boocmarks

[boocmarks]

we’re giggling and making out after the race - LN4.

content: fluff, cheeky kisses, post-race giggles, suggestive sweetness, secret relationship vibes.

He finds you behind the barriers after media, cheeks flushed and hair still damp with sweat, fireproofs rolled down and tied at the waist. The second your eyes meet, he exhales like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You open your arms. “P2 never looked so sexy.”

He laughs — that breathless, half-pouty sound he does when he wants to be cocky but he’s a little annoyed. “Should’ve had him.”

“I know,” you say, stepping into his chest. “You will next time.”

His arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you against him with that signature grip: firm, warm, just a bit desperate. He drops his head into your neck and groans, “I wanted it so bad.”

You smile, fingers sliding into his hair. “I could tell. You were flying out there.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You’re biased.”

“Obviously,” you grin, and he kisses you — quick, teasing, like he needs it more than he’ll admit. Then another. And another. Until it’s not quick at all.

“You smell like rubber and Monster,” you mumble into his mouth.

“And you smell like you snuck in again.”

You both giggle — the kind of giddy, post-high laugh that only happens after watching someone you love do something insane. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“I was watching from the garage. Crossed every finger. Almost cried.”

Lando smiles against your skin. “That’s why I got P2. You didn’t cry.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh.

He kisses you again, this time slower. “Next time I’ll win.”

“You better.”

“Will you still kiss me if I’m P10?”

You pause like you're thinking, then whisper, “Depends if you look this hot in the suit.”

That earns a dramatic gasp, then a playful bite on your shoulder before you both dissolve into more giggles. He holds your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I better be.”

Someone calls for him again. He sighs. “You coming back to mine?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Can’t sleep without my good luck charm.”

landosgfr ✦

[boocmarks]

Sleeping on the job

[boocmarks]

Hey Suli! Congrats on 1k!!!! I’m so glad you’ve blessed us with your talent and I’m ecstatic I’ve found your writing :) Could I request 10 and 15 for Lewis pls? Thank you!!!!!

Can't Lie

1K SPECIAL - Lewis Hamilton x Reader

SULI: thank you so much for your kind words🫶

PROMPTS:

"you're the only one I can't lie to" ,

Resting their forehead against the other’s,

WARNINGS: none

You could tell something was off from the moment he walked through the door.

Lewis had that look in his eyes again—guarded, unreadable, the kind of look that made everyone around him back off or fall for the illusion. The perfect smile, the polite charm, the “I’m fine” that he had mastered into an art form. But tonight, it cracked around the edges.

He didn’t say much. Just kicked off his shoes and sat down, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it was the only thing that wouldn’t look back at him. He still hadn’t taken his coat off. It was rare to see him like this, but not unfamiliar. You knew how the world wore him down—what it meant to always be on, always be composed, always be perfect.

And you? You never asked him to be any of those things.

You crossed the room quietly, stopping in front of him without saying a word. He looked up at you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

You leaned down, slowly, until your forehead met his.

The second your skin touched his, his eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched like he’d been holding it for far too long. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure, before resting lightly on your hips.

You stayed like that for a beat—just breathing together. Letting silence be the balm neither of you had words for yet.

And then he said it. Voice low, soft, like it hurt to say but hurt more to keep in.

“You’re the only one I can’t lie to.”

The words made your heart lurch.

You didn’t answer—not yet. You didn’t need to. You just let him sit with it, let him feel what it meant to say that out loud. His forehead still pressed against yours, the weight of his confession hanging between you like fragile glass.

“I can fake it with everyone else,” he whispered. “Smile, nod, play the part. But with you…” He pulled in a breath. “I can’t pretend. I don’t know how.”

Your hands reached up, cupping the sides of his face. He leaned into your touch instinctively, like it grounded him. His eyes stayed closed, and for a moment, he wasn’t Lewis Hamilton—the icon, the driver, the legend. He was just a man. Tired. Cracked open. Yours.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be anything but real with me.”

His thumb moved in slow circles at your waist, eyes finally opening again to look at you. There was something raw there—vulnerability worn like bruises he didn’t hide from you.

“You see too much,” he said quietly, like it scared him a little. “You always do.”

You smiled, just a little. “Yeah. And I’m still here.”

That did something to him. His breath stuttered, and the tension in his shoulders gave way, like he was finally—finally—letting go. He pulled you closer then, just enough to rest his forehead more fully against yours, like if he let any distance come between you, he’d lose the only thing keeping him steady.

“I needed this,” he whispered. “I needed you.”

You let your fingers slide into his curls, gently tugging just enough to make his eyes close again.

“I know.”

And when he kissed you—slow, soft, almost desperate—it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a thank you. A confession. A surrender. Everything he didn’t know how to say with words, pressed into your lips like truth.

Because you were the only one he couldn’t lie to.

And he didn’t want to anymore.

[boocmarks]

At Fault | MV1

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max invites his ex to a gp and upsets you. Soft and stubborn Max, but he’s a cutie. A mix between angst and fluff, but mostly fluff towards the end. Lots of reader just ranting. Plus a little cameo from the Ferrari WAGs <3.

warnings: Does Kelly count as a warning? Kinda of toxic, I’m not really sure? But who actually likes seeing their boyfriend’s ex girlfriend??

author’s note: Italics are flashbacks! This turned out longer than expected, but I hope you guys like it! It’s also been a while since I’ve written fics, so it there are any errors pls ignore them😭

The tension in the car was thick. So thick, Max believed he could cut it with a knife.

Your arms were crossed as you stared out the window while Max glanced at you wearily every other second. Thankfully, there were only three of you in the car. You and Max in the backseat, and the driver in front being separated by a divider. Though, Max was sure the driver was able to hear the current disagreement between you and him.

Max fidgeted with the lanyard of his paddock pass and stared at the side of your face. He knew he had upset you and honestly you had every right to be. You were biting the inside of your cheek in frustration trying to keep your emotions at bay. As much as you wanted to argue with Max about how you disagreed with his actions, he was due to race in a couple of hours and you didn’t want to add any more stress on his shoulders.

But Max wanted to talk about this now while you were both alone.

“Schatje, are you really mad?” Max asked quietly, leaning closer to you and trying to get you to face him. He truly didn’t mean to dampen your mood before the race. Most importantly, he didn’t like that he was the reason for you being upset. Your brows furrowed ever so slightly and a faint pout was on your lips, both indications that you were in fact not happy with him.

“Yes, Max, I am mad.” You answered, your voice trembling a bit. You had finally turned away from the window and were looking at him. Max felt a pang of guilt in his heart once he saw the look in your eyes. They weren’t glaring at him with the heat of anger, but they were soft and glossy, you were hurt—he hurt you.

Max cautiously reached out for your hand and tangled your fingers together, though your hand felt limp, like you didn’t want to hold his hand at all.

“I told you the truth.” Max said, leaning his head down trying to catch your eyes again. You took in a deep breath before turning to fully face him.

“Yes Max, you did and I absolutely appreciate it. I really do.” You began, grasping his hand between yours. “But that doesn’t make up for that fact that you’ve had this planned out for nearly a month and only told me thirty minutes ago!” You argued.

Thirty minutes ago, before your ride to the paddock can pick you guys up, Max had revealed that his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, and her daughter would be at the garage to watch the race. When you asked how they got passes to the garage, he shared that he had flown them out and provided them with passes for the weekend.

“So she’s been here all weekend?” You questioned him, arms crossed and a brow raised at him. The Italian heat felt even ten times worse as you grew frustrated with your boyfriend.

“Yeah, but they were at the Paddock Club, they’re going to watch the race from the garage though.” Max shrugged, as if it were not a big deal. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and grasped your hand in his free one.

You couldn’t help the feeling of insecurity seeping into your bones. Kelly was rich and gorgeous, she was a model, and you weren’t. You had a normal job that offered you stability, paid you good money, and you knew how to clean up nice. However, you were no where near her level of anything or any of the other WAGs at that.

“You’ve known this whole time that she was here?” You asked quietly, your brows furrowed at him. You hated that you kept asking him questions, it was like you were interrogating him.

Max looked down at you, confusion etched on his face, “I did, schatje. I flew them out and got them some paddock passes.” You acted before you could speak, and shook your head at him, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Your boyfriend was one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, however, many people took that as a sign to take advantage of him. While it took him longer to realize it, you noticed it instantly.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset though, I told you the truth, it’s not like I’m doing anything with her.” Max defended himself, his hands wildly moving around. “She reached out telling me that P missed me and wanted to come to a race, it’s not for her, it’s for Penelope.”

“I understand that Max and as harsh as this sounds, Penelope isn’t your responsibility. I get that you helped raise her, but you guys broke up, you don’t need to provide for her anymore.” You threw a hand in the air, emphasizing your point. “Kelly’s fully capable of flying herself out and buying tickets to a race weekend.”

“I was just being nice.” Max raised his voice, also growing frustrated with the situation.

“And she’s still using you!” You fumed, tears welled in the corner of your eyes. “How many times does she have to use you for you to realize it? You guys broke up and she still manages to get what she wants out of you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk in and see her there?” You tried to reason with him. While many of his fans didn’t approve of Kelly, you knew Twitter would have a field day clowning you when they find out Kelly was present in the garage. Social media was never always a nice place and you’ve learned to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it stopped the hate from happening.

Max ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, you scoffed and leaned back into your seat, staring at the window again.

“Do you not trust me?” Max asked forcibly, staring at the side of your head again. You let out a defeated sigh and turn your head to look at him, “I do trust you, Max.”

Max’s shoulders slouched as he leaned on the seat sideways, his body fully turned to you.

“Then why do you not trust me with this?” He pushed, nudging your knee with his, trying to get an answer out of you. He knew he was at fault and he just wanted to make it right.

“I don’t trust her.” You simply answered, feeling done with the conversation. The car turned, nearing the entrance of the paddock. You sniffled as you untucked your hair from behind your ears, removing your sunglasses from the top of your head.

“You don’t have to worry about her, schatje. I want you not her, there’s a reason why we broke up.” Max reassured, trying to ease the tension between the two of you.

The car came to a halt, a knock came from the driver, indicating that you guys arrived at the paddock. Before you could leave, you turned to Max and said, “Yet, she’s still here.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Entering the paddock was always a frenzy. The moment you stepped out the car, fans were quick to recognize you, knowing that one of their favorite drivers were right behind you. You slid your sunglasses on and smoothed out the white maxi dress you wore. Max followed in suit and flashed a smile at the fans.

Shouldering his bag, he held his hand out to you, “I know you’re upset, but can I please hold your hand?”

You nodded and entangled your fingers with his. The two of you began your walk into the paddock hand in hand, as fans screamed and waved at Max. He gave your hand a squeeze before guiding you guys to some of the barricades and signing a few things for the fans.

After you guys scanned your passes, Max led you guys to the Red Bull garage. However, you came to a halt. Max was quick to look back at you, “You okay?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna meet up with Alex and Rebecca, if that’s okay? We were planning on seeing each other before the race.” You tell him. A small pout formed on Max’s lips, “Oh, okay, I’ll drop you off.” He offered, still holding your hand.

You and the girls decided to meet up at the Paddock Club. In front of the entrance, Max stood in front of you.

“You’ll come to the garage to watch, right? I need you there.” He asked quietly, so that people passing by cannot hear your conversation.

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be there before you’re in the car.”

Max mirrored your actions, “Okay, I love you.” He pulled you in by the waist and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. You squeezed his waist in response, “I love you too.”

Max watched as you entered the building, huffing to himself, while he watched you walk further and further into the building.

Placing your sunglasses above your head, you scan the room until you see one of the girls, Alex was the first to spot you, standing in her spot and waving at you to come over.

“Coucou mon amour!” She greeted you, (Hello, my love!) immediately wrapping you in a hug. You squeal as she squeezed you, “Helloo!” You giggled. You go to greet Rebecca, who is immediately giving you a knowing look. Being the older one amongst the three of you, she was often looked up to as the older sister.

She wrapped an arm around you and smoothed your back, “What’s wrong?” She asked while you got situated in the chair beside her.

You shook your head, “It’s just Max.”

Rebecca grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table and poured some into a flute glass. She offered you the glass, “Thank you, I needed this.”

She smiled watching you take a long sip from the glass, “Oh honey, I know.”

Alex pouted and nudged your foot with hers, “What happened with Max?”

“He invited Kelly to watch the race at the garage today.” You bluntly shared, slumping yourself in your chair.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, “Shut up.”

You raised a brow at her, “Oh, I didn’t even get to the kicker yet.”

Alex’s brows raised, “Which is?”

“He flew her out—he fucking flew her out and gave her tickets for the entire weekend.” You revealed through gritted teeth, still being aware of your surroundings. Rebecca cursed under her breath as Alex took your glass and refilled it with champagne.

Grabbing the glass, you continued, “She’s literally been here all weekend and he only told me this morning. I just don’t get it, they broke up, I don’t know why he’s still so concerned about her.” You took another long sip of champagne,

“What was the reason why?” Rebecca asked you.

“Apparently Penelope missed him—which I can believe, but did he really have to do all the providing when she can financially support herself? I get that he was trying to be nice, but still.” You grunt, fiddling with your glass.

Alex comfortingly rubbed your arm, “No, I get it, if Charles did the same thing with his ex, I’d also be upset.”

“I literally told him that she’s using him once again.” You threw your hands up. “If he wants her to be there so much, he might as well just get back with her. Like—am I crazy for losing my mind at the fact they were in contact with each other, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense?”

Rebecca shook her head, “No, your feelings are absolutely valid. You’re just concerned and it obviously caught you off guard. He shouldn’t have been texting his ex in the first place.”

You groaned and held your head in your hands, “I hate feeling like this, it makes me question if he actually wants to be with me or not.”

Rebecca held her finger up, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Placing her hand on your shoulder she says, “Max might be acting very stupid right now, but one thing I know for sure is that Max loves you and absolutely adores you. Without a doubt.”

Alex nodded, agreeing with Rebecca, “Like have you seen the way he looks at you? He literally worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure he’s beating himself up right now for doing what he did.”

“He loves you, (y/n), everyone who’s seen you guys together knows it. I don’t think he’d put himself in this kind of position on purpose, you’ve got that man wrapped around your finger, babe.” Rebecca reassured you, throwing her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into another hug.

“Come on cheer up, who cares if she’s in the garage today? You’re the one he’s gonna be going home with tonight.” You laughed shaking your head at her teasing.

“Hey! Tonight and every single night!” Alex pointed out raising her glass at you.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Two hours. It’s been two hours since Max has dropped you off at the Paddock Club and he still hasn’t heard back from you. He’s been distracted all day. During a meeting with Christian and some of the engineers, he couldn’t help but constantly check for a text from you, earning himself a scolding from the team principal. Checo and a couple of people from the team tried talking to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes wandered wondering when you would enter the garage.

He did in fact see Kelly and P—obviously he was expecting to see them since he invited them, but all he felt while talking to them was guilt. Guilty because he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes and how he was the reason behind it. He hated it, he felt grimy, and dirty for going behind your back and texting Kelly. Not even ten minutes into catching up with the mother and daughter, Max realized that you were in fact correct. Kelly had used him again, instantly making advances on him despite knowing he was happily taken. But for the sake of P, Max made sure to be friendly though kept his distance to not feed into her mother’s schemes.

It was nearing lights out and you were still not in the garage. He had gone through his warm ups with Bradley, had his fireproofs and suit on, and even laced up his shoes. Still, no sight of you whatsoever in the garage. He was beginning to worry about you, sending you a couple of messages to your phone.

The car was due to be on the grid and there was about half an hour left till lights out. Max looked around the bustling garage, checking to see if you had snuck in without him seeing, though to no avail, you still weren’t there.

“Max…Max…Max?” GP tried to get Max’s attention. Snapping a finger in front of the driver’s face, Max’s eyes flickered over to his race engineer.

“What do you want now?” Max groaned, throwing his head back. To onlookers, it looked like a typical interaction between Max and GP. Though, GP felt like he was babysitting a child whose attention span couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds.

“Mate, I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.” GP claimed. Choosing to ignore the information he had just “briefed” Max on, he decided to be a friend.

“Where’s your head at?” GP asked Max. The Dutch man sighed, leaning against one of the storage units in the garage.

“I messed up with (y/n). I did something and it was my fault, I know it was. But she’s not happy with me at the moment and I just want to make it right.” Max summarized, not sharing any more details to protect the privacy of your relationship.

GP motioned towards Kelly who was talking to one of the other influencers in the garage, “Does it have to deal with that?”

“Unfortunately.” Max mumbled, crossing his arms and choosing to stare at the floor.

GP took a minute to stare at his driver. Max was deflated, he wasn’t as hyped for the race or over explaining some random fact about god knows what. Instead, Max kept to himself, greeting people when he had to and communicating with his team prior to the race. Other than that, Max chose to stare at his phone and look longingly outside the garage.

“Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down. But I’ve seen you with (y/n) and she clearly makes you happy, we’ve all see how lively you are with her around. You’ve got a lot of groveling to do bud, but it’ll be worth it.” GP advised, clapping Max on the back to wake him up.

“She’ll always be worth it.” Max quietly said, taking another glimpse at his phone. Only to be met with his wallpaper of you and him, with no notifications.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Christian Horner stared at his monitor at the pit wall watching as drivers and their teams gathered on the grid. He saw Checo by his car, taking a few sips of water before the race. When the camera panned to Max’s Red Bull, the driver was no where to be seen. Sparing him a second of wondering where his driver was, the camera cut to the garage where Max stood, race suit at his waist, looking no where near ready to participate in the race.

“Why is Max not in the car?” He turned to GP, stress evident on his face. GP turned in his seat and looked back into the garage to see Max pacing. Cursing under his breath, he excused himself from Christian and rushed to Max.

“Max, the race is literally about to start!”

Max stops his pacing and places his hands at his hips, “I need my girlfriend.”

“What?” Bradley and GP both stuttered out. Max deadpanned at the two men in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to see her before the race.” Max demanded. Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, “Max, she’ll be here after the race, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the balaclava towards Max’s chest, who simply let the mask fall at his feet.

GP sighed at Max, before calling one of the Red Bull employees.

“Please send out a search for (y/n), Max is refusing to get in the car.” He whispered to the intern. The girl looked at him confusingly but nodded and set out the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You rushed as best as you could in kitten heels towards the Red Bull garage. You were supposed to be at the garage at least half an hour ago. You and the girls got caught up catching up with each other’s lives that none of you realized it was getting close to lights out. It truly was a funny sight, the three of you rushing out of the Paddock Club and running through the paddock like a bunch of maniacs.

“(Y/n)!” You heard someone yell. You stopped in your steps and looked around, only to see a girl dressed in Red Bull uniform. You recognized her, you believed her name was Nicole and was an intern for the team this season.

“Hey! Is Max on the grid already?” You approached her, a little sad that you missed seeing him before the race.

“No, he’s actually waiting for you. They’re sending out a search for you because he’s refusing to get in the car.” Nicole explained, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you through the crowd of fans and towards the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

GP released a sigh of relief once he saw you enter the garage. He shoved Max’s shoulder to avert his attention to you.

“What—oh,” Max began, only to stop himself and rush towards you. You met him half way, placing a hand on his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to stay there for too long.” You quickly apologized. Max shook his head, “I don’t care, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your brows furrowed at him, “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the car yet?”

Max placed both his hands on your waist with a faint blush on his cheeks, “I need my goodluck kiss.”

You paused your actions, “You’re kidding me. Max, the race is about to start in five minutes!” You scolded your boyfriend.

“Please, schatje.” He pleaded, leaning closer towards you. Other team members and guests watched the both of you, the scene in front of them peaking their interests.

You gazed up at his stormy eyes, giving in because you knew he was stubborn and wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Plus, the team would hate you if you lowered their chances of scoring points this weekend.

“Just because I kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you anymore.” You clarified quietly. His forehead nodded against yours, “I know schatje. I promise to make it up to you, I really do.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “I know, Maxie.”

Max takes that as his sign to crash his lips onto yours. One of his hands support the back of your neck while the other rests on your lower back. You smile against his lips, pulling back and placing a peck right above the small mole on his upper lip.

“I love you.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too.” He whispered back. Before you can fully pull away from him he quickly adds, “I’m serious about my promise.”

“I know, baby.” You squeeze him comfortingly. “Now get out there and win the race. Stay safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as both you and GP ushered him towards his gear that’s been waiting to be put on.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

A man of his word, Max won the race. With at least a five second gap between him and Lando, your boy was top step yet once again. As much as he won, the thrill of seeing him win and crossing the finish line never got old. You celebrated every win of his as if it were his first. You’d always be proud of him, whether he got pole or not.

Many of the engineers and members of the team began to rush towards the grid, eager to greet Max once he got out the car.

Looking around, you suddenly make eye contact with Kelly, who seemed to have been sizing you up. You weren’t really sure what look was on her face, but the hints of a snarl were on her lips. With her nose stuck up in the air, you watched as she carried her daughter and began to follow the rest of the team.

“Don’t mind her. You’re the one he wants to see when he gets out that car.” A voice said from beside you. You jumped, coming face to face with Christian. Your eyes widened at your boyfriend’s boss. Prior to the race, he was informed of the search party the entire team had for you to get Max in the car. While he was annoyed earlier, he thought it was rather cute that Max was so fond of you.

“You know, he’s never begged her for a good luck kiss.” Said Christian, a knowing look on his features. “You on the other hand—he can’t seem to function whenever you’re not around.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was gonna put that much of a fight earlier today.” You apologized, feeling a bit flustered. “He’s a bit stubborn sometimes.” You added, to which Christian chuckled at.

“Oh, I know. Max and I have worked together for years.” He stated. He glanced out the garage and motioned towards it, “C’mon now, I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You make your way through the crowd of Red Bull members, many of them recognizing you and helping you squeeze through till you were at the very front of the barricade.

Max was already out, helmet in his hand, while his other embraced GP and a couple other engineers. You watched as he high-fived Penelope, barely sparing a glance at her mother. A little burst of pride went off in your stomach, you couldn’t help it.

His blue orbs scanned the crowd of red and blue, looking for you. You yell his name, his eyes immediately finding yours. A smile breaks out on his face as he rushed over to you, dropping his helmet in the process. Despite the barricade between you two, he wraps both his arms tightly around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Max!” You squealed, your arms wrapping around his neck. His large hand found your cheek, slightly pulling you away from his neck so he can connect his lips with yours. Naturally, your lips moulded perfectly against his moving in synch. The team erupted in cheers around you.

“I’m so proud of you!” You tell him once your lips separate.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” He grins, gently pinching your bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb.

He couldn’t stay long, being told that he had to get to the podium for the trophy ceremony.

“I’ll see you after the podium, schatje!” He yelled with a wink over his shoulder, causing a blush to form on your cheeks.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

The ceremony and the media tent took a while, you finally got to see Max an hour later. You were sitting in his driver’s room, when he bursted through the door already looking for you.

You stood up, smiling at him, “Hey.”

He mirrors your smile. Placing the trophy on the couch he opens his arms for you. You walk into the comfort of his hold, burying your head into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso.

Finally it was just the two of you.

“I’m sorry.” You said, though it came out muffled against his skin. Max’s hands stopped the circular motions they were rubbing on your back.

“For what?”

You pulled back looking at him, “I overreacted about the whole Kelly thing. I should’ve taken your word for it.”

Max immediately shook his head, disagreeing with you. “No, you were absolutely right about her. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. The moment I said hi to them she was already trying to come onto me—I avoided her by the way, I just entertained P.”

“I’m also sorry for what I said about P. I was in the wrong for that comment.” You said, a small grimace on your face when you remembered the off hand comment you made about the poor child.

Max chuckled, “Schatje, seriously, it’s okay.”

His calloused hands were rough against the soft skin of your face. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cradled your jaw in his hand.

“I may have a soft spot for P, but they’re in my past. You’re my future, (y/n). The future that I only want and see myself in.” Max admitted. Your eyes gleamed at him, “You’re the future I want too, Maxie.”

“Good because you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.” He joked, squeezing your cheeks.

“I love you. So much. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you today, but I want you to know that I do. I fully trust you with my life and I mean it.” You said, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Max nodded, “I believe you. I love you too.”

The two of you basked in the silence and comfort of being in each others arms. Max was the first one to break the silence, “You don’t have plans after this right?”

You hummed against his neck, “Besides celebrating your win, nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out on a date.” Max proudly announced, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Don’t you wanna celebrate with the team?” You asked him. Max shook his head, “Nope, the only person I want to celebrate with tonight is you.”

You giggled at Max’s antics, “Whatever you say, Champ.”

[boocmarks]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Hiding

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: angst with a happy ending

Word Count: ~9.2k

Summary: You & Lando have a big fight before a race. He crashes and you are left to figure out how can your relationship survive.

Masterlist

⸻

It started the night before the race.

Saturday. A day that should’ve ended in celebration. Or, at the very least, quiet comfort.

Lando had been on for pole.

Until the final corner of Q3 — just a slip of concentration, a tire off into the gravel. He lost the lap. Lost pole. Lost the mood.

Max locked in P1. Russell snagged second. Oscar, somehow, took third.

And Lando?

Fourth.

He hadn’t spoken much after quali. Just mumbled through the media pen, kept his head down in the garage. He didn’t even glance your way when you passed him his water bottle at the motorhome. The frustration hung over him like heat off tarmac.

So you tried to do what you always did.

Be the soft place.

Back at his apartment, you made dinner — roasted chicken with lemon and garlic, rosemary potatoes, grilled vegetables just how he liked them. You even pulled out those little candlesticks from the drawer. Set the table. Cleaned the counter. Let music play low in the background. Tried to make it feel like home. Like peace.

He walked in late, nearly eight-thirty, still in his team hoodie, hair flattened from his cap. He dropped his keys and bag by the door without a word.

You turned from the kitchen.

“Hey,” you offered gently. “Dinner’s ready.”

He barely looked at you. Walked straight to the fridge. Cracked open a bottle of water like you hadn’t spoken.

“I made your favorite,” you added.

He took a long drink, eyes on the fridge door. “I’m not hungry.”

Your heart sank a little. “You haven’t eaten since before quali.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

There wasn’t anger in his voice. Just that flat, thin-edged coldness that cut sharper than a shout.

You tried again anyway. “I just thought you might want to sit. Unwind. Talk.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His jaw clenched.

“Talk?” he echoed. “About what? About how I fucked it today? About how Oscar outqualified me again?”

You blinked. “No, Lando. About anything. Or nothing. I just wanted to have a moment with you.”

He shook his head. “Why is that never enough for you? Why do I always come home to this pressure to perform for you too?”

The words hit like gravel under tires. Messy. Unexpected. Painful.

Your throat tightened. “I’m not asking you to perform. I just… I miss you. I tried to make tonight easier. Nicer.”

“Well, don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t try to fix everything all the time. It just makes me feel worse.”

You stood there, still holding the serving spoon. “I made dinner because I love you. Because I knew you’d be hurting.”

He scoffed and looked away. “Yeah, well. Love shouldn’t feel this heavy all the time.”

You opened your mouth to respond — then closed it.

He didn’t mean it. Not really. But he said it. And worse, he didn’t take it back.

He rubbed his eyes, tired and fraying at the seams. “I need to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Then he walked into the bedroom.

The door didn’t slam.

He just… shut it behind him.

And left you standing there, in the kitchen of his apartment, the dinner table glowing with candles no one would sit at.

⸻

You didn’t move for a while. You just stood there, eyes locked on the plates.

Steam still curled from the food.

Music still played softly in the background — a slow song, too delicate for this kind of ache.

Eventually, your body moved on autopilot. Blew out the candles. Covered the chicken. Put the potatoes in the fridge. Cleaned the knife you used to chop garlic. Wiped down the counter.

You only realized you’d left your car keys on the hallway table after you’d already put on your shoes and slipped into your jacket.

You stared at the table.

At the dark hallway that led to the closed bedroom door.

Your keys were just ten feet away. But he was behind that door — silent. Asleep, maybe. Or pretending to be. You weren’t sure which would hurt more.

You couldn’t go back in there.

So you left them.

And you walked.

⸻

The night air clung to your skin. Summer fading into fall — crisp enough to sting.

The streets were mostly empty, aside from the hum of far-off traffic and a couple walking their dog on the opposite sidewalk. You walked fast, arms wrapped around your ribs, every step sharp and brittle.

You told yourself not to cry.

You told yourself you were being dramatic. Sensitive.

You told yourself he was just tired. Stressed. Frustrated.

But none of those excuses softened the ache in your chest or stopped the sting in your eyes.

The tears didn’t come in sobs. They came slowly. Silently.

Hot streaks down your cheeks that chilled in the wind.

You sniffed once. Bit the inside of your cheek to keep your lip from trembling. Kept walking.

Block after block.

You passed a bus stop. A florist shop with its shutters down. A traffic light blinking yellow into the night.

And still the tears came.

Because you hadn’t asked for much. Just dinner. Just time. Just to be seen.

But he didn’t even notice when you walked out the door.

Didn’t text. Didn’t call.

And maybe that hurt more than the words he’d said.

Maybe that silence was the answer.

⸻

The walk felt longer than it should have.

Maybe because your feet ached in the shoes you’d rushed to pull on. Maybe because every time you thought you were almost there, another corner waited. Another stretch of street. Another minute in the dark.

Or maybe it was just the weight of what you were carrying. The quiet grief of it all.

Your hands were cold, fists buried in your coat pockets, keys to your own place slipping between your fingers with every step. The silence had turned into noise — your own breathing, the shuffle of your shoes, the occasional car in the distance. It all seemed louder than usual. Harsher.

You crossed the last big intersection. The red signal blinked on the pedestrian sign, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t care.

It wasn’t until your building came into view — familiar, a little run-down, but safe — that the trembling really started. A deep, sinking thing in your chest.

You sniffed again and wiped your cheek with the back of your hand.

Still wet.

Still crying.

You hadn’t stopped.

The keypad stuck for a second when you typed in your entry code. Your fingers fumbled. You let out a quiet, strangled sound of frustration — the first noise you’d made since the door closed behind you back at his apartment.

When it finally clicked open, you pushed into the stairwell.

It smelled like dust and someone’s burnt microwave popcorn. It always did.

The climb up to your floor felt like dragging yourself uphill through mud. Your legs were sore. From walking. From standing too long in his kitchen trying to make the night perfect. From holding yourself together.

You fished for your apartment keys, hands still shaking a little. Your breath fogged the hallway air. You didn’t bother wiping your cheeks anymore.

By the time the door swung open, you felt like a ghost. Not even angry anymore — just hollow.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still. You didn’t turn on the overhead lights, just the small lamp on the side table. Its warm yellow glow lit the living room in soft, sleepy gold.

You toed off your shoes, nearly tripping. Shrugged out of your coat and let it fall to the floor.

Everything inside you wanted to scream. Or crawl under a blanket. Or get in the shower and let the water burn until you felt something else.

But instead, you sat.

On the edge of your bed. In your clothes. In the quiet.

You stared at your hands in your lap.

Your palms still smelled faintly like garlic and rosemary. From the dinner he didn’t touch.

You closed your eyes.

And the tears came again — slow, steady, like the rain that hadn’t started falling yet but probably would. You didn’t sob. You didn’t shake. Just let them roll down your cheeks, soaking the collar of your shirt.

You’d tried so hard. To show up for him. To carry the weight when he couldn’t. To make the night soft when the world was sharp.

But he’d shut you out like it didn’t matter.

Like you didn’t matter.

And worst of all — you didn’t even slam the door when you left.

⸻

The bedroom door didn’t slam.

It clicked shut—soft, careful, like a secret.

But it still echoed like a gunshot in Lando’s ears.

He stood frozen just inside the threshold, back against the wood, jaw tight. The room was dark, moonlight painting long lines across the sheets. He didn’t sit down. Couldn’t.

His fists uncurled slowly. There was nothing to fight but himself now.

He felt like he’d been spinning all day. From the moment he hit the gravel in Q3, everything had spiraled. P1 was right there—his—until it wasn’t. George P2. Oscar P3. Max on pole, of course. And him? Fourth. Again.

The margin for error in the championship was razor-thin now. He knew what the press would say. What his critics would whisper.

Too inconsistent. Too emotional. Not a closer.

And maybe—maybe they were right.

He exhaled harshly and leaned forward, dragging his palms over his face. He hadn’t even touched the food she made. He could still smell it—rosemary, butter, garlic. Her attempt at making the evening better. Easier.

She’d tried to make things nice.

He remembered the way she looked when he walked in earlier—eyes soft, trying to be calm, to hold space for him even when he wasn’t making any for her.

“Will you have time after the race tomorrow?” she had asked him gently. “Just… a night? Just us?”

And that should’ve been a lifeline.

But instead, he snapped it in half.

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn needy all the time, I’d actually have the energy to come home wanting to see you.”

He felt sick now. The words echoed louder than any engine ever had.

She hadn’t fought back. She hadn’t cried in front of him. Just went quiet. Something behind her eyes shuttered. And then she started cleaning.

That should’ve told him everything.

But he hadn’t followed her. He’d just walked into the bedroom like a coward, like someone who didn’t deserve her. He told himself she’d cool off. Sit on the couch. Maybe throw on some movie she wasn’t watching. He’d apologize in twenty minutes. Or thirty. Or after his shower.

But the silence stretched on. Thicker. Heavier.

And eventually, guilt forced him up.

He cracked the door open quietly.

“Y/N?” His voice barely carried. He stepped into the hallway. “Love?”

Nothing.

The apartment was dim, only the kitchen light left on—warm, flickering, lonely.

He turned the corner and saw the table had been cleared. Plates washed, counters wiped. The napkins she’d folded for dinner had been neatly stacked again. The wine glasses rinsed, drying on the rack.

The food was untouched.

The effort she’d made—wiped away like it hadn’t mattered.

His chest went tight.

He glanced toward the couch. Empty. No pillows out of place. Her coat no longer hanging on the hook. Her bag gone.

Then his eyes flicked to the key bowl by the front door.

Her keys. Still there.

His heart stopped.

She walked.

She left on foot.

No coat thick enough for this cold turn in the weather. No shoes that could carry her far—she was wearing those soft flats, the ones she always said hurt if she walked more than a block.

And she left anyway.

He whipped out his phone, hands fumbling, breath catching.

He’d written a message already—I’m sorry. You were right. I was cruel. Please come back.—but hadn’t sent it.

He pressed send now. Waited.

The bubble stayed gray.

Not Delivered.

No signal. Or no phone.

He tried calling. Voicemail.

She’d turned it off.

She never turned it off.

His throat tightened as he sank down by the door, staring at her keys like they might vanish. Her charger was still by the couch. Her favorite hoodie—the one she always threw on after dinner—still draped over the back of the chair.

She didn’t even take the things that made her feel safe.

Just walked out.

Into the night.

He imagined her shoulders hunched against the wind, clutching her thin coat closed with both hands, hair whipping across her face, her shoes scuffing against the pavement. Quiet tears running down her cheeks—not the loud, cathartic kind. The quiet ones. The kind she let fall without wiping them away. The kind that hurt worse.

And she didn’t turn back.

She didn’t even wait for him to come out and fix it.

Because he didn’t.

He could’ve caught her if he hadn’t waited. Could’ve chased after her. But instead, he sat in the dark, too ashamed to move, and now she was out there—cold, alone, hurt.

Because of him.

Because he couldn’t hold space for the one person who always held it for him.

He rested his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answer was written there.

His voice cracked in the quiet.

“Please come back.”

⸻

Sunday Morning

You wake up with the kind of stiffness that doesn’t come from a bad night’s sleep — it comes from crying too long in one position, from curling in on yourself like a shield and staying that way because it hurt too much to move.

The couch cushion beneath you is warm, the blanket you grabbed at some point halfway through the night barely covering your legs. The thin cotton of your t-shirt clings to your skin, cold and wrinkled, and your limbs feel too heavy to lift all at once.

For a second, you don’t move.

You just listen.

The morning traffic outside. The soft creak of your apartment settling. The dull ache behind your eyes.

You sit up slowly, your neck protesting the movement. One hand drags across your face automatically, fingers catching on dried tears you didn’t even realize had fallen after you’d finally drifted off.

And then it hits you again — not in a sharp, jarring way, but like a bruise you forgot was there until something pressed against it.

The fight.

The look on his face.

The way he disappeared into the bedroom and didn’t come back out.

The dinner you made.

The plate you cleared.

The keys you forgot.

The cold, late-summer night air seeping into your too-thin coat.

The walk home, shoes biting into your heels, silence pressing on your chest like a weight.

You reach for your phone, lying face-down on the coffee table.

Still off.

You hesitate before turning it on. Part of you doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to see if he even noticed. If he cared.

The screen lights up.

A few missed calls. Two messages. One of them timestamped after 3 a.m.

Please just let me know you’re home safe. Please.

The lump in your throat returns instantly.

You press your lips together, hard. Staring at the screen like it might say something else if you look long enough. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, glowing faintly in your hand.

He noticed.

But not until after you were already gone. After your shoes were soaked from the pavement and your hands were numb and your tears had dried halfway down your cheeks. Not until you were already curled up here, in the quiet dark, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t made a mistake by walking out.

You stand slowly, barefoot on the hardwood, legs stiff and aching.

Your shoes are still sitting by the door, kicked off in a pile. The thin coat you wore is draped over a chair — not warm enough, not meant for the bite in the air that comes when summer starts giving way to fall.

You make it to the kitchen and stare at the coffee maker for a long moment, then decide it’s not worth it. Everything feels off. Like your apartment has too much space this morning. Like even your own breath echoes.

You wonder where he is now. If he slept. If he’s at the track already.

It’s race day.

And you’re not there.

He’s probably surrounded by noise and people and pressure. He’s probably putting on that same press smile he always wears — the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes when something’s wrong.

You wonder if he’ll think about you when he walks to the grid. If he’ll remember your hand in his when you usually wish him luck. The way you always say, “Drive smart,” instead of “Drive fast,” because he already knows how to be fast.

You sit on the edge of the kitchen chair and let your head drop into your hands.

Because you don’t want to be angry anymore. You just want to feel like you matter to him the way he matters to you.

And right now, you’re not sure.

Not after last night.

⸻

You sit there for a long while, the quiet thick around you. Your phone buzzes again — a message from Lando. You don’t open it.

Instead, you glance toward the window, where the sky is a soft, pale gray. Late summer clouds drifting lazily, hinting at the crispness of fall yet to come. You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your head against them.

You feel like you’re split in two.

Half of you wants to throw on your shoes, drive to the track, and be there for him. To fix this — to remind him, and yourself, that what you have is bigger than a bad day or a heated fight.

The other half just wants to crawl back under the covers and hide from everything, from the tension, from the pressure, from the gnawing feeling that maybe you don’t belong in his world after all.

Your phone buzzes again. Another call.

You finally open the messages.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please talk to me when you’re ready.”

Your heart stutters. You want to believe him. You want to text back, to say it’s okay, that you forgive him, that you want him to win today — for both of you.

But the silence feels too heavy. The hurt too fresh.

You take a deep breath and stand. Your bare feet meet the cold floor, and you shiver, realizing just how thin your coat was last night. You wrap your arms around yourself.

You know what you have to do.

You grab your coat, slip on your shoes — the same ones that hurt your feet on the walk home — and head for the door.

You need to see him.

Not just because of the race.

But because after last night, you both need a reminder that even when things get messy, you’re still there for each other.

And sometimes, that’s the hardest thing to say out loud.

⸻

You grab your coat, slip on your shoes — the same ones that rubbed raw against your heels the night before — and head for the door.

But you don’t open it.

Your fingers hover above the knob, and something in your chest folds in on itself. Not anger. Not even heartbreak.

Just… tiredness. The kind that settles into your bones when you’ve been trying too hard for too long.

You press your forehead gently against the door.

Because isn’t that what it’s always been?

You, rushing to forgive. You, swallowing the sting of words he didn’t mean but said anyway. You, stitching up the torn fabric of something he keeps pulling at.

You’ve stood in the paddock before with your heart quietly breaking. Smiled at cameras. Held his hand after podiums he didn’t think were good enough. Stayed quiet when his world demanded more of him than it ever asked from you.

But today — today you don’t want to go.

Not because you don’t care. God, if only it were that easy. If only indifference could replace the ache in your chest.

You care so much it hurts. That’s the problem.

You slowly peel the coat off your shoulders and hang it back on the hook. Kick off your shoes. Pad back into the living room on sore, quiet feet.

The morning light filters in, cool and colorless. You curl into the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like armor.

The TV remote feels heavier than it should.

But your hands know what to do — muscle memory from a hundred race days before this one. You find the broadcast, volume low. Familiar voices. Tire strategies. Grid positions.

P4. He’s starting P4.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You should be there. Should’ve kissed his cheek before he pulled on his helmet. Should’ve smiled, told him “You’ve got this,” even if part of you wasn’t sure he did.

But you’re not.

And that silence is its own kind of message.

You don’t watch the pre-race interviews. You don’t want to see the way his eyes flick around, searching the crowd. You already know he’ll look for you.

You hope it stings a little.

Not out of spite — never that. But maybe a small part of you hopes that this time, he feels what it’s like to reach and find nothing waiting for him.

The race lights go out.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and whisper something he’ll never hear:

“Good luck.”

And then, you watch.

Alone.

⸻

The helmet feels tighter today.

Not physically — he knows it’s the same fit, same setup, same everything — but it presses down harder, like it’s holding more than just his head now. Like it’s holding in everything he hasn’t said, hasn’t let himself feel.

He blinks hard as he watches the crew swarm around his car. Everyone’s moving with sharp, practiced purpose, voices crackling through radios, tyres being warmed, wing angles being checked. He should be doing the same — syncing up mentally, running scenarios through his head.

Instead, it all just blurs.

His eyes keep sliding back to the edge of the garage, toward the place she usually stood. Arms folded. Soft smile. Quiet presence.

She’s not there.

His throat closes up for half a second. He shakes it off, flexes his fingers inside the gloves, breathes through it. He’s done this race-day ritual a hundred times. He can do it again. With or without her.

But his mind’s splintered.

P4 is doable. He’s overtaken from worse. But it doesn’t feel doable today. Not with the static in his head. Not with the echo of last night playing on loop — her voice, that silence that followed it, the way she didn’t look back when she left.

The engineer taps his shoulder. Strategy brief.

Lando nods, but the words don’t land.

They bounce off him like radio signals with no receiver.

He’s nodding at all the right moments. He knows that. He knows how to fake it. But inside he’s somewhere else. Still standing at the kitchen doorway. Still watching her back as she walked out.

Still wondering why the hell he didn’t go after her.

The pit lane starts buzzing louder now — engines coming alive. The grid forming. He steps out, suit zipped up, helmet under his arm, and everything outside his body clicks into motion. But inside? It’s just noise.

He straps in.

The car tightens around him.

Radio check. Tyre temps. Formation lap countdown.

He hears all of it — but feels none of it.

Because all he can think is:

She’s not here.

She’s always here.

And now she’s not.

And somehow, that’s what makes it feel like he’s already lost something today — and the lights haven’t even gone out yet.

⸻

The engine hum vibrated through his chest like a second heartbeat as he pulled into P4 on the grid.

Max on pole. George just ahead. Oscar to his right.

He kept his visor down longer than usual on the formation lap, trying to drown out everything but the car — the steering weight, the balance through corners, the cold bite of tyre temperature. But it wasn’t just the car he was fighting.

It was the static in his head.

The words he couldn’t unsay. The cold echo of a slammed door — not hers, but his, walking away from someone who needed him to stay.

You hadn’t answered this morning. Not his calls. Not his texts.

He told himself it didn’t matter — not now. But his gut burned hotter than the engine map he switched to just before lights out.

Lights out.

He got George off the line. Took the inside on Turn 2, swept into P3 clean. Then P2 by Lap 19 when Max ran wide. It should’ve felt good.

It didn’t.

Every corner was a loop of white noise and focus sharp enough to cut. The team radio crackled, relaying Oscar’s times — “Gap to Piastri, 2.1 seconds. Good pace. Let’s go get him.”

By Lap 47, the adrenaline was fire in his chest.

He was gaining.

Oscar ahead, less than a second. DRS open. Lando’s hands were steady on the wheel, jaw tight.

One move. One chance.

And then—

Oversteer.

Rear snapped wide. Correction too fast. Tyres locked. Car drifting. Gravel screaming beneath him.

Impact.

The barrier slammed back. A sickening crunch, the kind that vibrated up through his spine and stayed lodged in his throat.

His race was over.

And all he could think — before the radio even crackled to life — was that she wasn’t there.

⸻

The commentary was a blur in your ears — familiar voices you used to find comfort in, now muffled by the pounding of your heart.

You’d been watching the whole time.

Curled on the end of the sofa in his old hoodie, your phone face-down on the cushion next to you. You hadn’t touched it. Couldn’t. Not after everything that happened last night.

But you still watched. Of course you did.

You watched him climb to P2 with that ferocity he got when he was hurting — when the world got too loud and the only thing that made sense was speed and silence.

And you knew.

You knew the way he drove today — all risk, all edge — it wasn’t just about the race.

It was about you.

About what went unsaid. About all the things he didn’t have time for, didn’t know how to hold without squeezing too tight.

And then Lap 47 happened.

Your breath hitched the moment the camera cut to the onboard.

A twitch of the rear. A flash of gravel. That helpless slide.

And then the wall.

You flinched, hands flying to your mouth. “No, no, no—”

He was okay. The commentators said so. He got out on his own. Gave the thumbs up. The crowd even clapped.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you saw his helmet drop forward before he climbed out. Saw the slump of his shoulders. Not pain — not physical. But something heavier. Something cracked.

Your chest ached.

You should’ve gone.

But you couldn’t be the one always fixing it. Always running after the pieces he scattered when things got hard.

So you stayed.

And now, all you could do was sit there — staring at the screen, heart splintering — and wish that being in love with him didn’t hurt so damn much.

⸻

The race ends without him.

You mute the TV long before the podium ceremony. You don’t need to see Oscar spraying champagne or hear commentators dissecting the crash like it was just another technical error. It wasn’t just a mistake on Lap 47. It was a pressure cooker, and you could feel it long before the lights even went out.

You spend the next hour pacing.

Not because you’re waiting on him.

You tell yourself that again and again.

But every time your phone buzzes, you whip around like it might be him at your door.

It isn’t.

You open the window when the apartment feels too small, the hoodie you’re wearing swallowing your frame, sleeves soaked from where your fingertips keep nervously twisting at the cuffs.

Outside, the city glows like nothing’s broken. But inside, everything feels cracked open.

You should message him. You should ask if he’s okay — physically, at least.

But you don’t.

Because you’re tired of being the first to reach for something that feels like it’s always slipping through your fingers.

You light a candle just to have something warm in the room. Sit at the kitchen table — the one you never really use unless it’s the two of you. There’s still a tiny scratch on the edge of it from when he got too enthusiastic slicing sourdough. You almost smile.

Almost.

You stare at your phone for what feels like forever.

Then—

A soft knock.

You freeze.

It’s nearly 9 p.m.

The knock comes again — tentative, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure they should even be there.

You open the door slowly.

Lando’s standing there.

Hair slightly flattened like he’s run his hand through it a thousand times. Jacket zipped up to his chin. One hand in his pocket, the other holding nothing — no flowers, no apology, no shield. Just him.

He looks…tired.

But not from the crash.

From everything else.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and frayed. Like he almost didn’t trust it to come out.

You don’t speak. You just look at him. He looks at you.

And for a long moment, it’s just that.

Silence stretched between the doorframe and the guilt on his face.

“I shouldn’t have walked away last night,” he finally says. “I didn’t know you walked home. I didn’t know you left your keys. I—”

You swallow. The ache in your throat sharp.

“I watched the race.”

His shoulders fall. “Yeah.”

“You were chasing Oscar.”

“I was trying to outrun everything.”

You nod once, slow. “Did it work?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It made it worse.”

You finally step back, opening the door a little wider. Just enough.

He doesn’t move immediately. He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to come in.

Maybe he doesn’t.

But you also know what it took for him to show up.

So you let him in.

Not with words.

Not yet.

Just with a step. A breath.

And the tiniest tilt of your head toward the quiet inside.

He walks in like someone who’s been holding his breath for forty-seven laps.

And you — you shut the door behind him, not sure what comes next.

But for now, you’re both in the same room.

And maybe that’s where the healing starts. In the same way pain grows.

⸻

You lead him in without touching him. He toes off his shoes automatically, as if he’s been here a thousand times (he has), but tonight the movement looks unsure, like he expects you to say don’t.

You don’t.

He glances at the candle on your table. Vanilla and cedar. Soft. Safe. Wrong, maybe — because tonight doesn’t feel soft. But you left it lit anyway.

“Sit,” you say, nodding toward the chair across from yours.

He does. Carefully. Like sitting too hard might crack the air.

Up close you see the day on him: light graze across one wrist where the steering wheel snapped back in the hit, red pressure lines on his neck from belts, shadows under his eyes. He keeps his hands flat on the table so you can see them. You realize that’s deliberate.

He swallows. “I brought your keys.”

Your gaze flicks to his palm. He slides them across the table — the familiar ring, chipped orange tag, your car fob. The sight knocks something loose in your chest.

“I noticed them in the bowl after you left,” he says. “Didn’t…didn’t realize you’d walked until—” He stops, jaw locking. “Until I checked the hall cam and saw you go. No coat. Well—thin one. Not warm. And those stupid shoes.”

You huff out a humorless sound. “Didn’t feel the cold ‘til halfway home.”

“I should’ve gone after you.” His voice cracks. “I should’ve stopped you before you got to the door.”

You stare at him. “You should’ve eaten dinner.”

His eyes close. Slow. Painful. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You pick at the edge of the napkin you’d dropped there earlier. He watches your fingers like they’re the most important thing in the room.

Finally you say, “You texted.”

“I did.” He nods. “All bounced. Phone off?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you…were you done? With me?” The question is small. Terrified.

“No.” Your answer is immediate, quiet. “But I was done running after you when you shut the door.”

He sits with that. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend.

“I get that,” he says at last. “You always come find me when I close up. I think I got used to it. Counted on it. That’s…awful.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to drag me back to us every time I spiral.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s not that I mind supporting you. I mind being treated like pressure when I’m trying to be a place to land.”

He looks up fast. “You are. You are that. I was just—” He exhales hard. “I was angry at myself and I threw it at you. And I hate that I did that, and now I crashed a car and nearly put it in the wall for good because my head was not where it needed to be, and all I could think mid-spin was you’re not here and that’s on me.”

You don’t realize you’ve stood until you’re moving. You grab a clean dish towel, dampen it, circle back and hold out your hand. “Let me see your wrist.”

He offers it without a word. Trust, quiet and unearned, but there.

You dab at the reddened skin. He flinches once. Doesn’t pull away.

“Hurts?” you murmur.

“Not as much as last night.”

You roll your eyes, but your thumb softens against his pulse. His shoulders drop an inch.

“I need a rule,” he says. “We do. No walking off. No doors shut until we say what’s real.”

You look up. “And no calling me needy when I ask for time.”

His answer is immediate. “Never again.”

You study him—searching for deflection, for race-face, for anything false. You don’t see it.

“Okay,” you say.

He lets out a breath he’s been holding since Lap 47.

⸻

Not Fixed. Starting.

You heat water for tea. He stands and helps without asking, moving around your kitchen like he’s trying to relearn a language he once spoke fluently. He opens the wrong cupboard first. You point. He smiles—brief, tired, real.

When the mugs are on the table, he curls his fingers around his like he needs the heat.

“I’ve got a car debrief tomorrow,” he says, eyes still on the steam. “And media. But after that…can I come back? Properly? No helmet. No excuses. We talk until we’re done.”

You don’t make it easy. “You showing up doesn’t erase the pattern.”

“I know.” He finally looks at you. “I’m asking for the chance to change it.”

You sit with that. Let him feel the wait.

“Come after,” you say at last. “Bring food. And apologize twice.”

He huffs out a wet laugh. “Deal.”

You slide his keys back across the table. “You’re driving.”

“For dinner?”

“For us time,” you correct.

His shoulders square, like the words put him back on a grid he wants to be on.

“Copy,” he says softly. “Us time.”

⸻

You both sip in silence for a while. The kind that isn’t awkward, but not quite comfortable either. Like you’re sitting at the edge of something and neither of you is ready to step forward just yet. The tea helps. It gives your hands something to do, your lips a reason to move without needing to speak.

He watches the rim of his mug. Then, without looking up, he says:

“I’m sorry.”

It’s soft. Like if he says it too loud, it might shatter between you.

You don’t interrupt. You let him go on.

“I’m sorry for snapping. For saying things that weren’t fair. For making you feel like your care was a burden. That was never true. I was spiraling, and instead of letting you help, I dragged you down with me.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed now — not from tears, exactly, but from the exhaustion that comes after them.

“I’m sorry for all of it. For needing you and pretending I didn’t.”

You press your mug to your lips, mostly to stop them from trembling. The words dig deep, but not in a painful way. More like pulling out a thorn that’s been buried too long.

You set the mug down.

“I know things are hard for you,” you say quietly. “But I can’t be the only one carrying both of us every time it gets messy. You shut me out. You made me feel like I was just noise. And I didn’t know how to keep fighting for someone who didn’t seem to want me in the room.”

His shoulders cave a little. But he nods.

“I did. I pushed you out. And I regret it. I… I don’t want to be someone who only reaches for you when I’m hurting. I want to reach for you when I’m okay too. I want to be better.”

You study him. This isn’t just guilt talking. It’s something quieter. Like a door cracked open — not begging you to step inside, but offering to finally show you what’s behind it.

You don’t say you forgive him yet. But you do reach across the table and slide your fingers over his.

He goes completely still. Then, slowly, his hand turns palm-up and curls around yours.

It’s not a resolution. Not fully. But it’s a choice — to try.

You sit like that for a while. Mugs forgotten. Fingers loosely tangled.

Eventually, he asks, voice rasping, “Can I stay?”

You glance at him.

“On the couch?” he adds quickly. “Or I’ll drive home. Whatever you want. Just— I don’t want to leave things like this again.”

You squeeze his hand.

“You can stay,” you say. “But I pick the blanket this time.”

That earns the first real smile from him all night.

“Deal.”

⸻

You hand him the blanket from the back of the couch — the soft one he always teases you about, saying it looks like something your grandmother would knit. He doesn’t say anything this time. Just takes it with a small, grateful nod.

He lowers himself onto the couch like every movement costs him. The crash, the press conferences, the silence between you — it’s all settled in his shoulders. You know that look. He won’t sleep much.

You hover awkwardly for a second, half-turning toward the hall, toward your bedroom. But something keeps your feet planted.

“I’ll get you a pillow,” you say, already moving toward the linen closet.

By the time you return, he’s kicked his shoes off and sunk low into the cushions, the blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling.

You place the pillow beside him and linger a second too long.

“Do you want me to leave a light on?” you ask.

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, he seems younger. Smaller. Not the Lando that everyone expects to be okay all the time. Just him.

“No,” he murmurs. “Just… stay for a second?”

So you sit on the edge of the coffee table, knees nearly brushing his.

“You scared me today,” you admit, voice quiet. “When I saw the crash, I couldn’t breathe. And then you didn’t get out right away and…”

You trail off.

“I know,” he whispers. “I scared myself too.”

His hand emerges from under the blanket. Hesitantly. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. You don’t think twice — you take it.

It’s warm, calloused from years of racing, trembling ever so slightly.

You sit like that for a long while — his hand in yours, the dark wrapping around you both like a safety net. Eventually, his eyes drift closed.

You ease your hand away slowly and stand. For a second, you just look at him — the slow rise and fall of his chest, the wrinkle between his brows that stays even when he sleeps.

You pull the blanket up higher over his shoulder and turn off the last light.

Before you leave the room, you pause.

“I’m still here,” you whisper. “Even when it’s hard.”

He doesn’t answer — already half asleep. But maybe that’s okay.

You meant it more for yourself anyway.

⸻

The Morning After

When you wake, the apartment is still. A gentle, grey-blue haze filters through the curtains — that hazy, reluctant morning light where everything feels softer than it should. Your limbs are heavy, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with just sleep. The kind that lives in your chest.

You stay in bed for a while, letting your eyes adjust, listening.

Nothing.

Eventually, you throw on your robe and pad into the hallway. The silence makes your heart skip — that irrational fear he might’ve left again. That this whole thing was a fragile, too-late apology wrapped in tea and exhaustion and not something that would hold in daylight.

But when you round the corner into the living room, you stop.

Lando’s still there.

He’s sitting on the couch with the blanket draped over his lap, hair a mess, hoodie wrinkled, and your old mug cradled in both hands. It’s probably cold tea by now, but he’s holding it like it anchors him.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps. His eyes are puffy, exhausted, a little bloodshot — but they soften when they find yours.

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy.

You offer a small nod and lean against the doorframe. “Hey.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” he adds. Like he owes you an explanation. Like he’s afraid you’ll read too much into the bags under his eyes.

You nod again, arms folding over your chest.

“I didn’t either,” you say.

He watches you for a moment, and then gestures to the space beside him. “You don’t have to… but, if you want…”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to — but because it still hurts. Because it’s still raw. But you cross the room anyway and sit beside him. Not too close, not pressed against him. Just enough.

The silence stretches between you again — but this time, it’s gentler. Like it’s holding space, not keeping score.

He glances down at the mug in his hands. “I was gonna make breakfast, but I couldn’t find anything I wouldn’t set on fire.”

That earns a soft laugh out of you — not big, not bright, but real.

“Good,” you murmur. “I wasn’t ready to lose the kitchen too.”

He huffs a laugh, then sobers. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your breath catches.

“I know I’ve been selfish. I know I make it hard sometimes. But I’m trying. I want to keep trying. Not just say sorry when I crash into things — people. You.”

You look at him then — really look. At the sincere lines in his face, the bruise blooming faintly on his jaw, the worry shadowed behind his eyes.

“I don’t need perfect, Lando,” you whisper. “But I need you to show up. Not just when it’s convenient or when you’re afraid I’ll leave. I need you… before it breaks.”

He nods, slowly, taking that in. “I can do that. I will.”

A long beat passes.

He turns slightly toward you. “Can I ask something stupid?”

You raise a brow. “You’re Lando Norris. That’s kind of your brand.”

That draws a quiet, thankful smile. His eyes flick down, then up again.

“Can I hug you?”

You pause — not because you’re unsure, but because the question hits you somewhere deep. The version of him that’s here right now — this careful, vulnerable, almost boyish one — is so different from the defensive storm from two nights ago.

So you nod. Slowly.

And when he pulls you into his arms, it’s gentle. No pressure. Just warmth. Just arms around you like they remember exactly how you fit.

You lean into it. Not fully. Not all the way yet.

But enough.

And for now… enough is everything.

⸻

You stay in his arms longer than you planned. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just your head against his shoulder, your hand resting lightly over his heart — like you’re checking to make sure it’s still beating, still steady, still his.

And it is. It always was.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair.

You close your eyes. “You had a funny way of showing it.”

He flinches a little — not from anger, but from truth. His arm tightens gently around you.

“I know,” he says, and it’s not just apology in his voice now — it’s grief. Grief for what he almost lost. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Because you’ve heard the apologies before — in quieter tones, after bad races, in hotel rooms between travel days, when exhaustion made both of you fray at the seams. But this feels different.

Not like a quick patch.

Like something slower. Something earned.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are searching, like he’s waiting for a verdict. Like he’d let you decide if today is a beginning or just the end delayed.

You lift your hand and lightly brush your thumb along his jaw, careful of the healing scrape there from the crash.

“You scared me,” you admit, voice barely a breath.

“I scared myself,” he replies.

You nod. Let the weight of that settle.

“And I know,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours, “I’ve made it feel like you’re the one always chasing me. And I hate that. I don’t want to be someone you have to fix, Y/N. I want to meet you halfway. I want to show up before I give you reasons to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You want to believe him. Part of you already does.

But it’s hard to unlearn disappointment. To untangle all the little ways you’ve swallowed your needs just to keep things from crumbling.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out,” you whisper. “I just need to know I’m not alone in this.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

He says it like a promise.

And for the first time in a while, it actually feels like one.

You nod again, slowly. Then lean into him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

“I made you tea,” you murmur. “You didn’t even drink it.”

He lets out a breath — almost a laugh — and rubs your back lightly. “It was cold by the time I could even hold it without shaking.”

You pull back just enough to smirk at him. “Want me to make another?”

He tilts his head. “Only if you’re having one too.”

“Deal.”

You stand, padding toward the kitchen. He follows after a moment, slower this time — not rushing, not trying to fix things instantly. Just there. Present.

And that, more than anything, feels like progress.

The tea steams between you both on the table. There’s still a lot to say. Still quiet between the cracks. But this morning, he doesn’t walk away. He holds the mug in both hands, like it matters.

And you hold onto the hope that maybe this time, things will be different — not perfect, not easy, but real. Repairable. Rooted.

Because he’s here.

And so are you.

⸻

You blow gently on the surface of your tea, watching the way the steam curls up and disappears into the soft morning light. Across the table, Lando is doing the same — eyes on his mug, jaw tight in that way you know means he’s thinking too hard.

It’s still quiet.

But it’s not cold anymore.

You take a small sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. And when you glance up, he’s already watching you. Not intense or demanding — just… there. Like he’s grounding himself in the sight of you.

“I didn’t sleep,” he says, voice rough.

You nod. “Me neither.”

“I kept thinking you’d show up at the track,” he continues, his eyes dropping to the table. “And when you didn’t… that’s when it hit me. How badly I’d screwed it all up.”

You don’t say anything, because part of you still aches — not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion, the kind that builds over weeks of being sidelined, made small, asked to hold everything together without being asked how you’re doing.

So instead, you reach for your tea again and let him talk.

“I panicked,” he admits. “Before the race, during it. I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking about what I said, how I left things. I was chasing Oscar and all I could think about was how I couldn’t even hold onto the one person who actually gives a damn about me when it’s not about podiums or press conferences.”

His voice breaks a little near the end.

You look at him fully now. Not guarded. Just quiet.

“I’m tired, Lando,” you whisper. “I’m tired of always being the one who makes room. Of being the one who stays calm when you’re under pressure, who understands every cancellation, every late-night call. And I get it — I really do. But sometimes, I just need to be more than an afterthought.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know that now. And it kills me that you even felt that way.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then:

“I don’t want to live a life that shuts you out,” he says. “Not anymore. I’ve been scared of messing up so badly that I forgot what I already have — someone who sees me even when I can’t win. Someone who waits. Someone who comes home cold and hurting and still gives me a second chance.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes.

“I didn’t come home for you, Lando,” you say softly. “I came home for me.”

He nods. “I know. But I’m glad you let me in anyway.”

You stare at him for a long moment. And then — because the silence is soft again, because he finally looks like he means it, because you’re still allowed to care even when you’re hurting — you reach across the table and take his hand.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gentle. Grateful.

“I’m gonna be better,” he says. “Not perfect. But better. I want to be someone who meets you halfway. No more chasing. Just… choosing each other.”

And maybe that’s what you needed to hear all along.

Not a speech. Not promises laced in adrenaline.

Just him. Sitting across from you. Owning his part in what went wrong — and asking, softly, if there’s still a path forward.

You squeeze his hand.

“We’ll figure it out.”

He smiles. It’s tired. But it’s real.

It feels like the start of something worth rebuilding.

⸻

The tea sits forgotten on the table, cooling slowly. There’s something quieter now in the air — not tension, not regret, but something fragile and warm, like the moment after a storm when the air is still thick with the memory of it.

Lando shifts beside you on the couch, one arm stretched across the back, the other resting in his lap. You sit cross-legged, still curled into your robe, exhaustion tugging at your shoulders — not just from the night, but from the days before it, from the walking, from the weight of pretending you were fine when you weren’t.

He notices. Of course he does.

His gaze drops to your feet — bare now, marked faintly red around the ankles where your shoes had rubbed raw. His brows pinch.

“Your feet hurt?”

You glance at them, then give a tired little nod. “Yeah. I walked too far in the wrong shoes. Rookie mistake.”

Without a word, he reaches over and gently lifts your legs, guiding your feet into his lap. It’s so casual, so easy, like he’s done it a thousand times before — but it still makes your chest go tight.

You watch him silently as he settles in. He wraps both hands around one foot, thumbs pressing in slow, careful circles into your arch. His touch is steady, grounding — not romantic, not performative, just a quiet offering. Just care.

“You should’ve called me,” he murmurs, not looking up. “I would’ve come.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” you say quietly. “Not after everything.”

He swallows hard, fingers pausing briefly. “I always want you to. Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.”

You don’t reply. You just let your head tip back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed, breathing out slow and even as his fingers move with purpose and precision.

After a few moments, he switches to your other foot. His thumbs move a little deeper now, easing into the sore muscles there, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I forgot how bad you are at this,” you mumble, but your voice is soft, teasing.

He snorts. “Liar. I’m amazing. You’re just stubborn.”

You smile. The ache in your feet fades, replaced by something warm and safe. Something you haven’t felt in a while.

Then his hands slow.

He shifts again, this time drawing you closer, gently tugging at your legs until you’re half-curled into his side. Your cheek finds his shoulder, his arm around your back. It’s not dramatic, not even a question — it’s instinct, the way he pulls you close like he needs to hold you there, like he needs you to feel it.

The safety. The apology. The truth of it.

You melt into him, your legs still draped across his lap, his hand now resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle lines through the fabric of your robe.

He dips his chin slightly, letting it rest atop your head. His breath is warm against your temple.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispers.

“Maybe not,” you reply, voice barely audible. “But I still want you here.”

His arms tighten just enough, like that sentence alone could be enough to hold him together.

And for a long time, you don’t speak. You just sit like that — legs tangled, head on his shoulder, heartbeats slowly syncing — the world quiet for the first time in what feels like days.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But, for once, safe.

And in the quiet, that’s enough.

⸻

Masterlist

[boocmarks]

All Over You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.

2.7k words / Masterlist

Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.

You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.

It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.

And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.

He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.

So you think, this is us. You think, this works.

Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.

It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.

You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.

And then you catch it.

“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”

A beat.

“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”

You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.

He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”

Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.

You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.

But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?

And just like that, something in you begins to shift.

You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.

You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.

Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.

You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.

You still want to. God, do you want to.

Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.

Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.

So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.

Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.

A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.

At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.

But the distance doesn’t fade.

It expands.

One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.

He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.

It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.

But this?

This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.

The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic

He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.

It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.

Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.

And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.

He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?

Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?

The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.

You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.

But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.

And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.

You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.

You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.

But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.

Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?

You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.

Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.

By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.

That’s when he finally speaks.

“Did I do something?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”

You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”

He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.

You don’t cuddle him that night.

You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.

Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.

It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.

You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.

You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.

The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.

He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.

But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.

And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.

And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.

Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.

“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”

You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.

“I heard you,” you say.

His brow furrows. “Heard me?”

“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”

Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.

“You heard that?”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”

His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”

“Wait, baby—”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Max’s heart actually hurts.

He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”

You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.

“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”

A beat. His voice softens.

“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”

You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”

His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”

He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”

Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”

Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.

You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m right here.”

He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”

You nod. “Promise.”

Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.

“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”

You smile into his skin, small and shy.

He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.

You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.

And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.

[boocmarks]

charles being confused when he didn't understand where the cameraman was 😭

[boocmarks]

he's back at it 😭

[boocmarks]

Oscar Piastri

Lovefool ❤️‍🔥☁️

MAIN MASTERLIST

[boocmarks]

Lewis Hamilton

kiss my wounds ❤️‍🔥☁️🔞

Can't lie ☁️

MAIN MASTERLIST

[boocmarks]

Charles Leclerc

Loving means Acceptance ❤️‍🔥☁️

MAIN MASTERLIST

[boocmarks]

MAIN MASTERLIST

none of these are written by me :)

I am still building my masterlist, I add something everyday, feel free to follow whatever masterlist you like, so you'd know when I add something. That's how this works right? (I am new here)

Lando Norris

Oscar Piastri

Max Verstappen

Lewis Hamilton

Charles Leclerc

Carlos Sainz

The Grid

[boocmarks]

Max Verstappen

In every city, it's still you ❤️‍🔥☁️

Soap (2) (3)max ending

All over you ❤️‍🔥☁️

At fault ❤️‍🔥☁️

MAIN MASTERLIST

[boocmarks]

lovesick all over my bed  ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  new  relationship  ,  sickfic tw  illness  (non  major  just  gross  again) word count 2.5k author’s  note  the  HIGHLY  requested  part  two  of  burnin’  up  (for  you  baby)  is  here  and  she’s  beautiful  …  this  time  lando  is  taking  care  of  reader  <3  thank  you  guys  so  much  for  loving  these  two  ,  i  can’t  tell  you  how  much  it  means  to  me  that  you  like  any of my  work  enough  to  ask  for  more  .  special  thanks  as  well  to  @tsunodaradio and  @daydreamsharry  for  the  inspiration  for  this  one  !!  as always lmk what you think !! title  is  from  slut!  by  taylor  swift  (i’m  really  in  a  taylor  writing  era  aren’t  i  …)

The thing no one warns you about when you start dating your best friend is that they somehow become even more insufferable when you’re sick. 

You and Lando have been officially together for six days. Six days since he woke up and remembered absolutely everything he’d said in the feverish haze of the day before, poking you in the side until you opened your eyes so he could nervously ask you if you wanted to “give it a proper go.” Six days of napping tangled together, of sharing lazy cough syrup kisses, of nursing him back to health. One hundred and forty-four hours of learning how to be something more than friends. 

Not that you’re counting, of course. 

The thing is, being Lando’s girlfriend is not all that different from being his best friend. You still steal his hoodies. You still bicker with each other about what takeout to order. He still tells stupid jokes just to see you roll your eyes. Now, he just kisses you after you inevitably laugh at them anyway — soft, tentative, like it’s still surreal to him too. Nothing changed, and yet everything did, all at once. It surprised you, how easy it felt right from the start.

Easy, that is, until you started feeling the telltale scratch in your throat, throbbing pressure in your head, and exhaustion that sunk bone-deep. Easy until you had to come up with a mundane excuse to flee your new boyfriend’s apartment and go home so he wouldn’t see you getting properly sick. Easy until he woke up this morning apparently completely fine, and you woke up feeling like you’d been hit by a bus.

You’ve been back at your place for under twelve hours, and you already feel a hundred times worse. You’re curled up in bed, buried under every blanket you own with an episode of trash TV queued up that you barely have the energy to pay attention to, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand with another text from Lando.

[10:30 AM] barely coughed AT ALL this morning [10:31 AM] live look at my immune sistem → 🐶 [10:32 AM] get it?? cos i got that DAWG in me [10:49 AM] wanna grab lunch later?? that new place by the harbor?? [11:03 AM] stop ignoring me i miss youuuuu xxxxx

You stare at the messages as your episode of Love Island plays on, forgotten. The sappy part of you wants to say yes just to see him, but the much more rational part of you knows you can barely sit up without feeling dizzy. 

There’s something else, too. The thought of him seeing you like this — in yesterday’s clothes, unshowered, looking properly awful — sends your stomach roiling with something like nerves. Which, objectively, is ridiculous. You’ve been best friends for years. He’s seen you after your worst hangovers, your biggest heartbreaks, even during the Great Food Poisoning Incident in Baku 2022. But it feels… different now, somehow. 

When you were just friends, being gross around each other felt like a badge of honor, some kind of award you could pin to your unshakeable bond. Best friends through anything. Now that you’ve crossed the invisible threshold into something more, you can’t silence the tiny, annoying voice in your head that’s wondering if he’ll look at you differently. If seeing you like this might make him reconsider before you have the chance to really get started together. 

You sigh. Roll over. Tap out a quick response.

[11:05 AM] sorry bub i can’t [11:05 AM] i think i caught your plague :(

He texts back almost immediately:

[11:06 AM] WHAT [11:06 AM] why didn’t you say anything??????? [11:07 AM] is that why you left so fast last nite [11:08 AM] im coming over rn

Exactly what you were hoping to avoid. You groan, typing as fast as your sluggish fingers will allow.

[11:10 AM] lan i’m fine!!! promise [11:11 AM] stay home stay well

His reply pops up before you can even put your phone down.

[11:11 AM] too late i’m alredy in the car! [11:11 AM] see you soon love xx

You let out a sigh, muffled into your pillow. Of course he’s coming over. Of course he’s acting like a new boyfriend who has something to prove and completely ignoring your very reasonable request. 

You’re in the middle of contemplating the opportunity cost of dragging yourself to the bathroom and washing your face so that you look marginally more human when you hear a key turn in your door. Probably the spare key you gave him years ago after one too many times of banging on your door at 3 AM after Jimmyz. You mentally kick yourself for that moment of weakness as the door slams shut; you’d take a hundred more nights of interrupted sleep if it prevented Lando from seeing you like this right now. 

“Hiiiii, love,” he singsongs, voice carrying down the hallway to your room. “I’m coming in. Hope you’re decent.”

You are affirmatively not decent. You can feel the grease in your hair, damply matted to your forehead. Your nose is achy and probably rubbed red-raw by now. You’re practically drowning in one of Lando’s old hoodies, holes at the cuffs, front pocket filled with used tissues. 

“Lan, you can’t,” you croak, pulling your duvet over your head. “You don’t want to see me. I’m disgusting.”

“Impossible. I always want to see you,” he calls, undeterred, and you can hear his footsteps getting closer. “Also, I’ve seen you vomit tequila all over the sidewalk and my shoes after Miami last year, so I think we’re past the point of you being embarrassed around me, yeah?”

“That was different! I was drunk, not diseased.”

“You’re not diseased, you muppet, you’ve got the flu,” he says softly. The mattress dips slightly as he sits beside you, and you can feel his hand smoothing over the duvet where your head is. “Come on, love, covers off.”

“No,” you say, voice muffled through the bedding.

“Please? It’s been, like, a whole day since I’ve seen you. I miss your face.”

Unfortunately, fifteen years of friendship means he knows exactly what to say, exactly which button to push to get you to cave. Despite yourself, you peek out from under the covers. Lando is sitting on the edge of the bed, faded tee clinging to his biceps, cheeks pink from the sun. He looks annoyingly healthy. Practically glowing, the bastard.

“There she is,” he murmurs with a smile that’s impossibly soft, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at you. “My pretty girl.”

You frown, pushing the covers off. “Don’t flirt with me when I look like death.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I will flirt with you any day of the week, in any condition,” he scoffs theatrically. “In fact, I think flu-you is extra cute.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you rasp, as your heart does something like a backflip in your chest.

“Well, that’s tough for you, ‘cos you’re stuck with me now,” he replies lightly. “Your personal nurse, until you get better.”

You push up onto your elbows. “Lan, I’m serious. I’ve got tea in the kitchen and cough syrup in the medicine kit and, like, three full boxes of tissues. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” The speech probably would have landed better if you didn’t immediately dissolve into a coughing fit that wracks through your body, leaving you breathless. 

“Right,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “Tea in the kitchen, yeah? Have you made any of it?”

“Well, no, but —”

“Taken any of that cough syrup?”

You scowl. “I was going to. Eventually.”

He gives you a knowing look. “And how many of those tissues are currently living in the front pocket of my hoodie?”

You glance down, grimace slightly. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point,” he says softly, smoothing your hair off your forehead. “It’s okay to let someone take care of you. Stop being stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn, I’m being practical. Look, I know you want to help, but I’m completely gross and miserable and I promise, I can —” 

“Love, I get it,” he interrupts, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers with his. “I know you’re tough as nails and you don’t need a nurse and you can do it all yourself. But you don’t have to. I’m here and I want to take care of you like you did for me. Please, just… let me?”

He’s rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, and his eyes are full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache, and it’s like the fight goes out of you all at once. You sigh, flopping back onto the bed (half for dramatic effect, half because it’s starting to make you dizzy to hold your head up for so long). “Ugh. Fine. You’re very persuasive when you want to be, you know.”

His smile lights up his entire face. “Right? It’s one of my many talents. Up there with driving fast and being absolutely devastatingly handsome.”

“Don’t forget humble,” you say dryly.

“The most humble,” he agrees cheerfully, leaning over to give you a kiss on the forehead. His lips are cool against your skin, steady and sure, and somehow they make you feel a little less awful. “Right. First things first, you’re getting a proper shower, because I know you’ll feel better clean, and while you do that I’m going to make you something to eat.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You nearly burned down your apartment trying to boil pasta water, bub. What are you about to terrorize my kitchen with?”

“Your mum’s weird soup,” he shrugs. “Already called her for the recipe. Reckon it’s not too hard.”

You blink at him, surprised. “You called my mum?”

“Well, yeah,” he mumbles, sticking his hands in his pockets shyly. “I knew it’s what you’d want. That’s what people do when they lo-” 

He stops short, color flaring high in his cheeks. “When they care about each other,” he finishes, eyes darting away from your face to the floor. 

When they love each other. It’s not like he said it, not really. But he almost did, and even though you’ve only been officially dating for less than a week the concept isn’t nearly as frightening as it should be. You don’t say it either, not now. Your fingers find his, though, and you squeeze his hand gently, like you’re telling him me too without saying anything at all. 

“Okay,” you say finally as you sit up slowly, trying to sound normal despite your racing heart. “Shower it is, then. But I swear, if you mess up my soup…” 

“You wound me,” he says, dramatically clutching at his chest. “I’m going to make you the best weird lemony broth thing this side of Somerset.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you get to your feet. But as soon as you stand, the world tilts sideways and you wobble dangerously. Lando’s there in an instant, steadying you against him. 

“Careful, love,” he says softly into your ear, hands bracing on your waist. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble even as you cling to his arm like a lifeline. “Just a head rush.”

“Are you gonna be alright to shower alone?” he asks. “Because I could definitely supervise. You know. For medical reasons.”

“Lando Norris,” you gasp, faux-scandalized.

“Nursing purposes only,” he grins down at you, goofy. “Naughty nursing purposes.”

“Ew, freak,” you snort, shoving him lightly on the chest and heading to your bathroom. 

“Still not hearing a no!” he calls after you, his giggle echoing down your hallway from the kitchen.

By the time you emerge from the shower fifteen minutes later, hair damp and feeling vaguely less awful than before, Lando’s ladling soup into an ugly kangaroo-shaped mug he got you in Australia years ago and you promptly buried in the back of your pantry. “Perfect timing,” he grins, holding out the mug to you. “Bon appétit.”

You take the mug, inspecting it carefully as you settle onto a kitchen stool. “This actually smells right.”

“Oi. Have some faith, please,” he protests. “Your mum gave me very detailed instructions. Don’t think I’ve ever had so many directions on how to cut up ginger.”

You take a tiny sip of the soup. It tastes perfect — like home and comfort and being cared for. You close your eyes for a moment just to savor the taste, the feeling of being known so well. 

“Is it okay?” Lando asks, eyes wide like he’s terrified he’s somehow managed to mess it up. 

“It’s perfect,” you admit. “Thank you.” 

He beams so bright it feels like you’re looking at the sun. “‘Course, love. Anything for you.”

You finish the soup slowly, your boyfriend watching the entire time, claiming he can see the nutrients working their way into your system. You try to protest that’s not how it works, but you’re too tired to keep up the banter for long. He senses it immediately, and you let him lead you back to your room, draping your weight across him as your world goes soft around the edges. 

“Budge over, yeah?” Lando grins as you crawl under your duvet, kicking off his sneakers before climbing into bed beside you and unpausing your episode like he’s in it for the long haul. “So. What’s going on with Harry and Helena?”

You’re just drowsy enough to gravitate into his side, resting your head on his shoulder and throwing your leg over his waist. “Who knows with those two,” you say, stifling a yawn. “But they’ll recouple, I think.”

He giggles softly, fingertips tracing against your thigh. “You’re tired, aren’t you? I give it ten minutes before you’re out cold.”

“No way, there’s a recoupling at the end of this episode. ‘Sides, I’m not that tired,” you mumble. But even as you say it, your eyelids are getting heavy. The combination of his warmth, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the comfortable weight of his arm around you is better than any medicine you could buy.

“Sure, love,” he agrees, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Whatever you say.”

Apparently, he knows you better than you know yourself, because by the first commercial break, you’re fighting to stay awake, curling further into his chest. 

“‘M sorry. You’re so gonna get sick again,” you mumble, practically on top of him and burying your face into the crook of his neck as your eyes finally slip shut. 

He sighs happily against your skin. “Totally worth it.”

[boocmarks]

burnin’  up  (for  you  baby)  ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  best  friends  to  lovers  ,  sickfic  ,  lando  being  a  clingy  boy tw  use  of  fahrenheit  ,  illness  (non  major  but  a  lil  gross) word count  2.5k author’s note  requested  by  anon  !!  thank  you  sm  because  i  really  loved  writing  this  one  .  something  about  a  sickfic  …  very  delicious  TO  ME  !!  one  of  my  favorite  tropes  to  read  so  i  was  very  excited  to  try  it  out  for  the  first  time  .  i  hope  you  enjoy  and  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  it  helps  me  so  much  to  get  feedback  about  what  yall  like  and  don’t  like  <3  title  is  from  burnin’  up  by  the  jonas  brothers  !

The only thing worse than experiencing a heatwave is experiencing a heatwave with a sick man blowing up your phone. 

You’re laying on your couch, as close as you can get to the air conditioning unit without actually being on top of it, when it buzzes once. Then again. By the time you shore up the energy to lift your head from the throw pillow, your phone is practically vibrating off the arm of the sofa. 

You know who’s texting you even before you check the notifications. The culprit, as always, is Lando Norris. 

[01:05 PM] help i think im dieing  [01:12 PM] coughs chills snot fever DESPAREEEEE 🤒😷🦠🌡️🤢🛌🪦 [01:13 PM] did i spell that right [01:27 PM] ignoring me. unbelieveable. what are BEST FRIENDS FOR [01:39 PM] do u think i’d look good as a ghost at least [01:42 PM] if u love me u’ll come over and bring that weird soup ur mom made up for colds

You’re about to tell him to stop being a baby and go to the pharmacy himself when two more texts flash across your screen:

[01:44 PM] okay my head is starting to proper hurt now [01:44 PM] come over please?? not joking anymore i feel realy shit [01:45 PM] i need u here

The others — those you could laugh off as your best friend’s usual dramatics. But these make you pause. You’ve known Lando for years, long enough to tell the difference between when he’s playing up his symptoms for attention and when he’s really sick. And the tone of these texts is less performative-whiny-manchild and more genuine discomfort.

You sigh. Sit up. Make a mental list of what’s in your fridge, and what you’ll need to pick up at the pharmacy, resolve crumbling the way it always does when it comes to Lando. Because he may be a baby when he’s sick, but he’s your baby. And as much as you wish your heart didn’t skip a beat when he texts you for help, as much as you wish you could ignore the way your chest tightens when he says he needs you, you’ll always show up for him. 

You’re grabbing your keys before you’ve really admitted to yourself that there was never a choice at all.

The Monaco heatwave is no joke, sun beating down and warmth unrelenting. You already feel like you’re wilting outside, but in Lando’s apartment it’s worse, if that’s even possible. The air feels stale and hot, stifling you as soon as you let yourself in. More worryingly, the flat looks completely empty, nothing but a pile of blankets on the couch with a couple discarded tissues on the ground.

“Lan?” you call, kicking off your shoes and dropping the bags on the counter, slipping the spare key he’d given you as soon as he moved in back into the inner pocket of your purse. “I brought supplies. Even got those lozenges you like because they don’t taste like medicine. Where are you?”

The pile of blankets moves slightly. Then coughs. “You came.”

“Jesus,” you hiss, making your way into the living room. Sure enough, Lando’s buried under the stack, curls plastered flat to his forehead. Despite the heat, he’s wearing a Quadrant hoodie and sweatpants, cheeks flushed crimson. “You look like shit.”

“Rude,” he croaks, voice hoarse and eyes glassy as he looks up at you. “I’m dying. This is it. This is how I go out. Can you make sure Max doesn’t post that picture of me from Ibiza last year as a remembrance? Because I know he thinks he looks good in it, but it’d be my death photo, and my hair looks sort of… wonky.”

“You’re not dying, you have a cold, you drama queen,” you say gently, placing a hand on his forehead. His skin burns beneath yours. “You do feel proper awful though, bub.”

“Told you. I wasn’t joking,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch without seeming to realize it. When you smooth the sweaty curls off his face, he makes a soft sound, almost like a purr.

You wince. “Okay. I’m gonna put the soup on the stove. You get these blankets off before you cook yourself.”

You turn to the kitchen, but Lando whines — actually whines, high and pathetic, like a kicked puppy. “Wait, no, don’t go.”

“I’m literally just going to the kitchen.”

He kicks uselessly at the pile of blankets, trying to sit up. “That’s too far.” 

You look back at the kitchen, no more than ten steps away, then wordlessly back at him.

When he pipes up again, his voice is smaller than usual, eyes are still fixed on the floor when he speaks. “Just… what if you leave?”

You soften immediately at the vulnerability. “Oh, Lan, I’m not going anywhere, I promise. But I have to get this soup started. So here’s what we’re going to do — we’re going to get you out of this hoodie and then you can come to the kitchen with me and sit at the counter and supervise. That work?”

His face brightens, and he nods so eagerly he winces and has to press a hand to his temple. “Perfect. Can’t wait to soup-ervise.”

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter as you help him untangle from the blankets and stand up, but there’s no heat behind it. “C’mon, arms up.”

He blinks at you slowly, like his body has to catch up with his brain, and then lifts his arms like they’re moving through Jell-O. You grasp the hem delicately and start tugging it upward, but he’s dead weight, not helping at all. 

“Lan, you gotta work with me here.” The hoodie catches on his chin as you pull, and he makes a soft little noise of protest, muffled through the heavy cotton. 

“Can’t,” he mumbles weakly as you finally manage to pull the thing over his head. “Everything’s spinny.” 

You’re about to respond — probably something funny, something that will make him huff out a laugh that won’t turn into a cough — before you realize he’s shirtless underneath the hoodie. 

You’ve seen Lando shirtless countless times before, at beach trips and post-race celebrations and one very ill-advised game of strip poker with Max. And even though he’s sick, bare chest not its usual golden tan, instead flushed feverish pink with a thin sheen of sweat, the sight of it still scrambles your brain a little bit. 

“You good?” you ask, proud of the way you manage to make it come out only slightly strangled.

Lando seems completely oblivious to your sudden inability to form coherent thoughts, nodding as he sways slightly on his feet. “Better. But cold now.”

“Ridiculous. You’re like a human radiator, I can feel how hot you are from here,” you say gently, wrapping your arm around his waist, and he practically melts against your side like personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. He clings to you all the way to the kitchen, bare skin pressed against your side, palm resting low on your hip and head tipped against the slope of your neck. With the way your heart is going, at this point you think you might be closer to fainting than he is.

You try to sit him on a stool at the edge of the counter, but he frowns when he realizes you’re going to the stovetop until you pull the stool around to your side of the kitchen. Even once he’s seated, slumping against the counter, his hand never leaves yours, lacing your fingers together as you pour the broth into the saucepan. You glance back at him, expecting him to let go, but he just tugs your hand into his lap and holds it there, gaze unfocused and fever-bright.

“Lan,” you sigh. “How am I meant to make your soup like this?”

“You’ve got one hand free,” he sniffles. “That’s all a real chef should need.” 

You try to extract your hand from his, to mince the garlic, but he tightens his grip just slightly around you. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” he relents, pouting as you chop up the aromatics, grate the ginger and lemon. But the moment you’re done with the knife work, turning to the stove to add the vegetables to the broth, he’s standing behind you, arm looping unsteadily around your waist and chin pressing into your shoulder. 

“Oi,” you say, trying not to sound as ridiculously flustered as you feel. “You’re meant to be sitting. Resting. Remember?”

“I missed you,” he mumbles, skin hot through the thin fabric of your tank top. “S’been like, thirty seconds of me time over there. Thought I might die alone.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he corrects, soft and pleased. You can feel his smile against your shoulder, and no matter how many times your brain tells you not to be affected, your heart isn’t quite getting the message. So you let him stay like that while you stir, fever-warm, the weight of him pressed against you in a way you absolutely do not let yourself think about. 

Once the broth is simmering together on the stovetop, you turn back to Lando, guide him gently back to the stool. “While we wait, I need to check your temperature. Open your mouth, yeah?”

“Buy me dinner first,” he responds, cheeky as ever.

“Lando,” you say, going for stern but coming out embarrassingly fond, cheeks pink with it. 

He grins like it’s the exact reaction he was hoping to pull out of you, before he sticks out his tongue with an exaggerated sort of obedience and you place the thermometer in his mouth. While you wait for the reading to come through, you slide a cool cloth across his forehead, watching his lashes flutter shut at the contact and trying not to think about how stupidly pretty he looks even with a potential fever. 

It’s a losing battle. You’re still pretending not to notice it when Lando’s hand curls around your wrist, palm slightly clammy. “S’beeping,” he says, thermometer obscuring his speech slightly. 

“101.2,” you frown, double-checking the digital display like it might change if you stare hard enough. “Lan, you’re burning up.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling dazedly up at you, hand still around yours. “You’re hot too.”

“Not what I meant.” It’s accompanied by an eye roll you’re using to cover up whatever frankly ridiculous thing your heart just did in your chest, halfway between a leap and a backflip. 

The timer on the stove blessedly chooses that moment to go off, and you turn to check the soup before you do something stupid like kiss him. The soup is golden, zingy with herbs, and the smell fills the kitchen with something like nostalgia. 

“Looks good,” Lando sighs dreamily, resting his chin in his hand. 

“Better than good. It’s going to fix you right up,” you reply, ladling it into a mug, because you know he likes sipping it better than using a spoon. “Drink up, yeah?”

He manages a few mouthfuls before he starts swaying on the stool again, eyelids heavy. The fever seems to be getting worse instead of better, and he’s gone from clingy to practically boneless, leaning more and more of his weight against you. 

“M’tired,” he mumbles, mug tilting precariously in his hand. You grab the cup before he spills it all over his marble floors, placing it gently on the counter as he slumps against you. 

“You need to lie down properly, bub,” you say quietly, but he’s already shaking his head. 

“Don’t wanna,” he says, words slurring together slightly. “Kitchen’s nice. You’re here.”

“I’ll still be here,” you reassure him, looping your arm around his waist and helping him stand. “But you need to get some rest and Jon’ll kill me if your back gets messed up from sleeping on this stool.”

He groans slightly but doesn’t fight you, probably too tired to argue. You lead him carefully down the hallway towards his room, trying not to trip over his feet as he shuffles beside you. He’s not talking, not exactly, just mumbling fevered half-thoughts and sleepy observations that don’t entirely make sense, but every so often he says your name so softly that it makes your chest tighten. 

By the time you get him settled into bed, curtains drawn to keep out the sun, a water glass and ibuprofen on the nightstand, and fan going full blast, even his rambling has mostly ceased. His eyes keep slipping closed, then jolting back open, like he’s trying his hardest to fight off his exhaustion. “Get some rest, Lan,” you murmur, squeezing his hand. 

He squeezes back with a surprising amount of force for someone who’s half-awake and feverish. “You have to stay.”

“I know,” you say gently. “I’m not leaving. I’ll be right out there when you wake up.”

“No,” he insists, eyes fluttering open. “Here. Please.”

You should say no. If not for your immune system, for the way it will almost certainly shatter something fragile inside you to lie next to him and pretend it doesn’t mean everything. 

But he looks so small and tired — vulnerable, almost, and his thumb is tracing across your knuckles, and you’ve never been particularly good at telling him no, anyway. Not when he looks at you like that. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and the relief that floods across his face makes something in your chest give way. “Just until you fall asleep.”

He scoots over immediately, making room for you on the bed. You hesitate for a moment before you clamber in beside him. Before you can even settle properly, he’s already curling into your side, face nuzzling against your neck. Your heart thumps impossibly loud in your chest, and you wonder for a second if he can hear it through your skin. Whether he can press his ear to the pulse point at your neck and listen to the very core of your want. 

“Thanks for staying,” he whispers into your skin, flinging an arm over your waist like it’s second nature, legs tangling into yours. 

“Of course. You asked,” you reply.

“Feel better when you’re here,” he sighs, shifting impossibly closer to you until his body is pressed flush against yours. You think maybe you’ve never been this close with another person, not like this. Skin to skin, breath to breath.

“I know,” you huff out a laugh like you’re trying to turn it into a joke, quiet in the darkness of the room. “Somehow I ended up being the only person you want when you’re sick.”

“No,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, “you’re just the only person I want.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment you think your heart might actually stop beating altogether. There’s something in the way he says it, the quiet certainty, that makes you believe it. Fever doesn’t make you lie about something as important as that, after all. It just makes you brave enough to tell the truth about it.

“Lan,” you whisper, but he’s already snuggling deeper into your side, breath evening out into sleep. He looks peaceful, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. You lie there, holding him close, smile tugging at your lips. 

You don’t wake him up. Not now. You’ll have all the time in the world to figure out where the two of you stand. 

Or, you think to yourself as you sniffle for the first time, several days of sick time, at least.

[boocmarks]

All or nothing 🔥

Sex Chocolate 🔞

Crushing on you ☁️

Miss me? 🔥☁️

MAIN MASTERLIST

[boocmarks]

May this kind of love SLAM into me

WEIRD VIBES ONLY

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Words : 2.5k

The 4+1 times people overheard Lando and his Girlfriend’s weird conversations.

1. The Pit Crew Misadventure

Lando Norris was fresh off a practice lap, helmet still tucked under his arm, when Y/N bounded into the McLaren garage like a caffeinated squirrel. She’d swiped a wrench from a toolbox—because of course she had—and was twirling it like a baton. “So, if we’re doing it in the cockpit,” she said, voice low but not low enough, “I say we go full throttle. Maximum chaos, no holding back. I want sparks flying.”

Lando grinned, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, but I’d need to adjust the seat first. Can’t have you slipping around when I hit the apex. Precision’s key.”

Dave, a lanky mechanic with a permanent oil smudge on his cheek, was lugging a tire past them when his ears caught the exchange. Cockpit? Full throttle? Slipping around? Sparks? His brain short-circuited. He pictured Lando and Y/N sneaking into the car after hours, doing unspeakable things on the carbon-fiber seat, probably breaking half a dozen FIA regulations in the process. The tire slipped from his grip, bouncing once before rolling into a stack of toolboxes with a clang.

“You alright, mate?” Lando called, eyebrows raised.

Dave didn’t answer. He bolted for the break room, where he found his buddy Pete sipping a lukewarm coffee. “Mate,” Dave hissed, “Lando’s about to defile the car in ways I can’t unsee. Send help. Or a priest.”

Pete choked on his coffee. “What, like, in the car?”

“Full throttle,” Dave whispered, eyes wide. “Sparks and everything.”

Meanwhile, back in the garage, Y/N tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “So, confetti cannons in the sim rig—yes or no?”

“Yes,” Lando said, “but we’re blaming Oscar if it jams.” They high-fived, oblivious to the existential crisis they’d just triggered.

2. The Supermarket Scandal

It was a rare off-day, and Lando and Y/N were prowling the aisles of a Tesco near Silverstone. Y/N, in a hoodie that swallowed her frame, held up a box of Frosted Flakes like it was a sacred artifact. “Okay, but if we’re doing it with the tiger,” she said, “we’ve got to time it perfectly—right when the sugar hits. That’s the sweet spot.”

Lando, pushing a cart with one wobbly wheel, nodded with the seriousness of a race strategist. “Timing’s everything. Too soon, and it’s just messy. Too late, and we’re sticky for hours. I’m not dealing with that again.”

A middle-aged woman in a sensible cardigan—let’s call her Janet—was browsing the oatmeal section nearby. She froze, her hand hovering over a box of Quaker Oats, as her imagination ran wild. Doing it with the tiger? Sugar hits? Sticky for hours? She envisioned some depraved, cereal-mascot-fueled roleplay, complete with Lando in a Tony the Tiger costume and Y/N wielding a can of whipped cream. Her basket trembled in her grip as she backed away, abandoning her oats to escape the depravity.

Later that night, Janet regaled her book club with the tale. “I don’t know what’s wrong with kids these days,” she said, clutching her tea. “That racer boy and his girlfriend are freaky. I’ll never look at Frosted Flakes the same way.”

In reality, Y/N was already rigging their Roomba with a cereal bowl while Lando filmed, cackling as the vacuum skidded across their flat, flinging flakes everywhere. “This is gold,” he said, dodging a stray piece. “TikTok’s gonna lose it.”

“Next time,” Y/N replied, “we add milk.”

3. The Hotel Lobby Horror

The night before the Monaco Grand Prix, Lando and Y/N were sprawled across a plush couch in the hotel lobby, surrounded by marble floors and overpriced chandeliers. Y/N kicked her sneakers off and propped her feet on Lando’s lap. “If we’re using the feathers,” she said, “I want them everywhere—total coverage, no gaps. It’s gotta be epic.”

Lando smirked, poking her foot. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after. Last time, I was picking them out of weird places for days. My socks were shedding for a week.”

Behind the reception desk, a concierge named Philippe—crisp suit, impeccable mustache—nearly dropped his tray of complimentary sparkling waters. Feathers? Total coverage? Weird places? His mind conjured a scene straight out of a risqué rom-com: Lando and Y/N tangled in a pile of plucked pillows, feathers drifting through the air like some avant-garde sex ritual. He coughed, adjusted his tie, and spent the rest of his shift warning coworkers to steer clear of Room 312. “They’re… creative,” he muttered. “Very creative.”

Upstairs, Y/N was sketching a feathered dinosaur costume on a napkin while Lando scrolled through gaming forums. “Think we can get it done before the next stream?” she asked.

“Only if we bribe Carlos with pizza,” Lando said. “He’s got the hot glue gun skills.”

4. The Paddock Panic

The paddock at Spa was buzzing with pre-race energy when Y/N sidled up to Lando near the McLaren hospitality tent. She lowered her voice, but the wind carried it just far enough. “I’m telling you, the harness is key. Strap me in tight, and I’m good for at least twenty minutes.”

Lando chuckled, tossing an energy drink can between his hands. “Twenty? Bold. I’d say fifteen tops before you’re begging to get out. You’re not built for that kind of endurance.”

A journalist from Racing Weekly, lurking behind a potted plant with her notebook out, perked up like a bloodhound. Harness? Strap her in? Endurance? She scribbled furiously, her pen practically smoking. This was it—the scoop of the season. She could already see the headline: “Exclusive: Norris and GF’s BDSM Secrets Revealed!” She pitched it to her editor that night, claiming she’d uncovered the spicy underbelly of F1’s golden boy.

Back at the tent, Y/N adjusted the straps on a go-kart harness, grinning at Lando. “Twenty minutes around the track, and I’ll smoke you,” she said. “Loser buys dinner.”

“You’re on,” Lando replied, “but when you tap out at fifteen, I want extra garlic bread.”

+1. The Truth Comes Out

It all came to a head at a McLaren team dinner after the Italian Grand Prix. The restaurant was cozy, all dim lights and clinking wine glasses, with the team sprawled across a long table. Dave the mechanic was there, still haunted by the cockpit fiasco. Janet, who turned out to be Oscar Piastri’s aunt, had tagged along with a friend. Philippe the concierge, off-duty and visiting a cousin in Monza, sat at the bar. The Racing Weekly journalist hovered near the dessert cart, hoping for more dirt.

Lando and Y/N were at the end of the table, heads bent together as usual. Y/N tapped her fork against her plate. “Lando, if we’re doing the whipped cream thing tonight, we need to prep the tarp. I’m not scrubbing the ceiling again.”

Lando nodded, chewing a breadstick. “Yeah, last time it got everywhere—total disaster. Took me an hour to unstick my shoes.”

The eavesdroppers leaned in, senses tingling. Dave whispered to Pete, “Whipped cream in the cockpit?” Janet clutched her pearls, imagining a dairy-drenched tiger romp. Philippe pictured feathers and cream, while the journalist scribbled, “Kinky Dessert Fetish Confirmed.”

Then Y/N pulled out her phone and shoved it in Lando’s face. “Look, here’s the vid from last time,” she said, loud enough for the table to hear. The screen showed their kitchen, a tarp on the floor, and a towering, wobbly whipped-cream sculpture that collapsed mid-build, splattering them both. Lando’s shriek of “MY HAIR!” echoed through the restaurant as Y/N doubled over laughing on the video.

The table erupted. Oscar snorted into his pasta. “You two are idiots,” he said. Zak Brown shook his head, grinning. “I don’t even want to know.”

Dave dropped his fork. Janet blinked, her scandal evaporating. Philippe coughed into his wine, and the journalist snapped her notebook shut, muttering, “Well, that’s not printable.”

Y/N caught the stares and smirked. “What? It was for a charity bake-off livestream. We raised, like, two grand.”

Lando leaned back, arms behind his head. “Next time, we’re building a spaghetti catapult. Way less sticky.”

The eavesdroppers slunk away, red-faced, as Lando and Y/N clinked glasses, already plotting their next absurd adventure. Their dynamic was weird—borderline unhinged—but it was theirs. Cute, chaotic, and definitely not what anyone thought. Best to just leave them to it.

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