all the quiet ways they might find their way back to each other.

He brushed a piece of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her jaw. His touch still made her dizzy.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice lower now, serious.

Isabella nodded, breathing through the nervous flutter in her chest. “I’ve been sure.”

When he kissed her, it wasn’t like Singapore. There was no blur of alcohol, no loud bar music pressing in around them. It was slower, deeper, his hands cupping her face like she might slip away if he let her go.

They tumbled back toward her room, half-laughing, half-breathless, their mouths pressed together in between broken apologies—sorry for the distance, sorry for the timing, sorry for waiting so long.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. Carlos kissed her like he had all the time in the world, his fingertips memorizing the shape of her waist, the curve of her hips. He undressed her carefully, his gaze so tender it made her stomach twist.

He paused when she pulled him down onto her bed, his weight braced above her, his thumb tracing soft circles on her ribs.

“Isa—” he breathed, almost like a warning.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want it to be you.”

Something in him cracked then. She could feel it in the way his lips dragged across her collarbone, in the way his hands trembled just slightly as he pushed her hair back to see her more clearly.

The room filled with the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet hitch of breath, the almost reverent way he touched her like she was something precious, something he didn’t want to break.

It was sweet and intimate and dizzying all at once.

After, he held her close, his palm splayed over her stomach as their breathing steadied, his thumb tracing light patterns against her skin. She buried her face in his chest, letting the quiet settle around them.

It felt like something sacred, this small, stolen moment wrapped in Christmas lights and the hush of the world outside.

But she could feel it—the thing he wasn’t saying. The same thing he’d said in Singapore.

He sighed softly against her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I still need to focus on racing,” he whispered. “I can’t… I can’t be what you deserve right now.”

Her chest squeezed. She nodded, even though her throat burned. She’d known. She’d always known this wasn’t something they could keep.

“You’ve got your season,” she murmured. “I’ve got uni.”

It was the same logic. The same walls.

But it didn’t make it hurt less.

Carlos tipped her chin up, his thumb brushing away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. His voice was soft, almost aching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” she lied.

He kissed her again—gentle, lingering, like he didn’t want to leave this either. And maybe he didn’t. But they both knew he would.

When he left that night, the air in her room felt too still. Too quiet.

She lay back against her pillow, the imprint of him still lingering on her sheets, and stared at the soft glow of the Christmas lights until her tears stopped falling.

It was Christmas time again. And she’d never forget this one.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Hungary Grand Prix Weekend - August 2021

The last time Isabella had seen him was in May. Barcelona. Home soil.

Carlos had hugged her after the race, his face still flushed and his Ferrari suit damp with sweat. She’d felt the weight of his arms, the familiar scent of his cologne tangled with the sharp, metallic trace of the car, the helmet, the heat. They’d talked briefly. Smiled. And then he’d been pulled back into his world of engineers, debriefs, cameras, and she’d stood there, watching him disappear.

Three months later, she was in Hungary, standing at the edge of the paddock as if she’d never left.

"He’s been doing well," Lucas said beside her, tapping something out on his phone. "Podiums, points, solid drives."

"I’ve noticed," she murmured, brushing invisible lint off the sleeve of her soft linen top. "He’s… happy, it seems."

Lucas glanced at her, brow raised. "What? He can’t be happy without you around?"

She gave him a look, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Relax," Lucas said, slinging an arm briefly over her shoulders before pulling away. "You’re overthinking again. Just go say hi."

Isabella nodded, though her stomach felt tight. She adjusted her purse, trying to ground herself in the weight of it, the familiar texture of the soft strap under her fingers. The paddock buzzed with movement around them—journalists, team personnel, mechanics, fans with badges hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorites.

She’d only just arrived with Lucas that morning, her heart drumming unevenly the entire flight. She wasn’t even sure why she’d come, other than Lucas inviting her and her not trusting herself to say no.

A Ferrari team member passed by, smiling when he recognized Lucas, and Isabella let her gaze wander, catching sight of Carlos by the hospitality entrance.

He looked good. Unfairly so.

Tanned, slightly disheveled from the race, his hair curling at the edges in the humidity. His red Ferrari polo clung to his frame, and she noticed the way he carried himself now—a little more comfortable in his skin, like Ferrari had settled into him.

But there was someone next to him.

A blonde woman, tall, model-thin, laughing softly as Carlos said something to her. She touched his arm, and it lingered just a second too long.

Isabella’s stomach dropped, though she told herself she had no right to be surprised. She’d seen the headlines. A few photographs. A beach in Ibiza. His hand at the small of another woman's back. She’d told herself it didn’t matter, that they’d both moved on. But now, seeing it up close, her throat went dry.

"You coming?" Lucas prompted, already moving towards the Ferrari garage.

Isabella forced herself to follow. Her sandals clicked softly against the concrete, each step deliberate, measured.

Carlos caught sight of them as they approached, his expression shifting—a flicker of something before his smile slid into place. "Lucas! Isa!"

Lucas clapped his hand, pulling him into a quick, back-thumping hug. "Congrats, mate. P3 today—nicely done."

Carlos grinned, a bit of that boyish pride she always remembered. "Yeah, it felt good. The car was strong today."

His gaze flicked to Isabella, softening. "Hey."

"Hi," she breathed, suddenly very aware of herself—her loose top, her skirt brushing her thighs, her arms folded across her chest like a shield.

"I didn’t know you were coming," Carlos said, stepping forward just slightly, the crowd around them thinning.

"Lucas invited me."

"I’m glad he did."

He said it quietly, and something about the way he was looking at her made her chest ache.

But then the blonde was at his side again, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. "Carlos, we should get going soon. Dinner with my friends, remember?"

His smile faltered, almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. "Right. Yeah."

His attention returned to Isabella, lingering like he wanted to say something else.

"Congratulations again," she said, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. "You’ve been doing… really well."

"Thank you."

She wanted to stay. She wanted to leave.

The air around them was too thick, buzzing with things unsaid. She caught Lucas glancing between them, picking up on it, but saying nothing.

"Maybe I’ll see you later? We’ll all go out together." Carlos asked, hesitant, his voice lower now.

"Yeah. Maybe."

But they both knew she wouldn’t wait around. Not when he had somewhere else to be.

She offered a polite smile, one she knew didn’t reach her eyes, and stepped back, letting Lucas pull her toward the garage for one last look at the car before they left.

And Carlos watched her go, hands on his hips, jaw tight like he’d made some sort of mistake he wasn’t sure how to undo.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Later, in the quiet of the rental car, Isabella stared out the window as the Hungarian countryside blurred past, her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt in her lap. She felt like she was nine years old again. Just a little kid watching from the sidelines. Then she felt like that thirteen year old fan girl who would wait up and watch every F3 race possible. She remembered what it felt like to wear Redbull merch to school everyday during his rookie season, to stay up memorizing tyre compounds and telemetry, to secretly follow all the gossip and WAG accounts.

Lucas broke the silence. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You don’t have to pretend, you know."

"It’s fine. He’s… happy. That’s what matters."

Lucas sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting."

She blinked, her vision swimming, and she quickly brushed her thumb beneath her eye. "I just need to focus on finishing school. That’s what he always said, right? I have things to do."

Lucas didn’t push. He just turned up the radio slightly, letting her sit with the ache of it—the weight of almosts, of nearlys, of moments that slipped away before they had the chance to become something more.

And Isabella let herself feel it, just for the length of the car ride, just for tonight, before she’d have to tuck it all away again.

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Thanks for reading!!!

[annaswrites00]

⟡ blurbs masterlist ⟡ smau masterlist ⟡ longer fics masterlist ⟡

⟡ anna ⟡ 19 ⟡ gemini ⟡ passionate ferrari fan ⟡ currently listening to: manchild by sabrina carpenter ⟡

[annaswrites00]

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Longer Fics

Lando Norris

Just Between Us

Kimi Antonelli

We Probably Shouldn’t

Carlos Sainz

I’ve Always Known

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[annaswrites00]

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SMAU

Franco Colapinto

Just Making “Friends” part one

Just Making “Friends” part two

Just Making "Friends" final part

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[annaswrites00]

Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(6.3k)

Chapter Five - Monaco

Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary – The Monaco Grand Prix weekend crackles with victory and quiet concern. Lando celebrates his hard-earned win, the city alive with cheers and champagne, while Margot remains distant, caught between her own struggles and the weight of unspoken feelings. Oscar watches closely, worry etched beneath his calm, as fragile truths hover just out of reach. 

Warning – Mentions of disordered eating

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Monaco wasn’t quiet.

The streets were alive in that unmistakable way—brash, glimmering, sun-soaked. There was no space for hesitation here, no room to fall out of step. Everything moved at its own pace—faster than Margot could hold.

The Mediterranean light felt too sharp, reflecting off the white buildings, dancing over the water like it was trying to catch her off guard. Her head throbbed in a dull, rhythmic pulse. She blinked against it, pulling her sleeves down over her hands as she followed Oscar and Lily out of the car. 

“Don’t get lost,” Oscar called over his shoulder, weaving between security, the media, and too many people she didn’t care to register. This felt off. It was Oscar’s home. She had stayed here plenty. But for some reason, race weekend turned Monaco into its own living, breathing thing.

Margot made a noise of agreement, one that didn’t really mean anything. She kept her head down, her steps careful.

The walk from the entrance to the paddock was short, but the world seemed to tilt beneath her by the time she stepped onto the carpeted flooring. She paused, letting the buzz of voices, cameras, and crew settle around her.

She’d skipped breakfast. Just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face the weight of it sitting heavy in her chest.

It was fine. She’d be fine.

A brief wave of lightness swayed her on her feet, just enough to notice, just enough to make her stop for a second.

Oscar glanced back. His brow pulled in the slightest frown, but he didn’t say anything.

Instead, when they finally stopped near the McLaren hospitality, he set his backpack down and walked off toward the drivers’ room.

A few minutes later, when Margot settled on one of the benches near the fence, she found a water bottle and a granola bar tucked beside her. Quiet, no lecture. Just there.

Her chest ached in a weird, wordless way.

She twisted the cap off the water but didn’t reach for the granola bar. Just tucked it into the sleeve of her hoodie like she’d deal with it later.

The paddock swelled around her—voices layering over each other, the shuffle of feet, the hum of engines in the distance. She caught sight of familiar faces moving past: engineers, mechanics, other drivers. The rhythm of race weekend settling into place.

And then—

Her gaze caught on him.

Lando.

He was further down, walking with one of his mechanics, laughing softly at something. His curls were still a little damp, clinging in lazy waves against his forehead.

He looked up, almost like he felt her watching. Their eyes met across the noise and sun and space.

Just a second too long.

Just enough.

He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t say anything. Just gave her that quiet, knowing smile—crooked, soft, like a secret only they remembered.

Something warm unspooled in her chest, something left over from Miami.

The press of his arms around her. The weight of his voice in the quiet of her hotel room. I’ll see you in Imola. I’ll see you soon.

She hadn’t really seen him in Imola. Not properly. Not like Miami. It had been a busy weekend—quick moments stolen between sessions, team briefings, media chaos. They’d passed each other in corridors, brushed shoulders in hospitality, shared small glances across the garage, but it wasn’t the same. There hadn’t been time to sit in the silence together. No midnight conversations. No quiet, lingering touches. Just the rush of a race weekend pulling them in opposite directions.

Still, the way he’d looked at her was soft and steady, like he remembered and his gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Like they’d both been waiting for Monaco.

Margot swallowed around the lump in her throat and looked away first.

Her fingers curled tighter around the water bottle, knuckles pale beneath the stretch of her sleeves. The hum in her skin was still there—low, steady, like his touch hadn’t quite let go.

Somewhere nearby, Oscar’s voice cut through the static. “You ready? Lil’s headed to hospitality to watch practice.”

“Yeah.”

She stood, tucking the granola bar deeper into her pocket.

The sunlight flickered across the water as they walked, and for a second, she let herself pretend it didn’t hurt to move forward.

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Practice days moved fast. The rhythm of Monaco didn’t leave much space to breathe. There was always something—media sessions, team briefings, track walks, sponsor events. Margot drifted between them, trailing Oscar and Lily through the paddock, slipping in and out of the McLaren garage, the Ferrari hospitality, the press rooms.

But the moments with Lando—those were different. Brief, unscheduled, never enough.

She saw him in passing. Sometimes brushing shoulders in the tight hallways. Sometimes catching his glance across the bustle of team personnel. Once, she sat on the low wall near the harbor, scrolling absently through her phone, when he passed close behind her and let his hand ghost over her shoulder.

It wasn’t an accident.

It was too careful to be.

The warmth of it lingered, soft and real, long after he’d walked away.

There was one morning—quiet and early, the paddock not fully awake yet—when he pulled her aside.

“Hey.” His voice was low, casual, but there was something behind it. “Come here for a second. Want to show you something.”

She followed him without thinking, their steps echoing off the narrow corridor between the garages. There was no one else around.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, but her pulse was starting to pick up.

He stopped near the back wall, tugging his phone from his pocket. “Just something funny. Oscar sent me a video from dinner last night.”

Her brow pulled in faint confusion. “I was at dinner last night.”

“Yeah, I know.” His smile was lazy, knowing. “Doesn’t make it less funny.”

He held the phone out to her, thumb hovering over the screen. His other hand stayed in his hoodie pocket, shoulders loose like they had all the time in the world.

Margot stepped closer, reaching for the phone, but when their hands met, his thumb brushed hers. Light. Deliberate. A soft stroke over her skin like he’d been waiting for the excuse.

Her chest pulled tight. She glanced up instinctively, her breath catching when she realized he wasn’t even pretending to watch the screen.

He was watching her.

Quiet, steady, the kind of look that slipped past every defense she tried to hold.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. She felt the weight of it. The heat of his hand was still clinging to her skin.

“You—”

“Margot!”

The voice startled her.

Oscar’s voice. Sharp, too close now.

She stepped back without thinking, the distance falling back into place like it had always been there. Lando slipped his phone back into his pocket, casual and unbothered.

Oscar rounded the corner, his gaze flicking between them, frowning slightly. “Did you see the time? Lily is heading back home soon if you want to go with her.”

Margot blinked. “Oh. Yeah. I’m coming.”

Lando rocked back on his heels. “Don’t get her in trouble, Piastri.”

Oscar gave him a look—half bemused, half suspicious—but didn’t say anything else.

Later, though, when they were walking toward the hospitality exit, Oscar glanced sideways at her.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, huh?”

It wasn’t accusatory. Just… there.

Her heart flickered uncomfortably. “I mean, we see each other around. It’s not—”

“I didn’t say it was anything,” Oscar cut in, too quickly. “Just saying. Seems like you’re around him a lot. Is that the best idea? Considering what you’ve dealt with. What you’re still dealing with.”

Margot pulled her sleeves down over her hands, wishing her skin would stop buzzing.

“He’s just—he’s nice,” she said, voice too soft. “It’s not a thing.”

Oscar hummed, unconvinced, but let it go.

Still, she felt it lingering between them. The not-quite question. The weight of being seen too closely.

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It had started years ago. Boarding school. She was fourteen.

She didn’t think about it often. Tried not to. But sometimes the memories crept in when she wasn’t paying attention.

It had been something stupid. A passing comment in the locker room after dance practice. Someone saying Margot’s thighs were thicker than the other girls’. That she should probably try running more.

It wasn’t even cruel, really. Just a nothing remark, tossed over a shoulder, already forgotten.

But it hadn’t left her.

She’d sat on the cold tile of the bathroom floor that afternoon, staring at her reflection in the silver-backed mirror. Her skin felt too tight then, her body too loud. It was the first time she’d really noticed.

The way her uniform clung in places it didn’t seem to cling on the other girls. The way her stomach folded when she sat.

The way she could pinch it.

She started skipping breakfast.

Stopped buying lunch.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even on purpose at first. It just was.

It slipped into her like water. Quiet and constant and impossible to hold.

Even now, years later, the shape of her body still felt strange to her. The mirror didn’t always line up right. Sometimes she caught her reflection and thought she looked soft and tired and fine.

Other days, she didn’t trust what she saw at all.

Some days, she could eat. Not always comfortably, but enough to convince herself she was managing. Enough to quiet the buzz in her head, to keep Oscar or her sisters from noticing too much.

Other days, it wasn’t that simple. The idea of food made her chest lock tight. The thought of it sitting heavy in her stomach was unbearable. It was like her whole body resisted it, like her skin didn’t want to hold the weight.

She told herself she would eat later. She always promised later. But later kept slipping away.

There was a certain power in not needing it. A certain sharpness in the hollow ache that sat quietly beneath her ribs.

It made her feel in control. Until it didn’t.

Until she was dizzy. Until the edges of the world softened. Until Lando was looking at her a little too closely, like he knew something she hadn’t said out loud.

Until Oscar left granola bars tucked beside her, without asking, without forcing, just there.

Sometimes that made it worse. The softness of it. The way people noticed without pushing.

The way it made her want to be better. Want to be fine. Want to eat. But even wanting it didn’t always make it possible.

And maybe that was the hardest part.

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The morning sun stretched over Monaco like a slow breath, painting the terracotta rooftops and the sparkling blue of the harbor with a golden promise. The city shimmered under the clarity of early light. The scent of salt hung in the air, mixing with the faintest hint of tire rubber and freshly brewed coffee from the cafés beginning to stir.

Lando stood on the balcony of the paddock’s top floor, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his team jacket. He watched as the streets below buzzed with the familiar chaos of race weekend—scuttling team members, last-minute adjustments, flashes of color from flags and merchandise stalls.

The circuit snaked beneath him, tight and unforgiving, the ancient asphalt gleaming with the memories of countless battles. Monaco wasn’t just a race; it was a test. Precision over power. Grace over speed. A dance on the edge of madness.

He knew how this worked. If he wanted a chance at first place, he needed pole today. 

He breathed it in, the sharpness of the air, the promise wrapped in every corner.

But beneath the adrenaline and the thrill, a steady pulse of doubt thrummed at the edges of his mind.

Could he really pull this off? Pole here was more than a position. It was a statement. A declaration that he belonged—not just as a contender, but as something more. A whisper against the roar of expectations.

The team had been confident. His engineers, calm and steady, their voices measured over the radio, filling the quiet spaces between sessions. But inside, Lando felt the familiar flutter—the part of him that wondered if luck had carried him this far, if the next lap would unravel it all.

He glanced down at his gloves, the leather worn smooth from hours spent gripping the wheel, from relentless practice and countless laps. This track demanded every ounce of focus, every beat of his heart.

A soft ping on his phone broke the moment. A text from his engineer.

“Lando, track is clear. Time to get ready.”

The garage erupted around him, a blur of motion and noise fading into a muted rhythm. The team’s voices, the clicks of equipment, the hum of the car waking—everything funneled into one steady current.

As he rolled out, the streets of Monaco came alive in a way only this city could offer. Crowds pressed behind barriers, a patchwork of bright umbrellas and eager faces. The air shimmered with heat and expectation.

The car felt tight beneath him, every muscle in sync, the engine’s growl a steady heartbeat in his chest.

The first flying lap was about finding the groove—threading the needle through Sainte Dévote, hugging the barriers at Mirabeau, the hairpin a slow, heavy breath, then flat out through the tunnel where shadows swallowed the light.

Lando’s hands moved instinctively, precise and sure, but there was still the whisper of caution. He was riding the edge, balancing speed and control, aware that a single misstep here would mean disaster.

Coming through the chicane, he felt the familiar rush—the surge of adrenaline as the car leapt forward, the tight embrace of the curves holding him in place.

He could do this.

He had to.

The minutes stretched taut as the other drivers pushed their limits, one by one knocking times down, inching closer. Suddenly it was Q3. 

Twelve minutes.

That’s all he had.

The world narrowed. The chatter in his radio dimmed to background noise. The crowds became a blurred mosaic of faces, all holding their breath. Monaco was a beast that demanded respect, but he was ready to meet it eye to eye.

As he waited for the green light, he closed his eyes for a heartbeat, feeling the pulse of the circuit beneath him—not just the asphalt, but the history. The ghosts of champions past whispered from the barriers, urging him on. The scent of salty sea mingled with burning rubber and hot oil, a perfume unique to this city.

Time stretched and contracted, every corner, every meter folded into a tight coil of sensation.

The tires warmed and wore, but Lando stayed focused, adjusting his lines, shaving milliseconds from his times.

He thought of the chance—this fragile, shimmering moment—to prove something to himself.

A lap later, he crossed the line again.

Faster.

The screens around the circuit flickered with his time.

Pole position.

His chest tightened—relief, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of joy.

He clenched the wheel, breath ragged but steadying.

In that moment, Monaco felt like a dream woven from sunlight and speed, a place where the impossible bent just enough to let him shine.

He let himself bask in the glow.

Pole in Monaco.

A whisper against the roar of the city, a quiet promise of what might be.

And as he made his way back to the garage, the sun setting behind the hills, he allowed himself one small, hopeful smile.

Maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off.

Maybe, he was meant to be here.

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The city was beginning to exhale. The roar of the day had softened to a low hum, the kind that settled in your chest rather than your ears. Golden hour lingered, painting the harbor in molten light, casting long shadows between the yachts and the narrow streets.

Margot hadn’t planned on seeing him again tonight. She’d meant to disappear quietly, slip away before anyone could ask questions she didn’t want to answer. But Monaco was small, and sometimes the world folded in on itself.

She spotted him leaning against the barrier overlooking the water, his team jacket half-zipped, the collar pulled up against the cooling breeze. His hair was still tousled from the helmet, strands falling over his forehead in a way that softened him, made him look a little less like the driver who’d just claimed pole and a little more like the boy who still wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

He noticed her before she could decide whether to turn around. His smile was small, but it reached his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Their steps found each other naturally, falling into an easy rhythm as they started walking, the city’s noise trailing behind them. Monaco’s harbor glittered beside them, boats swaying lazily with the evening tide.

Neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

Lando’s hands were tucked into his pockets, his shoulder brushing hers now and then in quiet, accidental touches. Or maybe not accidental. His hand hovered near hers, the space between them thin as paper but somehow still untouched.

“You heading back?” he asked, his voice low, like the harbor didn’t need to know their conversation.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the rippling water. “Eventually.”

A beat of silence passed, soft and expectant.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even really a question, more of a careful offering, folded into the quiet between them.

“Yeah,” she said, without hesitation.

He didn’t call her out. Just hummed, a non-committal sound, as if he’d expected her to lie.

But he knew.

He always knew.

The next question never came. He didn’t push. He never did.

Instead, he let the conversation drift, asking about her day, her plans for tomorrow, little things that meant nothing and everything at once. She told him about the photos she’d taken from the grandstand this morning, the way the sun had caught the cars at just the right angle, how the harbor looked like glass from above. He listened—really listened—his eyes occasionally flicking to her like he was memorizing the shape of her words.

“You were amazing today,” she said eventually, breaking a comfortable silence.

His laugh was soft, almost self-conscious. “You think?”

“I know.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something else, like there was a thought pressing against his tongue that hadn’t yet found the courage to step into the open.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he nudged her gently with his shoulder, a touch so light it could have been a misstep if they weren’t both so aware of it.

“Being Oscar's sister and everything, I know you’ve got to root for him or whatever. Familial obligations. But—” his lips twitched like he was trying not to grin, “can I ask for your undying and unwavering support tomorrow?”

A soft laugh escaped him, easy and warm.

She tilted her head, feigning deep contemplation. “Oh, Mr. Pole Position wants my support? Ugh, could you sign my shirt? Wait—let’s take a photo. No, no, sign my forehead instead.”

Her voice dripped with mock fangirl energy, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away.

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “You’re insufferable.”

“I just want to capture the moment before you become too famous to talk to me. Once you’re a Monaco winner and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how that’s gonna go,” he teased, bumping her shoulder again, this time with a little more weight behind it, like he didn’t want to stop touching her, even if it was just this. “Reckon I’m still gonna need you around to keep me humble.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve already prepared a list of all your flaws. Happy to recite them on demand.”

His laugh was soft, but his gaze lingered on her, warm, fond. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then it quieted again, the playfulness settling into something softer, something unsaid. They stopped at the edge of the dock where the walkway narrowed, the water lapping gently below. Lando’s eyes lingered on the darkening sky, like he was searching for the right words in the space between stars.

“Let me drive you back to Osc’s,” he questioned. A bit unsure, but hopeful.

Margot hesitated, just for a second, like she could’ve said no—but maybe didn’t want to.

“Yeah, okay.”

The walk to his car was unhurried, the kind where neither of them wanted to reach the end. Monaco glowed around them, the streets quieter now, the sharp edges of the day worn down by evening’s softness. His hand ghosted near hers the entire time. Close enough to notice, never close enough to touch.

The car ride was short, but it settled around them like a bubble, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. The radio murmured quietly, some song neither of them really registered, and the city slipped past in glimmers of gold and shadow.

When he pulled up in front of Oscar’s apartment, he didn’t kill the engine. Just sat there, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel.

She undid her seatbelt slowly, the click of it loud in the quiet.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, her hand already on the door handle, but she didn’t move to open it.

“Yeah. Anytime.”

She turned toward him, her features soft in the dim cabin light. “You’re gonna win tomorrow.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “I hope so.”

“You will.”

The quiet pressed in again, dense, full of all the things they weren’t saying. His hand flexed on the wheel, like he was working up to something—like if he could just cross the space between them, if he could just reach for her, maybe he wouldn’t have to swallow it back.

The quiet thickened, stretched taut between them like something waiting to snap. Lando’s fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel, the only thing betraying the storm under his skin. He glanced at her, then away, then back again, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, more careful, “it’s kind of unfair.”

“What is?”

“That you make me feel like this. And I can’t even tell you.”

His admission hung between them, bare and trembling, the kind of thing that didn’t need explaining.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Lando—”

His hand left the wheel, reaching across the console, hesitant at first—like he was giving her time to pull away. But she didn’t. She stayed perfectly still as his fingers brushed her arm, trailing lightly until his palm settled at the curve of her shoulder.

It was supposed to be a quick touch, a goodbye maybe. But it wasn’t.

His hand tightened slightly, thumb tracing slow, aimless circles over the fabric of her sleeve. He leaned in, just a fraction, drawn to her like he always was.

She should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back. But instead, she turned toward him, her breath catching as the space between them shrank into nothing.

Lando’s other hand came up to gently cup the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw, the softness of it stealing the air from her lungs. Their foreheads nearly touched, his breath warm on her skin.

“If I was braver,” he whispered, his voice rough and unsteady, “I’d kiss you right now.”

Her pulse thudded in her throat, fast and frantic. “If I was braver, I’d let you.”

“I want to figure this out. Eventually,” he murmured softly.

His lips curved into a ghost of a smile, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t close the distance either. He hovered, suspended in the ache of almost.

And then—his mouth shifted, not toward her lips, but lower, grazing the corner of her jaw, the faintest brush of skin on skin. His breath stuttered as he pressed his lips to the delicate place just beneath her ear—a kiss, if you could call it that, too light to linger but enough to unravel her completely.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t want to.

His thumb traced the pulse point at her neck like he could feel what he was doing to her, what he was doing to himself.

“Tomorrow,” he breathed, his voice a promise and a plea, “you’ll cheer for me, right?”

She managed the barest nod, afraid that if she spoke, it would shatter whatever this was.

His lips brushed her skin one last time—soft, reverent—before he slowly pulled back, his hand lingering just a second longer at her neck before slipping away.

The air between them was electric, their breathing not quite steady.

“Goodnight, Margot.”

Her hand tightened around the door handle. “Goodnight, Lando.”

And then she stepped out into the cool Monaco evening, her skin still burning where he’d touched her, the door closing gently between them.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The city roared to life as the checkered flag fell, waves of cheers crashing against the narrow streets, the grandstands, the balconies stacked with people shouting themselves hoarse. Confetti rained from somewhere above. Fireworks thundered over the harbor, brilliant bursts of white and gold that glittered against the fading daylight.

Lando’s name echoed through the speakers, the broadcast, the crowd—a relentless chorus, looping like the entire city couldn’t quite believe it.

He’d won Monaco.

He’d done it.

Margot stood just off to the side of the McLaren garage, her back pressed against the metal barrier. She’d been too busy watching him—heart in her throat—as he crossed the finish line, as his voice cracked over team radio, as the world exploded around him.

There was pride blooming in her chest, warm and heavy, but beneath it, something else twisted—a quiet overwhelm she couldn’t quite name.

He found her later, after the podium, after the champagne, after the noise had begun to dull just slightly.

His race suit was half unzipped, his fireproofs clinging to his skin, the collar tugged loose like he’d grown impatient in his celebration. His hair was a mess, curls sticking to his forehead from the champagne and the heat and the hours spent fighting for this. His grin was still stretched wide, electric and exhausted all at once.

And yet—when he saw her, something in his expression softened, the high of victory settling into something steadier, quieter.

“There you are,” he said, his voice rough from the shouting.

Before she could reply, he stepped in, close enough that his hand could find her wrist, warm and steady.

Without thinking, she leaned into him.

He lowered his forehead to hers, grounding them both in the hush between moments. His breathing was still uneven, the adrenaline not quite gone, but his grip on her wrist tightened just slightly, like he needed her to feel this with him—to hold it.

“You’re here,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “You’re actually here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

His thumb brushed lazily over her pulse point. “I wish you’d let me be there for you properly.”

The words slipped out, soft and careful, but they clung to her ribs like they belonged there.

Her throat worked around the lump forming there. “You are,” she whispered, because it was the only thing she could offer. Anything more—anything honest—would shatter the fragile thing between them.

But his hand tightened around her wrist, firm, lingering.

And then, slowly, he let go. Took a few steps back.

The moment folded in on itself, like a note passed between them that neither would ever fully open.

Oscar’s voice cut through the haze, calling her name from a few steps away. His smile was bright, proud, but his eyes flicked from Lando to her with something sharper underneath.

“Come on,” Oscar said, his tone light, though he didn’t wait for her to respond before gesturing her along. “We’re heading back before going out.”

Lando’s gaze lingered, like he still wanted to say something. He didn’t.

Instead, he just offered her a small, private smile.

“Go on,” he said, stepping back.

The walk was quiet for a while, the thrum of the city still loud around them, but somehow distant now.

“Hell of a qualifying,” Oscar said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “He deserved it.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice thin. “He did.”

They crossed through the paddock, weaving past lingering team members and media still chasing their last soundbites. Oscar kept close, occasionally bumping his shoulder against hers—not unlike Lando—but his touches were different. Protective. Careful.

“You didn’t eat this morning,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

Margot’s stomach twisted. “I did.”

“Margot.”

There was no sharpness to his voice, no anger—just exhaustion. Just worry, the kind that didn’t go away no matter how much she tried to smile through it.

“You’re scaring me, you know that?”

Her steps faltered, just for a moment, but she kept her gaze forward. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He didn’t press it, didn’t grab her arm, didn’t make a scene—but he slowed his pace until they were nearly stopped. “You looked like you were about to faint on the grid this morning.”

“I didn’t.”

“You barely touched dinner last night. Barely drank anything all day.” His throat bobbed, the weight of his words clearly sitting heavy on him. “You think I don’t notice, but I do. I’ve always noticed.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, but it didn’t come out convincing. It barely came out at all.

Oscar sighed, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to help you if you won’t let me.”

Something inside her pulled tight. Her chest ached with the pressure of it.

“I don’t need help,” she whispered.

His gaze softened, but the frustration didn’t fully leave him. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to reach for the safety of that promise.

But her ribs felt too fragile, her skin stretched too thin. She didn’t know how to ask for that kind of help. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, she forced a small smile, the kind she knew he’d see right through.

“I’m okay,” she said, gentler this time. “I promise.”

Oscar didn’t argue. He didn’t believe her either.

They kept walking.

The city buzzed around them, the weight of the day settling like champagne gone flat.

Tomorrow would come fast. There would be headlines, celebrations, the world tilting forward again.

But for now, it was just the three of them—Lando’s absence still lingering in the press of her skin, Oscar’s silent worry tucked into the spaces between their steps, and Margot, caught somewhere between wanting to be seen and terrified of it.

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The party after his race win was exactly what everyone expected — loud, wild, a pulsing celebration of victory. The team was drenched in champagne, the sparkling liquid showering over them in an endless cascade as they toasted and cheered. Cameras flashed relentlessly, the crowd’s energy so thick it felt almost tangible. Lando moved through it all with that signature grin — equal parts exhausted and elated — the crown of a Monaco winner settling on his shoulders like a weight he’d been born to carry.

His shirt was soaked, half unbuttoned to catch a breeze, hair sticking to his damp forehead. He took the champagne bottle offered to him, tipping it back with a laugh that was more relief than triumph. For a few hours, he could let himself live fully in this moment. The roar, the bright lights, the glory.

Somewhere in the crowd, he spotted Oscar weaving his way toward him with some other drivers, a knowing smile already pulling at the corners of his mouth. Oscar looked less like a racer tonight and more like the steady anchor he’d always been — calm, grounded, a protective presence amid the frenzy.

“Pole to win. Monaco king,” Oscar teased as he slid beside Lando, handing him a fresh bottle of champagne.

Lando grinned, fingers trembling slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “Feels unreal.”

Oscar laughed. “You earned it.”

Lando’s eyes softened, a flicker of something more serious threading through his usual easy charm. “Hey, Oscar...” His voice dropped, slurred just enough by the champagne to sound more vulnerable than usual. “You’ve seen Margot today?”

Oscar’s smile faltered. “Yeah, she’s back at my apartment with Lily. Why?”

Lando’s grin twisted, a little uneven. “She should be here. Or with me. Not hiding away.” His fingers tapped erratically against the bottle. “She’s not… right, is she? You know. She’s... not okay.” The alcohol flowing through him forced the words out.

Oscar sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. You’re not the only one who’s noticed. But sometimes, wanting to help isn’t enough. She has to want it too.”

Lando swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing down. “I’m scared. If I don’t do something, she could—”

Oscar cut him off gently. “Hey. No. She’s not alone.”

Lando’s grin was gone now, replaced by something raw and real. “I just wish she’d let me be there for her properly.”

Oscar clapped a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “I’ll figure it out. Tell my parents she’s struggling again if I have to. Don’t worry about it mate. Not your mess to deal with. You guys are just friends anyway. Right?”

“Yeah,” Lando murmured back. The word felt weird on his tongue.

For a moment, they stood there, the champagne and cheers fading into the background, the bond between them — forged by shared worry and silent promises.

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The dawn crept quietly over Monaco, softening the jagged edges of the city with a pale wash of gold. The harbor lay still, boats bobbing gently as if reluctant to start the day. Streetlamps flickered their last goodbyes, and the scent of salt and jasmine mingled in the cool morning air.

Margot stood on the balcony of Oscar’s apartment, wrapped in a loose sweater that swallowed her frame. The city was waking up beneath her, but inside, everything felt hushed, as if the world had folded in on itself overnight.

The quiet buzz of her phone was a reminder. She would be boarding their flight to Barcelona soon. She would leave this city, these streets that still held fragments of the weekend’s chaos and celebration.

But her thoughts were elsewhere.

She glanced down at the text from Lando, the brief message from last night: “Be okay, yeah? See you in Spain.”

The words settled over her like a whispered prayer.

The room behind her was still; Oscar was packing his bag with the familiar efficiency of someone used to leaving and arriving, moving between countries as easily as breathing.

“Ready?” Oscar’s voice cut gently through the silence.

Margot nodded, her throat tight.

The elevator ride down was quiet, the hum of the building the only soundtrack as they stepped out into the cool morning light. The streets were nearly empty, a few cleaners starting their rounds, a taxi idling by the curb.

Her mind drifted to Lando again.

She thought about his grin, the way his eyes sparkled after the win, and the way they softened when he found her. The unspoken weight in his voice, the careful way he tried to hold space for her, even when she pulled away.

She wished she could let him in, wished she could take the warmth he offered without fear.

But it was complicated.

Margot’s fingers traced idle patterns on the window glass, watching the familiar coastline slip beneath them. The city they were leaving felt both distant and deeply rooted in her skin.

Oscar’s voice pulled her back.

“You okay?” His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, concern softened by the morning light.

She forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded, not pushing. “If you want to talk… later, I’m here.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft, but honest.

The airport was busy even this early — families, travelers, team members moving with purposeful strides. Margot felt detached from the rush, like she was watching through a veil.

Once on the plane, Margot settled by the window, the world shrinking as the city below became a patchwork of rooftops and roads, fading into the endless blue of the Mediterranean.

She closed her eyes briefly, leaning her head against the cool glass.

Lando’s words echoed quietly in her mind, tangled with her own tangled thoughts.

Be okay.

She wanted to believe she could. Wanted to believe she would.

Margot wanted to hold onto that hope. To believe that maybe this time, the walls she’d built around herself could shift, crack, and finally let someone in. But the past—the weight of it—clung tightly to her bones. The boarding schools, the whispered warnings, the days when she wasn’t sure if she could breathe through the fear and the self-loathing.

Lando saw her. Not just the surface she showed the world. He saw the tremor beneath her laughter, the exhaustion behind her smile. And he cared.

That terrified her.

Her fingers curled tighter around the leather strap, grounding her. She’d learned to carry the pain silently, to turn it inward until it became a ghost she could live with. Letting someone in felt like giving that ghost permission to stay.

But for this moment—caught between sky and earth—Margot allowed herself a breath, a pause, a fragile thread of hope.

Be okay.

She repeated it silently, letting the words settle deep inside, a quiet anchor for the days to come.

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Thanks for reading!!!

tagged: @henna006 @wherethezoes-at @landofotographyy

[annaswrites00]

The Chase

DR3 x reporter!reader

(2.7k)

Summary - A rookie reporter. A seasoned driver. Between the races and the interviews, something electric builds until neither of them can outrun it anymore… warnings… suggestive content

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Barcelona - 2015 - Pre Season Testing

The paddock was waking slowly, light diffusing over the sea of trailers and tents like warm honey spilled across cracked pavement. You stood just beyond the bustle, clutching your microphone , the nervous weight in your stomach shifting between anticipation and something else—something taut, almost electric.

Daniel Ricciardo was already there, near the Red Bull garage, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his team jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched the mechanics fuss over the car. The famous grin was absent this morning, replaced by something quieter, a calm sharpened by focus.

Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second before you crossed the short distance. Your voice was softer than you’d planned.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

He turned, eyes catching yours like a spark against the dim. For a moment, the world around you—the hissing of the pneumatic guns, the murmur of last-minute preparations—seemed to fall away.

“And you are,” came his smooth question.

“With F1 TV,” your reply was soft and quick.

Daniel’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to pin you down in his mind. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he nodded.

“F1 TV, huh? That means you’re the new voice we’re all supposed to get used to.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how close you’d stepped. “Something like that.”

He stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward the cluster of engineers and the car itself. “Well, rookie, think you can handle the heat out here? It’s not all fun and games.”

“I like a challenge,” you replied, matching his tone with a confidence you only half felt.

Daniel’s eyes twinkled, that mischievous glint returning. “Good answer. I’ll hold you to that.”

Before you could find the words to reply, the cameraman’s steady presence drew near, a quiet interruption to the charged stillness. He moved with practiced ease, his equipment slung over one shoulder, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Morning,” he said, nodding respectfully to both of you. “Ready to get this started?”

Daniel’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the trace of a smile softening his features. “She’s ready,” he said, voice low, rich with something unspoken.

The cameraman positioned himself carefully, adjusting the camera lens as the first light filtered softly through the Red Bull awning. The morning air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of fuel and freshly warmed rubber—a smell both harsh and intimate.

“2014 was your first year with Red Bull, yeah?” You began, voice measured, like a calm river cutting through stone. “That must have been quite the shift—from Toro Rosso to the main team. How did it feel?”

Daniel exhaled slowly, eyes distant, as if recalling the weight of that transition. “It was… a different pace. Everything accelerated. Expectations weren’t just whispered anymore—they were shouted. You learn quickly that the margin for error disappears.”

You moved a little closer, feeling the warmth of the sun mingling with the quiet tension in the space between you. “Did that pressure ever feel like too much? Like it might break you?”

His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “It could have. But there’s a kind of clarity that comes with it. Like standing at the edge of a cliff—terrifying, but also… freeing. You either leap, or you don’t.”

The cameraman captured that moment—Daniel’s quiet strength framed by the soft light and the hum of the paddock awakening around you.

He then shifted his gaze toward you, his expression thoughtful. “And you? First year out here—how do you keep steady when everything’s moving so fast?”

You considered the question carefully, voice calm but edged with vulnerability. “I try to find stillness where I can. Moments of quiet amidst the chaos. It’s the only way to keep from being swallowed whole.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, genuine. “Good answer. That kind of balance—that’s what separates the noise from what really matters.”

The interview carried on. You got in a few more questions about 2015, the upcoming season, what Red Bull supposedly had in store.

Daniel’s gaze drifted toward the car, its sleek lines shining under the rising sun. “Expectations don’t really get lighter. If anything, they pile up, brick by brick, until you wonder how much more you can carry. But you get smarter about carrying them. You learn where to let them rest, and where to fight them.”

Your pulse quickened, the way his voice softened when he talked about battles, about control. You stepped a fraction closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.

The cameraman, sensing the intimacy, silently adjusted his angle, giving you both a little more space—though the air remained charged.

“I bet not many people see that side of you,” you said, eyes locked on his. “The part that’s fighting, learning, struggling.”

Daniel’s smile was slow, teasing, but his eyes held a deeper fire. “I’m not exactly good at hiding it. Just good at picking when to show it.”

Your laugh was quiet, almost a breath. “I’ll make it my job to see more of that, then.”

He lifted a brow, amusement and challenge twined in his gaze. “Is that so? Rookie reporter, already aiming to unravel the great Daniel Ricciardo?”

You shrugged, eyes bright. “Someone’s got to. Otherwise, you’d just be another name on the grid.”

Daniel’s grin returned—warm, genuine, and a little dangerous. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re interested.”

You met his look, the briefest flicker of heat sparking between you. “Maybe I am.”

The tension hung there for a heartbeat longer before Daniel’s phone buzzed, pulling him back to the day’s demands. He sighed softly, stepping back but not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, I better get going before the engineers start thinking I’m slacking off.”

You nodded, your own smile lingering despite the sudden professional barrier sliding back into place.

“Thanks for this, Daniel. Looking forward to seeing what you do this year.”

“Likewise, rookie.” His voice dropped just a notch, intimate and promising. “Don’t be a stranger.”

As he walked away, shoulders squared and that unmistakable Ricciardo bounce in his step, you felt the weight in your stomach shift again—this time, a delicious anticipation.

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Hungarian Grand Prix - July 2015

The sun beat down relentlessly over the Hungaroring that July afternoon, the heat shimmering like a mirage above the asphalt. The paddock was thick with the familiar scents of burnt rubber and sweat, the air dense and heavy as if the track itself was holding its breath.

You stood near the Red Bull garage, the hum of celebration buzzing faintly in the background. Daniel Ricciardo, fresh from the podium, was wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel, his race suit half-zipped, the unmistakable grin—equal parts triumphant and mischievous—curling on his lips.

“Third place,” you said, stepping forward, the microphone in your hand feeling suddenly light in the stifling heat. “Not bad for a day that started so hot and sticky.”

Daniel laughed, a sound full and easy despite the exhaustion. “Not bad at all. Hungaroring always tests you, but today it felt… right.”

You caught the sheen of sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin, the way his eyes sparkled beneath the heavy lids, alive with adrenaline and relief. The paddock noise seemed to dull around you, narrowing to just the two of you in that moment.

“So,” you began, voice low, “how does it feel to stand on the podium here? After all the pressure, the heat, the noise?”

He paused, gaze steady on the horizon, where the crowd still roared faintly. “It’s like… everything else disappears. The heat, the pain, the doubts—they melt away for those few moments. You just own it.”

You stepped a little closer, the space between you charged and tight like a taut wire.

The ambient noise of the paddock crept back in—the chatter, the clatter of tools, the distant cheers—but in this pocket of time, there was only that quiet exchange, like a breath held between two people who understood the weight of what they did here.

“Any regrets today?” you asked, voice low, wanting to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

Daniel thought for a beat, then shook his head. “No regrets. It’s a step forward. Sometimes that’s all you can ask for.”

You smiled, feeling something deepen in the space between you—a shared understanding forged not just by words, but by the unyielding heat of ambition and the fleeting relief of victory.

The cameraman gently reminded you the next segment was ready, and Daniel glanced at the approaching crew, the race day duties pulling him back.

He straightened, the mask of the professional slipping back into place, but his eyes held that spark—the promise of more to come.

“Thanks for sticking with me,” he said, voice low enough for only you to hear. “This year’s going to be something.”

You returned the smile, heart a little lighter despite the heat pressing down. “I’ll be watching. And I’ll be asking the questions that matter.”

He nodded, the quiet confidence of a man who knew his path but welcomed the challenge.

As he turned to the crew, you stood for a moment longer, the July sun warming your face, the taste of that fleeting, electric moment lingering like a secret you both shared beneath the relentless Hungarian sky.

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Singapore Grand Prix - September 2015

Singapore buzzed with a different kind of energy—electric, raw, and suffused with tension that matched the tight, unforgiving circuit winding beneath the floodlights.

You found yourself near the Red Bull garage again, the after-race clamor swelling around you like a tide. Daniel Ricciardo emerged, still in his fireproof suit, the faintest traces of sweat gleaming on his brow, his smile a flicker of triumph tempered by exhaustion and something heavier.

“Second place,” you said, voice steady but carrying the weight of the season’s unspoken charge. “Your best finish this season. How does it feel after the race?”

Daniel huffed a breath, dragging his towel across the back of his neck. “Feels… complicated.”

“Really,” your voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

“One step closer. Still not there yet. Fans love a neat story. A clean win, a hero’s ending. But second place?” His smirk deepened, dark and knowing. “That’s where things start to get interesting.” He stated.

Your heart skipped, not from the heat of the paddock but from the weight of his gaze—the way it lingered on your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes.

“And here I thought you didn’t care about stories,” you teased, pretending to check your notes when really you just needed a second to collect yourself.

Daniel’s voice dropped, the noise around you blurring into a hum. “I care about the right ones.”

The space between you buzzed, the months of interviews, brief touches, quiet smiles, and loaded silences tightening around you now, thick and inevitable.

Your cameraman cleared his throat from a polite distance, but didn’t approach. You’d trained him by now—he knew when to give you room.

“So,” you pushed, your voice soft but challenging, “what’s the right story here? The second-place podium? The battle with Seb? Or the one where you’ve been—what— circling something all season without actually getting there?”

Daniel’s grin was slow, dangerous, his tongue darting briefly across his lower lip as if savoring the tension. “Maybe I’m just pacing myself.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding the finish line altogether.”

His eyes flicked to the side, noting the crew still milling about, some glancing your way, but none paying close enough attention. He leaned closer, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your cheek.

“You think I’m the type to back off when it matters?”

You held your ground, even as your pulse drummed high in your throat. “I think you like the chase more than the catch.”

His laugh, low and rumbling, vibrated somewhere deep in your chest. “Rookie,” he murmured, “you have no idea what I like.”

The weight of the moment hung thick between you, months of teasing and half-dared confessions threading through the charged silence.

Daniel glanced toward the garage, then back at you, something unspoken settling in his expression.

“Come with me,” he said, casual on the surface but edged with heat.

You hesitated only long enough to flick your microphone off and murmur to your cameraman that you were done for the evening.

Daniel was already moving, weaving effortlessly through the paddock, his pace just quick enough that you had to keep up. No one stopped you. No one questioned it. Maybe they’d seen it coming. Maybe they hadn’t.

His driver room was tucked in the Red Bull hospitality area, small but private, door clicking shut with a quiet finality behind you.

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The distant noise of the paddock bled through the walls, but in here, the air was thick and still.

You opened your mouth to say something—something light, maybe, something that could buy you time—but Daniel was already stepping in, closing the distance with a kind of surety that made your breath catch.

His hands came to rest lightly on your waist, fingers curling just enough to remind you of their strength. His grin flickered, sharp but lazy. “Still think I’m avoiding the finish line?”

You swallowed, your hands finding the rough fabric of his race suit, still damp and smelling faintly of fuel and heat and him. “I think you’re about to prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped, velvet-soft. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. All those interviews, all those almosts…”

Your pulse thundered as his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate line just under the hem of your shirt. “Almosts build character.”

Daniel’s mouth quirked into something darker. “Almosts build tension.”

You didn’t flinch when he pressed you back until your hips met the edge of the small bench lining the wall. Instead, you arched slightly into his touch, drinking in the rare sight of him—helmet hair mussed, fireproofs clinging to his frame, skin still humming with post-race adrenaline.

“I should probably tell you,” you whispered, your voice trembling just a little from the tight coil of anticipation, “this could complicate things.”

His hands slid lower, coaxing you closer. “Sweetheart, things have been complicated since Barcelona.”

His mouth found yours before you could shoot back a reply, and it was not a gentle kiss. It was months of restraint snapping in half, of barely-there touches and lingering glances finally crashing together.

You moaned into him as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. His lips were hot, demanding, the scratch of his stubble delicious against your skin as he mapped a trail along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with the zipper of his race suit, and he laughed, breathless, the sound curling low in his throat.

“Impatient?” he teased, lips brushing your ear.

You tugged his undershirt up, savoring the press of bare skin beneath your palms. “Months of buildup will do that to a girl.”

“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your collarbone, his voice molten. “Good. ’Cause I’m not planning on taking this slow.”

He helped you out of your shirt in one swift motion, his hands sliding reverently over the newly exposed skin like he’d been imagining this exact moment for longer than he’d care to admit.

When he lifted you onto the bench, you hooked your legs around his waist instinctively, your breath catching at the unmistakable press of him, hard and insistent, between your thighs.

His kisses deepened, rough and searching, his hands everywhere—your ribs, your waist, your thighs—as if trying to make up for all the time you’d spent carefully not touching.

You broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Daniel…”

His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin. “Say it again.”

You shivered. “Daniel.”

His eyes darkened, the weight of your name on your tongue sending something feral through him.

“Been waiting to hear you like that,” he rasped, before capturing your lips again.

The world outside—the paddock noise, the season, the weight of what came next—faded into nothing.

Here, in the quiet pulse of his driver room, the only thing that mattered was the exquisite unraveling you allowed yourselves—finally, completely, without restraint.

And somewhere, tangled in the heat of it all, you both knew this wasn’t the end of the chase.

It was only the beginning.

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Thanks for reading!!!

[annaswrites00]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(3.3k)

Chapter Ten

Chapter Nine, Chapter Eight, Chapter Seven, Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t… warnings - suggestive content

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The house lay quiet in the early morning light, its aged walls steeped in the memories of countless seasons, echoes of laughter and tension alike folded into the grain of the wood. Rory stood at the kitchen window, watching the mist curl lazily over the rolling hills that framed the estate. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and freshly brewed coffee — simple, yet grounding.

Inside, the muted clink of china and the low murmur of voices threaded through the rooms. Kimi’s family moved with practiced grace around the kitchen — his mother humming softly as she arranged pastries on a platter, his father meticulously setting the table, each gesture precise but warm.

Rory felt a strange weight settle over her chest — a mixture of anticipation and restraint — as she stepped into the room. The morning was supposed to be calm, a quiet pause before the relentless storm of the race weekend. But beneath the surface, everything was taut with unspoken things. She knew Kimi was not only facing the pressure of his home race, but also dealing with the shared lie between the two of them.

She caught Kimi’s eye from across the room, his figure framed in the soft amber light filtering through the curtains. His expression was unreadable, as always, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed a tension she knew too well.

Their eyes locked briefly, a silent conversation flickering in that glance — recognition, connection, a shared burden neither wanted to voice aloud.

The kitchen fell into a comfortable quiet as everyone settled around the table. Rory sat beside Kimi, her fingers curling loosely around her coffee cup. The warmth seeped into her palms, steadying her racing thoughts.

Ollie, sitting opposite, observed them with an intensity that made Rory’s skin prickle. His gaze was subtle but unyielding, a steady undercurrent of curiosity and suspicion. He wasn’t oblivious — not to the small moments she and Kimi tried to hide, the way their hands nearly brushed, the quick, furtive glances they exchanged.

Her smile was soft but tight as Ollie’s voice cut through the gentle clatter.

“You’ve been... different this weekend.”

Rory’s throat tightened. She met his gaze squarely. “I’m fine,” she said quietly, but the words felt hollow.

Ollie’s eyes lingered. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

She bit her lip, fighting the urge to confess everything — the restless nights, the stolen moments, the quiet hope she wasn’t ready to admit even to herself.

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The morning sun cast a pale sheen over the paddock at Imola, gilding the canvas awnings and shimmering across the shallow puddles left by last night’s rain. The circuit was already awake, alive with the slow, methodical rhythm of race weekend preparations.

In the distance, engines coughed to life, mechanics moving like clockwork around the cars, radios crackling with clipped voices. Tyres stacked, checked, rolled away. Tools laid out with precision. The scent of petrol and warm asphalt clung to the air, thick and familiar.

It was the kind of morning that always made Rory feel a little bit breathless—on edge, like the paddock itself was holding its breath in anticipation. But today, that feeling had teeth. It gnawed at her ribs.

Because today wasn’t just qualifying. It was Imola.

The Antonellis’ home race. Kimi’s home race.

Rory found him near the back of the garage, standing half in shadow, half bathed in the dull gold light filtering through the open shutters. His race suit hung low around his waist, arms bare, the fireproofs clinging to his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to pull the sleeves up yet. His hands were braced against the workbench, head bowed as he watched the engineers pore over data, their voices a steady hum of analysis that he seemed entirely detached from.

But Rory knew better.

She’d spent enough hours in enough garages to know what this kind of silence meant. It wasn’t disinterest. It was a heavy weight. The kind that settled deep, dragging against the spine, pulling every thought into focus.

She didn’t call his name. Didn’t need to. She just approached quietly, her lanyard bouncing lightly against her ribs, her camera bag still slung over her shoulder.

When she reached him, she stood beside him without a word, her hands curling around the strap of her bag, knuckles pale. She felt the tension radiating off him in waves, coiled tight beneath his skin.

They stood like that for a while. Just breathing in the sounds of the garage around them—mechanics calling out tyre pressures, tyres thumping against the ground, the low whir of the wheel guns, the occasional burst of static over the team radios.

“Qualifying today,” Rory said eventually, her voice soft, careful. It wasn’t a reminder. He didn’t need one. It was just something to bridge the distance between them. Something to offer him a place to land.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

His voice was low, rougher than usual, like it had been scraped thin.

Rory pressed her shoulder lightly against his, just enough that he’d know she was there, that he didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

“You’ve handled worse,” she murmured, because he had. She’d seen him fight through impossible grids, through penalties and setbacks, through weekends that seemed written off before they even began.

But today was different.

Today was home.

And the home crowd didn’t forgive easily.

Kimi’s eyes flicked to hers, just briefly, and something in them softened, like he wanted to believe her. Like he wanted to set the weight down, even if only for a moment.

But then his expression shuttered again, drawn tight. His walls, always so quick to rise when the pressure sharpened.

“We’ll see,” he said, his voice like gravel.

Rory wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter if he qualified last or landed pole. That he was still the same to her. That she’d still find him in the crowd, still watch him with the same quiet ache blooming behind her ribs.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Not here.

Not with Ollie only a few steps away. Not with the Antonellis talking quietly near the hospitality suite.

They weren’t alone. They hadn’t been since they arrived.

So instead, she offered him a small, measured smile and stepped back, letting the space grow between them again.

She lifted her camera, framing a shot of the garage as the team gathered for final checks. The light caught in the curve of the halo, glinting off the wheel guns, flashing against the carbon fibre.

Kimi slipped his arms into his race suit and tugged the zip up in one clean motion, his body moving with the fluidity of muscle memory. When he fastened the HANS device around his shoulders, she caught the brief flicker of hesitation in his movements, the fraction of a second where his hands faltered before tightening the straps.

The pressure was different today. It pressed harder.

Rory adjusted the focus, catching a quiet shot of him securing his gloves, head dipped in concentration.

Her pulse thudded beneath her skin.

“Go in five,” one of the engineers called.

Kimi’s helmet was already in his hands. He spared her one last glance, just the barest flick of his gaze before the helmet came down over his head, the visor snapping shut with a finality that always made her stomach twist.

It was like he disappeared behind it.

And Rory couldn’t follow him there.

She tracked his movements through her lens as he made his way to the car, slipping into the cockpit with the ease of routine. The team swarmed around him, adjusting straps, tightening belts, checking brake temperatures.

She lowered her camera, the weight of it suddenly too much.

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P13.

She knew he wouldn’t be happy. 

Rory lingered at the edge of the pit wall, camera slack against her hip, watching him through the crush of bodies and equipment. She could feel him slipping behind the armour again—movements too controlled, face too carefully blank.

And she hated it.

When Kimi brushed past her without a word, she followed, weaving through the back corridors of the paddock until the noise thinned, until the sharp edges of the world dulled around them.

It wasn’t far—just behind the garage, tucked near a stack of spare tyres and transport crates where no one cared to look.

“Kimi.”

He didn’t stop. Just dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard enough that it sounded like it rattled in his chest.

She caught his arm, fingers curling tight around his wrist. “Wait.”

He stilled but didn’t turn.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” she said, softer now, but still with that edge, that heat rising just under her skin.

His jaw tensed, a muscle flickering in his cheek. “I’m not upset.”

“Kimi.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, finally yanking his arm free and rounding on her. His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed sharp. “I’m pissed off. I’m tired. But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Rory folded her arms across her chest, squaring her stance. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His mouth twisted, but not into a smile. “Pretend? I’m not pretending. I just—” He broke off, glancing back toward the garage, as if the walls could hear them.

“I just don’t get to have this. Not here. Not now.”

Her stomach tightened. She knew what he meant. They didn’t get this. Not comfort. Not softness. Not in front of the team, not in front of their families.

“Yeah,” she said, biting the word out before she could stop herself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t touch you in front of them. I can’t even—” She shook her head, the burn in her throat catching her off guard. “I can’t even tell you it’s okay without it being a risk.”

Kimi’s eyes flicked to hers, something fragile flickering behind them, but his frustration won out. “That’s the deal, Rory. You knew what this was.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and raw.

Kimi’s chest rose and fell, his breathing too measured now, like he was holding something in, something sharp and dangerous that he didn’t trust himself to say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, but it still carried that bite. “What do you want me to do? Kiss you in front of your brother? In front of my family? Pretend no one would notice?”

“I want you to let me be there for you,” she shot back, the words tumbling out before she could soften them. “I want to be able to tell you it’s not the end of the world without having to chase you behind the garage like some—”

“Like some what?” he challenged, stepping closer, his frustration sharp but not cold. Never cold with her.

“Like some secret,” she whispered, and this time she couldn’t stop the tremble in her voice. “Like I’m something you’re ashamed of.”

Kimi’s expression cracked, just a little, just enough to let something real slip through.

“You know you’re not,” he said, quieter now, but not gentler. Still frayed. Still coiled tight. “But if we’re not careful, we’ll lose this before we’ve even had the chance to figure out what it is.”

Rory hated that he was right. Hated that she’d known it all along.

His hand brushed hers—barely there, a ghost of a touch—but she latched onto it like it was something she could still hold onto.

And before she could push again, before she could ask him to give her more, he slipped back into the noise of the paddock, leaving her behind with the echo of the fight still caught in her chest.

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The house hummed with quiet energy, everyone settling in for the night, but Rory couldn’t sit still. She paced the hallway, the weight of the earlier argument still sitting in her chest, sharp and bitter.

She hadn’t expected him to knock on her door. Hadn’t expected to find him standing there, hair still damp from his post-qualifying shower, hoodie slung carelessly over his shoulders like he was just passing by. But his eyes told a different story—drawn, restless, frayed at the edges.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, but he didn’t move to leave.

“I know.”

And still, she let him in. Still, she let him back in, even though things between them were tangled, even though they hadn’t properly stitched the gap that cracked open behind the garage.

They didn’t talk about it now. Words would ruin this, whatever this was.

His hands found her waist, rough but wanting, pulling her in like he couldn’t help it, like he’d tried to stay away but had folded in the end. Her fingers laced into his hair, tugging him closer until his mouth crashed against hers, all tension and heat, no space left between them.

They stumbled into the narrow hallway outside her room, backs thudding softly against the wall. The house creaked around them, floorboards shifting beneath their feet, but neither of them cared. His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, desperate to memorize every part of her.

It was a kind of desperation she’d only ever seen from him in these moments—when the doors were closed, when no one was watching, when they didn’t have to carry the weight of who they were supposed to be.

His mouth dragged along the line of her jaw, teeth grazing her skin, his breath uneven. She clung to him like she could pull him closer, like she could fold them into each other if she just held on tightly enough.

“Kimi,” she whispered, the name catching on a sharp breath as his hands splayed across her back, pressing her to the wall.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, the words barely audible against her throat.

“Then don’t,” she breathed, threading her fingers through his hair, tipping his head back just enough to kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense.

It was clumsy in places, rushed in others, a quiet war between wanting and knowing better. They both knew better. But neither of them pulled away.

The wooden floor creaked again, this time from farther down the hall. Rory froze, her heart stuttering violently in her chest as she broke the kiss, pressing her palm flat against Kimi’s chest.

“Wait—” she mouthed, pulse thudding in her throat.

Footsteps, slow but steady, drawing closer.

Kimi’s breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against hers as his hands slid reluctantly from her waist.

They heard the faint clink of a glass being set down somewhere near the kitchen. A door creaked open. Then Ollie’s voice—low, tired, humming something under his breath as he crossed the hallway toward his room.

Rory’s grip on Kimi’s hoodie tightened, dragging him a step backward toward her door, but Kimi shook his head. Too risky. Too loud.

Instead, he tugged her gently by the wrist, pulling her a few paces down the hall toward the darker stretch that curved around to the back stairwell. They pressed themselves into the narrow alcove, half-hidden by the bend in the wall, hearts thundering, breath shallow.

Ollie’s footsteps paused just metres away. He sighed, muttered something about tomorrow’s early start, then kept walking, the floorboards groaning faintly under his weight until finally, mercifully, a door clicked shut.

Silence bled into the space between them, sharp and electric.

When Rory finally exhaled, Kimi’s hand slid from her wrist to her palm, lacing their fingers together. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow, like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“We’re idiots,” she whispered, her voice trembling on the edge of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agreed, leaning in to steal another kiss, this one softer, lingering, like an apology. “But you’re mine.”

Her chest caved a little at that. She could feel the pulse of something dangerous beneath the words—something she wanted, something she feared.

Before she could answer, he let her hand slip from his and disappeared down the back staircase, his steps light, practiced, like he’d been doing this his whole life.

And Rory stood alone in the dark, the ghost of his touch still warming her skin.

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The next morning, the paddock buzzed with a nervous kind of energy, the kind that always preceded a home race.

By the time the grid assembled, the stands were already a blur of flags and banners, a sea of colour and sound, the roar of the tifosi swelling like a tide.

Rory lingered behind the garage as the team made final adjustments. The radio crackled with clipped updates. Kimi’s voice filtered through, distant but steady, despite the nerves she knew must have been chewing at him from the inside out.

When the formation lap began, she moved to the back of the pit wall, her camera forgotten, her attention pinned entirely to the screen as the race unfolded.

Kimi’s start was clean. Nothing spectacular, but he held his position. Thirteenth. A brutal fight through the midfield, but she knew he could push forward.

The laps ticked by, each one stitched with tension. He picked off a car, then another. Patient, methodical. A slow climb, but a climb nonetheless.

Then, on lap 46, his voice cut through the radio again—tighter this time, laced with something sharp.

“Something’s wrong. Losing power.”

The pit wall scrambled, engineers leaning over the monitors, rapid-fire questions and commands snapping through the headsets.

The engineer’s voice crackled through, low and apologetic. “That’s it. We’re retiring the car.”

No outburst. No radio slam. Just silence.

Rory’s stomach twisted.

She found him later in his driver’s room, the door barely ajar. The lights were off, the only illumination coming from the slats in the blinds, cutting pale ribbons across the floor.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, helmet discarded on the table beside him. He was still in his race suit, gloves abandoned on the floor.

His hands were braced against his temples, head bowed, shoulders hunched. He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t speaking.

Rory stepped inside quietly, closing the door with a soft click behind her. She didn’t ask if she could be there. She just crossed the room, lowering herself to sit beside him.

They stayed like that for a while. No words. Just the quiet buzz of the paddock outside and the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing.

When she finally spoke, her voice was careful, steady. “I’m sorry.”

Kimi’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t lift his head.

“I know it’s not just about the race,” she said, watching the curve of his shoulders, the way his fingers dug into his hair like he was holding himself together by sheer force. “It’s everything. The home crowd. The pressure. The weight of all of it.”

His breath shuddered, just once, sharp and uneven.

“I just wanted to finish,” he said, voice rough. “Just wanted to give them something.”

“You don’t owe them anything,” she whispered, placing a hand on his back, her thumb tracing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.

“They came here for me.”

“They came here because they love you. They’ll still love you tomorrow.”

His head finally tipped toward her shoulder, resting there, just barely. Like he was giving in, just a little.

“You don’t have to hold it together right now,” she murmured. “You don’t have to be okay.”

When he turned his face against her skin, she felt the damp heat of his tears—quiet, controlled, but real.

Rory slid her arm around him, holding him close, her lips brushing the top of his hair as the storm settled between them, softer now, shared.

He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t need to. She stayed with him in that quiet room, anchoring him to the floor while the rest of the world spun on without them.

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Thanks for reading!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

tag list: @mywritersmind @chxseversion @widow-cevans @realfootageoftalik

[annaswrites00]

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘𝓷𝓭𝓮𝔁

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈:

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒪𝓃𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓇

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝒾𝓋𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝒾𝓍

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐸𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝑒𝓃

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

[annaswrites00]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(4.6k)

Chapter Nine

Chapter Eight, Chapter Seven, Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t… warnings - explicit content

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The day had settled into that sharp, electric edge only sprint qualifying could bring—the sort of charged anticipation that never left the air, even once the engines had quieted. Outside, the Miami sun baked the paddock in a thick, humming heat, but inside the drivers’ room, it was dim and cool, the kind of quiet that rang in your ears after too much noise.

Rory slipped through the door, her steps light but purposeful. George had been waiting outside with a look she didn’t quite know how to name—mischievous, maybe. Complicit.

“He asked me to bring you back here,” George had said, his voice low, like it was a shared secret. “Figured you’d want to be the first one to congratulate him.”

Now, with the door clicking shut behind her, the air seemed heavier.

Kimi sat in the far corner, alone, helmet resting beside him, head bowed like he was still coming down from something. His race suit had been peeled off, tied around his waist. His long sleeve had been pulled up so it was sitting halfway up his torso, damp from the effort, streaked with heat and adrenaline. He looked up when he heard her, his expression shifting to surprise before softening into something far more familiar.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, gravel-edged.

“Hi,” she breathed.

Rory moved toward him, something pulling her in the way gravity did. Inevitable, quiet, strong. Her heart thudded, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting. She took a seat next to him on the small bench.

“You were brilliant out there,” she murmured. Her fingers came to rest on his thigh, a light touch at first, like she wasn’t sure if he was entirely real yet. “Pole position. In Miami. That lap was insane.”

Kimi’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite smug either. “Got lucky.”

She scoffed, letting her fingers trace just a little higher. “You don’t get pole on luck.”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes never left her—quiet, watchful, already darkening at the edges. Rory leaned in, her voice dropping.

“You drove the shit out of that car.”

His breath caught when her hand slid even higher. The air shifted again—denser now, like it was about to crack. Rory got up, stepping between his knees, her body close enough to feel the ghost of his heat.

“You want to know what I was thinking while I watched you cross that line?” she whispered as she placed her hands on his shoulders.

Kimi swallowed. “What,” he said, just as quiet.

“I thought…” She leaned down and closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want to be the first thing he touches after the car shuts off.”

Kimi exhaled sharply, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and desire. His hands came to her hips, strong but uncertain, like he was still fighting it—still weighing what was smart versus what he wanted.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, but it didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a surrender waiting to happen.

“No,” Rory agreed softly, her fingers moving to slip under the tucked edge of his top, pushing it up and over his head. “But when has that ever stopped us?”

He tilted his head back against the wall, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she moved down to her knees in front of him. It was slow, purposeful, no rush, no fear. Just heat building in layers, pulled taut between them.

She looked up at him, her voice nothing more than a breath. “Let me congratulate you.”

“Rory…” he said, voice fraying at the edges.

“Shhh.” She pressed a kiss just above his waistband, feather-light. “Let me.”

Kimi let out a low, wrecked sound, one hand tightening on her shoulder, the other curling into the side of the bench. She kissed a line across his abdomen, savoring the way he tensed under her mouth. Her hands slid up his thighs, slow, deliberate, anchoring herself and undoing him all at once.

He was tense beneath her, all heat and restraint, body shifting slightly as she touched him—not rushed, not teasing, but with a kind of focused devotion that made it feel like the air between them might ignite.

Kimi’s hand slid off the bench, fingers slipping into her hair, not pulling, just holding—like he wasn’t sure if he needed to keep her close or push her away before he lost what little control he had left.

She worked to pull the rest of his race suit off carefully. Folding it in a neat pile and setting on top of his discarded undershirt. He was left in just his boxers as he adjusted on the bench.

And then she kissed lower, just above the elastic, slow and soft, and everything in him seemed to tighten at once. Her fingertips curled against his hips. She eased the band down slightly, only a fraction, just enough to make him inhale sharply. He was already trembling under her touch, jaw clenched, brows furrowed.

And then—three quick knocks.

The door creaked open an inch. George slipped just a hand in.

“Sorry, mate,” George called, voice far too cheerful for the moment he’d just ruined. “Team’s asking for you. Briefing in five.”

Rory froze, lips against skin, a laugh caught in her throat. Kimi groaned, head falling forward as he muttered a curse under his breath.

“Be right there,” he called out, trying to sound composed. George didn’t answer, but the door clicked shut again a second later. Rory swore she heard a muffled laugh as his footsteps departed.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, her hands still on his hips.

“Well,” she said, biting her lip. “That was rude.”

Kimi looked down at her, hair damp at the temples, pupils blown wide. He touched her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye.

“We’re finishing this,” he murmured, voice rough. “Later.”

She grinned, climbing to her feet with slow grace, her body brushing his as she rose.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Her heart thudded once, hard, in her chest. She squeezed his hand, then let go.

“I’ll see you after the sprint tomorrow. Dinner with my family tonight,” she said, already backing toward the door, lips tingling, thoughts scattered.

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By the time Rory reached the paddock, the Miami sun was already unforgiving, laying its heat heavy across the autodrome. Her lanyard scratched against the back of her neck as she moved past security, swiping it across the machines to sign in. Everyone was moving fast. Mechanics hustling, engineers hunched over screens, tire blankets being peeled back with care and urgency.

She adjusted her camera strap across her chest and exhaled slowly, centering herself. It was sprint day. Half the tension of a Sunday with no time to breathe. Everything moved sharper, closer to the edge. 

She made her way out of the paddock and towards the garages, passing the Ferrari garage first—Charles standing with his arms folded, already suited, looking at data. Lando was laughing with his engineer two bays down. She nodded to a few familiar faces, but her feet carried her on instinct.

When she reached Mercedes, Ollie was leaning against the wall, half-zipped into his suit, hair still wet from the ice towel he kept around his neck. He looked up and offered her a crooked smile before she could stop in her tracks and turn away.She hoped he wouldn't press why she was hanging around Mercedes.

“Getting shots for Mercedes today?” he asked, brow lifting as he looked her over.

Rory hesitated. “Maybe.”

He didn’t press. Just nudged her shoulder with his and gestured toward the garage. “Thomas will be waiting in our garage once the sprint starts.”

“Got it.” She lifted her camera and slipped inside.

The garage was dim compared to the blazing paddock, lit by fluorescent overheads and screens casting data across the walls. Kimi’s car sat center—sleek, silent, waiting. She got a few shots of the mechanics fitting the tires, the blur of a visor being snapped shut, the fast, focused choreography of pre-race prep.

Still, her eyes kept scanning for him.

When she finally spotted Kimi, it was across the bay—his helmet still off, hair damp, fireproofs sticking slightly to his chest and arms. He was deep in conversation with his race engineer, nodding along, lips pressed into a firm line.

She raised the lens, captured him mid-listen, head tilted, eyes narrowed like he was already thinking five corners ahead. And something in her chest clenched tight.

He’d looked at her differently yesterday. Open, wrecked, wanting.

Now—he was unreadable again. Composed. Somewhere else entirely.

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The sprint happened in a blur.

She was at her usual post along the back straight, where the palm trees blurred in the lens and the sun hit the track just right. Her finger worked on instinct: shutter-click, focus, track, adjust. The sound of engines roared in her bones. Everyone fought hard. Kimi had started on pole, but it was a messy race. Rough turn one, a messy pitstop, a safety car. 

Seventh.

She saw it before she heard it on the radio.

Her chest dropped.

The race ended and the grid peeled into parc fermé. She moved through the crowd, camera low now, fingers nervously fiddling with the lens cap. Kimi’s helmet was still on when he climbed out—no interviews, no fanfare. He disappeared into the back of the garage before she could get close.

She wanted to follow. To say something. To touch him.

But Ollie caught her first—shirt clinging to his back, sweat in his hair, grinning in spite of everything.

Thomas appeared behind them. “You’ll be with us in the garage through quali, yeah? They want brother-sister content.” 

Rory nodded automatically. The ache in her chest sat heavy. Kimi was close. Maybe a few dozen steps away. And yet it felt like he was on the other side of something invisible and thick. 

She didn’t see him again before qualifying.

The sun had dropped slightly by then, casting long golden shadows through the paddock. Rory stuck close to the Haas garage and Thomas as planned. She got shots of Ollie and Esteban preparing, helmet cam footage, a quick reel of them waving awkwardly for the social media team. Her camera was working. Her body was moving. But her thoughts spun elsewhere.

When Kimi went third in Q3—out-qualifying both Ferraris and one McLaren—she didn’t cheer. But her heart leapt so hard she had to brace herself against the edge of the garage wall.

He hadn’t given up. He’d fought back. Even after that brutal sprint, he’d clawed his way to the front row.

And she hadn’t had the chance to say a word to him.

She knew Ollie would be pulled into debrief. Her window was small. This wouldn't work if she hesitated.

So she didn’t.

She slipped out the back of the garage building, down the row of generator carts and staff cooling tents, until the Mercedes garage came into view. The back corner, by the crates and shipping pallets, was quiet—too tucked away for fans, too exposed for VIPs. Which made it perfect.

She waited only a second before she saw him.

Kimi rounded the side of the building, helmet in one hand, suit unzipped, sweat lining his throat. He was walking by, but she managed to grab his arm, pulling him in between the garages. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Hey,” he said, and just that word was enough to undo her.

She stepped into him without thinking, arms going around his waist. His helmet thunked softly against the crate behind him as he set it down and pulled her in tight.

Neither of them said anything for a beat.

His hands slid over her back, one curling at her neck, fingers threading into her hair like he needed the grounding.

“You were brilliant,” she whispered.

He let out a soft sound of frustration and maybe relief. She wasn’t sure.

“It’s not a win.”

“No.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “But it’s a step closer.”

Kimi studied her, gaze flicking across her face like he was trying to memorize something. “Missed you after the sprint.”

“I had to go,” she said quietly. “But I didn’t want to. I wanted to see you after.”

His thumb brushed just under her jaw. “You’re here now.”

Rory leaned up and kissed his cheek—just there, just enough—and then stepped back before she got pulled under again.

“Maybe I can sneak into your room tonight. After Ollie and Thomas go to bed or something.” 

Kimi’s smile turned a little crooked. “Sounds risky.”

She rolled her eyes, a soft huff of amusement escaping her. “You like the risk.”

“I like you,” he said plainly, and there was no teasing in it, just truth, low and easy in his voice like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rory looked down, her cheeks burning, but she didn’t move away. Not fully.

Kimi shifted his weight and leaned in, close enough that his forehead nearly brushed hers. “I wanted to see you, too,” he murmured. “After the race. Thought maybe you’d come find me.”

“I tried.”

He nodded, like he already knew. Like he’d felt her presence lingering just on the edge of it all. “Was hard. I was angry. At myself, mostly.”

“You still got seventh. It’s not—”

“It’s not where I want to be,” he cut in, soft but firm. “But quali was better.”

He reached down and took her hand properly this time, threading their fingers together and brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

They stood like that for another moment—tucked into the shadow of the motorhome, her hand in his, the paddock still buzzing somewhere behind them. Mechanics shouting, trolleys wheeling past, someone calling out tire pressures. But it all felt distant, muffled.

Like here, for just a second, nothing else was real.

“I should go,” she said finally, voice reluctant.

“Yeah,” he echoed, but he didn’t let go.

They stayed linked even as she stepped back, fingers sliding apart like a string pulled taut between them, neither ready to cut it.

“I’ll text you,” she murmured. “When it’s safe.”

Kimi gave a little nod, his eyes lingering on her like he was still memorizing, still holding onto the imprint of her presence. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Only if you promise not to get caught.”

She grinned then, the kind that reached her eyes. “I never do.”

And even as she disappeared around the corner, camera bouncing lightly against her hip and heart thudding out of sync, Rory knew she’d carry his smile with her through the rest of the evening—pressed like a fingerprint behind her ribs, warm and weightless.

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Later that night, Rory stood barefoot in her hotel room, staring at her phone like it might speak first. Kimi hadn’t texted. Her fingers hovered over his name anyway. Shooting out a text telling him she was ready.

She hit send. Waited. Paced.

Three dots blinked. Then stopped.

Her phone lit again a few seconds later with a room number. 

Her breath caught.

The hallways were silent now. Typical considering it was almost midnight the night before a race. Rory crept out of her room with her hoodie zipped halfway up over her tank top and her purse held close to her shoulder. The elevators were too risky so she took the stairs. 

Kimi’s room was at the end of the hall, but she didn’t make it that far—not right away.

Halfway down, voices echoed around the corner. Rory froze.

Then. Footsteps. Close. Loud.

She ducked, heart hammering, and squeezed herself behind the bulky hotel ice machine, shoulders pressed tight against cold metal. Her breath came shallow as two shadows passed.

“Mate, I’m telling you,” Ollie said, voice amused. “You and I both know I would win.”

“Nope,” Isack retorted back. “I’m ten times better at football.”

Rory’s heart slammed so hard she could hear it in her ears.

They turned the corner. Laughter trailed off.

Rory stayed still another breath longer—counting to ten, then fifteen—before slipping from her hiding place and tiptoeing the last few steps to 509.

She knocked once. Soft.

The door opened immediately.

Kimi stood there barefoot in grey sweats and a plain white tee, his curls messy, jaw tense. His eyes met hers, and something in them shifted—like he hadn’t let himself breathe until just now.

“You came,” he said.

She stepped inside. “Of course.”

A pause bloomed between them, full of things unsaid.

Then—“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, voice low. “With you. And your brother. I don’t want to lie.”

“We aren't lying,” she murmured. “I just think we should keep it a secret for now.”

His eyes searched hers. “How long?”

“I’m not sure,” she whispered back.

Kimi’s hand reached for hers, grounding and gentle. His voice cracked a little as he whispered, “I want to touch you like I’m allowed.”

She let out a soft sigh. 

Then he kissed her.

It was different this time—softer, deeper. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just raw. He pulled her close by the waist, their bodies lining up like muscle memory. She kissed him back hungrily, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging it upward.

He broke the kiss only to help her out of her zip up. His hands splayed across her back, thumbs brushing bare skin. Her top followed next, tossed aside, and Kimi’s lips traced a path along her collarbone, slow and reverent.

She threaded her fingers through his curls and tugged gently.

He groaned softly and backed her toward the bed, their mouths never fully separating. Her knees hit the edge and she let herself fall, pulling him down with her.

The weight of him was solid and warm, it made her feel wanted. Not in the way people looked at her behind a lens. Not in the way she was someone's sister or someone else's brand. Just her. Just Rory.

Kimi kissed down her stomach, lifting her hips to slide her shorts off, lips brushing the inside of her thigh like a promise. His hands steadied her like she was something fragile. Worshiped. Real.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered, voice fraying.

“You,” she gasped. “I just want you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to hers as if to check one last time before his mouth lowered again, kissing her inner thigh slowly, then again higher. One of his hands smoothed up her side, brushing the swell of her hip, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly into the band of her underwear, careful but wanting.

She gasped again, this time softer, sharper, as his hand slid between her legs. The first touch of his fingers made her hips jerk, breath catching in her throat.

“Okay?” he murmured.

She nodded, chest rising and falling fast. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He moved with aching focus, like he was memorizing every sound she made, every tremor that ran through her legs. His mouth stayed near her thigh, pressing warm, open kisses as his fingers worked her slowly, steadily, learning her by feel, by instinct.

Rory clutched the sheets beneath her, head tipping back as pressure built like a wave, every nerve in her body alight. It was different from before. Not urgent—just intense. Intimate. She whispered his name, thighs tightening around his hand, and that seemed to undo something in him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Come on, sweet girl.”

She shattered.

It hit like a pulse, deep and shuddering, toes curling, hand gripping his wrist as her body arched. Her eyes squeezed shut, breath broken into soft moans, and Kimi didn’t stop until she gently pushed at his hand, overstimulated and trembling.

He hovered over her, lips brushing her cheek, her temple. She could feel the thud of his heart where his chest pressed against hers.

For a moment, they just lay there. Tangled and breathless.

And then, with a flicker of mischief breaking through the haze, Rory turned her head and kissed the corner of his jaw. “You didn’t let me finish what I started yesterday,” she murmured.

Kimi blinked, flushed and stunned. “What?”

She grinned lazily and rolled them over, sliding down his body with slow purpose. Her hands made quick work of his waistband this time, fingers slipping beneath the elastic and tugging his sweatpants and boxers down until he kicked them off.

She glanced up at him, lips brushing the inside of his thigh now, teasing. “Fair’s fair.”

He looked wrecked already, one arm flung above his head, the other fisting the sheets.

“Rory—fuck—”

The sound of his voice, hoarse and unraveling, only spurred her on. She moved lower, mouth warm and steady as she took him in, tongue flicking just enough to make him groan out loud.

Kimi’s hand found her hair, not to guide, just to feel. Like he needed proof she was real.

She worked him with gentle touch, patient and thorough, until his thighs began to tremble. His hips jerked up despite himself. He groaned her name like it was the only word he remembered.

“Rory—wait—I’m gonna—”

But she didn’t stop. She wanted to undo him completely. Wanted to feel him let go.

He came with a gasp, head falling back against the pillow, hand tightening in her hair, eyes squeezing shut as his whole body shook.

When he finally stilled, she crawled back up beside him, grinning like sin.

He pulled her close immediately, still breathless, still dazed. “That was—” His voice broke into a laugh. “You’re not real.”

She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling in close. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

They lay there for a long moment in silence, limbs tangled and skin still buzzing.

Then Kimi’s voice came again, softer this time.

“So now what?”

Rory didn’t answer right away. She just closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest.

“Now we sleep,” she whispered, a little sleepy, a little scared.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, like a promise he didn’t know how to keep yet. But he wanted to. That had to count for something.

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The heat shimmered off the track, rising in lazy waves as mechanics scrambled around the grid. Race day pulsed through the air like static—electric and inevitable. Rory moved with her usual rhythm, camera strapped to her shoulder, lanyard bouncing against her chest, but her skin prickled with something else.

Something that hadn’t left her since last night.

She had left Kimi’s room early. Before anyone else got up. 

Last night, something had shifted. This new thing building between them felt more real.

She took her spot near the edge of the garage and watched as the grid emptied, mechanics pulling away, and the cars began their formation lap. Her fingers stayed clenched around her camera even after the sound faded into the first lap chaos.

And then came the long, brutal dance of the race.

Rory watched it all from the garage, heart in her throat.

Sixth.

The race ended. The cooldown lap rolled in. Mechanics clapped shoulders and murmured numbers. Oscar was already headed to media, smile bright and confident.

She watched as Kimi climbed out, helmet off. Sweat-damp curls. Eyes unreadable.

She didn’t approach. She couldn’t—not here, not now. But as he walked toward the back of the garage, he passed her. For the briefest moment, their arms brushed. And in that second, his fingers slid against hers. Not fully, not obvious—just the back of his hand glancing hers, warm and deliberate.

Like a whisper.

She exhaled. Her pulse steadied.

Then—“You good?”

Ollie.

Rory turned, startled. Her brother stood a few paces behind, brow furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. Not angry. Just curious. Too observant for comfort. The drivers were getting ready for the media pen.

“Yeah,” she said, too fast. “Just hot.”

Ollie looked toward the garage, watching Kimi disappear down the corridor. Then he looked back at her.

And frowned.

“You’ve been weird this weekend.”

Rory blinked. “I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is different weird,” he said. “You’ve been distracted. Quiet.”

“I’m just tired, Ollie.”

“Sure.” He let it sit for a beat. He gave her a long look. One of those older brother looks that seemed to reach beneath skin and bone.

“Are you hiding something.” It was more of a statement than a question.

She swallowed shaking her head, guilt flickering like a lit match behind her ribs. “I’m not.”

He didn’t press. Just walked off, muttering something about debriefs before media.

Rory let out a breath, slow and shaking. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, grounding herself as the chaos of post-race energy crackled around her. The worry settled heavy in her chest.

The problem wasn’t just today.

It was the next race.

It was Imola.

Where the whole family was coming. Her mum and dad. The Antonellis. Staying in Kimi’s house. Shared breakfasts and communal dinners and long wine-soaked evenings on the terrace.

And him.

And her.

She could already feel the walls closing in. She pictured it—the way her mother would look at her, all knowing smiles and raised brows. The way her dad would read too much into one glance. The way Ollie would sit on the edge of the bed and ask, “You’re sure there’s nothing going on?”

And what would she say?

That she’d spent the night in Kimi’s bed, wrapped in silence and skin? That she’d memorized the way he kissed her shoulder in the dark? That she was falling for him without any sort of plan for what came next?

A hollow sound escaped her throat. Almost a laugh. Almost a cry.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and tried to gather herself.

Because first—media.

Her camera was slung heavy across her chest, her shirt damp with sweat. She needed water, a moment, maybe an entirely different life.

But instead, she moved.

Down the paddock. Through the barriers. Toward the makeshift pen where the drivers would line up to give their polished post-race soundbites. She spotted Oscar first—already mid-interview, grinning in the sun. He caught her eye and smiled.

She smiled back, shaky but there.

Then her gaze shifted—and there he was.

Kimi stood at the far end, suit peeled to his waist. His eyes found hers instantly, like he’d been waiting. Like he always did.

For a moment, everything paused.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. But his eyes softened. That subtle shift only she ever seemed to notice—like gravity shifting between them.

And somehow, it was enough.

Rory exhaled.

They didn’t need words. Not right now. Maybe not even later.

But she could handle this. She could walk the fine line between what was true and what could be shown. She could take photos and pass glances and survive one more race weekend without the world knowing the truth.

And next race—Imola—she’d figure it out.

Somehow.

Maybe they’d get caught. Maybe it would all come crashing down.

But Kimi was still looking at her like she was his answer. Like he didn’t want to stop. And for now, that was enough.

Rory lifted her camera and raised it to her eye.

Click.

She caught him in perfect light.

And then she turned away—heart racing, smile ghosting on her lips—and melted back into the crowd.

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Thanks for reading!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

tag list: @mywritersmind @widow-cevans @realfootageoftalik

[annaswrites00]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(4.2k)

Chapter Eight

Chapter Seven, Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t… warnings - suggestive content, not too explicit

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Bahrain - Race Day

The desert held its breath in the dying light.

Race day had dissolved into dusk. The paddock, once electric, was quieting now, softening into shadow. Bahrain’s air was dry and gold-edged, the kind that clung to skin and made every inhale feel weighted, like you were breathing in sand and salt and something unspoken.

Rory waited near the Mercedes hospitality unit, one ankle crossed over the other, her arms folded loosely, camera slung heavy across her chest. Kimi had finished eleventh — outside the points. She hadn’t seen him since parc fermé.

He’d disappeared into the post-race machinery: debrief, cool-down, media. It chewed drivers up, that stretch of time, and spat them out quieter than they’d gone in. She hadn’t texted him. Didn’t need to. There was something about him today — something slow-burning, cautious. She knew better than to tug at the thread.

So she waited.

Above her, the lights still buzzed over the track like artificial stars. A few engineers passed, trailing equipment and exhaustion. She leaned her head back against the wall, letting the stone cool her spine. It had been a strange day — long in that slow, sticky way where time lagged behind her thoughts.

Footsteps approached, and she expected Kimi — felt something stir in her chest, that strange flicker — but it wasn’t him.

It was Ollie.

His curls were messy, his shirt half-untucked, water bottle dangling from his hand. He looked like someone who’d run ten laps of the circuit himself.

“You waiting for Kimi?” he asked, voice dry.

Rory rolled her eyes. “I—don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Ollie smirked, leaning beside her on the wall. “You’ve got that look. That I’m-not-waiting-but-I-am look.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “He just had a tough race.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Ollie’s voice gentled, not teasing anymore. “Tough’s one word for it.”

They watched a couple mechanics wheel past with tire blankets. The scent of burnt rubber still lingered in the air.

“You alright?” he asked, after a beat.

She shrugged, then nodded. “I don’t know. I just… he looked tired. Not the kind you fix with sleep.”

Ollie tilted his head, thoughtful. “You care.”

It wasn’t a question. Rory didn’t answer.

Silence settled between them. Not awkward, just full — like when they were kids, sitting on the swings and watching the wind move the leaves. He’d always been the one to let quiet things be quiet. Let her feel whatever she needed. 

“I don't think you should invest your feelings here,” Ollie said eventually.

Rory blinked. “What?”

He grimaced at her, voice softer. “I love Kimi. He is my best friend on the grid, no doubt. But Rory, this lifestyle…all the pressure, stress, and issues it comes with…I don't want you to get hurt”

Her heart pulled tight. She looked down at her hands.

“Who says I’m investing my feelings anywhere,” she murmured.

“Rory.” Ollie stated as he reached out and flicked a piece of hair from her forehead. “Just listen to me. Trust me on this.”

He pushed off the wall, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and wandered off toward the garages. She watched him go, heart thudding strangely.

She didn’t know how long she stood there after that. The night grew cooler. The air started to lose its heat.

And then—finally—Kimi appeared.

He moved slowly, eyes drawn, suit half-unzipped, hair damp at the nape. There was a stiffness to the way he carried himself, like everything in him had been wound too tight and released too fast.

His eyes found her instantly.

For a second, he just looked. Like he hadn’t expected her to still be here.

“You waited,” he said, voice low.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the lingering heat of the car on him, the faint tang of sweat and engine oil. His mouth was tight, unreadable.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

His gaze flicked down, then back up. “I don't feel like going back to the hotel yet.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I can wait with you. Until you’re ready.”

There was a long, still pause.

Then she shifted slightly, lifting her camera. “I got some photos of the race. Want to see?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sat on the low stone ledge outside the building. She turned the camera on and scrolled through, letting him lean in, letting his shoulder brush hers.

She could feel the quiet in him. It wasn’t anger, not even disappointment. Just… weight.

“Eleventh feels worse than last sometimes,” he said, not looking at her.

“I know,” she whispered.

He was silent for a moment, watching the tiny screen as a blurred image of turn four clicked past.

“I wanted to do better.”

“I know.”

“I can do better.”

“I know that too.”

Another photo: his car, mid-corner, rear tires feathering dust off the track limits.

He exhaled. “They always ask the same thing. What went wrong? What would you do differently? It’s like—I don’t know. Sometimes it just goes how it goes.”

She didn’t try to fix it. Just let him talk.

“I felt… slow,” he said finally. The word cracked a little.

She turned the camera off. Let it rest in her lap.

“You’re not,” she said, and when he looked at her, she held his gaze. “You know what you’re capable of. You shouldn’t let today’s results take away from what you’ve accomplished the last few races.”

He looked like he might say something. Then didn’t.

Instead, he shifted closer.

His thigh pressed lightly against hers now. Not intentional, maybe. But steady. She could feel his breath, slow and controlled, like he was trying not to let something slip out.

“Rory,” he said, her name thick in his mouth.

She didn’t move.

His hand brushed hers on the ledge — not a grab, not a reach. Just a touch. Barely there. But it stayed.

And she let it.

They sat like that while the paddock emptied around them. Two figures tucked into the margin of a long, dusty night — not saying anything, not needing to. The stars were out, bright and breathless.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it.

“Thanks for staying.”

She didn’t look at him. Just leaned a little closer. Her head moved to rest on his shoulder. His head met hers.

“Always.”

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Saudi Arabian Grand Prix - Saturday

The air was warm. The kind of heat that held close like breath. In the still moments between sessions, the paddock shimmered with spotlights and low murmurs. Engineers murmuring telemetry, photographers trailing cables, fans pressing their faces to the edges of fences. Time moved in slow sweeps under the artificial glow, and behind closed doors, things cracked open.

It started in silence.

Not the soft kind. Not gentle or shy. Just quiet, like the pause before something inevitable.

She found him behind the garage — tucked in the narrow corridor between shipping crates and spare parts, the smell of burnt rubber still clinging to the air. The world was still spinning, but not here. Here, everything stood still.

He was pacing, or trying to. Running a hand through his hair, unzipping his suit to the waist. His fireproofs clung to his chest, damp from the heat, collarbone slick with sweat. Practice three had just ended. Qualifying would be starting soon.

She didn’t call his name.

She didn’t have to.

He looked up — and that was it.

Two steps forward, maybe three, and her back was against the metal wall of the garage. His mouth was on hers before she could say anything. Fast. Messy. Hungry.

She gasped into him and his hands found her waist, pulled her closer until there was nothing between them but breath and fabric and heat. Her fingers slid under his fireproofs, skimming the skin there — lean muscle, tense and twitching. His teeth grazed her lower lip and she let out a sound, soft but aching, and he swallowed it whole.

“Kimi—” she whispered, head falling back as his mouth trailed along her jaw.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the hollow of her throat, hands tight on her hips like if he let go, the moment would shatter.

“We can’t do this right now,” she breathed, even as her body arched into him.

“You’re here,” he said simply, lips brushing her collarbone. “So I am.”

The paddock hummed meters away — voices rising, radios crackling, tyres squealing as they were dragged into garages. But none of it made it in here.

Here, it was just heat.

Just the scrape of zippers, the thud of her heart, the press of him against her in a space barely wide enough to hold the tension between them. His hands mapped her like muscle memory, like he’d known this all along.

She kissed him back harder, less afraid now. Pulled at his suit, tugged him closer until her breath hitched and his eyes fluttered shut.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She laughed, breathless. “So smug.”

“You like it.”

God help her — she did.

Her fingers slid along the edge of his fireproofs, up his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Neither moved.

The silence thickened again, warm and wanting. She could feel the race weekend closing in on them—like a drumbeat from beyond the walls—but he didn’t flinch. Just leaned his forehead to hers, their bodies still tangled, mouths parted like they hadn’t quite finished saying goodbye.

“Quali,” she murmured.

He groaned softly. “Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

That made him smile—barely, like a secret. She kissed the edge of it, stealing one more second, one more breath. And then she was pulling away, hands smoothing her hair, her shirt, her expression.

He leaned back against the wall, watching her with something unreadable behind his eyes.

“Rory,” he said, as she reached for the door.

She turned.

“I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the steadiness in his voice. The way it held her name like it mattered.

“Neither am I,” she said, then slipped out into the light.

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The hotel restaurant was glossy with evening polish — low lights in golden sconces, a ceiling that caught sound and held it soft, and glass tabletops that reflected every flicker of expression. The Bearman family had taken over a booth in the corner, tucked just enough out of sight to let secrets simmer unnoticed.

Rory slid into the booth beside her younger brother Thomas, heart still unsettled from earlier. Her skin prickled like it remembered every place Kimi had touched her — her throat, her waist, the inside of her wrist.

She could still feel the imprint of him on her ribs. His mouth behind her ear. His voice, low and uneven, whispering don’t go when she tried to slip away before it could turn into more.

He was already at the table, seated across from her beside Ollie, posture perfect, gaze low over the menu. Hair still a little damp from the shower. She didn’t trust herself to look too long.

Her knee brushed his under the table.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But his fingers tightened slightly on the menu.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner. I’m excited for you all to stay with us in Imola.”

David Bearman, ever the sharp observer in family settings, clapped Kimi on the shoulder. “Anytime Kimi. But man that qualifying run was something else, mate. Real grit through sector two.”

Kimi gave a polite nod. “Thanks. Just trying to find pace.”

He didn’t look at her. Not once.

Terri passed around a menu. “Thomas, no more chicken tenders. I swear, if you order off the kids' menu at sixteen—”

“Fifteen,” he muttered, sulking, “and it’s not the kids’ menu, it’s just called that.”

Rory’s lips twitched.

Ollie leaned over to swat Thomas’s arm. “Order something green for once.”

“Leave me alone, you order like a wellness coach.”

That earned a laugh from David and a warning look from Terri, and for a moment, things felt easy. Normal.

Until Kimi reached for his water glass — and his knee bumped Rory’s under the table.

Not hard. Not lingering. But enough.

She didn’t move.

Not when the waiter took orders.

Not when to food arrived.

Her pulse stuttered as she traced her finger along the condensation on her glass, trying not to look across the table. He sat so composed, chin tilted slightly, not even blinking. But his foot stayed there, just barely pressed against hers.

Conversation rose around them — Ollie arguing about tire degradation, David chiming in with some old racing anecdote, Thomas digging into a story about a karting kid who threw up in his helmet. Background noise. Cover for the storm just beneath Rory’s skin.

She hadn’t meant for it to feel like this. 

“You’re quiet,” Terri said gently, eyes on her. “Everything alright, love?”

Rory blinked. “Yeah, just tired.”

But it wasn’t tiredness pressing hot behind her knees or making her fingers curl too tightly around her water glass. It was Kimi’s leg against hers under the table. The weight of earlier still wound into her limbs, soft and unrelenting.

He hadn’t looked at her all dinner — not directly. But she could feel him like a current.

Their legs touched, just barely. The tablecloth draped low enough to hide it, their secret tucked in the folds.

She shifted — not away. Closer.

His foot moved, slow and deliberate. The toe of his shoe brushed along her ankle. Her breath hitched, caught in the top of her chest. She reached for her wine glass and missed slightly, fingers fumbling the stem.

Kimi didn’t flinch.

But under the table, his foot stilled. Firm. Present.

Terri launched into a story about Rory’s first karting accident — something about a lost front wing and a tantrum — and Ollie added dramatic reenactments, hands flailing. Thomas was in stitches.

Rory laughed on cue, barely hearing a word. Her heart was too loud. Her skin too hot. And Kimi — Kimi was just sitting there, still composed, still unreadable, while his shoe pressed lightly into the inside of her calf like a promise.

Her cheeks flushed. She could still taste the ghost of him on her mouth. The low rasp of his voice when he’d told her not to leave. The heat of his body crowding hers behind the garage wall, hands tight on her hips like the world might end if he let go.

She dragged her gaze away. Took a sip of water.

“We’ll head up after this,” David was saying. “Early morning, and I don’t trust Ollie to wake up without three alarms.”

Thomas leaned toward Kimi, conspiratorial. “They still make him wear the same pajamas from when he was fourteen. Did you know that? They have little go karts all over them.”

“Thomas! You’re such a liar.” Ollie’s voice cracked with horror.

Kimi smiled — just barely. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Needing a distraction, Rory turned to Thomas, desperate to say something — anything.

“You still have that formula four race next month?”

“Yeah,” he said, bright with pride. “There’s a series in Italy. Dad said you might come?”

“Maybe,” she managed. “If I’m not—”

Busy with Kimi’s mouth on her neck. Busy trying not to fall into whatever this was.

He didn’t move his foot.

Just left it there.

And when the check came and everyone shuffled to stand, Kimi rose last, slow and careful. He lingered by her side, his voice low in her ear:

“I’ll wait for you.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet instruction. As if he already knew she wouldn’t say no.

And when she turned to grab her bag, her hand brushed his.

She held it.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

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The hallway outside the Bearmans’ hotel suite was hushed, carpeted in silence and warm lamplight. Rory stood with her hand on the doorknob, phone tucked tight to her chest, heartbeat drumming in her ears.

She waited five minutes after everyone had gone to bed.

Then slipped out barefoot.

Kimi’s room was two floors down.

The walk felt like an eternity — like every footstep might echo into something irreversible. She pressed the elevator button with her knuckle, counted the seconds, and prayed no one from the paddock would see her in her oversized jumper and sleep shorts.

His door opened before she could knock.

He must have been watching through the peephole.

Kimi stood in the doorway, backlit by soft yellow light, shirtless, his damp hair curling slightly over his forehead. The sharp line of his collarbone dipped into his chest. Low, grey sweatpants hung loose at his hips.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stepped aside to let her in.

The moment the door shut behind her, her breath caught. Her skin still felt marked — not with bruises, but memory.

“Kimi,” she whispered.

But he was already moving.

And then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was different now. No stolen seconds behind the garage. No risk of getting caught — only the burn of restraint unraveling by the second. He pressed her against the wall beside the door, his hands splayed wide across her waist, under her sweatshirt, palms flat to her bare skin.

He kissed her like he was drowning.

And she let him.

Her hands slid up over his shoulders, into his hair, tugging him closer like the space between them was too much. His tongue swept over hers, deliberate, claiming. Her back arched under his touch — she couldn’t help it.

When his mouth left hers, it only moved lower — jaw, neck, the hollow beneath her ear.

“Dinner almost killed me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “I would’ve—fuck, Rory.”

She whimpered as he lifted her, arms around his neck, her thighs bracketing his hips. He carried her to the bed without hesitation, laying her down like he already knew the shape of her.

They kissed until her lips were swollen.

Until his hands trembled where they held her.

Until she felt him through their clothes and she was shaking under him, overwhelmed.

But then he stopped.

Breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers, he muttered, “Shit.”

Rory blinked up at him, lips swollen, chest rising fast.

“What?”

“I have the race,” he said, voice strained. “In the morning. I need sleep. I—I shouldn’t... if we keep going I won’t stop. It’s too soon.”

Her fingers curled in the waistband of his sweats, reluctant. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” It was instant. “God, no.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, slower this time. A deep, aching pull that said everything he couldn’t.

Then he pulled back, chest heaving. “I want to do this right. Not when I have to leave in a few hours. We should talk too.”

She nodded, throat tight.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You feel like it’s just this?”

Rory met his eyes, wide and shining in the dark. “No.”

He waited, silent.

She exhaled. “I don't not want this. But it’s not just this. If that makes sense”

A beat. He nodded.

Kimi laid down on his back next to her, hands on his thighs, grounding himself. “I don’t do this with people.”

“I know.”

“This is a really weird time for me.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His thumbs traced soft circles over her knees. “But I think about you all the time. I don’t know what this is yet, but it’s not casual for me.”

Her eyes welled.

She sat up, arms wrapping around his neck again, her forehead resting against his. “Me neither.”

They sat like that for a moment, still caught in the tension, but softened now, tethered by something gentler.

Eventually, she whispered, “I should go.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched like it killed him to let her. “Stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Her smile was small. “Sure. Just for you.”

He brushed a kiss to her temple. “Thank you.”

Rory nodded, her heart folding in on itself. Something about the way he said it — quiet, like a secret — made her ache.

She slipped under the covers beside him, still in her sweatshirt and shorts. He lay back against the pillows, arm resting behind his head, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the weekend was finally catching up to him. The room buzzed with stillness, soft and safe.

She turned onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him.

“You always this tense the night before a race?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curved faintly. “Only since you started showing up in hotel hallways.”

A quiet laugh slipped from her throat. “Right. My fault.”

His eyes opened — not fully, just enough to meet hers in the low light. “No. You make it better.”

She swallowed. The words hooked into something deep inside her, something she hadn’t realized she’d been guarding.

Kimi reached for her hand under the duvet, weaving their fingers together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “But I need you to know… when you’re around, I feel—lighter. Like I can breathe a little easier.”

Rory blinked back the sting in her eyes. “I feel that too.”

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow and steady. She watched the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his chest rose and fell as he fought sleep.

“You’re sure you want me to stay?” she whispered.

Kimi nodded without opening his eyes. 

So she did.

She lay beside him, watching the lines of his face soften in the dark, memorizing the subtle curve of his mouth, the way his hair stuck up at odd angles when he shifted against the pillow. His grip on her hand loosened gradually until his breathing slowed, deep and even.

He looked young like this. Not the composed, quiet racer. Not the boy with fire in his veins and control in his bones. Just Kimi. Bare. Human.

Her heart thudded low in her chest, warm and slow.

She reached out with her free hand, brushing a piece of hair from his forehead, fingers ghosting over his skin.

“I think I’m falling for you,” she whispered.

He didn’t stir.

And maybe it was better that way — for now.

Rory pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, barely there, then slowly lifted the covers up, tiptoeing her way to the door. She gave him one last look before walking into the hallway and shutting the door.

She let herself imagine what might come next — after the race, after the secrecy, after the ache.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit by warm lights and the glow of a vending machine at the far end. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet, but everything inside her felt loud. Her pulse, her breath, the way her skin still hummed where his fingers had been.

The moment the door shut behind her, the air felt colder. Sharper.

She tightened the sweatshirt around her frame, hugging her arms to her chest as she padded toward her room.

Kimi’s voice was still in her head — the rasp of it, the way it had frayed just a little when he asked her to stay. The look in his eyes before he’d fallen asleep, like letting her in cost him something but he did it anyway.

She could still feel the warmth of him on her skin, the way he held her hand under the sheets like he was afraid to let go.

God, she was falling for him.

Not just in the dizzy, breathless way — though that was part of it too. But deeper. In the way that settled behind her ribs and rooted itself into something permanent. In the way his steadiness calmed the worst parts of her, and how his silences made her feel heard in a way words never had.

By the time she slipped back into her room, the loneliness hit her like a cold draft.

Her bed was untouched. The sheets still perfectly tucked. She climbed in and curled on her side, facing the window, watching the shadows stretch long across the floor.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Not when she could still feel his fingers laced with hers, not when her chest ached with all the things they hadn’t said — and all the things she wanted to believe might still be waiting for them.

It was selfish, maybe, to want more. They hadn’t even named this thing. But the truth sat sharp in her throat.

She knew this would be different - difficult.

But she wanted mornings.

Not just the nights when tension pulled them together like magnets in the dark — but the sunlit mornings too. The sleepy, slow ones where everything was real and nothing had to be hidden.

She wanted to wake up beside him.

To kiss him without the rush, without the guilt.

To see what it felt like when he wasn’t pretending.

She turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes.

And in the quiet of her hotel room, her body still warm from his, her heart whispering things she wasn’t ready to say aloud, she let herself hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

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Thanks for reading!!!!

tagged: @mywritersmind

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

[annaswrites00]

Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(3.3k)

Chapter Four - Miami Heat

Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary – The Miami Grand Prix weekend brings heat, high stakes, and quiet moments that linger longer than expected. As Oscar takes the win and Lando finishes just behind, Margot finds herself pulled further into something unspoken. A hotel room, a breath held too long, and a parting that stays with her. Warning – Mentions of disordered eating

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The Florida heat clung to Margot's skin like a thick blanket even as the sun dipped low over the paddock. The air shimmered with the scent of burned rubber, champagne, and summer sweat. Camera shutters clicked in fast succession, a frenzied chorus competing with the crowd's cheers.

Oscar was on the top step, drenched in victory. 

The glint of the trophy caught the stage lights as he lifted it overhead, the confetti storm raining down like pastel snow. He took a deep breath, waving down towards their dad. Lily stood off to the side next to them, her smile as bright as the lights overhead. The moment was theirs, golden and loud and blinding.

Margot stood half-shadowed beneath the podium awning, sunglasses hiding her eyes, arms crossed loosely across her chest. Her lips were neutral—not a smile or a frown—just stillness. She looked like a part of the crew, yet outside of it, she looked like someone watching a film through thick glass.

Her gaze wasn't on the trophy.

Lando stood one step below her brother, a bottle of champagne dangling from his fingers, some dripping from his curls. His smile was genuine, but it didn't quite reach up. Not the way she'd seen it when it was just the two of them. Still, he played the part. He always did.

And then, maybe accidentally, maybe not… he looked her way. It was brief. Barely a moment. But it hit like a pull, gentle and strange. He nodded once. Like it mattered.

She didn't nod back. Just held his gaze until he turned again.

The noise didn't soften, but she felt a little quieter inside.

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Her phone buzzed sometime after midnight.

She'd been lying on the hotel bed for over an hour, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the air conditioner's hum barely masking the dull ache in her chest. The post-race adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only stillness—heavy and familiar.

The message lit up her lock screen.

Lando

you around?

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second. Just long enough to admit to herself how fast her heart had jumped.

Then…

Margot

yeah. room 614.

The soft rush of her breath filled the small room as she hit send, then tossed the phone to the mattress like it burned.

She didn't move right away. She sat cross-legged in one of Oscar's old t-shirts and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her damp hair curling at the ends from a shower she didn't fully remember taking. Her skin was warm and clean, but her mind felt foggy like it hadn't caught up.

When the knock came, it was soft and tentative. Her pulse stuttered. She padded to the door, the carpet muffling her footsteps, and opened it. He was there.

He was wearing joggers, a jacket, and a hoodie pulled over his damp curls. His sneakers were loose and slightly scuffed. One hand was in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't sure if this was a good idea. He was a little tired around the eyes.

She stepped aside without a word.

Lando moved past her slowly, his shoulders brushing the edge of the doorway. He didn't speak either; he offered her a faint, crooked smile as he slipped inside. The room swallowed him up, all shadows and low light, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across the carpet and catching the edge of his profile in gold.

It smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, mingled with hotel linen and the ever-present hum of Miami's heat pressing on the sealed windows.

"Do you want water or anything?" she asked, her voice quiet and rough around the edges.

He looked at her like he was about to say no, then nodded instead. "Yeah. Sure."

She moved toward the mini fridge in the corner and pulled out two bottles. She handed him one and set hers on the counter, where a glass already sat—full, untouched. Next to it, a protein bar, still in the wrapper, and a bowl of almonds.

Also untouched.

He didn't say anything, but she felt his eyes pause there.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, curling one leg beneath her, the other foot still flat to the floor. "Didn't go to the team dinner thing?"

He twisted the bottle open and took a long sip before answering. "Nah."

That was all.

Her mouth twitched. "Same."

"Yeah, I figured."

She looked at him and saw how he'd settled into the armchair by the window. He'd done this before, and he knew the shape of her space. One ankle crossed over his knee, fingers drumming lightly against the cap of his water bottle. Not tense. Just alert in that way, he always was — like his brain was still partly on the track.

A silence drifted in, not sharp or uncomfortable, but something slower. Ambient. Familiar.

"You looked pissed getting out of the car," she said finally, half teasing.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out.

Lando gave a soft, rueful sound and scratched the back of his neck again. 

"I was mostly pissed at myself. Shit start. Screwed turn one, lost momentum. Took me too long to work my way back up."

"You still made up for it."

He nodded slowly. "Hmm."

Margot tilted her head, watching him. "P2's not exactly a tragedy."

He looked at her for a beat. Not annoyed, not defensive. Just… tired.

Then: "You sound like my engineer. Like Zak."

"Does it mean more coming from me?" She laughed breathlessly.

That pulled something looser from him. A laugh that felt real. She liked that one.

Lando leaned back further, letting his head fall against the cushion behind him. "You ever wish you could just redo the first ten seconds of something?"

Margot blinked. "Like, in general?"

He nodded. "Race starts. Conversations. Days."

She thought about it for a moment. "Only a million times a week."

That earned her another soft smile.

She looked down at her knees. "You didn't fuck up the whole race, though."

"No," he admitted. "Just... didn't get what I wanted."

"And what did you want?"

His gaze slid toward her, a little sharper now. Curious. "A win."

He went quiet again.

"Would've felt nice. To have that. Two years in a row. Something concrete."

"You mean the trophy?"

"I mean... yeah. And no." He paused. "Oscar deserved it. He drove clean. Smart."

"So did you."

He looked at her like he wasn't sure how to respond.

She stood then, slowly, and crossed the room. Taking the chair at the table across from him.

Outside, the city glowed in streaks of gold and red, blurred through the tinted glass.

"Does it ever get easier?" she asked, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room. "Losing, I mean."

He was quiet for a long beat. "Sometimes."

She turned her head at that. Found him already looking at her.

Something about it made her throat tighten — how his expression softened when she didn't look away.

"Wasn't your win," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But it wasn't a loss either."

Lando's fingers stilled on the bottle. "You're not really talking about the race anymore."

"No," she admitted.

And the silence that followed wasn't empty at all.

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They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed by the time the second episode started — some painfully scripted dating show with too many slow-motion makeouts and too much crying. The kind of thing you weren't supposed to like but kept watching anyway.

Margot's back rested against the headboard, knees pulled up, arms around them like a shield. Lando sat beside her, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. His hoodie was off now, draped over the foot of the bed, and his curls were still damp, drying in soft coils that made her want to reach out and touch them more than she should.

The room was dim, bathed in the flicker of the television and the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, Miami breathed in restless waves of light and sound, but inside, it was quiet, thick with the hush of almosts, the kind of silence that wrapped around them like a held breath.

Lando shifted slightly, and the side of his leg brushed against hers. She didn't move.

"You know this is actually the worst show I've ever seen," he murmured, voice low like even the silence around them deserved respect.

"You love it," she replied, barely above a whisper.

He turned his head, not all the way, just enough that she felt it. "Don't tell Oscar. He would never let me hear the end of it."

His arm brushed hers again, this time on purpose. Not enough to startle. Just enough to feel.

Margot didn't look at him. Couldn't. Her fingers were curled into the edge of her oversized shirt, and her chest felt too tight in a way she couldn't explain. Not painful, just heavy.

The protein bar was still on the counter. The water glass still full.

And she knew he'd seen.

Lando played with his fingers a bit. "When's the last time you ate something?"

The question should've come sharp, but it didn't. It came like mist, like concern wrapped in cotton.

Margot blinked at the screen. A girl was crying on a poolside lounge chair. Her bikini was glittery, her face blotchy.

"I had… a smoothie. After qualifying."

"That was yesterday."

Her throat closed up. She should've just lied. With him, though, it felt like she didn't have to.

"I'm fine," she said, quiet but firm. Maybe if she said it softly enough, he wouldn't hear the shakiness in her voice.

Lando didn't respond right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and unhurried. Then he shifted again, slow and careful, laid back against the pillows beside her, arms behind his head.

"I was gonna order fries," he said simply. "And grilled cheese. It's good here."

She shook her head before he could finish. "I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask," he said, not unkindly. Soft. Reassuring.

Margot's jaw tightened. She stared harder at the screen. Forcing herself to focus on the couple's on-screen argument. Not the thick tension building between her and Lando.

He glanced over at her, then back up at the ceiling. "You don't have to eat. I just don't want to eat alone in my room."

Something in her chest gave out a little. Bent. Not broken — not yet. Just tired.

The space between them was an inch. Maybe less. She turned her head then, just slightly, and looked at him — really looked at him. The faint crease between his brows. The line of his throat. The way he wasn't watching her but was entirely aware of her.

"You don't have to stay," she said, barely audible.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

He was quiet for a moment. A car honked faintly outside, swallowed by the thick hotel windows.

"Because you didn't ask me to leave."

Margot's breath caught.

And maybe it was stupid, the way that landed. Like her ribs had been strung too tight, and his words plucked one loose. She let her head rest back against the headboard, not quite looking at him, not quite away. Her voice was steadier now but smaller.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"You don't know that."

"I don't need to." He paused.

She stared at the screen. The couple was kissing again. Music swelling. Everything fake and fluorescent.

"I don't want to make this your problem," she whispered.

"You're not. I'm not going to push. Not right now." He said it like it was the truth and he didn't need her to believe it immediately. Like he was willing to wait.

And then, it was quiet again—not awkward. She felt the weight of him beside her, steady and unmoving, his thigh warm against hers, his breathing slow. Then his fingers brushed hers—barely.

An accident.

She didn't pull away. She linked her soft fingers with his — calloused and warm, worn by years of pressure and precision, and yet they held her like something delicate, like maybe he knew she was.

And for a moment, that felt like enough.

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Morning came slowly.

The curtains were half drawn, letting in a slip of sunlight that stretched across the floor like a quiet invitation. Margot stirred before she opened her eyes, aware first of the heaviness in her limbs and then of the shape beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

She blinked up at the ceiling. The TV was still on, volume low, frozen on the streaming menu screen. Her neck ached faintly. Her legs were tangled in the sheets. And Lando was still here.

He was lying on his side, arm bent beneath his head, curls a little messier than the night before. His eyes were open, gaze soft and far away. He didn't move when she shifted, only offered the smallest smile, barely there, as if he didn't want to startle the moment.

"Hey," he said, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

Margot sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. "Hey."

She didn't know what time it was. Didn't want to check.

Her stomach felt hollow and tight. Her throat was dry. And still, somehow, none of it was loud. Not like it usually was. Just a faint hum, tucked behind the quiet.

Lando stretched an arm over his head, then let it fall again. "I did not mean to fall asleep."

"You didn't snore," she said softly, attempting a smile that almost worked.

He laughed under his breath. "Didn't mean to overstay either."

"You didn't."

He sat up slowly, groaning like he was trying to dissolve the stillness. Then he glanced around, found his hoodie at the foot of the bed, and tugged it on in silence.

Margot watched him, uncertain. Part of her expected him to say something. To bring up last night. But he didn't.

And she was grateful.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her again. "I'm heading out in a bit. Flight home."

She nodded. "Right. Week off."

He paused for just a second. "I won't say anything. About… any of it."

Margot did not respond at first. She looked down at her hands, twisting the corner of the sheet between her fingers.

"Okay."

His voice was gentler then, lower. "You don't have to talk about it. I just meant… I am here, alright? When you want. If you want."

She looked up, and this time, she let the quiet between them speak for her.

He smiled again, soft and crooked, then moved toward the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back.

"I'll see you in Imola?"

His voice was tender, woven with something that wasn't quite a question. He knew the answer but wanted to hear it from her anyway.

Margot nodded, her throat thick. "Yeah. I will be there."

Lando didn't move right away. He lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle, the other still tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. The morning light kissed the side of his face, softening the curve of his cheek, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the slight pink mark pressed into his jaw from where it had rested on the pillow.

She thought he might say something else. But he didn't. He just looked at her.

So she got up.

Barefoot, steps hushed on the carpet. Her oversized shirt hung low on her frame, and her hair was gently disheveled, her sleep woven into the strands. She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the trace of his shampoo, faint hints of hotel soap, and something warmer that was just him.

For a second, they didn't speak.

Then she stepped forward, just slightly, just enough, and wrapped her arms around him.

Lando froze for the smallest beat. Then she felt the slow exhale, the way his hands rose to meet her back, one resting at her waist, the other curling gently around her shoulder.

It wasn't rushed. Deep and quiet, the kind of embrace that settles into the bones. His head tilted, his chin brushing the top of her hair, and his thumb moving slowly against her spine. Margot let herself lean in and let his warmth anchor her for a breath longer than she should have. Her face found the hollow of his neck, where his pulse moved steady and slow.

Neither of them spoke.

Not when she shifted slightly, lifting her chin to look up at him.

Not when his eyes flicked down, briefly, to her mouth.

It was an almost that lingered. The kind that lived in the air between two people like a held breath. His hand stayed at her waist. Her fingers rested light against his chest. She felt his breath catch, just once, then ease.

Then, slowly, he pulled back. Just enough to look at her. His gaze traced her face like he was trying to memorize it.

"I'll see you soon," he said softly.

And then he turned, opened the door, and disappeared down the hall.

Margot stood in the doorway a moment longer, her fingers tingling with his imprint. The hotel room felt colder now.

She closed the door gently, rested her forehead against it for just a second, and whispered to the stillness,

"Okay."

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The airport was cold in that artificial, too-bright way airports always were. Margot sat cross-legged in a terminal seat with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the hum of people and wheelie suitcases and low boarding calls all blurring into background noise.

She wasn’t sure she’d slept much. Her body ached the way it did when rest didn’t quite reach her — shallow and scattered. But she was warm. She kept thinking about that, oddly. Her skin still felt warm, like some part of Lando had lingered. The press of his hand at her waist. The shape of his voice in her hotel room. I’ll see you soon.

She wasn’t used to people meaning it when they said things like that.

"Flight’s still on time?" Lily asked, sitting beside her and tipping her head onto Margot’s shoulder.

"Mhm."

“You gonna try and sleep on the plane?”

“Maybe.” She looked down at the worn handle of her carry-on. “I’ll try.”

A few minutes passed. Oscar was off grabbing a water from a nearby shop, and Margot let herself sink into the lull. Her body was tired. Her brain was noisy. But there was something... softer about today. Even in the static hum of an airport, she felt like she could breathe a little better than she had the day before.

“Hey.”

Oscar’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He crouched in front of her, bottle in hand, his brows a little pinched.

“You okay?” he asked.

She blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

He glanced to the side, checking that Lily wasn’t listening — though she had her earbuds in now, probably pretending to nap.

Oscar looked back at her. His voice dropped a little.

“I just meant… you know. The food thing. Are you doing okay? I don't want you falling into those old habits. Mom and Dad would want me to check in.”

Her heart did that annoying thing where it jumped and curled at the same time.

She forced a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Oscar didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on her face, like he was reading too much into the lines under her eyes, the way she held herself. But he nodded eventually.

“Alright. Just checking.”

She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t quite make herself. Instead, she stood and smoothed the sleeves of her hoodie down over her wrists.

“And Margot?”

She pulled back, meeting his gaze.

“Eat something today. For real.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

She’d try.

Maybe.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Thanks for reading!

tagged: @henna006 @wherethezoes-at @landofotographyy

[annaswrites00]

Just Making “Friends” - Part Two

Part One, Part Three (final)

Franco Colapinto (smau) - fc43 x liliana sainz (OC) face claim - madison beer (all pics from pinterest)

Summary - Franco and Liliana Sainz hit it off his first race back on the grid in Imola

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lilianasainz

lilianasainz monaco was cool

Liked by francocolapinto, hattiepiastri, and 9,677 others

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williamsracing Always a pleasure to have you in the paddock!

alexandrasaintmleux favorite guest

francocolapinto Monaco is cool

f1tea hello again franco

iamrebeccad ur perfect babe

f1wagsdrama couldn't beat franco...

user1221 😍😍

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

Grid Chat 🏁

Lando Norris

Ur pushing ur luck Franco...

Pierre Gasly

this whole thing is killing me

Carlos Sainz

Killing you??? It is killing me

Alex Albon

Ok chill please

Carlos Sainz

CHILL???

Lewis Hamilton

As long as we keep the drama off the track mate

Franco Colapinto

I am confused is there a problem?

Isack Hadjar

that was the wrong thing to say 😂

Kimi Antonelli

LOL

Ollie Bearman

franco u have got to lock in mate

Liam Lawson

Is your career worth this????

Carlos Sainz

Excuse me? My sister is worth much more than just his sorry career that will end very soon.

Franco Colapinto

Oh this is about lili?

George Russell

Franco, please call your pr team mate

Alex Albon

LOLLL

Lando Norris

I would risk it all for her too, I get it

Oscar Piastri

oh lets not

Isack Hadjar

we all would

Carlos Sainz

Oh enough

Pierre Gasly

I like this, this is fun

Liked by Max Verstappen, Kimi Antonelli, and Alex Albon

Charles Leclerc

I like this too

Charles Leclerc

franco, take lilliana out tonight again mate

Carlos Sainz

Charles Leclerc I hope you spin out on the formation lap tomorrow

Franco Colapinto

Wait? Is there a a problem with me spending time with lili?

Max Verstappen

Mate, did you crash and hit your head recently???

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Sainz Familia

Carlos

Liliana, can I please request you cut any and all contact with Franco

Lili

Why?? He's my friend

Carlos Sr.

Carlos. You cannot tell your sister who she can or cannot hang out with.

Carlos Sainz

????

Carlos Sainz

Yes I can??

Lili

Maybe you should focus on the race instead

Carlos Sr.

She has a point.

Carlos Sainz

????

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

lilianasainz has posted on close friends

Replies

alexandrasaintmleux this is killing me

hattiepiastri need an update asap

carlossainz what does this mean?? who is funny

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francocolapinto

francocolapinto Had a time in Monaco

Liked by landonorris, lilianasainz, and 796,458 others

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pierregasly I'm sure you did

lilianasainz spain soon

user256 GOOO Franco!!!! 🇦🇷🇦🇷

isackhadjar he did in fact have a time

f1gossip hi little sainz… we see you in the comments

user7305 let’s gooo to SPAINNN next!

alpinef1tean Always a good weekend when we can bring in points!

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f1teaaaalol

f1teaaaalol Do you ship Franco and Liliana?

Liked by f1memes, gridgirls, and 7,567 others

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wagscentral yes!!! more of them plz

user223 no. franco can do way better

formulaonelollls ugh need them together now

user567 are they together or just friends???

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Thanks for reading!!!