cheftsunoda

[cheftsunoda]

novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

in which lando and yn, worn thin by fame, pressure, and the weight of always being watched, find comfort in all the wrong places — drowning their loneliness in drugs, sex, and each other's broken promises.

fc : cindy kimberly

(a/n) : no one answered if they wanted this or not so now im forcing it on everyone. sorry if you hate it:( this is based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean so if you don’t know it— definitely recommend listening it it to understand.

❗obviously warnings of drug use, relationship toxicity, angst, minor smut and eating disorder ❗

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 & 5,515,007 others.

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

↳ username00 : what’s the problem with her?? i thought they were together

↳ username000 : no they aren’t confirmed together. THANK GOD. she is just a horrible influence for him to be around.

↳ username1 : you do realize lando is a fully grown adult and the people he chooses to be around and what he does is completely on him, right?

↳ username000 : well yeah but i do not think being around her helps his mindset any. he’s changed.

↳ username1 : maybe has had changed from the pressure and stress. maybe he is just tired. leave them both alone.

alexandrasaintmleux : so pretty angel. hope to see your face again soon!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

danielricciardo : he better have that hickey covered on media day🤣

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : i am respectfully not looking. (i looked)

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

username11 : lando is ruining his reputation for this woman. honestly, i kind of understand.

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

You still remember the way the air felt that night — thick with smoke, perfume, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after you’d left the club. It had been Fashion Week in Milan, and you were already four shows deep into a sleepless spiral of afterparties, interviews, and eyes that didn’t see you so much as consume you. You were tired. Exhausted in the kind of way no sleep could fix. And then there he was. Lando Norris — crooked smile, familiar face, eyes like they knew you. Not knew your name. Knew you. And you hated how much that made you pause. You met him at some rooftop club that blurred together with all the rest — flashing lights, empty champagne flutes, and hands that touched too long without meaning anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Off-season or something like that. But maybe he needed the distraction just as badly as you did.

He bought you a drink. You made a sarcastic comment about hating tequila and drank it anyway. You talked. You laughed. And then somewhere between his fourth glass and your second lie about being fine, things stopped being surface level. You caught him staring at you like he was trying to read between the cracks. So you let him see them. Or maybe you didn’t have the strength to hide them anymore.

“I don’t think I’m built for all this,” you admitted in a half whisper, legs crossed tightly in the corner of a velvet booth, mascara smudged like war paint.

He didn’t say anything. Just took a slow sip of his drink and replied, “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t flirtation after that. It was something heavier. Messier. The kind of pull that only two broken people feel when they recognize themselves in someone else’s ruin. Back at your hotel room, things unfolded like instinct. You were both too numb and too desperate to question it. The clothes came off easy. The masks came off harder.

His lips trailed your collarbone. Your hands tangled in his curls. The pressure in your stomach growing with every thrust and then after— the air changed. You were sitting on the bed, his hoodie slipping off your shoulder, and you reached for the little orange bottle you never traveled without. He watched you pop the pill with a swig of warm, flat water from the bedside table.

You caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. “Want one?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to know he was still trying to be the good guy, even now. Then he took it from your hand and held your gaze like a dare. You watched him swallow it dry. He turned and leaned back into you— closing the gap between the two of you again. You sat until he began to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling you had grown accustomed to but was still brand new for him.

“What even was that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. You smiled, tired and crooked. The kind of smile that says this is survival, not seduction.

“Don’t let the high go to waste,” you murmured, echoing the line like a mantra you wished wasn’t true.

He didn’t ask again. You laid back. He followed. That night wasn’t about falling in love. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about not feeling like shit for five fucking minutes. It was about losing yourselves in each other’s broken parts and calling it relief. It was about two people too hollow to hold anything real — and still clinging to each other like it might fix something anyway. You didn’t know it then, but that would be the first of many nights like that. And the last time anything between you felt accidental.

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’s wild child & fashion’s favorite disaster leaving Miami’s dirtiest rooftop club at 4:27AM. Looks like Lando Norris and YN, international model, are taking their rumored situationship coast to coast. The pair were seen stumbling out of RITUAL, the kind of place where the floors are sticky and the bathrooms are sacred. Sources claim Lando looked “glassy-eyed but smiling,” while YN was seen reapplying her lipstick in the back of a black SUV. Oh, and did we mention her heels were in his hand? Eyewitnesses say the duo “couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” and at least one club staffer swears they both entered the same VIP room together. But who needs sleep when your only job is being young, rich, and reckless? We’re not saying they’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, but we are saying someone’s PR team is sweating.

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : the fact that he is doing this when he will be racing in 36 hours is…interesting to say the least.

username0 : someone check on zak brown. mans is probably pacing.

username1 : why are we romanticizing this behavior? they both clearly have a lot of problems that need fixed.

username5 : he is supposed to be a professional athlete. not snorting something suspicious in a club at 3 am. LANDO WAKE TF UP.

username7 : never ever expected this phase in lando’s career but here we are.

username10 : y’all will continue to blame her like he isn’t grown and can’t make his own decisions. like bruh

—

You and Lando always fell into some sort of cycle. Not love. Not quite addiction either — though it came close. Something in between. Something quieter but heavier. A pattern with soft edges and sharp consequences. It started the way it always did — too loud, too fast, too much.

Miami’s air was humid with desperation that weekend — people screaming your name, cameras flashing like seizures, bodies grinding in tempo with the bass. He met your eyes from across the club and that was all it took. You didn’t even smile. Just nodded once, like yeah. it’s time again.You’d both lost something before you even walked in. The music was pounding, the drinks were bottomless, the lines were generous — and by the time he had his hand on the small of your back, you couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from the substance or from him. He leaned down to murmur something into your ear — something stupid and sweet, something that made you laugh even though nothing about the night was funny. And then you pulled out the little bag. Same one you always had. He watched. He never stopped you, not really.

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

You nodded like muscle memory. He followed. In the bathroom of some overpriced rooftop bar, you did it off the back of your hand while he stood behind you like a shadow, warm and steady and crumbling all at once. His knuckles brushed yours when he took his turn, eyes blown wide and tired even in the mirror’s hazy glow. And somehow, not long after, you ended up tangled together in your hotel bed — hot skin, whispered curses, need disguised as recklessness. It wasn’t sweet. It never was. It was desperate. The kind of touch that only feels good because it silences the scream in your head for a moment. The kind that makes you feel something when you’re numb everywhere else.

But later — after — when your heartbeat finally slowed and your thoughts started catching up, you climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. You didn’t bother turning on the light. Just stepped under the cold stream of the shower and let yourself cry. Quiet at first. Then harder. Your mascara ran down the drain like ink in water. Your shoulders shook like you were trying to hold your bones together. You didn’t expect him to follow. But he did. Lando opened the door without knocking. Stepped into the shower fully clothed. Didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. He just wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you while the water soaked through his shirt and you sobbed into his chest like a child.

He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew. He was wrong too. You stood like that for a long time. Just water. Skin. Silence. And the ache of being seen by someone who’s just as hollow.

The morning after always hurt worse. The sunlight hit too hard. The hangover hit harder. And then the notifications. Tabloids. Photos. Headlines about the two of you looking “high and handsy” at 4:27 AM. His team texted. Yours called. And all you could do was sit at the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts and stare at the phone while Lando paced and swore under his breath. It always happened like this. The comedown. The regret. The beginning of the withdrawal. He left around 10AM, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, mumbling something about sorting it with his PR team. You didn’t ask him to stay. You never did.

Because you knew how it went. He’d vanish. Ignore your texts. You’d see him on someone else’s story a few days later. Like none of it mattered. But he always came back. Usually around 2AM. Usually with a knock and no words. Usually when your mascara was already running and your hands were already shaking. It wasn’t love. It was a cycle. And God help you, but part of you needed it.

—

But he tries to stop. For real, this time. After the Miami fallout, after his PR team threatens to pull endorsement deals and Zak himself tells him to “get your shit together or get out” — Lando goes quiet. You don’t hear from him for days. No 2AM texts. No half assed apologies. No hotel room knocks. Not even a story view. Silence.

You assume he’s doing what they all do eventually — detaching. Saving himself. Finding some version of clean that doesn’t include you. You’re used to it. You pretend not to check your phone anyway.

Meanwhile, he’s trying. He really is. He wakes up early. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t go out. He trains. Eats clean. Answers his calls. He ignores the aching pull in his chest when he sees your name light up his phone — unread messages stacked like shame. But it doesn’t help. None of it helps. Because when the world is quiet — when the race ends and the cameras go dark — he’s left alone with himself. And he can’t stand himself.

He thinks about the way your laugh sounds muffled against his chest. The way your eyeliner always smudges when you cry in the shower. The way you looked at him that night, like you were waiting for him to tell you it was okay to fall apart. And he wants it back. Not because it’s good. Not because it’s healthy. Because it’s something.

The truth is — the high didn’t just numb the pain. It muted the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough. That he was wasting his life. That none of it — the podiums, the parties, the press tours — felt real anymore. Being numb was awful. But being awake? That’s unbearable.

He sits in his hotel room one night, a few cities away, staring at the white walls, the untouched food, the silence thick enough to suffocate. He’s alone. And it hits him like it always does — slow at first, then all at once. The ache. The craving. The need to not feel anything. He grabs the bottle. He doesn’t even think. Washes one pill down with cold champagne. Calls your number. You answer on the first ring, like you knew this moment would come. Like you were waiting for it. No words. Just breathing.

And when he shows up at your door an hour later, eyes heavy, hands shaking, hoodie clinging to his skin like regret — you don’t ask what changed his mind. Because nothing did. The truth is, he never wanted to stop. He just wanted to believe he could. Because numbness is easier. And you… you numb the pain. I guess you’re novacane.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well— it seems Lando Norris and YN LN are back at it again after weeks of distance. The two were seen coming and going from each other’s apartments more than 3 times this week.

—

It started slowly. Like most things do. First, it was just a headline. Some blurry pap photo of you walking out of a café in Milan, cropped in all the wrong ways. The caption read—

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

And that was all it took. It wasn’t true. You were exhausted, not careless. Bloated from the long flight, hungover from bad decisions and worse wine, caught mid-step with your shirt rumpled and sunglasses sliding down your nose. You hadn’t even known the cameras were there. But they were always there.

Then came the panel show segment. Some middle-aged man with a smug smile and zero credentials saying, “She’s still stunning, obviously, but you can tell the partying’s catching up to her.”

And it spiraled. Your agent texted you later that night — “No more pasta. Milan is watching.”

That’s when you stopped eating. At first it was a conscious decision. Strategic. If they wanted skinny, you’d give them starved. If they wanted hollow cheekbones and razorblade hip bones, you’d serve it on a silver fucking platter. You skipped meals and smiled through shoots. Faked fullness and learned which lies photographers never questioned. But it wasn’t long before you stopped choosing. The hunger became control. And then the control became a high. One you didn’t need to snort or swallow. And Lando noticed. He always did.

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

He couldn’t win a race without the press tearing him apart. Couldn’t crash out without being called immature. Couldn’t smile in an interview without being accused of not taking the sport seriously — and couldn’t look serious without them calling him cold.

“You’re not focused,” they’d said. “You’re wasting your seat.”

Every race weekend became a war. With his car. With the media. With himself.

And in between the races? Endless hotel rooms. Fake friends. Paparazzi flashes that made him feel like prey. Fans who loved the version of him that didn’t exist anymore. Who worshipped the myth and ignored the man.

He started sleeping in his hoodie with the hood pulled tight, even indoors. Started rubbing the back of his neck until it was red and raw. Couldn’t eat before practice. Couldn’t sleep after qualifying. Couldn’t breathe when it all got too loud.

You found each other in that silence.

It was after some gala you were both dragged to. You were wearing a backless dress that made your vision go blurry when you stood too long. He was in a tux he hadn’t wanted to wear, tie loosened, jaw clenched. You ended up in your hotel room again. Of course you did. But this time, there was no rush. No drugs. No sex. Just… collapse. You sat on the edge of the bed, toes pressing into the carpet, trying not to cry. Your stomach was eating itself, but you couldn’t remember the last time food didn’t feel like failure. He stood by the window, staring out like he was somewhere else entirely. Finally, you spoke.

“They said I looked fat in that dress,” you whispered.

He turned, slowly. Eyes dim. Like he’d been waiting for your voice to break.

“They say I don’t deserve my seat,” he answered.

You looked up at him, tears lining your lashes, voice small.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

That’s when he walked over. Sat behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist — too gently. Like he was afraid you’d break. You leaned back into him, your spine pressing against his chest, and for a moment, you both just breathed. No masks. No captions. No noise.

You felt his lips ghost over your shoulder as he whispered, “They only want us when we’re shining. Not when we’re bleeding.”

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

You stayed like that for hours. No high. No distractions. Just the quiet devastation of two people being honest. You held his hand like a lifeline. He kissed your temple like a prayer. That night, you didn’t sleep with each other. You just slept. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN LN in the paddock this weekend — and all eyes were on her. Rumors continue to swirl about her relationship with McLaren driver Lando Norris, and her surprise appearance in the garage only added fuel to the fire. According to insiders, YN was nothing short of lovely — chatting with fans, posing for photos, and offering a few smiles that made it hard not to root for her. As for Lando? Let’s just say the chemistry between the two didn’t go unnoticed.

—

The nights are quieter now. Not silent — you both still wake up sweating, heart racing, hands reaching for something that isn’t there anymore — but quieter. Softer. You’re trying. So is he.

After the last fallout, the withdrawal that left you shaking and sobbing in different cities, you made a pact — no pills, no blow, no hotel room disasters. Just water. Sleep. Presence. Even if presence meant staring blankly at a wall together in shared misery, at least you were there. You still have the urge sometimes. The craving. The itch in your skin when everything gets too loud, too fast. But you text him instead of reaching for a bottle. And he answers. Always.

He’s been better. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But better. He’s eating again. Sleeping more. Actually showing up to meetings. The anger in his voice has dulled — not gone, just folded into something quieter, sadder, but realer.

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

You fly in Friday, lowkey and quiet. No paparazzi. No chaos. He picks you up in a hoodie and worn out trainers, the circles under his eyes more honest than any headline.

He doesn’t say much in the car. Just rests his hand on your thigh at a red light and squeezes, like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

You’re staying with him that weekend. The bed is cold. No sex. Just tangled limbs and half whispered memories of nights you barely remember. You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wonder when that started being enough.

Race day comes fast. The paddock is buzzing — too bright, too loud. But he wants you there, so you come. You slip on the pass he gave you, the oversized McLaren jacket, your sunglasses. You keep your head down.

He finds you before the driver’s parade. You’re by the back of the garage, sipping water, watching the chaos unfold.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

And then, “I don’t know if I would’ve made it through this week if you didn’t.”

You don’t say anything. Just slide your fingers between his and squeeze. A photographer snaps a shot you’ll both pretend not to notice.

During the race, you watch from the garage. Nails biting into your palm, eyes on every sector, every lap. You cheer when he overtakes. Your heart climbs into your throat when he locks up slightly at Turn 10. The crew gives you a nod when he comes in for a clean stop. You feel everything. And for once, you let yourself. When he crosses the line — P4 — it’s not a podium, but it’s a finish. A damn good one. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

He finds you after media. Helmet hair, race suit half unzipped, skin flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion. And when he sees you — really sees you — his face cracks open in a way the cameras never catch. No jokes. No press smiles. Just rawness. He pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs ache.

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

It had been weeks since the race. Weeks since you and Lando swore you’d keep going — clean, sober, together. Weeks of morning check-ins and long, quiet nights. Weeks of avoiding temptation like it lived under your skin.

And it was working. Sort of.

You were tired, but functional. Lando was focused, if a little hollow. You were making it through each day with aching effort and brittle hope. You had even started eating small things again — a banana here, some soup there. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Just enough to convince your manager you were “getting better.”

But the truth was… you weren’t.

The modeling world doesn’t care about “recovery.” It cares about bones and collarbones. It cares about angles and sample sizes. And you were trying — but your body was done trying for you. You were mid-way through a shoot in Paris when everything went sideways.

You didn’t feel the moment coming. One minute you were standing in front of the lights, makeup perfect, spine held straight by willpower and spite. The next, your vision was tunneling and the floor was rushing toward you. You hit the concrete hard.

Cameras flashed. Stylists screamed. Someone dropped their iced coffee and gasped like that was the real tragedy. The medics came. The studio was cleared. Your phone was unlocked by someone who barely knew your last name. They called Lando.

He got the call just after FP2. His race suit was still clinging to him, hair damp, body sore — but none of that registered when he saw your name flash across his screen. It wasn’t your voice. It was someone from the agency.

Words like “collapsed,” “dehydrated,” “not responsive.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He stumbled back into the McLaren motorhome like he’d been hit in the chest. Pushed past press officers. Ignored his engineer. Locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection like it might offer a reason not to fall apart.

You passed out. You weren't eating. He should’ve seen it coming. He wanted to get on the next plane to Paris. But the race was in less than 48 hours. And they wouldn’t let him leave. So instead, he relapsed.

It was slow, stupid. A numbing kind of panic that led to desperate movement. He found the old bottle buried deep in his travel bag. He stared at it for almost an hour. He texted you. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. And the fear twisted into something uglier than grief — helplessness. He cracked the seal. Took two.

When your eyes fluttered open hours later in a sterile white hospital room, the first thing you saw was the IV. The second was your manager pacing outside the door. The third was Lando’s name — 10 missed calls. You could barely lift your head, but you reached for your phone anyway.

And when you saw his last message, your heart cracked open.

If you die, I’ll go with you. I can’t do this without you.

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

“I’m sorry. I slipped. I just… I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

You cried. Because it should’ve been you holding him through the relapse. Because he had been trying so hard. Because this wasn’t recovery, it was survival. And even survival was slipping.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Lando sat on the edge of a pristine hotel bed with his head in his hands, high out of his mind and sobbing. He didn’t want the high. He just wanted the noise to stop. He just wanted you to be okay. He didn’t feel better. Not even numb. Just empty. And it was then — in the silence between his shallow breaths — that he realized…the cycle wasn’t broken. It had just gotten quieter.

—

You wake up to the sound of the door creaking open. It’s been two days since the collapse. Two days of IV drips, quiet nurses, and a blurred timeline of stern lectures and shallow breathing. You’re better, technically. Awake. Alive. But not okay.

The room is pale and too still. It smells like antiseptic and synthetic lavender. The flowers on the windowsill weren’t yours — someone dropped them off this morning, anonymous and beautiful. And then he walks in. Lando.

He’s wearing the hoodie you stole from his Monaco apartment last winter — oversized and threadbare — and he looks like shit. Eyes puffy. Lips dry. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend this isn’t the worst version of both of you. You sit up slowly, instinctively tucking your knees under the blanket like shame can be hidden that easily.

“Hi,” you manage.

He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in case it disappears again.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t. I… didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was okay.”

“You weren’t okay,” he snaps. “You aren’t okay. You passed out, YN.”

The silence is brutal.

“You said you were eating again,” he adds, voice cracking halfway through. “You lied to me.”

You look away, throat tight. “You relapsed too.”

He flinches. “Because I thought you were going to die.”

“You think I didn’t want to die?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “You think I fucking wanted to be here?”

His jaw clenches. He walks across the room, grabs the back of the chair beside your bed, but doesn’t sit.

“You’re not allowed to say that to me,” he mutters. “Not when you knew how close I was to breaking. Not when you promised—”

“I was breaking!” you yell. “Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was failure. Headlines telling me I was too fat, too messy, too washed-up at twenty-four. I couldn’t eat without hearing their voices in my head, Lando. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them. He’s quiet for a beat. And then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him-

“And I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to come out of his own mouth.

“I used to think you were just the person I used to forget the worst parts of myself. The drugs. The sex. The late nights.” He breathes in. “But it’s not that anymore.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

“You’re not something I use to numb the pain,” he whispers. “You are the pain. And the comfort. And the chaos. And the only thing that’s made me feel fucking alive in months.”

His voice breaks. “I think I love you.”

The air is still. He finally sinks into the chair beside your bed, shoulders caving in like the confession took everything out of him. You don’t speak. Because you don’t know how to respond. Because some part of you always feared this moment — feared that the mess you made together might actually be real. That love might exist inside the cycle. That someone could look at you, hollowed and hurting, and still call it love. Lando doesn’t push you. He just stares at the floor, picking at the string of his sleeve.

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

So you just reach out — trembling fingers brushing over his knuckles — and hold his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You don’t say I love you back. But you stay. And right now, that’s the loudest truth you have.

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

Not really. It was taken at intake, handed over with your makeup bag and the clutch of anxiety meds you’d been hoarding in your luggage “just in case.” You gave it up with shaking hands and a hollow chest. Somewhere in the distance, your name still echoed across headlines. But in here, it didn’t matter.

This place is all beige walls and early mornings. You sleep in a twin bed with sheets that smell like lemon detergent, and you sit in group therapy circles with girls who look just like you — too perfect, too thin, too tired.

You talk. Not all the time. But enough. You talk about the emptiness. The perfectionism. The terrifying high of disappearing and the unbearable crash of still being here. You don’t say Lando’s name — not at first. But he haunts the edges of everything. His hoodie is still the only thing you wear to sleep.

Some nights, you cry. Some mornings, you scream. Some days, you just breathe. It’s more progress than you’ve made in years.

Lando’s world doesn’t stop — Formula 1 doesn’t pause for pain. So he keeps racing. But something’s changed in him too. He doesn’t go out after practice anymore. Doesn’t disappear between sessions. There are no new girls, no blurry club photos, no gossip-worthy moments. He’s… quiet. Focused. Haunted. His team notices. So does his therapist.

Yes, therapist. Zak insisted. After Miami. After the relapse. After the look in Lando’s eyes started resembling burnout instead of bravado. And, reluctantly, he agreed.

At first, he sat through the sessions in silence, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But then the woman — her name was Dana — asked him a question that made something snap.

“What would it mean to love someone who might not survive loving you back?”

He cried. For the first time in years. And then he started talking. About the pressure. The fame. The way winning felt empty now and losing felt like the end of the world. About the way you looked in the hospital bed, wrists thinner than the IV line, eyes so tired but still there — still trying.

He talks about the pills. The sex. The high that used to feel like relief and now feels like shame. And, quietly, he talks about love. Not like it’s a promise — more like a wound he can’t stop touching.

They send letters now. Not texts. Not emails. Actual pen and paper letters that get reviewed by staff and delivered like old secrets. He writes to you after every race. Sometimes just a few lines—

P6. You would’ve said the helmet looked cool today. I’m still sober. Still tired. But I’m trying. Miss you. — L

You sends him drawings, mostly. Little sketches of the view outside your window. Notes in the margins—

Today I ate an entire sandwich. It scared me. But I did it. You’d be proud.

I miss hearing your heartbeat when I couldn’t find mine. I’m not ready for “I love you,” but I’m not afraid of it anymore either.

Please keep trying. I’ll meet you there. Eventually.

We are healing. Separately. But not apart. Not really. You count the days until you can leave — not because you want to run, but because you want to live again. To feel again. To see him again, clear eyed and real and maybe finally whole. He keeps showing up to the track. To therapy. To life. And every time he gets back in the car, he whispers before lights out, like a ritual—

For her. For me. For us.

It’s not perfect. But for once — for the first time — it’s not a cycle. It’s a beginning.

—

The world looks different on the outside. Not brighter, not softer. Just… clearer. Like someone cleaned the glass between you and everything else.

You’re not fixed — everyone in treatment made sure you understood that. There’s no magic milestone, no final day that turns pain into peace. But you’ve reached a point where you’re not surviving despite the feelings anymore — you’re surviving with them. And that’s something.

You walk out of the center with a suitcase, a discharge folder, and a goodbye hug from the nurse who used to sit with you when you couldn’t sleep. You haven’t worn makeup in over a month. Your hair is tied back in a bun. You look… human. For the first time in ages. You don’t tell Lando you’re coming.

You’ve rewritten your “I love you” a hundred times in your head — not like a grand confession, but like a careful gift, one you’re not entirely sure he’s ready to open. Or if you are. But you book the flight anyway. One way. To Monaco.

He doesn’t expect the knock. It’s late — nearly midnight — and he’s in one of his hoodies, sitting on the couch, eyes half-shut from a week of racing and back to back therapy sessions. There’s a half written letter to you on the coffee table. He hasn’t mailed it yet. When he opens the door and sees you — real, standing there, smaller than he remembers but glowing in a way he’s never seen before — his breath just stops.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He blinks once, twice, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

You nod. Your eyes are already glassy. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you in before he can say anything else — arms wrapping around you like instinct, like muscle memory, like home. You melt into him. You smell like clean cotton and plane air and a life that doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

You sit on the couch in silence for a while. Not awkward — just sacred. You hold his hand and trace small shapes into the back of it like your fingers forgot how to stop missing him. Then you finally speak.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, like he didn’t expect it.

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

He doesn’t speak. His throat bobs. His grip on your hand tightens, just slightly.

“But I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared that if we go back to the way things were, we’ll lose ourselves again. That we’ll drag each other down. That we’ll confuse love for dependency.”

He nods slowly. His voice is low, rough- “I’m scared too.” You meet his eyes — those tired, beautiful eyes that saw you at your lowest and didn’t look away.

“But I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” you say. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“We don’t have to go back,” he whispers. “We build something new. Slower. Smarter. Softer. No highs, no crashes. Just… us.”

You nod. A tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you let it fall. He wipes it away with his thumb, gently.

“I don’t want you to be my escape,” he says. “I want you to be my reason.”

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

That night, you don’t fall into old habits. You don’t numb anything. You sleep curled up next to him, fully clothed, his hand resting over your heart like he’s guarding it. And for the first time in what feels like years, your dreams are quiet.

—

months later...

It’s strange, the way peace can feel unfamiliar at first. Like wearing a dress that used to hang off your frame — now it fits. And that alone feels like rebellion. You wake up most mornings beside him, and the air is quiet. Not heavy. Not desperate. Just calm.

His hand usually finds yours under the sheets before either of you even open your eyes. It’s instinct now. Like breathing. Like choosing to stay. Lando makes coffee the way you like it. You fold his laundry while watching race replays on his laptop.

It’s normal. Uneventful. Safe. But more than anything else — it’s real.

He’s doing well. Not just on track, but off it too. Still going to therapy. Still checking in. Still sober. Some nights are harder than others — you both know that. But there are fewer secrets now. Less shame.

You write again. Sketch. Eat. Exist. You laugh more. You cry less. You look in the mirror and see a person you’re learning to love — not a ghost. Sometimes people ask if the two of you are “still together.”

As if the world only expects passion if it’s breaking things. As if surviving each other doesn’t count. You don’t give them answers. You don’t owe them that. But if they looked close enough, they’d know. The way he looks at you across the paddock — that smile, soft and full of memory. The way your hand always ends up in his before lights out. The way you whisper “I’m okay” and mean it now.

You think about the song sometimes— Novacane. Even listen to it from time to time. The pattern of destruction you used to so closely live to Hell, you used to live inside it. The numbness. The quiet kind of destruction.

You used to need the high to forget how bad everything felt. You used to use sex to convince yourself you are worthy of life— of love. To forget all the little things that built up inside of you over the course of one day. You used to use drugs— pills, cocaine— anything to calm your nerves and rid your mind of all the bad press, the horrible comments, the overall stress of being a person in fame. You and him used to use each other to make some fucked up form of ‘happiness’.

You don’t anymore. Lando said it best a few weeks ago, while you both sat on the balcony of the Monaco apartment, wrapped in one blanket, your legs tangled together as the sun sank into the sea—

“You were never the high. You were what reminded me I deserved to come down.”

You smiled at him, rested your head on his shoulder, and let that be enough. Because you’re not perfect. He isn’t either. But together? You’re present. You’re healing. You’re free. And that’s better than any high you ever chased.

[cheftsunoda]

guys!! i hit 100 posts!! yay!!!

just wanted to check in and yap and say i love you all and thank you for being patient with me and so supportive. gonna work on requests all night <3

also i found an old draft and started editing— I previously wrote an ln4 fic based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean and i cant decide if i want to post or scrap— so lmk if you guys want it !!

[cheftsunoda]

hii my love, could i possibly request a poly with carlos and rebbeca? with reader being an architect/ archeologist studying in edinburgh?

redesigned— cs55 + rebecca

smau + blurbs

you always thought your life would be built in clean lines and quiet mornings. tucked away in edinburgh’s grey stone charm, buried under piles of models and sketches, you were content building your future from the ground up—brick by brick, draft by draft. loving quietly and living softly. until rebecca. model, muse, and your first real love—rebecca donaldson walked into your life like a thunderstorm in a glass house. she swept you into her world of fashion weeks and flights, of candlelit rooftops and cameras that never stopped flashing. and yet, somehow, she always made space for you. for the silence. for the stillness. for love that felt like breath. you both were never looking for more—until a gala in barcelona. until carlos sainz. he shouldn’t have made sense. but he did. he saw you. he saw both of you. and maybe, for the first time, your carefully drawn plans weren’t ruined. they were just… redesigned.

fc : julie knezvic

(a/n): hi angel!! i hope you love and i am sorry that it took so long, im just a little behind rn. love you sm.

—

yourusername

liked by iamrebeccad, yourbff, yoursister & 2,301 others.

yourusername : random dump for you as i am too busy trying to survive my last few weeks of uni 😭

tagged : iamrebbecad

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yourbff : body is STILL tea tho. (so proud of you love) (you and rebe r so damn cute)

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : we love and miss you SO MUCH.

liked by yourbff and iamrebeccad

↳ yourbff : becs can you pls convince her to stop studying just for a night and we can all go out and have fun

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ iamrebeccad : babes i am working on it i promise. she is stubborn 😭

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↳ yourbff : trust me i KNOWWW

↳ yourusername : right here guys

↳ yourbff : we know. hopefully you see this and decided to let yourself have some fun.

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username0 : how long have her and rebecca been dating??

↳ username1 : around 2 years i believe!

↳ username0 : aw omg. they r so cute

yoursister : can’t believe my baby sis is about to graduate 😭

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : you say ‘baby’ as if we aren’t a year apart

↳ yoursister : still a baby TO ME

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iamrebeccad : so proud of you baby! you deserve everything and more. love you 🩷

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : love you even more. would not have survived w out youuuu

—

You’re on your third coffee of the afternoon, hunched over your desk, sleeves rolled up, graphite smudged across your hand like battle scars. The model in front of you is refusing to cooperate, and the sun is setting outside the Edinburgh flat you and Rebecca have half lived in for months. She leans against the doorframe—hair up in a loose bun, wearing one of your old hoodies that somehow still looks like a Vogue editorial.

“Babe,” she says, drawing the word out like honey, “how attached are you to your studies this weekend?”

You don’t even look up. “Deeply. Passionately. Borderline Addicted..”

She crosses the room, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind, chin resting lightly on your head. “That’s cute. Unfortunately, I’m here to kidnap you.”

“Rebecca—”

“Barcelona,” she cuts in. “Sun. Sea. Minimalist wine bars. Me in a silk dress. You in that black jumpsuit that makes people fall in love with you. Come with me to the gala.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “I have five boards to finish by Monday.”

“And I have one very stubborn girlfriend who hasn’t taken a break in weeks,” she murmurs, nosing against your cheek. “You’re starting to talk in floor plan metaphors in your sleep.”

You huff a laugh, trying to stay strong. “If I don’t finish this model, I’ll fail.”

“You’ll finish it. But not this weekend.” She pauses. “Because I have reinforcements.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Reinforcements?”

She grins like she’s won something. “Your best friend. She’s flying in. I booked her a flight this morning. She’ll be in Barcelona waiting for us with two Aperol spritzes and a disposable camera.”

Your mouth parts slightly. “You didn’t.”

You cave. Of course you cave. Because it’s Rebecca, because it’s Barcelona, because she’s looking at you like you hung the stars—and because part of you wants to be reminded that there’s more to life than models and deadlines.

You lean back against her, eyes closing for a second. “Only if you let me bring my sketchbook.”

She kisses your temple, smiling. “Deal.”

—

Your suitcase is open on the bed. And still, somehow, empty. Rebecca lounges beside it in a silky robe, legs crossed, sipping her oat milk latte like the world isn’t burning in the form of your wardrobe meltdown.

“Okay,” you say, flinging a pair of trousers onto the pile for the third time. “I have absolutely nothing to wear.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You have literally three garment bags of stunning outfits, and yet you are now debating between the same pair of linen pants and that ‘reliable’ black dress that’s one dry clean away from falling apart.”

“I don’t like being perceived,” you grumble, yanking open another drawer. “Especially not in Barcelona. At a gala. With your friends. Who are all supermodels.”

Rebecca slides off the bed and wraps her arms around you from behind, hands warm over your waist. “They’re not my friends. They’re acquaintances I occasionally make eye contact with at runways. You, on the other hand, are the love of my life. Which, I’d like to point out, is more important.”

You lean back into her, your voice softer now. “Still nervous.”

“I know.” She kisses just behind your ear, gently. “But you’ll be breathtaking. You always are.”

She pulls away slightly, rummaging through your closet and pulling out the slinky black jumpsuit with the open back that you wore on your first real trip together. “You’re wearing this.”

You blink. “That’s… from Paris.”

“Exactly.” She hands it to you with a wink. “Let’s remind the world who made me fall head over heels in the middle of a hotel hallway.”

—

The jet is quieter than you expected. Sleek leather seats, dimmed lights, and a tray of strawberries and champagne already waiting. You curl up against Rebecca in one of the oversized seats, your legs draped over hers, the hum of the engines low and steady beneath you.

“Is this a kidnapping or a honeymoon?” you ask, eyes closed as she runs her fingers through your hair.

“A prelude,” she says. “To your well earned escape from architectural hell.”

You laugh, half asleep, letting your hand trace lazy circles over the inside of her wrist. She leans down and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips—slow and unhurried.

“You’re going to love it,” she murmurs against your mouth. “The city, the sea, the food. I’ll take you to that Gaudí museum you’ve been obsessed with since forever. And the gala… You’re going to walk in and ruin everyone’s night in the best way.”

You smile against her lips, dazed and warm. “Only if you’re holding my hand.”

She tangles your fingers together. “Always.”

—

The wheels touch down on the tarmac just after noon, and you blink awake to golden light pouring through the windows of the jet, warm and sleepy against your skin. Rebecca is already smiling at you, one hand stroking your cheek, the other holding her sunglasses by the frame.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” she murmurs. “We’re here.”

You stretch with a sleepy groan, her hoodie still drowning you as you sit up. Barcelona smells different already, even from the window — like heat and citrus and the sea in the distance. The flight felt short, maybe because you spent most of it curled up in Rebecca’s arms, half listening to her whisper soft, ridiculous commentary while flipping through design magazines with you. You’re halfway down the steps of the plane when you spot her—your best friend—bouncing on her toes near a sleek black car waiting on the runway, waving both arms in the air like she might take off.

“There she is!” you shout, already sprinting.

She crashes into you with the force of someone who hasn’t seen you in far too long, arms tight around your neck, both of you laughing so hard it echoes off the runway.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically. “You’re real. You exist outside of voice notes and crying over thesis reviews.”

You mock glare at her. “I was not crying. I was… processing stress. Loudly.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, starchitect.”

Rebecca walks up behind you, smiling fondly at the chaos. “You must be the famous best friend who gets more good morning texts than I do.”

She shrugs. “Guilty. Someone had to emotionally support her through model glue disasters and coffee fueled breakdowns.”

“I can hear you both,” you deadpan.

Rebecca kisses your cheek in response. “Still adorable when you’re defensive.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm.

The three of you pile into the car, luggage loaded, air conditioning on blast. Your best friend immediately hands you a disposable camera and a tiny bottle of sunscreen.

“For the photos,” she says, “and so you don’t get roasted again like last summer. I’m not dealing with lobster YN in every candid this time.”

Rebecca leans over and stage-whispers, “Did she tell you about the time she got so sunburnt in Capri that she walked like a 90-year-old for three days?”

“Rebecca.”

“Oh, she told me,” your best friend grins.

You groan, burying your face in Rebecca’s shoulder, who just laughs and presses a kiss to your hair. As the car winds through the narrow streets toward your hotel, Barcelona spreads out around you—sun-soaked buildings, palm trees, motorbikes weaving through traffic, balconies draped in ivy. And in that moment, with Rebecca’s hand laced in yours and your best friend humming along to the Spanish pop song playing through the speakers, it feels like everything is exactly where it should be. It doesn’t matter that there’s a gala tomorrow. Or that you’re probably going to trip in heels at some point. Or that Rebecca’s world still feels a little too fast, a little too beautiful. Right now, it’s just the three of you. And it’s perfect.

—

The hotel suite smells…well…sweet, the scent of Rebecca’s perfume curling through the air like a promise. The sun’s nearly down, casting that golden hour glow across the skyline of Barcelona, softening the sharp edges of the city outside your balcony. From inside, the room hums with quiet movement—heels clicking gently on marble, fabric brushing skin, the low murmur of music from the Bluetooth speaker on the vanity. Rebecca stands in front of the full-length mirror, slipping into a floor length silk dress the color of champagne. It clings to her in all the right places, light catching on her collarbones and the soft curve of her back. She catches your eyes in the mirror and smiles softly.

“You’re staring.”

You hum, still barefoot in your robe, curled up in the corner chair with your sketchbook half-forgotten in your lap. “You’re literally unreal.”

She turns slowly, gliding across the room until she’s kneeling in front of you, her hands resting gently on your bare knees. “And you, my love, are not allowed to hide in that robe all night. Come on. Let me help you.”

You let her pull you up, fingers laced. The black jumpsuit hangs neatly on the closet door, the same one she picked out. She helps you step into it, zipping it up with steady hands, smoothing the fabric over your hips.

When you turn to face her, something shifts in her expression.

“God,” she whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight.”

You blush, looking down, but she lifts your chin with one finger, pressing a kiss to your mouth—soft, reverent. “I mean it. You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

Later, with heels on and lipstick applied and nerves starting to stir low in your stomach, Rebecca slips her hand into yours as you step into the waiting car.

“I’ve got you,” she says, as if reading your mind. “Always.”

—

The venue is even more dramatic than you’d imagined—an old Spanish estate turned event space, all arches and climbing vines and warm candlelight. The crowd buzzes with the kind of energy you’ve only experienced at fashion week: air-kisses, flowing gowns, and laughter that’s just a little too practiced.You stay close to Rebecca at first, your hand tight around her fingers as she introduces you to people whose names sound familiar from Vogue articles. It’s not your world, not really. But the way she keeps glancing at you—checking you’re okay, brushing your arm with hers when no one’s looking—grounds you. You’re mid-sip of champagne, standing just off to the side of the courtyard, when he walks in. Carlos Sainz.

The buzz ripples almost immediately—subtle, but tangible. He’s wearing a dark suit that fits like it was made just for him, open collar, hair a little windswept like he stepped out of a commercial. There’s something warm and relaxed about him, like he’s completely at ease in the chaos. And yet, the moment his eyes find you—you—his expression shifts. Like you’ve pulled his attention into focus.

He walks toward you, slow and certain, and for a second you assume he’s going to greet Rebecca. Everyone here knows her. You brace for it. But then—his gaze lingers on yours.

“Hola,” he says, smile soft but curious. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

You blink, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Hi.”

Rebecca steps in, hand still loosely curled around yours. “Carlos, this is my girlfriend. The brilliant architect I’ve been talking your ear off about.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “So this is the famous Edinburgh genius.”

You laugh nervously, cheeks hot. “Hardly genius. Just a tired student who got bribed into coming to a gala.”

Carlos grins. “Best bribe anyone’s ever pulled, then.”

Rebecca’s thumb brushes the back of your hand. The three of you stand there a moment longer—his gaze darting between you both, your body language, the way you lean into each other naturally. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks fascinated.

He tips his head slightly, voice lower now. “May I steal you both for a drink?”

Rebecca glances at you, eyebrows raised. Your heart thuds once, hard. You nod.

“Sure.”

And with that, something shifts—quietly, subtly, like the first breeze before a storm. You don’t know it yet, but tonight is the beginning of something. Something uncharted. Something beautifully complicated.

—

You’re seated between them. Rebecca on your left, her hand resting gently on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, fingers drawing slow, absentminded circles into the silk of your jumpsuit. Carlos on your right, nursing a glass of red wine, elbow resting casually on the back of your chair like he’s known you for years instead of ninety minutes. The gala is in full swing now—waiters weaving through tables with trays of Spanish tapas and champagne, a string quartet playing something low and romantic from the garden stage. Lights glitter overhead like a net of stars. And still, you can barely focus on anything but the energy between the three of you. It’s subtle but electric. Warm, blooming quietly under the surface of every glance and word.

Rebecca leans in, murmuring, “This wine is actually amazing,” as she reaches for her glass, brushing her shoulder against yours. You can feel the heat of her, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the air around you.

Carlos glances over. “You two are making everyone here jealous, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, nodding toward the rest of the table. “Look around. Half the people here are trying to figure out who you are and how you managed to make Rebecca Donaldson giggle like that.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Rebecca says, though she’s smiling into her glass.

“I’m not,” he replies. “I just think it’s rare. That kind of… ease. Most people in this room are trying so hard to look perfect. You two look like you already have everything you want.”

Your breath catches a little in your throat. Rebecca squeezes your thigh gently. “That’s because we do.”

You look between them—Rebecca glowing under the golden light, Carlos watching you with something softer than charm in his eyes. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to impress you. He’s just curious. Present. Drawn in.

“So, Carlos,” Rebecca says lightly, turning the spotlight, “tell us—how does a Formula 1 driver end up at a fashion gala on a Thursday night?”

He shrugs, leaning back slightly. “I got invited. My manager said it would be good for me to socialize with people who aren’t constantly talking about tyre degradation.”

You laugh, surprising yourself with how easy it feels around him. “Fair enough.”

“But I wasn’t planning on staying long,” he adds. Then, without missing a beat— “Until I saw you two walk in.”

Rebecca raises a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Is that so?”

He holds your gaze when he answers. “Yes.”

Your heart skips. The silence stretches for a moment—not awkward, just thick with something unsaid. Rebecca reaches for her wine again, then turns toward Carlos with playful curiosity.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “what exactly is it that fascinates you?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“She grounds you,” he says simply, looking at Rebecca. “You shine differently when she’s near.”

You feel the breath catch in Rebecca’s throat beside you. Her hand tightens on your leg, and when you turn toward her, her eyes are glassy with something unspoken. And then Carlos turns to you.

“And you… you look at her like she’s made of something holy.”

You stare at him, unable to speak. His voice is gentle, without expectation. He’s not hitting on you. Not in the way you’ve seen others try. He’s just seeing you—both of you—with a kind of quiet reverence that makes you feel… known. The moment is broken only by the clinking of silverware as dessert is served—some delicate Catalan cream and fresh berries—but the weight of it lingers. You eat in silence for a while, your thoughts buzzing.

Carlos turns slightly toward you as he dips a spoon into his dish. “So tell me something,” he says, tone light but curious. “Do you always design things with this much precision… or do you ever let yourself create something messy?”

You blink. “Messy?”

He shrugs. “Unplanned. Unbalanced. A little chaotic.”

You smirk. “I’m an architecture student. Chaos is my natural enemy.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But sometimes… chaos brings the best results.”

You glance at Rebecca. She’s already watching you with that look—the one that knows exactly what you’re thinking. That maybe… just maybe… this doesn’t feel like chaos. It feels like the start of something beautifully unexpected.

She leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking between her and Carlos. “Yeah. I’m… just wondering what happens next.”

Rebecca smiles softly, hand resting over yours now on the table. “Whatever it is… I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Carlos clinks his glass gently against both of yours. “To figuring it out.”

And in the middle of that glittering courtyard in Barcelona, with Rebecca on one side and Carlos on the other, you realize: You don’t feel like you’re in between them. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

—

The morning starts with sunlight spilling through the gauzy hotel curtains, soft and golden. Barcelona wakes up slowly — a city that stretches before it rises, where the air smells faintly of sea salt and fresh bread, and conversations drift up from the streets like music. You wake with Rebecca curled around your back, still half-asleep, her hand resting lightly at your waist. Her breath is warm against your neck. You smile, eyes still closed. A knock sounds at the door.

Rebecca groans dramatically and pulls a pillow over her head. “If that’s room service and they forgot your croissant again, I swear to god—”

You giggle, rolling out of bed, slipping into one of the hotel robes. But when you open the door, it’s not room service. It’s Carlos.

Wearing sunglasses, holding three iced coffees and a brown paper bag full of pastries like it’s the most casual thing in the world. His smile is crooked. “I brought breakfast. And a proposition.”

Rebecca’s voice calls from the bed. “If the proposition doesn’t involve carbs, we’re not interested.”

He chuckles. “Good thing I know my audience.”

You wave him in and close the door behind him. Carlos steps inside, handing you your drink and then holding up a small envelope.

“What’s that?” you ask, sipping your coffee.

He grins. “Tickets. Gaudí House Museum. You mentioned it last night, remember?”

You blink, surprised. “You remembered?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Of course.”

Rebecca sits up in bed, hair messy and eyes still heavy with sleep, grinning at both of you. “Did you just ask us out on a museum date?”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “If I did, are you saying yes?”

You glance between them, heart blooming.

Rebecca nods. “Let me put on a cute outfit and we’re in.”

The taxi ride is filled with sunlight and soft laughter. You’re sandwiched in the back seat between them, Carlos’s arm thrown over the headrest behind you, Rebecca snapping candids of you both with the disposable camera your best friend gave you yesterday. At some point, Rebecca leans across you to steal a bite of Carlos’s croissant, and instead of pulling away, he just watches the two of you with that warm, unreadable look again — the one that says he’s taking this in like it means more than he’ll say out loud. By the time you arrive at the Gaudí House Museum, the three of you are humming with that easy sort of energy people only find when they’ve stopped pretending.

The museum is quieter than expected, cool and airy despite the heat outside. Everything inside is curved and intentional, dripping with artistry — from the mosaic tiles to the asymmetrical windows to the wrought-iron details that make the house feel alive.You pause in front of a set of floor plans and models, your eyes scanning the intricate designs like they’re secrets waiting to be solved.

Carlos leans in beside you. “So this is your world, huh?”

You nod. “It’s strange. I’ve studied this for years. But being here, in it… it’s different. It feels like touching someone’s dream.”

Rebecca takes your hand gently, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. “You do that too, you know.”

You glance at her. “Do what?”

“Build things that matter,” she says simply. “Even when it’s just in your sketchbook.”

Carlos watches the two of you with that quiet gaze again — soft, and maybe a little reverent. You keep wandering through the house, taking your time. At one point, you all stand in front of a massive stained-glass window that throws patches of color across the marble floor. Carlos snaps a photo of you and Rebecca bathed in the light, and when he shows it to you, your breath catches. Rebecca has her hand at your cheek. You’re smiling at her like nothing else exists.

“You really do light up the room,” Carlos murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You blush, looking away. Eventually, the three of you make your way up to the rooftop terrace. The city stretches out in all directions, hazy and golden beneath the sun. The famous chimneys rise like sculptural flames around you — surreal and magical. Rebecca presses her back against the warm stone, pulling you gently into her side. Carlos leans beside you both, arms crossed loosely, the breeze tugging at his curls.

“I get it now,” he says, voice low.

You glance over. “Get what?”

“How people fall in love with Barcelona.”

You can’t help but smile. “It’s beautiful.”

He looks at you when he answers. “So are you.”

The words hang there for a moment — not a line, not a flirtation. Just truth. You look at Rebecca. She’s already looking at you. And you feel it — that same undercurrent from the night before. Like the three of you are circling something unspoken. Something delicate. But real. Rebecca kisses your temple and leans her head on your shoulder. “This might be the best morning I’ve had in a long time.”

Carlos shifts slightly closer. “Same.”

And in that moment, high above the city in a house built from dreams, you think maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to build something, too.

—

several weeks later

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, iamrebeccad, lando and 1,109,227 others.

carlossainz55 : 📸

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lando : i feel like the other woman’s other woman rn.

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username00: whomst???

↳ username1 : i believe rebecca donaldson and her gf yn ln. check @/yourusername’s recent post.

↳ username00 : oh that is def carlos in her post.

alex_albon : okay carlossss👀

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yourusername : life + baddies first day on the job;)

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username0 : is this the girl from carlos’ post??

↳ username1 : i believe so…that is def him in the dump.

↳ username5 : him and lando in the likes 😭

↳ username7 : we have lost ladies

↳ username11 : she is dating rebecca though…

↳ username7 : they were both on his ig post…maybe throuple?

iamrebeccad : i am so proud of you, angel! you are killing it. i love you so much.

liked by yourusername and carlossainz55

↳ yourusername : love you even more. could not have done it without you.

carlossainz55 : Congratulations hermosa! So proud! ❤️

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : thank uuu carlitos ❤️

liked by carlossainz55

↳ username7 : oh yeah we are cooked.

—

The apartment is quiet, sun filtering in through the linen curtains, the scent of fresh basil and lemon lingering from the pasta Rebecca made the night before. You’re at the kitchen counter, barefoot and glowing — still not entirely used to the fact that you’re done with uni. That you’re officially working as a junior designer at one of the most respected firms in Edinburgh. That the world is beginning, finally, to expand. Rebecca hums to herself in the next room, curled on the sofa with a fashion book open in her lap, glasses perched on her nose. Her hair’s up in a lazy bun, an old t-shirt  hanging off her shoulder. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Until the knock. You both freeze.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you order something?”

Rebecca shakes her head. “No. Did you?”

You make your way to the door, curious, and open it—and there he is. Carlos. In jeans and a grey hoodie, holding a bouquet of wildflowers and a crooked smile that says he’s very pleased with himself.

“Hola,” he says, dimples deepening. “Surprise.”

You blink, stunned. “What—wait, are you—you’re here?!”

Behind you, Rebecca gasps and immediately darts to the door. “Are you kidding me?!”

Carlos laughs as you both wrap him in a hug, arms tangling. It’s warm and a little chaotic, the three of you practically swaying in the doorway.

“I couldn’t miss your celebration,” he says, pulling back just enough to hand you the flowers. “You graduated. You started your dream job. I figured that deserved something… dramatic.”

“You texted me ten minutes ago from Madrid!” Rebecca accuses, hitting his arm lightly.

“I was on the way to your place,” he grins, clearly unbothered. “Needed to keep the element of surprise.”

You’re still standing there barefoot, flowers in hand, heart pounding like you’ve just won something you didn’t know you were competing for. Carlos steps fully inside, glancing around like he’s been here before in his mind. “You two look like you’ve settled into something domestic and terrifyingly cute.”

Rebecca smirks. “We did. You just made it worse.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m here to ruin your cozy night in.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Oh?”

Carlos tugs two envelopes from the inside pocket of his hoodie. “I made a reservation at that rooftop place with the insane sunset view—Rebecca sent it to me weeks ago in a TikTok, so you’re both exposed. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

Rebecca bites back a grin. “You are unreal.”

“And then, if you say yes, I’m going to romantically kidnap you both.”

You pause, blinking. “Romantically… what?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. “I want you to come to my next race. I already booked the flights. There’s a suite. It’s hidden. Think sun, espresso, a lot of carbon fiber, and the three of us hiding from the media in style.”

Your jaw drops. Rebecca’s hand finds yours instinctively. “Carlos…”

He smiles, softer now. “Look. I know we’re not putting names on it yet. But I miss you. All the time. And if I can steal you for just a few days—to cheer me on, to kiss you under Italian moonlight, to pretend this thing between us is real for a little while longer… then I want to try. I want to keep trying. With both of you.”

You feel the words settle between your ribs like something sacred. Rebecca squeezes your hand. You look at her. She looks at you. You’re both already smiling.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, heart racing.

Carlos steps closer, brushing your hair behind your ear, his voice lower now. “I know. But admit it… you love it.”

You do. God, you do. Rebecca leans up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thirty minutes, Sainz. If we’re late for our own celebration, that’s on you.”

He winks. “I’ll be waiting.”

As he steps into the living room to give you time to get ready, you turn to Rebecca, breathless.

“We’re going to Italy.”

She grins. “With Carlos Sainz.”

You bury your face in her shoulder. “What are we even doing?”

Rebecca laughs, kissing the top of your head. “Something new.”

And you smile, because it doesn’t feel like chaos anymore. It feels like exactly what you want.

—

From the rooftop, the city looks like it’s breathing — windows flickering to life one by one, cars crawling slowly through the narrow streets below. There’s a warm breeze drifting over the tiles, carrying the scent of wine and sun-warmed stone. You’re seated at a candlelit table nestled beneath a string of golden fairy lights, the linen tablecloth fluttering gently in the wind. Everything is dusky pinks and golds and the soft clink of wine glasses. The kind of setting people spend months trying to plan. Carlos didn’t even flinch when he called ahead.

You’re in a silky deep blue dress Rebecca helped you pick out in ten minutes flat, your hair pinned up with tiny gold clips, and Carlos hasn’t stopped looking at you since you sat down. Not in a showy way — it’s quiet. Constant. His eyes find you every time you laugh, every time you turn toward the view. Rebecca sits across from you, a soft backless dress in burnt orange clinging to her like it was made for her, one arm stretched over the back of Carlos’s chair, her other hand holding yours across the table. Her skin is warm and golden in the candlelight.

“This is completely ridiculous,” you murmur after the waiter pours the first round of wine. “Like, offensively beautiful.”

Carlos lifts his glass. “You deserve ridiculous.”

Rebecca clinks her glass lightly against his, then yours. “To our girl. For surviving sleepless nights, evil professors, thesis disasters, and becoming a full time grown-up.”

You laugh and duck your head. “You two are being weirdly nice to me. I’m suspicious.”

Carlos leans closer. “Fine. Let me balance it out. Do you remember when you tried to explain structural cantilevers to me and ended up drawing a sketch that looked like a sad giraffe?”

Rebecca chokes on her wine. “That was a cantilever?! I thought it was a palm tree.”

Your hand flies to your chest in mock offense. “Wow. I am under attack at my own celebration.”

But you’re smiling. The kind of smile that feels like it’s living in your ribs, spreading slow and wide and warm. The kind you don’t even try to hide anymore. Carlos reaches over and brushes something off your shoulder — a petal from the small bouquet resting on the table — and his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You’re glowing,” he says, so quietly you barely hear it.

Rebecca meets your eyes and smiles, soft and knowing. “She always does when she’s happy.”

The food arrives — shared plates and small bites, things you’ve never tasted before but love instantly. You end up feeding each other across the table, laughing through full mouths, brushing hands as you pass forks and spill wine and get far too invested in an argument about what the best dessert on the menu will be. Eventually, after the plates are cleared and the second bottle of wine is opened, the wind dies down. The city hushes just a little. You lean back in your chair, tipsy and warm, the scent of Rebecca’s perfume wrapped around you and the sound of Carlos’s low voice filling the space between stories. He’s talking about racing, about how everything slows down the second he’s in the car. How quiet it is, even with all the noise.

“It’s not adrenaline,” he says, eyes on the skyline. “It’s clarity. Like the world only makes sense when it’s going a hundred miles an hour.”

Rebecca rests her head against your shoulder. “Is that why you’re so calm all the time? Because you’ve already met chaos head-on?”

He glances at her, something soft behind his grin. “I think I’m calm because I know what matters now.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t have to.

—

Later, the three of you are the last to leave. The waiter brings out one final glass of vermouth and a tiny plate of dark chocolate, and you all sit there beneath the fairy lights like you’ve slipped into another version of the world — one where nothing needs to be defined, only felt.

Carlos helps Rebecca up, his hand settling low on her back with a kind of gentleness that surprises her. When he turns to you, you hesitate for just a second.

Then you reach for him. Your fingers slip easily into his, and he doesn’t speak — just smiles. You walk back to the car with your heels in your hand, your head resting against Rebecca’s shoulder, Carlos’s arm around your waist, his thumb brushing back and forth over your hip. Three shadows under the moonlight. Three hearts slowly, steadily aligning.

—

You’re nestled into a private jet again — only this time, it’s not a whirlwind trip to a fashion gala. It’s something slower. Sweeter. Yours. Carlos insisted. No press, no handlers, no chaos. Just you, Rebecca, and him, headed for Italy.

“Technically,” Carlos says, settling into the seat across from you as the jet levels out above the clouds, “this is a work trip.”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow from where she’s curled beside you, your legs draped over hers. “Your version of work includes flying two girls across Europe for moral support.”

He grins. “High performance drivers require emotional regulation. You two are my favorite kind of therapy.”

You laugh, tipping your head back as the sunlight pours in through the window. “Well, we are professionals.”

Carlos slides his sunglasses to the top of his head and watches you for a moment — like he’s memorizing you. The way your hair falls against Rebecca’s shoulder, the soft flush in your cheeks, the way your fingers trace idle patterns into the blanket across your lap.

“You look lighter—calmer,” he says, just quiet enough to be real.

You glance at Rebecca. She’s already smiling. “We are.”

The seatbelt light clicks off, and Rebecca shifts to face you more fully. “Okay,” she says, nudging you with her knee. “Tell him your Italian bucket list. She made one.”

Carlos perks up. “You did?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “It’s not a bucket list, it’s just… a few places I want to see. Sketch. You know. Architect things.”

Carlos moves to sit beside you now, across from Rebecca. His knee presses gently against yours.

“Let me guess,” he says, hand held out expectantly. “Villas, vineyards, maybe a Roman ruin or two?”

You place your phone in his palm, unlocked with your Notes app open. He scrolls slowly, eyebrows rising as he reads.

“You want to see the medieval towers in San Gimignano?” he says. “That’s like an hour from the track. We can go.”

Rebecca beams. “I told you he’d say yes.”

He keeps reading, and then—“You want to sketch the pit lane?”

You blush. “I don’t know, it’s a cool structure. It’s like a weird blend of utilitarian design and showmanship.”

Carlos stares at you for a second, and then says, “You’re genuinely the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Rebecca hums. “Right? She makes buildings sound like poetry.”

The next half-hour melts into comfortable chatter. You talk about the race weekend, about places they’ll take you between sessions, about what you’ll wear to the paddock. Carlos jokes about putting you both in matching Williams polos and parading you around like his secret weapons. Eventually, Carlos disappears into the back cabin to take a call with his engineer, and Rebecca uses the opportunity to pull you closer, kissing your cheek, then your jaw.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” she whispers, brushing her thumb over your bottom lip. “You, me, him. Italy. This whole… thing.”

You tilt your head, voice just as soft. “Does it feel right to you?”

Rebecca looks at you for a long moment. “It feels like it was always meant to happen. We just had to get brave enough to let it.”

Before you can say anything, Carlos reappears, flopping into the seat beside you with a groan. “Well. Apparently my rear wing isn’t cooperating. But I’m not thinking about that yet.”

You smirk. “We can distract you.”

Rebecca grins. “Gladly.”

Carlos rests his arm on the back of the seat, his fingers just brushing your shoulder. “I think this might be the best race weekend of my life.”

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando and 2,188,001 others.

f1gossipgirls : So… let’s unpack the situation, shall we? First, Rebecca Donaldson and her longtime girlfriend YN LN make their debut on Carlos Sainz’s Instagram a few weeks back — soft lighting, soft smiles, soft launch vibes. Fast forward—the trio is now very much in Italy. Very much in the paddock. Very much together. Rebecca and Carlos? Spotted on a bike ride together. YN and Carlos? Photographed at lunch with his race engineer. Then YN and Rebecca are seen strolling hand in hand through the paddock like nothing’s changed.…Except on Quali day, YN shows up with Carlos. Walking in. Side by side. And standing next to him during a live interview, casually repping a Williams polo. We’re not saying it’s a throuple… but we’re also not not saying it’s a throuple. 👀

—

The morning begins with sunlight spilling across the balcony of your villa, the kind that turns everything soft and golden. Carlos is still asleep, tangled in the sheets, his arm slung over your waist. Rebecca is already up, barefoot in one of Carlos’s hoodies, sipping espresso and sketching something into your notebook that you’ll find later — a cartoon drawing of the three of you, hearts drawn over your heads.

“Get up, sleepyhead,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We’re taking you somewhere.”

You blink awake. “Where?”

She just smiles. “Italy is full of secrets. Get dressed.”

They won’t tell you anything, but an hour later you’re in the back seat of Carlos’s rental car, winding through the Tuscan hills — green and sun-drenched, dotted with vineyards and wildflowers. Rebecca holds your hand loosely across the center console, and Carlos hums along to an old Italian song on the radio, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Finally, the car slows near the edge of a medieval town, quiet and ancient. You step out, confused — until you look up. San Gimignano. Your breath catches.

The towers — the ones from your list — rise above the stone walls like jagged fingers reaching toward the sky. Brutalist, elegant, stubborn in their geometry. You’d written about them in a thesis once. But this… this is different.

You stare in awe. “Guys…you didn’t have to.”

Carlos smiles, locking the car. “Of course I did.”

Rebecca laces her fingers with yours. “We thought you deserved to see the real thing. You’ve been talking about it for years.”

You laugh, teary-eyed despite yourself. They walk you through the town slowly, letting you stop to sketch little pieces — an archway here, a crumbling façade there. Carlos carries your bag without you asking, Rebecca keeps tucking hair behind your ear and stealing kisses when you’re not paying attention. At one point, the three of you sit on a low stone wall overlooking the hills, passing a sandwich between you, legs tangled. You lean into Carlos’s side, Rebecca tucked under your arm.

“Do you ever get tired of being adored?” Carlos asks, only half-teasing.

You glance at him. “Do you?”

He pretends to think. “Nope.”

Rebecca hums. “I think she deserves to be adored. Every version of her. The architect. The sleepy one. The one who can’t remember where she put her pencil but can recite Roman history like it’s a love poem.”

Carlos leans in, brushing your shoulder with his. “Agreed.”

You don’t say anything for a while. You just breathe. You let it settle. This is what love feels like — not loud or rushed or fragile. But steady. Expansive. Soft around the edges. Later, Rebecca takes your camera and snaps a photo of you standing between one of the towers — Carlos behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You’re smiling, cheeks flushed, sun in your hair. And when you look at it later, you’ll think — this looks like a beginning.

—

Race weekend has a way of feeling overwhelming. But somehow, with Carlos, it feels calm. He meets you and Rebecca outside the paddock entrance, dressed in his full Williams kit, sunglasses perched on his nose, hair still slightly messy. You’re in one of his oversized team polos — partially on a dare, partially because it just smells like him — and Rebecca’s in all white linen and a pair of black sunglasses that make her look like she’s walking into the Cannes red carpet instead of an F1 paddock.

“Ready to be shown off?” Carlos teases, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and tugging you into a gentle side hug. He kisses the top of your head and then leans over to press another to Rebecca’s cheek.

“Bold of you to assume you’re the one showing us off,” she replies, linking her fingers with yours on the other side.

He grins. “Fair.”

The first few minutes are a blur of cameras and whispers, heads turning as the three of you walk past in tandem. You feel it — the way people are watching, curious. Wondering. But Carlos doesn’t let go of you, not even when one of the Sky Sports guys gives him a very obvious once over. He walks you through the garage first, introducing you to a few engineers, showing you the car like it’s a favorite pet. He explains the updates they’ve made for the weekend, and you’re so genuinely interested — asking questions, tilting your head at the suspension setup — that one of the techs looks thoroughly impressed.

Rebecca leans over and whispers, “He’s going to marry you if you start talking about aero.”

You laugh and Carlos hears and just smiles.

“Alright,” he says after a moment. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He leads you around to the Mclaren hospitality suite where, to no one’s surprise, Lando Norris is sitting on a bean bag, eating something from a takeaway box like it’s not Quali day. 

“Ah, finally!” Lando jumps up as soon as he sees you. “The girls! The internet is losing its mind over you lot.”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. “And what does the internet say, exactly?”

“That Carlos has taste,” Lando grins, holding out a hand to shake yours and then immediately pulling you into a hug. “I’m Lando. You’re YN. You’re Rebecca. You both terrify me, and I love it.”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“Never,” Lando chirps. “Do you know how long I’ve been begging him to bring you both here? It’s like… morale, Carlos. Atmosphere. He’s been smiling like an idiot for weeks.”

You glance at Carlos. He’s pretending not to blush. Failing spectacularly.

“And you’re YN, right?” another voice calls — and then Alex Albon appears, holding a coffee and looking far too cool for someone awake this early.

You nod, shaking his hand. “Hi. Huge fan of your girlfriend.”

Alex laughs. “Aren’t we all.”

He turns to Carlos, eyes twinkling. “So this is the famous architect slash girlfriend. And the supermodel slash dangerous mafia wife energy girlfriend. Stunning work, mate.”

Rebecca gives him a dangerous little smirk. “You get it.”

The five of you chat for a while — it’s easy, natural. Alex and Rebecca get into an unnecessarily passionate debate about oat milk. Lando and Carlos talk strategy, but every few seconds, Carlos glances at you, just to check you’re still smiling.

—

Later in the afternoon, when the paddock thins out a little and the media starts to shift into race prep mode, Carlos leads you both to the back of the hospitality lounge and pulls you into a quiet corner. He sits down first, tugging you gently into his lap and resting his chin on your shoulder. Rebecca curls beside you on the padded bench, fingers brushing over your knee.

“I’ve never felt this calm before a race,” Carlos murmurs.

You lean your head against his. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s the best thing,” he says. “I’m usually somewhere between tense and mildly homicidal on Saturdays.”

Rebecca hums. “And now?”

“Now I feel like I’ve already won something.”

You’re quiet for a moment, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeve. The paddock noise feels far away now. Just the breeze through the flaps of the tent, the low hum of passing mechanics, the occasional click of a camera.

Carlos sighs into your neck. “Can I say something dumb?”

“Always,” you and Rebecca say in unison.

He smiles. “If I could take you both with me in the car, I would.”

You tilt your head, half-laughing. “We’d make terrible co-pilots.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But everything makes more sense when you’re near me.”

Rebecca looks at him then — really looks at him — and something shifts behind her expression. Something tender. “You know… this started as something casual. Something fun.”

Carlos nods.

“But it doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

You don’t say anything. You just reach for both their hands — one on either side of you — and squeeze. No labels. No pressure. 

—

The sun is beginning to dip when Carlos crosses the finish line. P8. Not a disaster. Not what he wanted either. Not after how good race day looked. Not after how hard he pushed in quali. He doesn’t say anything on the radio after the cooldown lap — just a clipped, “Copy,” and then silence. His hands stay tight on the wheel until he’s back in the garage. The air inside is thick. No one meets his eyes. There’s too much noise and not enough at the same time — fans cheering in the distance, tires hissing, a metallic clang echoing from the back of the pit. Carlos doesn’t take off his helmet right away. He just sits for a moment. Letting it settle. Then, through the haze, he hears your voice.

“Hey.”

And just like that, the weight cracks. He looks up — and there you are, standing in front of him in the soft blue Williams polo you’d worn all day, eyes full of quiet warmth. Rebecca is beside you, sunglasses pushed into her hair, lips pressed together like she knows exactly what he’s feeling. You don’t ask about the race. You don’t say, what happened? or are you okay? You just hold your hand out. Carlos lets you help him out of the car. His gloves are still on, but your fingers fit between his anyway. Rebecca’s hand finds the back of his neck, grounding.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “We’re here.”

He nods once, blinking hard behind his visor before finally tugging it off. His hair is damp, cheeks flushed, eyes a little unfocused — like he’s still halfway between the car and the world.

Rebecca tugs him gently toward the back of the garage, away from the lights. “Come on,” she says. “Breathe.”

You sit him down on a flight case, crouching in front of him. “You don’t have to be on right now,” you whisper. “You can just… be. With us.”

Carlos closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“It wasn’t a good race,” he admits. His voice is hoarse. Honest.

Rebecca kneels beside you. “That’s not why we’re here.”

You nod, smiling gently. “You are not your result.”

Carlos laughs, just barely. “You two are dangerously good at this.”

“At what?”

He glances between you, soft and overwhelmed. “Loving me anyway.”

And then he leans forward, presses his forehead against yours, and exhales. Rebecca wraps her arm around both of you, pulling you into a quiet little triangle of comfort — there, on the edge of the paddock, while the world buzzes just beyond the garage doors.

“I’d come to every race,” you say into his shoulder.

Rebecca kisses the corner of his mouth. “Even if you finished last.”

Carlos lifts his head, smiling now — small, real. “You know what? That might be my new strategy. Finish badly. Win anyway.”

And as the sky turns gold outside and the paddock begins to clear, Carlos sits between the two people who make it all feel okay — win or lose, podium or pit lane — and knows, with complete certainty—This is everything.

—

carlossainz55

liked by iamrebeccad, yourusername, alex_albon and 5,001,001 others.

carlossainz55 : may not have won the race but i am always winning off the track. i love you both so much.

tagged : iamrebbecad and yourusername

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[cheftsunoda]

ty for the tag my pretty princess<3 ilysmmmm!!

1. i honestly really haven’t gotten any weird weird requests. most of them are pretty normal and stuff I actually enjoy writing!

2. i sound like a narcissist LMAO but i have a few favorite fics of my own— heal your heart was extremely enjoyable for me to write. i think it was one of my best ideas yet.

shoot your shot — love a good barca x f1 fic

&&& miss misunderstood — i cried heavily several times writing it. still one of my faves

3. my fave fic by another writer would have to engaged-ish by the GOAT @pucksandpower

4. top three writers would have to be @paucubarsisimp , @pucksandpower & @mywritersmind 💘

5. soooo excited to write quite a few of the fics i just posted about !!

specifically the toto wolff x !ferrari team principal reader x susie wolff

love writing my poly fics sm

tagging : @littlegrapejuice & @norrisainz33 !!

5 random questions

what is the weirdest request you've gotten?

what is your fav fic of your own?

what is your fav fic from another writer

who are your top 3 fav writers

which request of yours are you currently most excited to write?

answer these and pass them along!!

hiii!!

so these are mine:

i once got a request for mason where the reader farts for the first time in front of him and then he gets her a 'first fart' cake and yes, i did write it, it's called first fart

my fav fic of my own is currently is a charles x reader x alexandra smau called whipped cream and whispered hearts

my fav fic from another writer rn is paddock princess by my love, @cheftsunoda

my top 3 fav writers are, @barcapix, @cheftsunoda, and @universefcb

i am most excited to write a carlos x rebecca x reader smau and a pau cubarsi x reader fic where they're travelling together for summer break

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @dessashippr, @freyathehuntress, @vicolette

also tagging: @cheftsunoda, @paus-princesa and @obvithe-bestsoph

(im so sorry if unwanted)

💋💋

[cheftsunoda]

Can we have some insight as to what else you currently have written or are planning to write? 🫣

hi baby!! here is a list of requests i am working on, editing, are queued to post or i am starting soon! on some i included the original request on a few or a snippet of what it is about. i appreciate you all and i have been working so hard on all of these! I apologize that i am slightly behind with requests! sowmthing will be out later tonight and then something else tomorrow morning! love you all💋

carlos sainz x architect reader x rebecca donaldson

mick x stroll!reader x esteban

lando x reader — “reader is a huge cat person and lando is known for hating cats. lando is smitten by the reader but reader will not date someone who doesn’t like cats. so he tries his best to make friends with the felines.”

lando x !fewtrell engineer reader — “media is being rude to reader and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. lando has to step in and then they fall in love.”

oscar x wife reader — “Oscar is secretly married (and have a two year old daughter but the world doesnt know only their family and friends)to the most wanted model in the world and the grid keeps trying to get him to go on dates cause they think he's single and YN just thinks it's funny”

franco colapinto x !hamilton reader

charles leclerc x !medical resident x alexandra saint mleux — “reader is a Medical Intern in Monaco and charles and alex both just happen to be in the hospital that she is interning and they just get so infatuated with her and they come back to the hospital for just some “daily check ups” and bonus if they are together already can you do a part where they are looking for her and the find her in the back part of the ER where there are spare beds there and shes just taking a quick power nap from a long shift hehe”

charles leclerc x !younger sister reader — reader is struggling with mental health and big brother charles notices and tries to support her as much as possible.

ollie bearman x !norris reader — “And I was wondering if you could write one about where reader is Lando or Oscar's baby sister (18) and he's very protective of her and she's secretly dating Ollie and he goes full on big brother mode.”

esteban x !journalist reader x flavy

danny ric x !driver reader x max verstappen

lestappen x !best friend reader

toto wolff x!russell reader x susie wolff

f1 rookies x !platonic grid mom reader & !driver reader x mystery driver — the rookies find out that yn’s ex cheated on her and attempt to set her up with different drivers…when maybe she is already dating one.

pierre gasly x !leclerc reader x kika gomes

charles leclerc x reader — yn and charles grew up in monaco but as they grew up, they grew apart. what happens when yn joins the ferrari team and they reconnect?

brocedes x reader

oscar x !actress reader x ollie

lance stroll x !piastri teacher reader

toto wolff x !ferrari team principal reader x susie wolff (for my wife) (the loml)

[cheftsunoda]

hello! i have a question, but you don’t have to answer it! i was wondering if you ever get requests and refuse to do them? like if you got a poly request that you wouldn’t do, say like where there’s 2 drivers, one wag, and reader, would you do a relationship with them?

hiiiii angel baby

i do not have many rules when it comes to poly— except i will not do kimi

however, i do like to make my fics feel as natural as possible and some combinations just don’t seem natural to me sometimes but im willing to give whatever you request a shot. just send me another ask and i will add it to my list!

[cheftsunoda]

Hi 👋🏻 sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you got a mick x stroll!reader x esteban request? Bc tumblr tends to eat my asks sometimes lol

omg hi baby! not a bother at all— yes I do have it and im currently halfway done! i apologize— im sort of behind on requests rn but do not fear — i should have it to you by the end of the week 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[cheftsunoda]

HIII omg i love your work!! you lwk made me an alex albon stan (i alr love lily, she’s so iconic) with the wag x 3 fic.

i was wondering if you could please write a poly!fic but with isack hadjar and oscar piastri? i know it’s a weird pairing but they’re two of my faves. it’s ok if not!! 💗💗

mentor or more? — op81 + ih6

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x reader x isack hadjar

they were the couple no one saw coming. yn—loud, radiant, effortlessly magnetic. a globally adored model with a laugh that turned heads and a presence that owned every room she walked into. and then there was oscar—quiet, sharp, always a little awkward in interviews but impossibly endearing. somehow, the two of them just worked. they were happy. solid. untouchable. until the new season arrived—and with it, isack hadjar. fresh faced and full of ambition, isack comes looking for guidance, and oscar—ever the reluctant mentor—takes him under his wing. it is harmless. friendly. until isack discovers feelings for oscar and then lays eyes on yn and finds himself completely undone.

there’s only one problem— they only just belong to each other…right?

fc : isabelle mathers

(a/n) : omg hiiii. glad i could help bc everyone needs to be an alex albon stan. thank you for the love and i am sorry this took so long- i am behind on requests and i had to be real creative with this pairing- but i do not mind!! i like to be challenged. hope u love!! loveuuu

—

yourusername

france📍

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and 5,010,553 others.

yourusername : paris + cannes w my man before the season begins 💋

tagged : oscarpiastri

—

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charles_leclerc : the city of love looks great on you both! (pls stop making the rest of us look bad)

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

olliebearman : when i grow up i want to be just like oscar.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : only 4 years older than you mate.

↳ olliebearman : still old.

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georgerussell63 : give us a travel vlog or we riot

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↳ yourusername : was oscars mukbang with french pastries i sent not enough???

liked by georgerussell63, oscarpiastri and carmenmmundt

↳ georgerussell63 : the audience has spoken and they want MORE.

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hattiepiastri : you are sooooo hot and then there is oscar.

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↳ oscarpiastri : can't even argue. she is stunning.

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↳ yoursername : my hattie 🥹 my oscy 🥹

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lando : that is the face of a man who knows he is winning in life 😏

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nicolepiastri : since oscar is about to go into full race mode and ignore me...weekly pilates where we gossip about him?

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↳ yourusername : weekly pilates AND i will get him to call you at least once a week.

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↳ nicolepiastri : my god, i love you. i always wanted a daughter in law who keeps my son in line and wants to be my best friend 😘

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↳ hattiepiastri : one thing oscar did right

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↳ oscarpiastri : yet again, surprisingly not insulted. it's true.

↳ username000 : god yn's relationship with oscar's family is the cutest.

↳ username0 : did you see the video from the race where nicole hugged yn before she hugged oscar???

↳ oscarpiastri : i tend to lack importance with my family when yn is around.

liked by yourusername, hattiepiastri, username0 and nicolepiastri

—

The first Monaco morning after the off-season always hits different. The windows are cracked open, letting in the early sun and the sounds of the port—distant engines humming, boats clinking in the water, birds that clearly didn’t get the memo about your need to sleep in. But you don’t mind. Not when you’re wrapped up in his bed, limbs tangled with Oscar’s, skin still warm from sleep. He’s curled around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—one arm under your head, the other draped lazily across your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

"You awake?" he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

"Mmm. Kind of." You stretch against him, pressing a sleepy kiss to the underside of his jaw. "We should stay here forever."

Oscar laughs, low and soft. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I did promise I’d meet up with a new rookie today. Isack. Doing some training together—get him settled in, you know."

You blink up at him, amused. "Oscar Piastri willingly doing social interaction? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a grin. "I can be social. When absolutely necessary."

"Right. You just happen to prefer doing it in gym clothes and under the guise of cardio."

"Exactly."

You trace little circles on his chest with your finger, pretending not to notice how he shivers slightly at your touch. "Isack… that’s the...French one? Racing Bulls? Almost ran someone over with a scooter?"

Oscar chuckles. "Yep. That’s him. Kid’s fast though. And a bit chaotic, but in a good way. I think he’ll be fun to have around."

You hum in response, already picturing Oscar trying to wrangle a hyper rookie while also trying to pretend he’s not as soft as he actually is.

"What about you?" he asks, shifting so your faces are closer, nose brushing your cheek. "What’s on your Monaco agenda today?"

You grin. "Brunch with some of the girls. Carmen, Lily, maybe Kika. Haven’t seen them in ages. And we’re probably doing a little shopping after—someone said new collections dropped in that tiny boutique on Rue Grimaldi."

Oscar groans dramatically. "So I’ll come home to you with ten new bags and an ‘oops’ face."

"Exactly. Consider it my version of training for the season."

He leans in and kisses you—slow and sleepy and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. “Just don’t fall in love with a handbag while I’m out bonding with the rookie.”

You smile against his lips. “Could never love something more than you.”

“Good. That's what I like to hear.”

You giggle and pull the covers tighter around both of you for just a few more minutes of quiet before the season chaos begins.

—

You sip your oat milk latte as you walk down Rue Grimaldi, arms linked with Carmen and Lily, the three of you gliding past boutique windows like you own the place. Your sunglasses are oversized, your sneakers are overpriced, and the breeze smells like sea salt and money. Monaco in pre-season is the calm before the storm, and you’re soaking up every second of it.

“I’m just saying,” Carmen starts, pointing at a display window, “if you wear that to the paddock, Alex is going to crash into the pit wall.”

Lily snorts beside you. “He is going to crash anyway, but sure. Let’s blame the dress.”

You laugh, taking another sip of your coffee. “You two are menaces.”

“And yet,” Carmen says sweetly, “you are friends with us.”

You chuckle and the three of you walk into the boutique. Inside, the boutique smells like fresh leather and delicate perfume. You let your fingers skim over silk dresses and tweed jackets, the kind of pieces that look like they belong in a Vogue editorial—not an F1 paddock. But Carmen’s already in the back holding up shoes that could kill a man, and Lily’s trying on sunglasses in the mirror like she’s about to walk a red carpet.

You snap a few mirror selfies, mostly for yourself, but you know Instagram will get them later. The three of you float from rack to rack, gossiping, laughing, indulging. It feels easy. Familiar. Normal in the way your life never used to be, and yet somehow is now. There’s brunch after, on a little terrace tucked away from the main street. You order fruit and flaky croissants and something bubbly. Lily tells a story that has Carmen spitting orange juice, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in sunlight and friendship. You’re happy. Settled. Loved. What you don’t know—what you can’t know—is that across the city, your boyfriend is meeting someone who’s about to turn all of that upside down.

—

third person pov

Oscar had almost forgotten how loud training facilities could be when rookies were involved. He spotted Isack immediately—chatting animatedly with one of the trainers, all restless energy and too big ambition packed into a very fast, young driver.

“Piastri!” Isack called the second he noticed him, practically jogging over. “Hey, man. Thanks for doing this.”

Oscar raised a brow, amused. “Didn’t know I had a choice.”

Isack laughed, and Oscar noted the nervous edge to it. The kid was eager—not in a bad way. Just... hungry. The kind of energy Oscar remembered having himself not too long ago.

“Seriously, I appreciate it,” Isack continued. “It’s been... a bit overwhelming. Everyone’s either too busy or too intimidating.”

Oscar handed him a water bottle. “You’ll get used to it. The key is pretending like you belong until you actually do.”

“Fake it till you make it?”

“Exactly. And don’t crash. That helps too.”

Isack laughed again, this time looser. “Noted.”

They began the session with light drills, a bit of cardio, some quick coordination work. Isack was fast, sharp, and relentlessly chatty, peppering Oscar with questions about car setups, simulator quirks, and pre-race routines. Eventually, during a break, Oscar leaned back against a bench and took a sip of water.

“So,” Isack said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You live in Monaco with your girlfriend, right?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Isack gave him a look that was half curiosity, half admiration. “She’s the model, right? YN?”

Oscar smirked. “That’s her.”

Isack let out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Damn. She’s... she’s amazing.”

Oscar chuckled, not unkindly. “Yeah. She is.”

And that was it—just a comment. Harmless. But something flickered behind Isack’s eyes. Something curious. Something that hadn’t quite formed yet, but would. And Oscar—cool, composed, always two steps ahead—missed it completely.

—

your pov (2nd)

By the time you get back to the apartment, the sun has dipped low enough that the buildings outside are tinted pink and gold, and your heels are in your hand because you gave up on the idea of suffering five minutes ago. You open the door with your hip, already smiling.

“Oscar?” you call out, voice echoing softly down the hallway.

“In the kitchen!” comes the reply, muffled, cheerful, followed by the sound of cabinets opening and closing in that way he insists is not chaotic.

You kick off your shoes fully, drop your bags in the entryway, and pad in barefoot, finding him exactly as expected-in a McLaren hoodie, socks half off his feet, hair slightly messy from wherever he flopped earlier. He’s standing in front of the fridge like he’s forgotten why he opened it. He turns when he sees you, face brightening instantly.

“There’s my favorite person.”

“You say that,” you grin, walking over to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “but you haven’t even asked about my day yet.”

“I’m just assuming it was amazing because you were in it,” he says, smug, before wrapping his arms lazily around your waist. “Was it?”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Carmen and Lily are a terrible influence. I bought a pair of shoes that might require their own seat on the flight to Australia.”

He laughs, pulling back slightly to look at you. “How much damage did you do?”

“Enough to boost the economy.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Sounds necessary,” you shoot back.

You move over to sit on the couch as he grabs two glasses of water, joining you a moment later and kicking his legs up beside you like he hasn’t trained all afternoon. You take one look at him and raise an eyebrow.

“You look like someone who ran five miles and answered rookie questions for three hours straight.”

Oscar groans. “Pretty much. He is quite special.”

Your interest immediately piques. “Oh?”

He nods, passing you the glass. “Kid’s fast. Like… Max-level fast. And talks more than Lando after too many Monsters. But he’s cool. I think he’s nervous, but in a charming, I have no filter way.”

You take a sip, smirking. “You made a new friend.”

Oscar frowns dramatically. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

He nudges your knee with his. “He asked about you, by the way.”

You glance over, surprised. “Me?”

Oscar shrugs, casual. “Yeah. Just asked if you were the model. I said yeah, that’s her. He looked kind of stunned.”

You laugh softly. “Well, that’s flattering.”

Oscar grins, leaning back. “Yeah, enjoy it now. Wait until he sees you in person. He might short circuit.”

You roll your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “I’m just preparing myself for the moment my girlfriend becomes a rookie’s emotional support fantasy.”

You chuckle, eyes fluttering shut. “If he’s anything like you were your rookie year, he’ll be too busy trying not to throw up before races to flirt with anyone.”

Oscar hums thoughtfully. “Fair point.”

You both fall into a quiet, comfortable silence after that. Outside, Monaco glows. Inside, it’s just the two of you—legs tangled, matching heartbeats, the season creeping closer by the minute. And somewhere in the distance, fate takes one small step forward.

—

several weeks later...aus gp...rewriting history bc in my mind osc won his home race (im delulu)

yourusername

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yourusername : oscar doubted me when i told him that i bought new heels bc the universe said he was gonna win his home race if i bought them...he made fun of me...but he won and i looked great in the heels. never underestimate the power of a good shoe. also i love australia.

tagged : nicolepiastri, oscarpiastri and lando

—

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oscarpiastri : okay fine. i’ll never question the shoe gods again.

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↳ yourusername : mhm mhm that's what i thought piastri.

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : how about i buy you 5 new pairs to make up for it?

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↳ yourusername : deal.

nicolepiastri : australia LOVES you. i missed you so much, my pretty girl.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : love you moreeee

lando : can you tell the shoe gods that lando needs help too?

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↳ yourusername : shoe gods say no...unless you buy me a pair.

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↳ lando : ...what size are you?

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franciscagomes : goddess. kiss me.

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↳ yourusername : on my way!!

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hattiepiastri : the way that oscar literally did nothing to deserve your level of beauty is insane. so fun to see you sista:)

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↳ yourusername : love you to the moon and back hattieeeee

isackhadjar : it is insane how beautiful you are in person. so nice to meet you, yn!

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↳ yourusername : haha thank youuu. it was nice to finally meet the man who has been stealing my bf from me;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

third person pov

The hospitality suite buzzed with the usual pre-session tension, engineers huddled over screens, press staff darting between schedules. Outside, the sun was bright but not yet cruel, and the paddock was alive with noise—fans cheering just beyond the fences, radio chatter filling the air, tires squealing softly as cars rolled out of garages. Oscar and Isack were tucked away on a low couch in a shaded corner near the back, both of them in their race suits, helmets resting on the floor like sleeping animals. They had been hanging out a lot lately. More than Oscar probably realized. Training sessions, video games back at the hotel, quiet dinners when everyone else scattered after briefings. It had started as a mentor-rookie thing. Now, it was something else—something easier. Something closer. And yet, for the past few days, Isack had felt… off. He couldn’t quite name it. Not out loud.

Oscar nudged him with a water bottle. “You look like you’re buffering.”

Isack blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve just been staring at the garage for like two minutes,” Oscar said, smiling faintly. “You okay?”

“Oh—yeah. Just zoned out.”

He wasn’t lying, not really. He had zoned out, mostly because Oscar was leaning back against the wall, hair still slightly messy from his helmet fitting, eyes bright and full of that quiet determination Isack was beginning to know all too well. And that was the problem. Because lately, when Oscar smiled at him like that, Isack felt his chest tighten. Not in the normal, adrenaline fueled way. In the oh shit I’m not supposed to think that way.

Desperate to shake it off, he cleared his throat. “Where’s YN? Looking forward to meeting her.”

Oscar glanced up from the schedule in his hand. “Pilates class with my mum,” he said, voice casual. “Something about grounding her nervous system before the season starts.”

Isack blinked. “With your mum?”

Oscar laughed. “Yeah, they’re close. She loves YN more than me, I think. You’ll see her tomorrow. She’s coming with mum and my sisters.”

“Oh.” Isack looked away quickly, a little too quickly. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

Oscar reached down to grab his gloves, then looked over again, brow furrowed slightly. “You sure you’re good?”

Isack nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just hungry, probably.”

Oscar didn’t push. Just stood and offered a hand to pull him up, his grip firm, warm, grounding. The kind of touch that made Isack’s heart stutter a little too sharply in his chest. He let go as fast as he could without it looking weird. Oscar slung his towel over his shoulder and started toward the garage, talking about the car setup, something about corner exit speeds and throttle response. Isack heard every word—and none of them.

His brain was stuck on one thing- YN. And Oscar. And them.

He’d barely met her, had only seen her on Oscar’s phone screen. But she was magnetic—gorgeous, smart, somehow both intimidating and welcoming all at once. And now she was in Pilates with Oscar’s mum, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They weren’t just dating. They were entwined. And he liked them both. Not just liked—he felt something. The kind of something that made his chest ache and his thoughts scatter. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Oscar turned back, grinning, the sun hitting his cheek just right. “Come on, rookie. Try not to crash into the wall this time.”

Isack forced a laugh and jogged to catch up. “No promises.”

But as they disappeared down the paddock tunnel together, something in his chest twisted—equal parts awe and confusion, affection and panic. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a crush. It was two.

—

2nd pov

You arrive with the sun at your back and Oscar’s sisters clinging to both arms, talking a mile a minute about anything that comes to their minds. Nicole walks ahead with purpose, sunglasses on, carrying a huge cardboard cutout of Oscar's face, her protective energy leading the way through the paddock like she’s still half in mum mode, half in PR mode. You love being here—at the first race, in Oscar’s home country, surrounded by the buzz of something about to begin. The nerves haven’t hit yet, not properly. For now, there’s just warmth and momentum. You adjust your sunglasses and exhale, soft and content. And then you see him. Isack.

He’s standing just outside the McLaren garage next to Oscar, shorter frame half casual in his suit, towel slung over one shoulder. He looks distracted at first—until Oscar nudges him and the two of them begin walking toward you. You’ve seen photos. Heard stories. Watched him ramble his way through press duties with a charm that’s either accidental or scarily calculated. But in person, he’s different. Softer. Quieter in the face. There’s something curious in the way he looks at the world. In the way he looks at you.

Oscar grins and slides a hand around your waist without even thinking. “YN, this is Isack. Rookie. Bit of a menace. You’ll like him.”

You step forward slightly and offer him a smile, already amused by the boyish hesitation flickering behind his eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you, Isack,” you say, your voice warmer than you intend. “Oscar’s told me a lot.”

He stares for half a second too long before blinking out of it. “Only the good stuff, I hope?”

You drop your sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. They’re brighter than you expected—like he hasn’t quite learned how to hide what he’s feeling.

You smile, slow and honest. “The very good stuff.”

Oscar gives your hip a gentle squeeze, grounding you. And still—still—you feel Isack’s gaze lingering.

It’s not creepy. Not even bold. It’s quiet, observant, almost reverent in a way you’re not used to. You’ve been around drivers for years—used to cockiness, confidence, bravado. Isack is none of that. Or maybe he is, just not with you. And that unsettles you more than it should. Oscar’s joking again—something about Isack being a fanboy—and you laugh, leaning into him, chin on his shoulder for a second. But you feel it. That tension in the air. That something.

And when you glance back toward Isack, you catch him looking again. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like he knows he shouldn't be thinking what he’s thinking. And, god, part of you is thinking it too. Just for a second. You shake it off. Smile wider. Turn back to the girls and let Oscar lead you toward the garage. But the impression lingers. Like the heat of someone else’s stare clinging to your skin.

—

You’re wandering. Oscar’s still caught in media debriefs, and you’re killing time before dinner, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, sneakers scuffing along the pavement as the sun starts to dip behind the paddock buildings. The air smells like rubber and champagne residue, like adrenaline that hasn’t quite settled. And then you hear it—footsteps behind you, a shuffle, a clearing throat. You glance back. It’s him. Isack.

He’s changed out of his suit, hair still damp from the shower, black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, backpack half-zipped over one side. He looks surprised to see you—but not in a bad way. Just caught off guard.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you.”

You smile, casually slowing your pace so he can fall into step beside you. “Oscar’s still stuck with media. I’m avoiding fluorescent lighting until absolutely necessary.”

He laughs softly, glancing sideways. “You look different out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean—not in the paddock. Less cameras. More… real?”

“Is that your polite way of saying I looked intimidating earlier?”

“No,” he says quickly, then grins. “Okay—yeah. A little. You walked in like you owned the place.”

“I walk like that everywhere,” you tease.

And he looks at you again—really looks. Like he's searching for something beneath the joke. There’s a pause, too long to be friendly, too quiet to be normal.

“Isack,” you say, breaking the silence, “are you always this intense with people you’ve known for two days?”

He flushes, just slightly. “Not usually.”

You don’t know what possesses you to say it, but you do—soft, playful, and just a little dangerous.

“Must be something in the air, then.”

Another pause. Another look. And then—

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” he says, quiet, like it’s a secret he didn’t mean to tell out loud.

You stop walking. Just for a beat. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how genuine it sounds. Like he doesn’t even want anything from you. Like he’s just saying it.

You meet his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he replies, steady now. Bolder.

The tension curls between you like a wire pulled taut. And somewhere deep in your chest, you feel the twist of it, the ache of curiosity you’re trying hard to ignore. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

You break the moment with a smile—cool, composed, the way you’ve trained yourself to be. “You’re trouble, Hadjar.”

He shrugs, smirking faintly. “Only on weekends.”

You walk away before either of you can say anything else. But you feel him behind you. Still watching. Still wondering. And the worst part? You are too.

—

You’ve been flying for two hours, and Oscar is asleep. Not just half-asleep, either—fully knocked out, mouth slightly open, arms crossed like he’s trying to convince himself he didn’t lose consciousness mid-movie. You glance over your shoulder from your seat, already biting back a grin. The in flight light above him glows soft against the corner of his jaw, casting him in a kind of peaceful shadow. You’ll tease him about this later. You always do.

Isack chuckles from the seat across the aisle. “Out cold?”

You nod. “He made it exactly 27 minutes into Heat before he gave up. Record breaking, honestly.”

You turn back around, letting your head fall gently against the plush leather of the seat. Your legs are tucked beneath you, one of Oscar’s hoodies drowning your frame, headphones still tangled in your lap even though your playlist ended twenty minutes ago. Across from you, Isack shifts. Not fidgety—just restless in the way of buzzing with energy and nowhere to put it. He has one AirPod in, but you’re pretty sure he hasn’t played anything for a while either. He’s been stealing glances at you ever since Oscar fell asleep. And you haven’t stopped noticing.

It’s not weird. Not really. You’ve spent the past month getting closer. Training days. Dinners. Stolen jokes in the paddock while Oscar gave interviews. You three have become a unit—something unspoken and unlabelled. Something tight-knit. But it’s also not not weird. Because sometimes, Isack looks at you like he’s trying to commit you to memory. And other times, you catch yourself looking back. Right now is one of those times.

“You ever get tired of traveling?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

You blink yourself out of the haze. “Of planes or of never really being anywhere?”

“Both,” he says, eyes soft but serious.

You think about it. “Sometimes. It feels like living in between places, you know? Like you’re always packing a suitcase, but never fully unpacking one.”

Isack nods slowly. “Exactly.”

You shift a little in your seat, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “But then… there are moments like this. Where it’s quiet. Where everything slows down.”

He’s looking at you again. Like you’re saying something important even if you’re not.

“You make the in between feel kind of… okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s the kind of thing you should laugh off. The kind of thing that should sound like a compliment and nothing more. But it lands heavier than that. Like he meant it more than you were supposed to hear. You glance back toward Oscar. Still asleep. Still peaceful.

And then—“You’ve gotten close to him lately,” you murmur, eyes on Isack now.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow, inviting more. You’re not sure why.

“He’s... calm,” Isack says. “In a way that makes you want to be better. Not louder. Just… better.”

You nod, understanding in your chest like a pulse. “Yeah. He does that.”

Silence settles again. But this time it’s not awkward. It’s charged. And when you meet his eyes again, something shifts. There’s something fragile and curious hanging between the two of you, held together by the sound of the engines and the soft rhythm of Oscar’s breathing. Not quite guilt. Not quite tension. Something else. Something like possibility. You’re the one who breaks the stare first, heart hammering a little too loud in your chest. You tug your hoodie sleeve over your fingers and look down at your hands.

“We’re landing in about an hour,” you say.

Isack doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything right away. And then—

“Okay,” he says. But it’s not just an answer. It’s full of things unspoken.

Things that won’t stay quiet for much longer.

—

yourusername

liked by isackhadjar, oscarpiastri, lando and 9,997,005 others.

yourusername : spain just got an oscar piastri masterclass

tagged : oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

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username000 : everyone say thank you, oscar. and also… hello, isack?

oscarpiastri : the pre-race kisses from someone as beautiful as you really tends to help

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : kissing is banned from the garage. oscar cannot win anymore.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ lando : did you even talk to the shoe gods after i bought you those manolos???

↳ yourusername : you won monaco, did you not?

liked by lando

↳ lando : good point. ok. proceed. not in front of me tho.

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nicolepiastri : my favorite chaos. my babies

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isackhadjar : photo credits for the boat pics??

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↳ yourusername : oh yes my b. isack is now my professional photographer everyone ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

Oscar’s still flushed from the podium. Gold champagne dried into his collarbones, hair messy from the cap, medal still in his backpack. You barely made it through the hotel room door before he had his hands on you. Before he kissed you like the win still hadn’t fully hit him — like he needed you to ground it. To feel it. To come down from it. His mouth is on your neck now, slow and warm. His hands memorizing your waist like he hasn’t touched you a thousand times before. Your shirt is somewhere on the floor. His is tugged up and bunched under your palms, and the laugh that leaves his mouth when you whisper something smug. You pull him down on top of you, tangled in the hotel sheets, everything a blur of skin and warmth and wanting. It’s not rushed. It’s crackling. That kind of need that comes after months of tension and three back-to-back podiums and one long plane ride where you didn’t touch once. Oscar kisses you like he’s starving. You’re about to slip your hands into his waistband when the door opens. Not knocked. Not warned. Just… opened. You don’t register it at first. You think it’s room service. Or housekeeping. Or maybe your head’s just too foggy to care. But Oscar freezes. You glance over your shoulder. Isack.

He’s standing in the doorway, a bottle of champagne in one hand, wide-eyed, stunned, and completely silent. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. He just stares. At Oscar’s hand on your hip. At your lips, kiss-bruised and parted. At the space between your bodies — charged, half-naked, completely unbothered. You should panic. But you don’t. You just stare back. And something about the way he doesn’t look away — something in the way he’s still there, not leaving — twists deep in your stomach. Oscar looks at you, then at Isack, then back at you again. Waiting. Reading. Wanting. You reach down slowly, tracing your fingers up Oscar’s chest, your gaze still locked on the boy in the doorway.

“Are you just going to stand there,” you ask softly, voice like velvet, “or are you going to come in?”

Isack doesn’t move. Not at first. But then— He does. One step inside. Then another. The door doesn’t close. Oscar’s hand finds your thigh again. Yours slides to the waistband of his sweatpants. Isack lingers at the edge of the room, like if he breathes too loud he’ll wake up from something. You sit up slightly, hair falling down your back, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “But if you want to…”

Isack’s eyes flick from your mouth to your hands to Oscar, who is watching him now with a look that borders on something between challenge and invitation.

“I—” he starts.

Then stops.

You tilt your head. “You trust us, don’t you?”

His breath catches. “Yeah.”

Oscar nods once, his voice calm but electric. “Then come here.”

And just like that, the space between you vanishes. Not hesitation. Not shame. Just three people— buzzing with want, burning with something unspoken, and no longer pretending it isn’t there.

—

The first light of dawn slips through the curtains, casting gentle gold stripes across the room. You stir awake to the steady rhythm of two sets of breathing—Oscar’s arm draped protectively around you, and Isack lying just a little apart, eyes closed but peaceful. The quiet morning feels like a warm, soft blanket after the intensity of last night. Careful not to wake Oscar, you slip out of his embrace and move toward Isack. His eyes open the moment you settle beside him.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He blinks, shyly smiling. “Morning, YN.”

For a long moment, you both sit in silence, the comfort of each other’s presence filling the space. Then he speaks, voice low and sincere.

“I wasn’t sure how to say it last night,” Isack admits, eyes searching yours with nervous honesty. “But... I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while. About you.”

Your chest tightens with warmth.

“It’s not just the moment, or the surprise of last night,” he continues steadily. “It’s you. The way you laugh, the way you care. I’ve admired you from afar, but being here... like this... it feels right.”

You reach out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Isack... that means more than you know.”

He swallows and smiles, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. “I was scared I’d mess it up, or that it was just a fantasy. But now... I want to see where this goes. With you. With Oscar too.”

Your heart swells at his honesty. This isn’t just a fleeting moment—it’s real. Messy, complicated, but beautiful. Oscar stirs then, rubbing his eyes, his gaze falling on you both. His smile is soft and knowing. “Morning, loves.”

You lean back between them, feeling the steady warmth of two people who fit perfectly with you.

“Good morning,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around them both. “Let’s figure this out together.”

Oscar stretches and grins. “So… I take it last night wasn’t just about the champagne and celebration?”

Isack chuckles nervously. “Definitely not.”

You smile, warmth spreading inside you. “We all surprised each other, didn’t we?”

Oscar’s gaze turns gentle but serious. “I want to be sure this is what we all want. It’s new for me, but I’m willing to try if you both are.”

Isack reaches out, taking Oscar’s hand. “I’m in. I don’t want to lose what we started.”

You squeeze both their hands. “Me too. I think this could be something really special.”

Oscar leans in, forehead resting against yours. “We’ll take it one day at a time. No rush, no pressure. Just us.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the moment and the quiet promise of something real and new. “One day at a time sounds perfect.”

Isack’s smile brightens. “This might just be the best race I’ve ever been part of.”

The three of you laugh softly, a laughter full of hope and tenderness. Together, in the soft morning light, you begin writing the first chapter of your story.

—

It wasn’t planned—none of this ever really was. But somehow, that made it better. Oscar had mentioned it offhand, leaning over the kitchen counter that morning with his hair still wet from the shower. “There’s this island off the coast. McLaren used it once for a shoot. Barely anyone knows about it. We could go.”

You’d looked at Isack, who was already perking up. “A secret island?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “You’re joking.”

Oscar grinned. “Completely serious. Private beach. No media. Just us.”

And just like that, you were packing sunscreen and a couple of towels, grabbing whatever food you could find and piling into a small rented boat. The sea was glassy and blue, the sun already high, and Isack leaned against you the whole ride, humming softly to the playlist Oscar had thrown on.

The moment your feet hit the sand, it felt like another world. The island was wild and quiet—nothing but dunes, stone, and open sky. Oscar dropped the bags onto the beach with a satisfied sigh.

“Told you it was real,” he said, casting you both a smug look.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. You win.”

Isack was already barefoot, running up the slope toward the ruins like a kid. “This place looks like something out of a dream,” he called over his shoulder.

You spent the day tangled up in each other. Exploring barefoot along the cliffs, your hand in Oscar’s while Isack lagged behind, taking photos of the way your fingers fit so easily together. He caught up to you eventually, sliding his arm around your waist as you both leaned into Oscar’s side, three shadows falling across the rocks in the warm afternoon light. At one point, you all ended up lying on a blanket that Oscar had miraculously remembered to bring. Isack was curled against your side, his head on your stomach, while Oscar laid beside you, feeding you grapes.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, laughing as he popped another one into your mouth.

He grinned. “Say that again after I feed you strawberries later.”

Isack groaned. “God, I’m third wheeling the softest couple.”

You looked down at him with a teasing smile. “You’re literally cuddling us, Isack."

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, grinning up at you, “that doesn’t mean I’m not dramatic.”

When the sun began to dip low, painting the sea in orange and gold, you all swam in the shallows—laughing, shouting, splashing each other until your cheeks ached. Oscar launched Isack into the water at least three times- you tried to help him retaliate, only to be swept up in the chaos, soaked and breathless. By the time the sky faded into pink, the three of you were wrapped in oversized towels, perched against the old stone wall of the villa ruins. Your legs tangled with theirs. Oscar’s fingers laced through yours. Isack nestled on Oscar’s lap, absently drawing circles on your knee.

“This is the happiest I’ve been in a really long time,” Isack said quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind.

You glanced at him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Me too.”

Oscar rested his chin on your shoulder. “I wish we could freeze this moment.”

You smiled. “Who says we can’t come back?”

Isack tilted his head, giving you a sleepy, sun-warmed smile. “Yeah... we should make it our spot.”

“Our island,” Oscar added.

“Ours,” you echoed.

And in that soft hush of a Spanish sunset, with the waves below and the warmth of their bodies around you, you felt something settle—something whole and terrifying and beautiful. Whatever this was, it was real. And it was yours.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, isackhadjar, nicolepiastri and 7,771,025 others.

oscarpiastri : my girlfriend and i found a boyfriend:)

tagged : yourusername and isackhadjar

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[cheftsunoda]

i was the one that requested the kimi graduation story and omggg you did SO GOOD i loved it so much!!

thank you my angellllll

was so much fun for me to writee

love you!!

ps another poly fic will be out later tonight

[cheftsunoda]

hii, i have an idea for Kimi where he has a girlfriend that lives in another country but for his graduation she surprises him there even though he thought she was still in her own country

fairy godmother max— ka12

smau + blurbs

yn and kimi have been together since they were fifteen—growing up side by side, even as life started pulling them in different directions. now, with yn living in another country and kimi chasing his dream in formula 1, time together is rare, and the distance is harder than either of them expected. when kimi’s graduation day arrives, he assumes it’ll be just another milestone, another event she’ll have to miss. but what he doesn't know is that yn has a few surprises up her sleeve…with the help of a certain world champion.

fc : darianka on ig

(a/n) : i was waiting to post this until after kimi graduated and he officially has so yay kimiiiii!!!

—

yourusername

nyc📍

liked by kimi.antonelli, carmenmmundt, franciscagomes and 1,125,007 others.

yourusername : forever in love with the big apple but forever missing my boy 🤧

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view 187,005 other comments.

georgerussell63 : real question is…when is the reunion and who is gonna tape it? uncle georgie needs a good cry

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : dunno when it’s gonna be but I’ll have someone film just for you george

liked by georgerussell63

↳ yourusername : in the mean time i can just send you those depressing ads with the dogs if you want

liked by kimi.antonelli

↳ georgerussell63 : NO.

↳ carmenmmundt : the last time he watched one it took me 2 hours to get him off the couch

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

maxverstappen1 : i will send air-max to you rn if it means my child will stop being depressed

liked by kimi.antonelli and yourusername

↳ yourusername : thank you for the offer mother goose but sadly i have a shoot tomorrow

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ maxverstappen1 : well whenever you need it, it’s yours

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : can we all just start calling max mother goose?

↳ maxverstappen1 : no. yn is the only one who has that privilege. everyone else runs the risk of getting throat punched.

liked by yourusername

kimi.antonelli : how am i supposed to focus on anything after you posted this 🧍🏻‍♂️

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : sei così meravigliosa😻

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : forever missing my girl, come home to me pls.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : omg i miss you so much. love you to the moon and back😭😭

liked by kimi.antonelli

franciscagomes : the prettiest angel in the world 😍

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : keeeeeeks! it was so good to see you last week. i missed you sm

liked by franciscagomes

↳ franciscagomes : was literally the highlight of my trip! love youuuuu

liked by yourusername

carmenmmundt : I think it is safe to say that we ALL miss you. So get back to us ASAP!

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : trying my best carms 😁

—

The screen lights up with his name just as you’re about to crawl into bed.

Kimi 💙 wants to FaceTime…

You smile instinctively, heart tugging even before you swipe to answer.

“Hi,” you say, and there’s a warmth in your voice that only exists for him.

His face fills the screen a second later — hoodie on, hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it, eyes heavy with something unspoken.

“Hey,” he murmurs. And just like that, it’s quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around your chest and squeezes.

You can tell. He’s trying to be fine. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods once. Then again. “Yeah. Just… I don’t know. I miss you.”

You sigh. “I miss you too.”

He leans back on his pillow, the phone angling just enough to catch the posters on his wall and the edge of his desk, cluttered with school papers and notes. “Graduation’s in a few weeks and everyone keeps asking who’s coming. And all I wanna say is you, but I don’t even know if you can be here.”

Your heart cracks just a little. “Kimi…”

“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, like he already regrets bringing it up. “I know you’re busy, and the flights suck, and F1 weekends don’t exactly stop for me to wear a silly cap and shake someone’s hand. It’s just… I want you there. Really bad.”

You don’t say anything at first. Because what is there to say? You want to be there too. More than anything. But your schedule’s been insane, and between time zones and obligations, it’s all starting to feel like you’re stuck behind a glass wall you can’t break through.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” you tell him honestly. “I swear, I’m looking at flights every day. I want to be there more than you know.”

He nods, eyes flickering down like he’s trying to hide the weight of it all. “It’s not even about graduation. It’s just… I’m tired of missing you. Tired of this screen being the only way I get to see your face.”

You swallow hard. “I know. Me too.”

“I’d give anything just to have you next to me right now,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Even if we didn’t talk. Just to know you’re here.”

You press your hand to your chest like that might hold it together. “We’re almost there,” you promise. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Promise?”

You smile, aching and real. “Always.”

He lets out a shaky breath and leans in just a little closer to the camera, like if he tries hard enough, he might reach you through the pixels. And you sit there, both quiet, both hurting, but both still trying—because that’s what love looks like from miles apart. Not perfect. Just worth it.

—

You scroll past the name twice before your thumb finally hovers over it. Max Verstappen. You haven’t called him in weeks — not because anything’s wrong, but because life has been busy, chaotic, distant. Still, he’s always made it clear: “For you and Kimi? Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll send the damn jet if I have to.”

And tonight… you need the jet. The phone rings once. Twice. Then you hear his voice — scratchy, tired, but still very Max.

“You’re alive,” he says. “Was starting to think you ran off to join a cult in New York.”

You laugh under your breath. “Hi, Max.”

“Hi,” he echoes, but softer this time. “What’s going on?”

There’s a pause. Not because you don’t know what to say — but because saying it makes it real. Your heart is already in Italy with Kimi, counting down the days to his graduation, to seeing his name called, to the one moment he’s been dreaming of since he was a kid. And you can’t miss it.

“I need to call in that favor,” you say.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low chuckle. “I knew this day would come.”

“I’m serious,” you tell him. “I’ve checked every flight, every connection, and nothing gets me there in time. He keeps pretending it doesn’t matter, but it does, Max. I have to be there.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Say less. The jet’s yours.”

Your throat tightens. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll have it waiting. You just tell me where and when. And YN?” His voice softens. “You showing up? That’s going to mean everything to him. You two… you’ve got the real thing. I’ve always known that.”

You blink fast, suddenly overwhelmed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Then we’re even,” he teases, a smile clear in his voice.

You shake your head, heart full. “I owe you.”

“Just send me a picture of his face when he sees you. That’s payment enough.”

And just like that, the plan’s in motion. Because sometimes, the people who love you don’t need explanations — they just show up. Or, in Max’s case, they send a jet.

—

You pace your room, nerves buzzing in your stomach like bees. Max has already confirmed the jet — it’s happening. You’re going. But there’s one more call you have to make before you start throwing clothes in a suitcase.

You scroll until you find the contact saved as Mamma Antonelli 💕 — because that’s how she insisted you save it after the first summer you stayed with them in Bologna. She picks up after two rings, and before you can even speak, her voice lights up.

“Tesoro! It’s been too long! Kimi told me you’ve been busy with work — are you eating? You always sound tired when you’re not eating.”

You laugh, heart swelling instantly. “Hi, Mamma. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Mm-hm. I don’t trust you. But I love you anyway,” she teases. You can already hear the clatter of dishes in the background — Sunday dinner prep, probably. “To what do I owe the honor?”

You sit on the edge of your bed, smile slipping into something more serious. “I… wanted to tell you something. Actually, I wanted to ask something.”

“Oh no. Are you eloping?”

You snort. “What? No!”

“Okay, okay, just checking. Then what is it?”

You take a breath. “I’m coming to Kimi’s graduation. Max is sending the jet. I haven’t told Kimi — I want to surprise him.”

There’s a pause, and then— “Oh, mio Dio. You’re going to make me cry.”

You smile, a little watery. “I couldn’t miss it. He’s pretending he doesn’t care if I’m there or not, but I know it matters to him. And I just… I need to be there. For him.”

You hear rustling in the background, her calling out something in rapid-fire Italian. Then Kimi’s dad gets on the phone, his voice warm and familiar.

“She told me. You’re coming.”

“I am,” you say, smiling into the phone. “But don’t tell Kimi. Please.”

“I would never,” he promises. “He’s been sulking around like a lost puppy. This will knock the wind out of him — in a good way.”

“He’s going to freak out,” you whisper, grinning now.

“He’s going to cry,” his mom adds in the background.

You laugh. “You really think so?”

“We know so,” they say in unison.

“Okay, then,” you breathe. “Let’s pull this off.”

“We’ll be waiting at the airport,” Mamma says. “And then we’ll get you hidden before he even arrives. We’ll make it perfect.”

You hang up a few minutes later, cheeks aching from smiling so hard. Your chest is lighter now — filled with excitement instead of guilt. This is happening. You’re going to be there. And Kimi? He has no idea what’s coming.

—

The jet is sleek and quiet, and somehow still feels completely surreal. You’re strapped into the soft leather seat with your hoodie pulled tight over your head, window shade half-closed as the engines hum beneath you. You can’t stop checking your phone — triple-confirming the flight path, re-reading texts from Max, and replaying the plan in your head like you’re about to perform a heist. And just as the jet begins to taxi down the runway…

Kimi 💙 is calling…

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“No, no, no, not now,” you mutter, scrambling to answer before the noise gives anything away. You slide down in your seat, like somehow that will make you less suspicious.

“Hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady and definitely not like you’re ON A PRIVATE JET.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “What are you doing?”

You blink at the window, watching the airport disappear into motion. “Um. Just… heading somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” he repeats, a soft laugh in his voice. “That’s vague.”

You gulp. “Work stuff. Last-minute thing. Super boring.”

You can hear the smirk. “That why you sound all nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired. Early morning.”

“It’s like… 3PM where you are.”

Shit.

“Time is fake,” you blurt. “It’s a construct.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Kimi laughs, low and warm, and somehow that makes everything worse. “You okay?”

“Totally. Totally fine. Just lots going on. Meetings. Presentations. Jet lag.”

You wince. Jet. Wrong word. Terrible word.

But Kimi, bless his oblivious heart, doesn’t react. “Well, I just wanted to hear your voice. I know things have been hectic.”

Your chest aches. “I’m really proud of you,” you say, suddenly emotional. “I know graduation is coming up and you’re probably pretending it’s not a big deal, but it is. You’re amazing, Kimi.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I wish you could be there.”

“I know,” you whisper, holding your breath so you don’t ruin everything. “Me too.”

Another silence. Then. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Call me later, okay?”

“Promise,” you say, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” he says, before the line goes dead.

You exhale, head dropping back against the seat. Somehow, you didn’t blow the surprise. Barely. And now, you’re flying toward the one person in the world who has no idea you’re about to show up and change everything.

—

The jet touches down with barely a bump, sunlight flooding through the window as the plane slows on the runway. Your heart is pounding, fingers drumming nervously against your thighs. You can’t believe you’re actually here. In Italy. For him. As the cabin door opens and the warm air hits your face, you quickly pull out your phone. There’s only one person you need to call first. Max Verstappen.

He picks up on the second ring.

“You landed?”

“Just now,” you breathe, already smiling. “Max… thank you. I know you always joked about sending the jet, but—”

“I wasn’t joking,” he interrupts casually. “I’d do it again. And again. You two are disgusting and adorable and give the rest of us hope.”

You laugh, a little choked up. “Seriously. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Like I said…all I need is proof of his reaction. I want to see the exact moment his brain breaks in half.”

You grin. “Done.”

“Good. Go get your boy.”

You hang up just as you spot them — Kimi’s parents, waiting just outside the private terminal with barely contained excitement. His mom is the first to see you.

“TESORO!” she yells, rushing toward you with open arms.

You barely have time to drop your bag before she’s hugging you so tightly your feet actually lift off the ground. “You’re here! You’re really here! Oh, mio Dio, he’s going to collapse.”

“I missed you too,” you laugh into her shoulder, overwhelmed in the best way.

Kimi’s dad pulls you into a hug next, his hand warm on your back. “He’s going to lose his mind,” he says with a proud grin. “He’s been pretending he doesn’t care, but he’s been moping around like a ghost.”

“And now,” his mom adds, wiping tears from her eyes, “you’re going to walk in and ruin him. Perfectly.”

“Thank you both,” you say, heart full. “For keeping the secret. For being part of this.”

“We’d do anything for you,” his mom says, cupping your face. “You’re family.”

And as they lead you to the car, laughing and chattering about the plan, your heart feels light again.

—

You’re crouched behind the kitchen counter, holding back a laugh as Mamma Antonelli calls out, “Maggie! Tesoro, come here for a minute!”

Tiny footsteps echo down the hallway, quick and full of purpose.

“What?” Maggie’s voice is high pitched and dramatic in the way only ten year olds can manage. “I’m making Kimi a card! And I used the fancy markers!”

“Just come, piccola,” Mamma says, smiling wide as she stirs a pot on the stove. “I have something to show you.”

Maggie stomps into the kitchen, all pink socks and hair in a pink headband, holding a glittery construction paper card in one hand and a scowl on her face. “This better be good.”

You slowly peek out from behind the counter.

“Surprise,” you say softly.

Maggie stops immediately.

Her whole face drops—eyes going wide like saucers, mouth falling open as she stares at you. For a second, she doesn’t say a word.

Then—“YN?!”

You barely have time to nod before she shrieks and runs at you, throwing her tiny arms around your waist with all the force her little body can manage. You stumble back a step, laughing through the sudden sting in your eyes.

“You’re really here?” she asks, voice muffled against your hoodie. “For real real? Not just on my iPad?”

“For real real,” you promise, hugging her tightly. “Just for Kimi. But I had to see you first.”

She pulls back, cheeks flushed with excitement. “He’s gonna cry. I just know it. He’s been all moody and weird and saying stuff like ‘it’s fine’ even though it’s clearly not fine.”

You giggle, wiping your eyes. “That sounds like him.”

“I’m gonna help!” she declares. “With the surprise! I can distract him or hide you or pretend there’s a present and then BOOM—it’s you!”

You glance at Mamma Antonelli, who’s trying not to cry into her wooden spoon.

“I think we just found the mastermind,” you say.

Maggie beams. “I’m so good at secrets. Except for that one time I told Papa about the broken vase, but that was different.”

You ruffle her hair. “We’ll be careful this time.”

She nods like she’s just been given a secret mission. “He’s gonna be so happy. You’re his favorite person.”

Your chest aches with love. “He’s mine too.”

And as Maggie skips off to start planning “Operation Surprise Kimi,” you take a deep breath and smile—because in this house, with this family, you’ve never felt more at home.

—

The sun is warm and golden, spilling over the ancient stone buildings that line the courtyard. There’s laughter in the air, shouts of congratulations in Italian, the occasional champagne cork popping in the distance. Red laurel crowns sit proudly on graduates’ heads, marking the end of years of hard work. And Kimi?

Kimi Antonelli is right in the middle of it all, standing in his white linen shirt, the crown just slightly crooked on his head, cheeks flushed from the sun — and maybe from emotion he’s not letting himself show. He’s smiling for photos, thanking professors, dodging confetti and hugs and the occasional overzealous cousin, but something is clearly missing. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And you see it. From where you’re hidden behind a group of olive trees with Maggie and his mother, your heart aches for him. You should’ve been standing beside him. But not for long.

“Kimi’s still over there,” Mamma Antonelli whispers, lifting her phone to start filming. “Max and George said to absolutely not miss the moment. Max said he’s taking bets on whether Kimi cries or faints.”

“I think both,” Maggie whispers gleefully. “Or maybe he’ll scream like a goat.”

You’re trembling a little, heart hammering as Mamma gives you the softest little nudge. “Vai. Go.”

You nod, swallow hard, and step out from behind the trees. Kimi is turned slightly away, laughing at something his best friend just said. His crown has slipped further down his forehead. His hand is gripping the side of his phone like he wants to text someone — probably you. And then, he hears it.

“Nice crown, graduate.”

He freezes. His body stiffens. His head snaps up. Slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe it, he turns around.

And there you are. Standing a few feet away in the same sundress you wore the summer you first visited Bologna. Hair curling from the humidity, eyes shining, heart in your throat. You’re smiling — already crying — but smiling. For a full five seconds, Kimi doesn’t move. Then he drops everything — the diploma folder, the champagne glass someone handed him, even his crown slips a little more off his head — and he runs.

His arms are around you in seconds, lifting you clean off the ground like he can’t believe you’re real. You’re laughing and crying into his shoulder, fingers buried in the back of his hair.

“You’re here,” he says, over and over again. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Surprise.”

Kimi pulls back just enough to look at you, tears now clearly in his eyes. “How? How are you here?”

You grin. “Max sent the jet.”

He blinks. “Max?!”

“And your mom helped. And your sister. And George’s only request was that you cry. So, you know. No pressure.”

He laughs through the tears, breath hitching as he leans in and kisses you like he’s starving for it — like months of distance and missed calls and sleepless nights dissolve in that one moment.

Behind you, you hear Maggie yell, “HE’S CRYING!” followed by the sound of Mamma Antonelli’s voice narrating in shaky, emotional Italian for the video.

“Look! Guardalo! Max, George — sta piangendo come un bambino innamorato!”

You break the kiss, burying your face in Kimi’s neck as he holds you tighter than ever.

“I didn’t want to miss this,” you whisper. “I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” he breathes. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

And as red petals and confetti rain down from the sky, as friends cheer and his family watches with misty eyes and proud smiles, Kimi kisses you again — this time slower, softer, like a thank-you, a promise, a homecoming all in one. You showed up. You always would. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly right.

—

The sun is low by the time you arrive at the Antonellis’ countryside home, warm golden light spilling across the terracotta tiles and olive trees. Kimi’s laurel crown sits on the dashboard of the car like a trophy, slightly bent but still proud. He holds your hand the entire drive — knuckles white, like if he lets go, you might disappear again. You don’t blame him. You still can’t believe you’re here either.

As you step out of the car, you’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of garlic, tomato, and fresh basil — the kind of smell that makes your heart ache with nostalgia. Mamma Antonelli is already out on the porch in an apron, yelling something toward the kitchen window.

“You brought her home and you graduated? Finally, we can breathe again!” she announces dramatically, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling you in for another warm, crushing hug. “You’re sitting next to me. I don’t care what Kimi says.”

“She likes you more than me,” Kimi mutters beside you, grinning. “Confirmed.”

“I’ve always liked her more than you,” she shoots back, ruffling his hair before disappearing inside.

Dinner is a beautiful kind of chaos. Plates piled with pasta al forno and roasted vegetables, bottles of red wine passed around the table, someone shouting over someone else every few minutes. Kimi’s cousins are arguing about sports, his uncle is showing your graduation surprise video to anyone who will watch, and Maggie is seated at your side, proudly telling everyone how she was “basically the mastermind.”

Kimi watches you through all of it — not in the way people usually mean when they say that, but really watches. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Every time you laugh or lean in to wipe tomato sauce from Maggie’s cheek or clink glasses with his dad, he looks at you like he’s still catching his breath. At one point, as the noise dies down just slightly, he leans over and kisses your temple.

“You fit so perfectly here,” he murmurs. “You always have.”

You smile against your wine glass. “Maybe it’s because I love all of you more than you love each other.”

Mamma overhears. “Grazie, finally someone tells the truth!”

Later, as dessert is brought out — a homemade tiramisu that’s already half gone by the time it reaches your side of the table — Kimi takes your hand under the table and squeezes it. You look over to find his eyes a little glassy again, his voice low and full of that kind of sincerity that only happens when the world slows down for just a second.

“I meant it earlier,” he says. “You being here… it made everything feel real. I didn’t care about the ceremony or the diploma. I just wanted you.”

You squeeze his hand right back, heart full. “And now you have me.”

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your cheek, and murmurs. “Forever, if I get my way.”

—

The house is finally quiet. The last of the dishes have been cleared, Maggie’s tucked into bed, and Kimi’s parents are somewhere inside. The warm night air spills in through the open window, carrying the scent of jasmine and summer. You’re curled up on the little balcony just off his childhood bedroom, one of his old hoodies draped over your shoulders, your knees pulled to your chest as you look up at the stars.

He joins you a moment later — barefoot, hair a little messy, still glowing from the day. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits down beside you, thigh brushing yours, hand finding your knee like it belongs there. Which it does.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

“You sure you’re real?” he asks, turning toward you. “Because you keep disappearing on me.”

You smile, tipping your head to rest on his shoulder. “I’m real. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months. You sit in silence for a moment, watching the lights flicker in the distance. Then he speaks again, voice low and honest in a way that only ever happens when the world finally goes quiet.

“I really thought you wouldn’t come.”

Your heart squeezes. “Kimi…”

“No, I know it’s not your fault,” he adds quickly. “I just— I told myself I didn’t care. Told everyone it was fine. But it wasn’t. I wanted you there. Needed you there. And then you were.”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “I wanted to be there the second I found out the date. I would’ve moved mountains. Or at least begged Max to move them for me.”

He laughs — soft and tired, but real. “You don’t know what that did to me. Seeing you. I think time stopped for a second.”

You turn your head and meet his gaze, moonlight catching the gold in his eyes. “It stopped for me too.”

Kimi leans in and kisses you gently, slowly — no rush, no heat, just something warm and full of meaning. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you close until you’re practically in his lap, curled against him like the final missing piece has clicked into place.

“I don’t care how busy things get,” he whispers. “How far the races are or how many airports we have to go through. I just want you to keep showing up like that.”

“I will,” you promise. “Whenever it matters. Always.”

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you echo, voice full and sure.

And there, on that quiet balcony with the stars overhead and the world asleep around you, Kimi holds you a little tighter — like he finally believes this isn’t just a dream.

—

The morning comes slow and golden. A breeze slips through the open window, carrying the scent the garden below. The room is still — warm and hazy, touched by early sunlight. Somewhere down the hall, you can faintly hear the clink of mugs and the low hum of his mom talking to Maggie. But here, wrapped in Kimi’s arms, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding. One of his hands is tangled lazily in your hair, the other curled around your hip like he never quite let go during the night. He’s warm, impossibly so, like the sun lives beneath his skin. You shift a little and feel him stir.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice still raspy from sleep. “Still here?”

You smile without opening your eyes. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He kisses the top of your head, slow and sleepy. “Good. Would’ve chased you if you did.”

“Would’ve made you work for it.”

“I’d work forever if it meant waking up like this.”

You finally lift your head and look at him. His curls are messy, one cheek slightly smushed against the pillow, but he’s still devastatingly handsome in that quiet, undone way. His eyes are soft, heavy-lidded, full of something deeper than just sleep — something closer to awe.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“You’re here,” he says back, like it’s still the most unbelievable thing in the world.

He brushes your hair back gently, fingers ghosting along your jaw like he needs to memorize it again. “Last night felt like a dream. The dinner. The surprise. You. This.”

“This is real,” you whisper.

“I know. That’s the best part.”

You snuggle closer, nose tucked beneath his jaw. “Your mom’s making coffee.”

“She’ll wait.”

“I think Maggie’s outside our door.”

“She’ll survive.”

You laugh into his chest, and he pulls you even tighter. “Let’s stay like this a little longer,” he says. “Just you and me. No rushing. No flights. No leaving.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just us.”

And you stay there — tangled in sheets and sun and each other — hearts steady, breaths slow, the morning stretching out like it was made just for the two of you.

—

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, georgerussell63 and 2,572,003 others.

yourusername : my boy graduated and i got to be with him thanks to our fairy godmother @/maxverstappen1. my heart is so full <3

tagged : kimi.antonelli

— view 189,017 other comments.

georgerussell63 : i cried. a lot. in tears just thinking about it. my children are so grown 🥹

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : more than the dog ads?

liked by georgerussell63

↳ georgerussell63 : more than the damn dogs.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ carmenmmundt : he has been showing the video to literal strangers and saying how much of a proud dad he is.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : oh georgie.

liked by carmenmmundt and georgerussell63

maxverstappen1 : i'll buy you each a jet if it means i get to see that look on kimi's face again.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ yourusername : so good to us maxie

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ lando : wait i am like the only one who hasn't seen this video. someone send it. NOW.

↳ georgerussell63 : i sent it to you like two days ago, muppet. check your texts.

↳ lando : oh good now im in full blown tears.

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

alexandrasaintmleux : sooooo cute mon ange

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

charles_leclerc : totally not teary eyed. congratulations kimi!!

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

kimi.antonelli : my whole world. i love you now and forever.

liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1

↳ maxverstappen1 : god i try so hard to be disgusted by you two but i just can't. what is wrong with me?

liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli

↳ lando : motherly instincts

liked by yourusername, kimi.antonelli and maxverstappen1

—

[cheftsunoda]

ahhh i was the one who asked about if you could write in second person pov!! this is probably annoying but thank you sm and obviously not directed for me or wtv (LMFAO) but like you’re so kind to take my question and actually go with it. your writing is literally amazing 🫶🏼🫶🏼

omg hey babyyy

i lowkey enjoy it now that i have done it a few times LOLLL

but you guys are the reason i write so i want to make it as enjoyable as possible for the readers!

thank you for loving me!

i love you so much

[cheftsunoda]

Alexandra x Charles x reader where readers a really smart genius engineer that basically fixed ferraris problems so the fans love her but Alex is like hates so it’s Charles and reader comforting Alex

you belong — cl16 & alexandra saint mleux

smau + blurbs

when yn joined ferrari in 2025 as charles leclerc’s race engineer, no one expected the team’s fortunes to turn so sharply. but yn had never been one to follow expectations. brilliant, unshakable under pressure, and fiercely dedicated, she wasn’t just charles’ partner off the track anymore—she was the mastermind behind his winning streak. their relationship had always been the kind people whispered about in disbelief—dating since 2022, unshakably in love, and then—just as the world adjusted to that—opening their hearts in 2023 to alexandra. a soft, steady presence in their chaos. an unlikely throuple that somehow made perfect sense. at first, the world loved them. loved the victories, the public kisses, the unity. but as the wins piled up and yn’s brilliance took center stage, the tide began to turn—toward alexandra. whispers of gold digging. accusations of riding coattails. a sudden, brutal wave of online hate. and while yn and charles were too caught up in podiums and progress to notice at first… the cracks were forming. but yn isn’t just intelligent in engineering, she is emotionally intelligent as well. and she can read alexandra like no other.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : obvs all the hate comments in this are completely fictional and i love alexandra with my whole heart and im so happy that her and charles are together!

—

scuderiaferrari & yn_ln

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc & 7,709,001 others.

scuderiaferrari : A new era begins. We are proud to welcome YN LN to the team as Charles Leclerc’s race engineer for the 2025 season. With a reputation for brilliance under pressure and a mind made for motorsport, she’s ready to rewrite what it means to wear red. Strategy. Precision. Power. Benvenuta, ingegnere. 🔴🏁

—

view 501,0188 other comments.

charles_leclerc : the best in the business. can’t wait to make history together, mon bébé❤️‍🔥

liked by yn_ln and scuderiaferrari

↳ username00 : oh these two working together is gonna be the death of me. so fucking cute.

lewishamilton : Incredible move. So excited to have you on the team and can’t wait to see you shine! 🫶🏽

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alex_albon : Do I send my strategy questions to her or does that count as spying? 😅 Congratulations YN!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : sadly it does count as spying, alex. but thank you!!!

arthur_leclerc : yes she’s always been this smart. yes she used to help me with my math homework. but YAYYYYYY YN!!!!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

georgerussell63 : I fear F1 might not be ready for this level of brainpower. Congrats YN! You earned it!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alexandrasaintmleux : my pretty girl, my angel, my genius. proud does not even begin to cover it. love you with all my heart ♥️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

username0 : charles finally gets a strategy team that knows what they’re doing AND gets to talk to his gf during the race. he’s winning on all fronts.

username1 : this is the same girl who rebuilt an engine in heels during a charity gala. ferrari is in excellent hands

liked by charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

lando : yn please go easy on us.

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

↳ yn_ln : absolutely not norris, we are not friends during the season😈

liked by lando

username5 : i’m excited but also nervous… dating your driver?? hope there’s no bias or drama.

↳ username7 : her and charles are both professionals at what they do. plus they’ve been together since 2022 and have been friends even longer than that. they got this.

liked by scuderiaferrari

carlossainz55 : you mean to tell me that ferrari waited to make their smartest decision until after i left??? congratulations, mi hermana! no one deserves it more❤️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username10 : so we’re just letting girlfriends engineer now? cool cool

↳ yn_ln : well, ferrari hired the engineer with a first-class degree, years of motorsport data strategy experience, and three patented telemetry models under her name. the fact that i also happen to be charles’ girlfriend? just a bonus, babe;) stay tuned.

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ lando : oh she ate you up.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username000 : oh i love her.

username11 : love wins i guess… but can she actually do her job or is this just a PR stunt?

↳ alexandrasaintmleux : she works harder than anyone i have ever met. but don’t worry, your opinion was noted… and ignored. 🥰

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username15 : funny how she only got the job after dating charles. make it make sense.

↳ charles_leclerc : she got the job because she’s brilliant, OVERqualified, and has been outperforming people in this sport long before she became mine. if you think ferrari hires based on relationship status, maybe you should try keeping up with the lap times. 🙃

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ username30 : oh he LOVES this girl

username17 : idc how smart she is this is messy. ferrari is a team, not a love triangle.

↳ arthur_leclerc : ah yes, how dare ferrari be functional, fast, and happy at the same time. if “messy” means winning races with the best engineer in the paddock, maybe we need more of it 🤭

liked by yn_ln, scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username33 : not only is she the smartest person in the room, she’s the calmest. y’all just hate seeing a woman win.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username35 : just a reminder that yn rebuilt a gearbox by hand during her master’s thesis. she’s not a girlfriend first. she’s an engineer first. but she happens to be in love too. deal with it 😌

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ arthur_leclerc : mhm mhm. periodt

↳ username33 : arthur is her hype man I CANT.

username37 : “nepotism” accusations are wild when she literally published a telemetry algorithm that teams still use. stay mad.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_ln : ilysm. thank you for following my work🥹

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username37 : omg ofc you are brilliant, us girlies in motorsport have to stick together:)

liked by yn_ln

username40 : charles on the track. yn on the radio. alex in the paddock. name a more iconic setup. i’ll wait.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

—

Charles had been told his race engineer for the 2025 season would be “someone new, someone bold.” Fred had been vague, smug even, telling him—“Trust us, you’ll like her.” Charles had assumed it was just another seasoned strategist brought in from Mercedes or Red Bull. Good. They needed fresh thinking. After last year’s chaos? He’d take anyone who could tell the difference between Plan A and Plan D.

Still, he hadn’t expected the secrecy. When he arrived at the conference room Ferrari had booked for the “introductory meeting,” it was empty. Well, not completely. Arthur was there. With Alexandra. Sitting way too casually on opposite sides of the room, like they hadn’t clearly coordinated whatever this was.

“What are you two doing here?” Charles asked, suspicious already.

Arthur swung a leg up onto the chair next to him. “Moral support. Big day, bro.”

Alexandra smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We wanted front row seats.”

“To what?” Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is this about the simulator prank? Because I swear I didn’t know it would spin like that.”

“You’ll see.” Alexandra’s voice was sweet, teasing. She gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Sit. Be professional. Your new race engineer is on her way.”

Charles sat, shifting restlessly, drumming his fingers on the table. “If this is some weird internal promo stunt—”

The door opened. And in walked you. Clipboard in hand. Ferrari-red badge around your neck. Black slacks, sharp posture, and that telltale smirk that only ever meant trouble for him.

You didn’t speak right away. You just raised a brow, eyes flicking across the room—at Alex, Arthur, and finally Charles—before you said, cool as ever— “Leclerc. You’re late.”

Charles just stared. Blink. Blink again. Then— “What?”

You set your things down and clicked the monitor on with a practiced tap. “I’m YN. Your new race engineer. Shall we get started?”

He was speechless. You, you, one of his partners—his everything—were now also the voice in his ear on race day?

Arthur snorted. “Get Netflix in here.”

Charles turned to him, wild-eyed. “You knew?”

Alexandra was biting her lip to stop from smiling. “We’ve been planning this for months. Fred made us swear not to tell you.”

“I—” Charles looked back at you, utterly betrayed and somehow more in love than ever. “You kept this from me?”

“I wanted to earn it,” you said softly, gaze steady. “Not as one of your girlfriends. As the best damn engineer Ferrari could hire.”

The silence hung heavy for a beat. Then Charles stood so fast his chair screeched back. “Are you joking? I’m in love with the most brilliant woman in motorsport and you’re telling me I get to win races with you in my ear? Mon dieu—this is cheating. This is unfair.”

You blinked. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, grinning like an idiot. “Tu es parfaite.”

Arthur groaned. “Okay, and I’m leaving. This is disgusting.”

Alexandra, still smiling, leaned over and whispered, “Wait for it—he’s going to do the dramatic declaration in three, two—”

“I AM GOING TO WIN A WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP WITH MY GIRLFRIENDS,” Charles shouted, arms up. “FRED VASSEUR, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN!”

Somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a wrench. Laughter echoed from the Ferrari offices. You shook your head, but your eyes were warm, glassy even. You whispered just loud enough for him to hear, “You don’t have to win for me to be proud of you.”

Charles stepped close, hand brushing yours on the table. “But I want to win with you.”

Alexandra stood, clapping once. “Okay, now kiss and then get back to work. We’ve got a season to dominate.”

And Charles did. Right there in the Ferrari conference room, with Arthur fake-gagging and Alexandra beaming behind him, Charles kissed you like it was his first win of the season.

—

The sun had just started to dip, painting the hills in gold and rose as long tables were set under string lights in the garden of a villa that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a Tuscan dream. Ferrari had spared no detail—wood-fired pizza, fresh pasta, bottles of red wine already half empty, tiramisu trays stacked and ready. There were little hand-printed name cards, red cloth napkins, and centerpieces made entirely of roses and miniature Ferrari flags.

And at the head of the table? Charles. With you on one side. Alexandra on the other. His hands interlaced with both.

“You know,” Arthur said, half a meatball in his mouth, “this might be the first time I’ve seen Fred Vasseur drink wine and smile at the same time.”

Fred, two seats down, raised his glass. “That’s because—for once—I am confident we might actually finish a season with a functional strategy and a world championship.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

Charles leaned in to you, voice low. “You’re already working miracles.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” you said, a little flushed.

Across from you, Pascale was quietly slicing through a piece of veal while smiling proudly at all three of you.

“You’ve always been family,” she said softly to you and Alexandra, “but it feels different now. Like it’s… I don’t know. Official.” She gave a gentle nod. “I’m glad he has you both.”

Alexandra reached over and squeezed your hand under the table and leaned her head on Charles shoulder, her hair tickling his arm. “Should we make it more official and crash the next team press conference together?” she whispered.

Charles perked up. “Can we all walk into Bahrain together in matching red?”

“Matching fits,” Alexandra corrected. “Not team polos. We’re still chic.”

Fred coughed deliberately. “As long as she doesn’t wear heels in the garage again,” he pointed at you and then to Alexandra, “or she doesn’t try to steal telemetry printouts because they ‘looked aesthetic.’”

“I was scrapbooking!” Alexandra gasped, scandalized. “For sentimental reasons!”

Everyone burst into laughter. Lewis, who’d arrived slightly late and was now eating some focaccia, pointed his fork dramatically. “You three are the first throuple in motorsport history I actually believe in.”

The toast clinked again. Wine refilled. Glasses raised.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur said, standing and holding up his phone. “Speech. Someone say something emotional or I’m leaking the video of Charles crying during their first strategy meeting.”

“I WASN’T CRYING,” Charles shouted immediately.

You stood, cheeks warm from the wine and the moment. “I just want to say…” You looked at Charles, then Alexandra. “I know how strange it must look to people. But this—” you gestured between the three of you, “—this isn’t a gimmick. It’s not a PR stunt or a phase. It’s love. And I am so, so proud to build this future with you both.”

Alexandra stood next, sliding her arm around your waist. “I don’t know much about race strategy, but I know this feels like the best plan we’ve ever had.”

Charles stood last, grinning like he’d won a championship already. “I don’t care what the grid says. I get to have the best race engineer in the paddock and the two people I love most in the world by my side. If that’s not enough to win a championship, I don’t know what is.”

A cheer erupted. Glasses clinked again. Even Fred smiled, shaking his head. Later, under the glow of the string lights, Charles rested his head against yours on the patio couch, one hand playing gently with Alexandra’s fingers on your knee.

“You think this year will be different?” he asked softly.

“I know it will,” you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’re doing this together now.”

Alexandra hummed. “And we look very good while doing it.”

Charles laughed, leaned back, and looked at the stars. “I don’t think it gets better than this.”

You smiled. “Oh, just wait until race one.”

—

voguemagazine

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 17,001,003 others.

voguemagazine : This month, we’re shifting gears and accelerating into the fast lane with our exclusive feature on YN — the brilliant engineer who turned Ferrari’s season around overnight. In a male-dominated world, YN’s relentless innovation, sharp intellect, and fierce determination are inspiring a new generation of women in motorsport — proving that talent knows no gender, and leadership comes in many forms. Discover how YN’s blend of technical genius and unshakeable grit brought Ferrari back from the brink, redefining what it means to be a leader in Formula 1 today. Plus, a rare glimpse into her life beyond the track- the challenges, the triumphs, and the love story that fuels her relentless drive.

—

view 1,034,025 other comments.

lando : an absolute legened. exactly what motorsport needs. we are so proud, yn. keep smashing it!

liked by yn_ln

charles_leclerc : proud doesn’t even begin to cover it. watching you break barriers every day is incredible. i love you

liked by yn_ln

carlossainz55 : yn’s brilliance is unreal. proud to race alongside such talent.

liked by yn_ln

scuderiaferrari : so proud of what yn has accomplished in such little time with us. we love you, yn!!

liked by yn_ln

arthur_leclerc : the sister i never had. you are absolutely incredible. keep pushing ynn- you are the future.

liked by yn_ln

alexandrasaintmleux : my gf is on the cover of vogue!!!! omg omg!! i love you so much, mon ange. you are the biggest talent the grid has.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username15 : yn’s talent is undeniable but alex? she’s just a distraction. hope yn doesn’t lose focus.

↳ username17 : since when did being a girlfriend get you famous?? stop distracting yn and charles.

leclerc_pascale : Watching your journey fills my heart with joy. You’re an inspiration to us all. Très fier de toi!

liked by yn_ln

lewishamilton : Always pushing the limits — on and off track. Respect, YN.

liked by yn_ln

maxverstappen1 :💪🏻💪🏻

liked by yn_ln

—

time skip to monaco gp…

f1gossipgirls

7,520,007 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a Leclerc affair in the streets of Monte Carlo today — and the grid’s favorite power trio did not disappoint. Engineer-extraordinaire YN LN arrived alongside boyfriend Charles Leclerc this morning, the two spotted walking hand-in-hand through the paddock looking calm, collected, and very much in sync. YN was all business in Ferrari red—Monaco may be Charles’ home race, but it’s clear who’s running the show. Not far behind? Alexandra Saint Mleux, arriving with the Leclerc family — including Charles’ Sister in Law, Charlotte, Mama Pascale and Arthur, who fans caught hugging YN just before pre-race prep. The embrace was short but sweet, with Arthur mouthing something suspiciously like “you’ve got this, boss” before the two shared a laugh. Whispers in the paddock say Ferrari’s found its rhythm — and it might just be thanks to the calm, chaotic, and totally unexpected balance Charles and YN bring to the track.

—

view 175,099 other comments.

username000 : if they don’t win today i’m rioting. emotionally.

mercfan123 : idc how cute they are, it’s weird that she’s dating the driver and running his race strategy. feels messy.

↳ username000 : y'all are just mad that out of everyone A WOMAN managed to pull ferrari out of the gutter.

username00 : monaco is home for charles, but this season is home for YN. the girl built a dynasty in six races flat.

username0 : since she joined, ferrari’s barely made a wrong call. this isn’t a PR stunt, this is a masterclass.

username1 : you mean the woman who’s turned ferrari into a real threat again?? MOTHER

username5 : watch ferrari fumble again and everyone will forget this little fairytale energy real fast

username7 : no because even as a red bull fan i have to admit… the vibes? immaculate. this is what we’re fighting against??

username10 : ok but what does alexandra actually do besides show up and look pretty?

username11 : yn’s out here saving ferrari and alex is… posing for pictures in charles’ jacket? lmao

username15 : yn’s got degrees and trophies. alexandra’s got what, a moodboard?

username17 : i can’t be the only one who thinks alex is just riding this wave for clout, right?

username20 : alex doesn’t even look like she wants to be there most of the time. awkward is an understatement.

—

The air in Monaco was heavy with sun and tension. Boats lined the harbor, red flags waved from balconies, and the scent of salt water mixed with champagne and engine oil. The city felt like it was holding its breath. Ferrari was leading the Constructors’. Charles was second in the Drivers’ Championship—narrowly. But today was his track. His home. And for once in his career… everything was aligned. Almost. Charles stood at the edge of the garage, staring out toward the narrow streets, arms folded tightly across his chest. The usual sparkle in his eye was dulled slightly, his mouth tight. His leg bounced as the crew buzzed around him.

“You alright?” Arthur’s voice came from behind, lighter than usual.

Charles shook his head once. “No. But I think I’m supposed to be.”

Arthur stood beside him, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve got the best car on the grid. You’ve got Maman, Us, half of Monte Carlo in red. And—” he paused dramatically— “you’ve got the smartest woman in motorsport feeding you strategy.”

Charles finally cracked a smile. “She is terrifyingly brilliant.”

“And in love with you, which is even scarier.”

That’s when he heard your voice behind them, calm but commanding. “Tire warmers off in 15. I need final telemetry on Sector 2. And—Arthur, stop making him more nervous.”

Arthur saluted. “Yes, boss.”

Charles turned just in time for you to reach him. You were still in your headset, tablet in hand, the clipboard from hell tucked under your arm. But your expression softened as you looked at him—really looked at him.

“You’re doing the thing,” you whispered.

“What thing?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“The overthinking thing. The ‘what if I ruin everything in front of my entire country’ thing.”

He let out a breath. “Monaco’s cursed for me. Always has been.”

You stepped closer. “And what if it’s not this time? What if you finally have the right car, the right team, the right… everything?”

“Even the right race engineer?”

You smiled. “Especially her.”

That’s when Alexandra arrived, weaving her way between pit crew and chaos like she belonged there. She wore his name on her necklace, your initials on a ring, and Charles’ jacket draped around her shoulders even in the heat.

“Hi,” she said gently, coming up beside you both. “I thought you might need this.”

She handed him a folded piece of paper. Charles raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“A reminder.”

He opened it to find a little sketch Alexandra had drawn—stick figures, obviously. One was him with a helmet. One was you, with a headset the size of your body. One was Alexandra, holding a flag that said “WIN!”

Underneath it, in her soft handwriting—"You already have everything. Now just drive like it."

Charles didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at both of you—his people. His heart. One all fire and logic. One all warmth and instinct. And him, somehow caught in the middle of both and better for it. He pulled you into his side with one arm, Alexandra into the other, and held them there like a shield.

“Whatever happens,” he said, voice thick, “thank you. For getting me here. Both of you.”

“We’ll be here at the finish line,” you promised, forehead pressed to his chest. “In the garage. In your ear. In your heart. Always.”

“Plus I brought good snacks,” Alexandra whispered, trying to lighten the mood. “And I have my crystals.”

“I don’t believe in crystals,” Charles mumbled.

“You believe in love, though,” she smiled.

And then—Pascale approached, giving Charles the kind of look only a mother can give. Proud. Steady. A little teary. She kissed his cheek. “Go. Do what you were born to do.”

He nodded. Breathed. One last squeeze of your hand, one last kiss to Alexandra’s temple, and then he turned toward the car. Helmet on. Gloves tight. The weight of a nation on his shoulders—but this time, it didn’t feel so heavy. Because this time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

—

The streets of Monte Carlo were louder than usual. Not from the engines — no, those always roared. It was the crowd. Louder. Frenzied. Unrelenting. Because Charles Leclerc was leading his home race. And for once… the script wasn’t falling apart.

“Gap to Norris behind: 2.1 seconds,” your voice came through his radio, calm, composed, a tether. “Tyre temps are stable. Keep braking gentle into Rascasse. You’ve got this, Charles.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He never did when he was this deep in the zone. But the way his shoulders loosened slightly in the cockpit — the way his head dipped like a subtle nod — told you everything you needed to know.

The streets he grew up on blurred past him now at nearly 180 mph. The turn into the tunnel. The bump near the chicane. The glitter of the yachts in his periphery. He knew them like the lines in your palm.

He’d dreamed of this moment since he was a boy in karting boots, looking through the fence as F1 cars screamed past on the same pavement he walked every day. Monaco was home. Monaco had broken his heart. But today, it was healing him.

“Just breathe, baby,” your voice whispered again in his ear. “Last lap.”

From the pit wall, Fred stood with arms crossed, not daring to exhale. Mechanics were frozen in place, monitors lighting their faces with green sectors and live telemetry. Arthur had stopped pacing, for once. Pascale was clutching her scarf like a lifeline. And Alexandra? She stood at the barrier.

Red jacket zipped halfway. Hair pulled back. Face tilted toward the track with eyes glassy. Every time the red 16 car passed, she stepped closer. As if her heartbeat could will him home.

In the garage, your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Exit Nouvelle clean. You’ve got the run. Fuel’s good. Battery’s charged.”

You paused, just for a second.

“You’re about to win Monaco, Charles.”

You didn’t say it to pump him up. You said it because it was real. And Charles — hands steady, foot light on the throttle, mind completely and utterly focused — flew through Tabac, hit the apex at the Swimming Pool perfectly, and took La Rascasse like it had always belonged to him. The crowd’s roar broke through the radio static.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

The moment shattered time. You exhaled — then let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. In your headset Charles shouting something unintelligible in French, followed by — “MERCI, MERCI, MERCI!”

The team erupted around you. Mechanics jumping. Fred finally smiling. Arthur running toward you and picking you up in a spinning hug. You ran toward the pit wall.

And Alexandra — still standing at the barrier, now crying openly — turned just in time to see Charles leap from the cockpit, arms raised, the Monégasque flag in hand. He spotted her first. And then he looked beyond her — saw you standing there next to Arthur, headset tangled in your hair, still in team gear, eyes shining with everything you had held back all race. He ran to the barrier. Security didn’t even try to stop him. He climbed it like he was born for it. First to Alexandra — grabbing her face, kissing her, holding her like she was the only soft place in a world of fire. Then to you. He pulled you in — headset, clipboard, adrenaline and all — into the kind of kiss that said thank you, I love you, I never would’ve made it without you.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling away just enough to say, “You finally did it.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “We did.”

The cameras caught all of it. The kisses. The tears. The way his hand held onto both of you like he was anchoring himself to the moment. The way you and Alexandra leaned into each other on the cool-down lap, your hands tangled, hearts still racing. And somewhere on social media, the photo would soon be everywhere. Charles Leclerc — Monaco winner — standing on the barrier in front of the Ferrari garage, arms around the two people who built the road back to this dream with him. A race. A win. A homecoming.

—

yn_ln

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc and 11,007,009 others.

yn_ln : my man and i just won monaco together...wyd??

tagged : charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and scuderiaferrari

—

view 545,001 other comments.

lando : wyd?? crying in my hotel room because this post made me feel single and slow

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

username100 : ngl this race won me over. yn has turned ferrari AROUND.

franciscagomes : when she wins a grand prix and serves looks doing it 🧎‍♀️

liked by yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

pierregasly : power throuple.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

scuderiaferrari : "thank you charles and yn" we all say in unison.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

alexandrasaintmleux : you were flawless. in the garage. in red. in everything. we’re so lucky to love you 🥹

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

carlossainz55 : happy for you both. annoyed that i teared up watching him win. confused about it.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

arthur_leclerc : you left out the part where you nearly passed out from nerves and still pulled off the perfect strategy call lmao. LOVE YOU YN.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username001 : alex being there doing nothing still takes me out.

↳ username15 : i would not talk bad about alex rn. yn ripped into a reporter earlier.

↳ username001 : WHERE???

↳ username15 : check @/f1gossipgirls.

—

f1gossipgirls

5,009,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, Charles Leclerc won Monaco… but not without drama. After a dream victory at his home race, Charles Leclerc was seen celebrating in the most Leclerc-throuple way possible — kissing race engineer girlfriend YN and girlfriend Alexandra Saint Mleux moments apart in a red-hot Ferrari love fest. Fans also caught a sweet moment between Alexandra and YN — YN lifted Alex off of the ground and the two shared a sweet kiss. But things turned tense post-race when a reporter made some harsh and completely uncalled-for comments about Alexandra in the paddock. Witnesses say YN didn’t hesitate — she got visibly defensive, stepped in, and had a few choice words for the reporter in question. The vibe? Protective. Unshakable. Not here for the disrespect.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The cheers still echo across the harbor, a high, golden sound that hasn’t stopped since Charles crossed the line. Champagne sticks to your skin, your headset hangs loose around your neck, and you haven’t let go of Alexandra’s hand once. She’s warm beside you. Glowing. Her cheeks pink from sun and adrenaline, her lips still curved from watching him win. The two of you are walking slowly toward the podium tunnel, through a blur of high-fives, cameras, and team crew celebrating in every language.

And then— “Must be nice to hang off the arm of a championship team and not have to actually do anything.”

It cuts through the noise like a knife. You freeze. You don’t even feel Alexandra’s fingers tighten around yours because the blood in your ears goes sharp and hot. You turn on instinct. The voice came from behind the media line. A man with a mic and a press pass. Too smug. Too comfortable saying something like that in public. It wasn’t a question. It was meant to sting. And it lands exactly where he wanted — you see it in Alexandra’s face. Her smile falters. Just for a second. But that’s enough. You don’t think. You move.

“Hey!” you snap, your voice slicing clean. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The reporter doesn’t backpedal. “I was just asking if—”

“No. You weren’t asking anything,” you cut in, stepping forward. “You were insulting someone who shows up every weekend, supports this team with her whole heart, and gets nothing but hate in return. You don’t get to speak to her like that.”

The paddock goes quiet. The crew stops celebrating. Cameras slowly turn your way. Alexandra stands where you left her, eyes wide, like she’s holding her breath. You keep going.

“And for the record,” you say, your tone low now, dangerous, “if all you’ve done today is tear down a woman who’s done nothing to you, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“YN.”

Arthur’s voice. Right behind you. Calm but firm. He gently touches your elbow, eyes flicking toward the growing crowd. “Come on. Let’s go. Not worth it.”

You don’t move for a second. You just stare that reporter down. He looks nervous now. Good. Then you exhale and step back. You don’t say anything else. You just turn, walk straight back to Alexandra, and take her hand like you never let go. Her eyes are glassy now, but there’s something else there too — awe, maybe. Or something softer. You don’t look back as you disappear together into the tunnel, Arthur flanking behind you like a guard. But if anyone didn’t know before — they know now. No one talks down to Alexandra Saint Mleux on your watch. Not ever.

—

The celebrations had faded. The city was still buzzing outside — yachts pulsing with music, voices carrying over balconies, streetlights painting gold across the port. But in here, it was quiet. Just the soft hum of the AC, the leftover scent of champagne in Charles’ hair, and the weight of everything that had happened settling like dust on your shoulders. He stood in the kitchen in a Ferrari hoodie, barefoot, drying glasses. The night had worn him out — but not as much as it had worn you.

You sat on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, one of Alexandra’s cardigans draped around your shoulders. She was already in bed, fast asleep, her cheeks still red from crying — not from joy. Not from the win. But from that moment. The one you couldn’t stop replaying in your head.

Charles finished drying the glass but didn’t put it away. Instead, he turned, leaning against the counter. Watching you.

“You’ve barely said anything since we got home,” he said softly.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re angry.”

You looked up. And the tears in your eyes betrayed you.

“I’m not just angry,” you murmured. “I’m ashamed.”

He crossed the room without hesitation, kneeling down in front of you, placing his hands gently on your knees. “Why would you be ashamed?”

You swallowed, trying to find the words. “Because I knew this would happen. I knew the moment I took this job and we made it official — all of it — the cameras, the gossip, the fans choosing sides…”

You blinked quickly. “Alex never asked for this. She never wanted to be part of the noise. She just wanted to love us. And now she’s getting ripped apart for being in the garage, or not being on the pit wall, or not looking the way they want her to. And I stood there today and watched it hit her.”

Charles’s eyes softened, thumb brushing over your kneecap. “You didn’t just watch it. You defended her.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” Your voice cracked. “She shouldn’t have to walk into a paddock wondering if someone’s going to ask her if she belongs there.”

Charles lowered his head for a moment, then looked back up at you. “She told me something tonight. While you were in the shower.”

You stilled. “What?”

“She said… ‘I’m proud of her. I’ve never been loved like that before.’”

That broke you. Your head dropped to your hands. Charles was in your arms in a second, pulling you to him, hands gentle against your back, voice steady in your ear.

“You didn’t do this, mon amour. The world did. The internet did. Their hate — that’s not yours to carry.”

“But I brought us into the spotlight.”

“You brought Ferrari back to life. You gave me a chance to win my home race. And you’ve given Alexandra more love and protection than half the people who’ve known her for years.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “She doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. We’re proud of you.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve, breathing shakily. “She’s been different lately. Quiet. A little smaller.”

Charles nodded. “I noticed. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“I should’ve… asked her more. Talked to her. I got so wrapped up in the strategy and the pressure and—”

“And now you’re here,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “And she’s asleep in our bed. Safe. Loved. Because you fought for her when it mattered.”

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in his presence. In his warmth. In the truth of what he was saying.

“I just want her to feel like she’s ours in every room. Not just when the cameras aren’t watching.”

“She is,” he said, gently. “But tomorrow, let’s remind her anyway.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Let’s remind her.”

—

The kitchen is filled with the scent of browned butter and vanilla, soft music playing low on the speaker as sunlight spills through the windows, bathing Charles in gold. He hums along as he moves around with practiced ease — slicing strawberries, flipping fluffy pancakes, even attempting a cappuccino with a tiny heart drawn in the foam. You’re curled up on the couch nearby, eyes puffy and tired, but glowing with the kind of quiet pride that only comes from pulling off something impossible — or close to it. After hours of DMing collectors and calling obscure boutiques across time zones, you finally found it- Alexandra’s dream bag. A rare forest green Birkin, pristine, vintage, perfectly her. It’s now hidden in the hallway closet, nestled in tissue paper, your phone still buzzing with confirmation emails from luxury couriers at 4AM.

“She’s going to cry, you know,” Charles says, peeking over his shoulder with a grin as he flips the pancake on the stove.

“She better,” you croak, rubbing your face with both hands and stretching. “I aged five years sourcing that thing. Do you know how hard it is to find a 30 in Vert Rousseau with gold hardware?”

Charles walks over and kisses the top of your head gently. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, expression soft. “She’s been having a hard time. I just want her to have something that reminds her how loved she is.”

You both fall quiet for a second, and he nods — understanding all the things you don’t have to say. That the world outside is cruel. That she’s been doubting herself, curling inwards. That this is your way of saying don’t listen to them, you are worth everything and more. The bedroom door creaks open then, and a sleepy Alexandra appears — hair tousled, sleeves slipping off one shoulder, eyes barely open as she squints toward the kitchen.

“Is that...pancakes?” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“And strawberries. And coffee. And,” Charles announces dramatically, “today’s very special surprise.”

Alexandra blinks, still half-asleep as she pads closer, reaching out to you blindly before settling in your lap with a sleepy sigh. You wrap your arms around her and press a kiss to her temple.

“You guys are being weird,” she mumbles.

“Good weird,” Charles says, slipping the pancake stack onto a plate.

“Birthday weird?” she asks, confused. “Anniversary weird?”

You shake your head and nod toward the hallway. “Just…open the closet.”

Alexandra blinks at you, then shuffles to her feet and moves toward the hall, dragging the blanket with her. You and Charles both watch from the kitchen. A pause. A gasp. Then. “No. No, no. No way.”

You grin. There’s a soft thump as she sinks to her knees in the hall, hands pressed over her mouth as she stares down at the box. She opens it like it might vanish, slowly peeling back the layers — and when she sees it, her whole face folds. Eyes glassy, mouth trembling.

“I—how did you—this color—” She clutches the bag like it’s something holy. “You found this?”

You cross the room and kneel next to her, wrapping her up in your arms.

“Of course we did,” you murmur. “You deserve beautiful things.”

She lets out a watery laugh against your shoulder as Charles crouches beside you, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“I love you both so much it actually hurts,” she says, tears now spilling freely.

“And we love you,” you whisper back. “More than anything.”

Charles nods, smiling softly. “Even more than Ferrari. But don’t tell Fred.”

And in the quiet, between pancakes and presents and tangled limbs on the kitchen floor, Alexandra begins to believe it again — that she is loved, and safe, and exactly where she’s meant to be.

—

Alexandra practically melts into the heated massage table, limbs slack, hair wrapped in a soft towel, as your fingers gently stroke through hers. The private spa suite smells like eucalyptus and orange blossom, the low trickle of water from the nearby fountain adding to the tranquility. You’re both swaddled in robes, facials setting, feet soaking in warm rose petal water.

“You didn’t have to go this far,” she says quietly, a little hoarse, but her voice is already laced with that floaty, relaxed softness you’d been desperate to hear.

“You say that like I wasn’t ten seconds away from stealing a private jet and flying you to Ibiza,” you tease, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “This was the reasonable option.”

Alexandra turns her head on the cushioned rest and looks at you — really looks. Her eyes, still rimmed with the kind of exhaustion she never likes to admit, shimmer with something raw and grateful.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix everything for me,” she murmurs. “I’m okay. I’m just… I’ve been struggling.”

You shift, leaning across the narrow bench to press your forehead to hers, letting the silence settle.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” you whisper. “Not with us.”

She exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut as your noses touch.

“I love you,” she says.

“I know,” you smile. “And I love you so much it made me haggle with a Hermes collector on WhatsApp at three in the morning. So you’re stuck with me.”

Alexandra lets out the softest laugh — the kind that rumbles in her chest — and kisses you with the slow, sleepy kind of affection that lingers.

—

Alexandra hums contentedly as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat of Charles’ car, cheeks pink from steam, her legs folded up in her seat. Her hand is nestled in his, and every now and then, you glance over at her — heart tugging at how peaceful she looks. Charles drums his fingers against the steering wheel, sunglasses low on his nose, glancing at you both with a satisfied smirk. “So… how do my girls feel?”

“Like I am in heaven,” Alexandra murmurs dreamily. “I think I’ve transcended stress.”

You smile and lean in to press a kiss to her temple. “That’s what we like to hear.”

Charles slows as he pulls into an underground parking garage, and Alexandra blinks awake.

“Wait—where are we?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter. “This isn’t home.”

“Nope,” Charles grins, parking with dramatic flair. “It’s part two of your day.”

She blinks. “Part two?”

Charles turns around in his seat and looks at her with a glint in his eye. “We are going shopping. You and YN are going to get everything you want. No limits, no questions, no checking price tags. If it makes you feel pretty or powerful or happy — we’re getting it.”

Alexandra blinks between the two of you, stunned. “You’re joking.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You got a massage, now it’s time for retail therapy.”

Charles hops out of the car with the kind of giddy energy you’d expect from someone planning a heist. “Come on, let’s blow some money irresponsibly in the name of love.”

—

The soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of fresh perfume fill the room, where you and Alexandra are surrounded by the bounty of your shopping spree — racks of clothes, piles of shoes, and half-unwrapped accessories strewn across the plush chaise lounge. Alexandra sits on the edge of the velvet ottoman, slipping on a pair of strappy heels she just bought, her eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“You really think Charles will like this?” she asks, holding up a shimmering emerald dress—the one you’d both fallen for in the boutique.

“I think he’s going to have a heart attack,” you grin, helping smooth the fabric along her back.

She turns, catching her reflection in the mirror, and gives you a tentative smile. “I feel… like a new person.”

“That’s what happens when you get spoiled by two people who adore you,” you say, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

You pull out your own outfit from a hanger — a sleek black dress with delicate lace sleeves. As you slip it on, Alexandra giggles, teasing, “Look at you, all mysterious and chic.”

You catch her eyes and wink. “You’re the star tonight.”

Alexandra reaches over and links her fingers with yours. “Promise me this night won’t end.”

“It’s only just beginning,” you whisper.

Alexandra stands in front of the mirror, the green dress hugging her in all the right places. You thread a delicate necklace around her neck — the ivy bracelet Charles gifted earlier catches the light on her wrist.

She turns to you, eyes shining. “I’m really lucky.”

“No,” you say softly, cupping her face. “We’re the lucky ones.”

You help her slip on her heels, then take a deep breath together before heading out.

—

The yacht rocks gently beneath your feet, the faint scent of saltwater mingling with the delicate aroma of jasmine candles flickering on the table. The sky is a deep indigo, sprinkled with stars so bright they seem close enough to touch. The world feels impossibly still except for the soft murmur of the waves and the quiet laughter shared between the three of you.

Charles stands close, the warm strength of his body a constant comfort as he holds both your hands in his. Alexandra leans into your side, her breath soft against your skin, and you feel the steady rhythm of her heart through the thin fabric of her dress. The two of them — your girls — glowing in the low light, their eyes shimmering with a mixture of joy, vulnerability, and something tender that makes your chest ache.

You brush Alexandra’s cheek gently with the back of your hand, your fingers lingering as she closes her eyes, leaning into your touch like you’re the only safe place she needs. Charles steps around to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between the three of you.

The moment stretches, quiet and sacred, and you let yourself breathe it all in — the warmth, the love, the softness that you’ve fought so hard to build. Alexandra opens her eyes and looks up at you, a small, shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice trembling just enough that you know it’s everything she’s been holding back. “For this. For us.”

You lean down to press your forehead against hers. “Always.”

Charles’s hand moves from your waist to brush over Alexandra’s cheek, thumb stroking gently. “We’re yours, Alex. Every part of you. No matter what.”

Her eyes fill with tears — not the harsh kind, but the kind that come from feeling truly seen and loved. She leans into Charles’s touch, then back into yours, as if anchoring herself between the two of you. You slip your hand into hers, fingers intertwining as your other hand cups the side of her face, thumb brushing soothing circles. The intimacy between you hums, electric and peaceful all at once.

Charles steps back just enough to pour champagne into the crystal flutes, his eyes never leaving yours. He hands you the glass, and you toast softly, “To us. To love without limits.”

The glasses clink, a delicate sound that echoes over the water. Alexandra takes a sip, then sets her glass down carefully, reaching up to rest her hands on your cheeks. Her touch is feather-light, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

“I never thought I could feel this safe,” she murmurs. “This loved.”

You smile, your heart swelling until it feels like it might burst. “You always deserved it.”

Charles moves behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into a slow, swaying dance under the stars. Alexandra steps close, resting her head on your shoulder, and you all move together — three souls beating in quiet harmony. The night deepens, and words fade into soft kisses, whispered promises, and the comfort of being exactly where you’re meant to be. Hours later, the yacht gently glides through the calm water, the three of you wrapped in blankets on the deck, watching the horizon blush with the first hints of dawn.

Charles’s voice is barely more than a breath as he says, “This is our forever.”

You squeeze Alexandra’s hand, your heart full beyond words.

“Yes,” you agree. “Forever and always.”

—

charles_leclerc

liked by yn_ln, alexandrasaintmleux, arthur_leclerc and 14,007,003 others.

charles_leclerc : my girls mean absolutely everything to me — more than words can ever fully express. yn and alexandra are the heart of my world, my constant support, and my greatest joy. to anyone who follows yn or i- if you’re being rude, disrespectful, or insufferable toward alexandra, please know that you are not welcome here. we stand united, and kindness is non-negotiable. we celebrate love, strength, and respect in all forms, and alexandra deserves nothing less than that — just like yn and I do. if you can’t show that, then this isn’t the place for you. i love you both, my angels.

tagged : yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[cheftsunoda]

George x albon!reader x Carmen? Alex’s sister that comes to the paddock?

crush — gr63 + carmen

smau + blurbs

george russell x!influencer albon reader x carmen mundt

alex albon x !sister reader

carmen had never met yn albon in person, but from the glimpses she’d seen on social media—effortless beauty, sharp humor, and just the right amount of chaos—she was already smitten. so when yn finally walks into the paddock one sunny afternoon, turning heads like it’s second nature, carmen isn’t surprised that her heart skips a beat. what she is surprised by? the way george starts stammering and grinning like a schoolboy with a crush. oh, this was going to be fun.

fc : amberly yang (bbyambi on ig)

—

yn_albon

liked by alex_albon, lilymhe, lando & 5,010,889 others.

yn_albon : on a brand trip, playing roblox and being lily’s wag all at the same time. (i can multitask unlike alex) (he thinks just bc he is busy driving a car in circles that he is excused from wag duties) (i got you my lily)

tagged : lilymhe

—

view 175,020 other comments.

username00 : the fact that both the albon sibs are so chronically online that they always have memes of each other in their photo dumps makes me the happiest.

liked by yn_albon

↳ yn_albon : part of my job is to be chronically online…idfk what he is doing

liked by lilymhe and lando

alex_albon : im fighting for my life on the track to make more robux for when they unban me

liked by yn_albon

↳ yn_albon : honestly i can respect the grind

liked by alex_albon

↳ yn_albon : @/roblox can u pls unban my brother? we want to play dti together. 🙏🏻🙏🏻

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↳ username1 : pls😭 they are so unserious

lilymhe : the bestest wag (sorry alex) love you to the moon and back😇

liked by yn_albon

↳ alex_albon : the internet quite literally argues that i am the best wag

↳ lilymhe : yeah but the internet hasn’t seen yn in her wag era. she greeted me with matcha and braided my hair before the tournament:)

liked by yn_albon and alex_albon

↳ alex_albon : yn stop making me look bad infront of my girlfriend and the internet

liked by yn_albon

↳ yn_albon : if you don’t marry her soon i will😈

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lando : just give her alex’s seat while we’re at it, she’s already doing everything else

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↳ alex_albon : you are not helping.

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yourbff : i genuinely cannot keep up with your ass anymore. in 3 different countries and 4 different roblox servers at once

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↳ yn_albon : im just good like that. call you when lilz and i land

georgerussell63 : okay but share your username…for scientific purposes 😎

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↳ yn_albon : check dm’s👉🏻👈🏻

liked by georgerussell63

↳ alex_albon : really?? you wouldn’t get on last night but you will willingly play roblox with my sister.

↳ georgerussell63 : yes 😁

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carmenmmundt : pretty girl ❤️

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↳ yn_albon : says the prettiest girl ever

liked by carmenmmundt and georegrussell63

—

The jet smells like leather seats and expensive champagne. Lily tosses her golf cap onto the nearest empty seat and sinks into the plush cushion across from you, her hair still slightly damp from the post-tournament shower. Her phone’s buzzing nonstop—congratulatory texts, press notifications, probably three new swing analysis videos from her coach—but she ignores it all in favor of kicking off her sneakers and grinning at you like you’ve both just pulled off a heist.

“You think he’s going to freak out?” she asks, tucking her legs up as the jet begins taxiing.

You grin back. “You just placed 3rd in a tournament in another country and now we’re flying to ambush him in the paddock. If he doesn’t cry, I want a refund on him. A new brother for me and a new boyfriend for you.”

Lily laughs, reaching for a mini water bottle but never breaking eye contact. “Also, if he doesn’t hug me before he hugs you, I’m breaking up with him.”

“That’s fair,” you say, mock-serious. “I’ll even do it for you.”

The plane begins to climb, and the world below disappears in a blur of clouds. You sink deeper into your seat, blanket tucked around your legs, as Lily slides across to sit beside you. She rests her head on your shoulder without asking—like always—and pulls out her iPad, but doesn’t unlock it. You both sit there in the silence for a moment, the kind that only comes from a long day and a shared secret.

“You think he has any clue?” she finally asks.

You shake your head. “None. He thinks I’m still in New York on a campaign shoot and that you’ve gone radio silent for your post-tourny ‘recovery era.’ He literally said, ‘See you in like… two weeks maybe?’ this morning.”

Lily smiles, slow and dangerous. “Perfect. I love ruining his sense of control.”

You glance over at her and laugh. “I love when we’re unhinged together.”

She raises her water bottle in a toast. “To chaos. And to your brother, who’s about to have a very emotional Friday.”

You clink your bottle to hers and let the hum of the engines rock you both into quiet anticipation. Because if there’s one thing you and Lily have mastered, it’s multitasking—and surprising the hell out of your brother is the next on the list.

—

The paddock is its usual buzz—team radios chirping, camera crews weaving between garages, PR reps speed-walking like their lives depend on it. You’re tucked under a cap and oversized sunglasses, walking just a half-step behind Lily as she confidently leads the way through security. She’s already flashed her pass like three times, her glow giving her a kind of untouchable aura that’s working in your favor. No one’s looked too closely at you yet, and that’s exactly how you want it. Because Alex has no idea you’re here.

The last time you saw him in person was three months ago. Between your insane travel schedule, influencer events, his race calendar, and general Albon family chaos, you’ve both been surviving on chaotic FaceTime calls, blurry selfies, and the occasional meme exchange at 3AM. You missed him more than you realized—until now, walking into the paddock where he’s just around the corner.

Lily slows as you approach the Williams hospitality suite, tilting her head and smirking. “Okay, how are we doing this? Dramatic walk-in? Surprise hug? Fake press ambush?”

You grin. “I was thinking of yelling and just launching myself at him.”

She laughs and nods. “Classic. I support it.”

Before either of you can fully plan the ambush, you spot him. Alex, standing near the motorhome entrance, in full race kit, laughing at something his engineer just said, completely unaware of the storm about to hit him. And just like that, your feet move without your permission. You break into a jog—hair bouncing under your cap, sunglasses sliding slightly down your nose—and before anyone can stop you, you’re barreling into him from behind.

“HI, LOSER!” you shout, flinging your arms around him.

He stumbles, fully yelping, then freezes.

“WHAT THE—” His voice cracks. He twists around so fast you nearly fall backward, and then the sunglasses come off and your cap flips back, and he finally sees your face.

“YN???” His voice is way too loud. “NO. NO. YOU’RE—WHAT???”

He grabs your face like you’re a hallucination, blinking hard. “You’re here? You’re actually—wait—how?”

You’re laughing, almost in tears from how shocked he looks. “Surprise, idiot!”

And then he’s pulling you into the tightest hug, one arm locked around your shoulders, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.

“I haven’t seen you in months,” he mumbles into your hair. “I thought you were in New York?”

“Diversion,” you whisper dramatically. “I lied. Lily helped.”

As if on cue, Lily strolls up behind you, completely unbothered and smug. “Hi babe,” she says sweetly, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Alex pulls away from your hug just enough to look at her, still wide-eyed. “Did you both just—plan an ambush on me?”

“Obviously,” you and Lily say at the same time.

He laughs, almost breathless. “You two are terrorists. I’m calling mum.”

“I already did yesterday,” you reply, smirking. “She knew. She said, and I quote, ‘Don’t give him a heart attack, please.’”

Alex groans, burying his face in your shoulder again. “I’m gonna cry. No seriously, I might cry.”

You pat his back. “You’re allowed. But only if it’s ugly crying. We need the full drama.”

Lily pulls out her phone. “I’m recording just in case.”

He flips her off without looking. In the distance, you can hear someone yell “IS THAT YN??” followed by Lando loudly going “I told you she was hotter in person!”

You’ll deal with that chaos later. For now, it’s just you, your brother, and your best friend. And the first real moment in months where it feels like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

—

You’re still tucked under Alex’s arm, half-leaning into the pit wall inside the Williams garage, laughing over some chaotic memory involving one of your childhood hamster funerals, when you feel Lily tap your leg.

“Don’t look now,” she mutters under her breath, “but your fans are approaching.”

You lift a brow. “Fans?”

She tilts her head toward the open paddock walkway. And there they are. George Russell and Carmen Mundt.

Not even subtle about it—walking suspiciously slow past the garage entrance, sunglasses on, heads angled just enough to catch a glimpse inside. George does a double take, then triple take. Carmen nearly walks into a catering cart because she’s so focused on not being obvious about looking. She is very obvious. Alex glances over and smirks.

“Oh my God,” he mutters. “What are they—are they circling the garage?”

“Like sharks,” Lily says. “Sharks that have a crush on your sister.”

“Should we wave?” you ask, already raising your hand.

“No,” Alex says, far too pleased with himself.

Before you can protest, Alex strides to the edge of the garage and calls out, very loudly, “GEORGE! CARMEN! You looking for someone or just lost?”

George freezes. Carmen tries to act casual but ends up bumping into George’s shoulder.

Alex waves them over. “Come say hi, you creeps.”

You try not to laugh as they walk over—George slightly flushed, Carmen attempting nonchalance with all the grace of someone who definitely spent the last ten minutes plotting this.

Alex leans casually against the wall and wraps an arm around your shoulders like he’s presenting a championship trophy. “You two know my very cool, smart, and famous little sister, YN, yeah?”

George’s eyes practically sparkle. “Oh, we’ve heard of her.”

Carmen grins, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Followed her for years, actually.”

Lily snorts quietly.

“YN,” Alex continues, tone smug as hell, “meet George—who enjoys listening to Taylor Swift before races and Carmen, who once almost tackled a PR intern because she thought they were taking her snacks.”

“That’s a lie,” Carmen says, blushing. “He was trying to steal the last brownie.”

“Fair,” you say, sticking your hand out. “I respect snack based violence.”

Carmen beams as she shakes your hand, maybe holding on a little longer than necessary. “Your posts from Morocco last month? Life-changing. You basically made me book a ticket.”

“Yeah, and that photo dump with the glitter robe?” George adds quickly. “Iconic. No notes.”

You blink. “You saw that?”

“I saw all of that,” George says, too fast, then freezes. “I mean—I just—you know. It was in the explore tab.”

Alex is grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “George, you okay? Bit red in the face, mate.”

George clears his throat. “No, yeah. All good. Just warm in here.”

“We’re in the shade,” Lily says dryly, sipping from her water bottle.

Carmen ignores all of them, eyes still on you. “I love that you’re here this weekend. Maybe we’ll see you around the paddock?”

“Oh, she’ll be around,” Alex says, way too cheerfully. “Attached to my side and/or sabotaging the team radios.”

“She’s welcome to sabotage mine anytime,” George mutters, then straightens up. “Not sabotage. I meant—guest commentary. You know. Enthusiastic support.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Noted.”

Carmen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to look casual. “If you’re not doing anything later, you should come find us. There’s a little driver dinner after quali.”

Lily’s already smiling. “She’s free. We’re both free.”

George nods eagerly. “Perfect. Yeah. Great.”

Alex just shakes his head, laughing.

—

The restaurant is candlelit and fancy enough that Alex’s shirt has actual buttons. The long, private table is tucked onto a quiet terrace with a view of the paddock lights still glowing in the distance. Drivers are trickling in slowly—Max, Carlos, Lando, a few team personnel—and you’re tucked between Lily and Alex near the middle, your dress a little too pretty for the chaos you’ve been surrounded by all day. You spot them before they spot you.

George, all charm and cologne and crisp white shirt, walking alongside Carmen, who’s glowing in a silk dress.

“Oh no,” Alex mutters around a bite of bread. “The dynamic duo.”

“Be nice,” you hum, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

“I’m being nice,” he says. “I’m also preparing myself to watch my best friend and his girlfriend flirt with my sister.”

Lily smirks. “Honestly, can’t wait.”

George spots you and lights up immediately.

“YN! You made it,” he says as he slides into the seat across from you—conveniently vacating the original place card.

Carmen swoops in a second later, gracefully sliding into the seat next to you, leaning in close with a conspiratorial grin. “I almost changed my outfit three times tonight. Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

You blink. “You look incredible. You could’ve come in a garbage bag and still won.”

“Oh, stop,” she says, smiling in that way that makes it hard to look away.

Across the table, George clears his throat and leans forward. “She’s right, though. You look amazing.”

“Me or Carmen?” you ask, feigning confusion.

“Yes,” George says, like it’s the most natural answer in the world.

You laugh, and Alex visibly clenches his jaw. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll get you one,” Carmen offers—already rising from her seat.

“I’ll come too,” George says, getting up at the exact same time.

They both stop and look at each other, frozen mid-step.

Lily sips her wine and whispers, “This is amazing.”

Carmen smiles, somehow angelic and savage. “You can grab the drinks, George. I’ll keep YN company.”

George narrows his eyes. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

You turn to Carmen, who leans on her elbow, close enough that her perfume mixes with the scent of the wine. “So,” she says, “are you always this good at crashing dinners and making half the grid fall in love with you?”

You raise a brow. “Half? That’s underestimating me.”

She laughs, and it’s soft and real, and you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days.

George returns moments later with a drink he clearly put effort into—sparkling, colorful, garnished with citrus and possibly some sort of effort-induced love potion. He sets it down in front of you and looks smug.

“Special request,” he says. “Told the bartender it had to be beautiful. Like you.”

Alex chokes on his water. Carlos, from three seats away, just whispers, “wow.”

“George,” you say, blinking at the drink, “did you just riz me with a mocktail?”

“If it worked, I won’t apologize.”

Carmen gives him a look. “Desperate times, huh?”

“You’re the one who changed seats to be closer to her,” he fires back.

“And you’re the one who literally sprinted to make her a drink.”

You glance between the two of them, holding back a smile. “You know I can hear both of you, right?”

They both turn to you at once.

“Just making sure you feel welcome,” Carmen says sweetly.

“Just making sure you don’t waste time with bad company,” George says, with a look that is not subtle.

Lily leans into Alex, who looks like he’s rethinking every life decision he’s ever made.

“Should we intervene?” she whispers.

Alex sighs. “No. Let them tire themselves out. She’ll pick the one who offers snacks first. That’s always the move.”

You smile, sipping the mocktail George brought you, while Carmen casually rests her hand on your chair, her fingers brushing the back of your shoulder like it means nothing. It’s going to be a long dinner. But you’re definitely not bored.

—

The dinner has long since faded into candle stubs and half empty wine glasses, drivers breaking off in pairs to catch early nights, debriefs, or one last drink. You step out into the cool night air, your heels clicking softly on the cobblestone path leading down the hotel driveway, Lily and Alex already ahead of you, arm in arm and lost in some shared joke. You’re about to call after them when you hear your name.

“YN—wait.”

You turn. Carmen, heels in hand now, jogging slightly to catch up. George is right behind her, loosened collar and flushed cheeks, the kind that say he’s had one drink too many or just been nervous all night.

“Escaping without saying goodbye?” Carmen asks, falling into step beside you.

“I was giving you a moment to catch up,” you say with a grin.

George shoves his hands in his pockets. “More like giving us a chance to psych ourselves up.”

You blink. “For what?”

The two of them exchange a glance—quick, nervous, familiar. It hits you then—how in sync they are. And how out of sync they’ve been all evening whenever you’re around. It’s like their rhythm shifts whenever you’re in orbit.

Carmen inhales, then exhales slowly. “Okay. So, this might be insane, but we’ve kind of been talking—”

“—for a while,” George adds quickly.

“And we were wondering,” she continues, stepping slightly in front of him now, “if you’d maybe… let us take you out?”

You raise a brow, heart skipping. “Both of you?”

George shrugs, sheepish but genuine. “We’re not exactly subtle, are we?”

You laugh, mostly because no, they’re not. The lingering glances, the drink wars, the not-so-quiet seat swapping at dinner—it’s all been loud in the most ridiculous, oddly sweet way.

“We figured if we waited any longer, someone else on the grid would try to beat us to it,” Carmen says, voice softer now. “And I don’t share well.”

“Unless it’s with me,” George adds, nudging her shoulder.

She smirks. “That’s different.”

The quiet settles between the three of you. It’s not awkward, though. It’s a little charged, a little hopeful, and very real.

You fold your arms and tilt your head, teasing. “So, let me get this straight. You’re asking if I want to go on a date—with both of you—after the race weekend, when you’re either wildly celebrating or emotionally spiraling?”

George grins. “Exactly.”

“We promise to be charming either way,” Carmen says, her fingers brushing your forearm.

You pause, pretend to think. “Only if it involves another one of George’s mocktails.”

They both lean in slightly, twin expressions of relief and excitement blooming across their faces.

“That’s a yes?” George asks.

You nod. “That’s a yes.”

Carmen’s smile turns a little dangerous, a little thrilled. “Good. Because I already had the outfits picked.”

“And I already booked the restaurant,” George admits.

You roll your eyes fondly. “So this wasn’t spontaneous at all.”

“Calculated risk,” Carmen says with a wink.

And as you fall into step with them—George on your left, Carmen on your right—you think maybe a little risk isn’t such a bad thing after all.

—

yn_albon

liked by lilymhe, alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 7,001,100 others.

yn_albon : idk what to caption this but i saw carlos sainz flirting with james vowles today.

tagged : carmenmmundt, alex_albon and lilymhe

—

view 275,134 other comments.

carlossainz55 : i was not flirting…james is just…very charismatic 🧍🏻‍♂️

liked by yn_albon

↳ yn_albon : it’s okay to be in love with ur boss carlos. i won’t tell

liked by carlossainz55

alex_albon : go weeyums!!!! (they do that all the time)

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↳ yn_albon : the longing looks r something else. felt like i was in a soap opera.

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williamsracing : we plead the fifth. GO WEEYUMS!!!!

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lilymhe : i was too busy staring at you. you are too hot.

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↳ alex_albon : was anyone actually watching me today???

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↳ yn_albon : not everything is about you alex. it’s called a team for a reason.

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carmenmmundt : so happy to be able to spend the day with the prettiest girl in the paddock 🤍

liked by yn_albon

↳ yn_albon : you are the best 🩷

liked by carmenmmundt

—

Carmen finds you outside the motorhome just before lights out, all white sunglasses and effortless grace, her Mercedes pass swinging around her neck like she was born with it. She grins as she approaches, and for a second, you forget the crowd around you—forget the chaos of race day, the roar of engines in the background, the crew rushing past with unreadable expressions. It’s just her.

“You ready?” she asks, nudging your arm gently with her elbow.

“I was born ready,” you say, even though your heart’s been beating at double speed since she texted, “Watch the race with me?”

You follow her to the viewing deck above the garage, where the sunlight is sharp and golden and the crowd noise blends into a distant hum. She leans on the railing next to you, arms crossed, head tilted toward the track—but her eyes keep flicking to you, like she’s more interested in your reactions than the timing screens.

Every time something happens—an overtake, a near miss, Alex making a brilliant move into Turn 1—Carmen taps your arm or gasps quietly or leans in just enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume. At one point, she offers you a pair of headphones, only to lean closer and say, “But if you wear them, I can’t make dumb commentary in your ear the whole time.”

You don’t put them on.

Instead, you laugh and let her narrate the race in a running whisper that’s more gossip than strategy. And through it all—there’s this buzz. This something.

The way she rests her hand casually on your lower back when she leans over the rail. The way your shoulders brush, again and again, and neither of you pull away. The little inside jokes that start forming before lap twenty.

At one point, you’re both cheering wildly for Alex’s overtake, and you throw your arms up without thinking. Carmen grabs your hand and spins you dramatically, like you’re dancing in the middle of a champagne shower. You both burst out laughing, flushed from the sun and the shared joy, and she doesn’t let go of your hand right away.

“Best race day I’ve had in a while,” she says quietly, eyes locked on yours as the cheers from below echo around you.

“Same,” you reply, and your voice comes out softer than you expect.

For the rest of the race, she stands just a little closer. Says your name just a little more often. And by the time the checkered flag waves, you’re both already making plans for future races.

—

The restaurant is quiet, tucked away on a rooftop overlooking the city, warm lights casting a soft gold glow across the terrace. It’s not flashy, not the kind of place drivers usually get dragged to by sponsors or brands. It’s intimate, quiet, chosen with intention. You knew something was different the moment you stepped out of the car.

George was already waiting, shirt slightly unbuttoned, hands in his pockets, eyes lighting up when he saw you. Carmen had arrived with him, slipping her hand into yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now, the three of you sit at a small round table under string lights, the city glittering behind you like someone scattered stars too close to earth. Dinner has come and gone, wine glasses nearly empty, dessert barely touched. It’s the silence that tips you off. Not awkward—comfortable. Full. George is watching you with the softest smile, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheek. Carmen’s hand is resting just slightly over yours on the table, her thumb tracing gentle patterns along your skin.

You glance between them and raise a brow. “What?” you say, laughing lightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

George leans forward, voice low and sure. “Because we’ve been waiting all night to say something.”

Carmen straightens slightly, her fingers curling more securely around yours. “We didn’t want to rush. We didn’t want to make it a thing until we were sure you felt it too.”

You blink, heart stuttering. “Felt what?”

George takes a breath. “This. Us. Whatever this has been—between the stolen glances and competing to make you laugh and the way you make it feel like everything slows down when you walk into a room. We’ve talked about it, a lot. And we just—”

“—we like you,” Carmen finishes, eyes bright and unwavering. “Together. As… us. Not just one of us. Not competing. Just us.”

Your breath catches. They’re both so open. So sure. Carmen reaches across the table with her free hand, taking George’s. “We don’t want to confuse you or pressure you. But if there’s even a part of you that wants this too… we’d really like to be yours. If you’d be ours.”

There’s no big speech. No drama. Just honesty. Just two people you’ve somehow fallen into orbit with—who’ve made you laugh and blush and feel more seen than you’ve felt in a long, long time. You look at George. At Carmen. At the way they’re already sharing something so strong and steady between them—and yet still made room for you. Your voice is quiet, but sure.

“I do feel it. I’ve been feeling it since… Monaco, probably. And I didn’t know what to do with it. Because this felt impossible.” You laugh, breathless. “But now it feels kind of perfect.”

George exhales, smiling so wide it looks like relief. Carmen brings your hand to her lips and kisses your knuckles. “So… is that a yes?”

You nod, eyes glassy, voice thick with something you didn’t expect to feel tonight. “Yeah. It’s a yes.”

George stands first, pulling your chair out with one hand and helping you up with the other, his touch lingering, reverent. Carmen slips an arm around your waist, and George’s hand finds the small of your back as they guide you to the edge of the terrace. The city stretches out in front of you. The stars are closer now.

And when they lean in—first Carmen pressing her lips to your cheek, then George brushing his nose against yours before placing a soft kiss at the corner of your mouth—it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels like something beginning.

—

several weeks later…

Your birthday doesn’t feel like your birthday. There’s no cake, no chaos, no Alex yelling off-key from the other room while Lily throws glitter at your head. No extra- tight hugs from George. No light forehead kisses from Carmen. There’s just… work.

You’re in New York, stuck in meetings and content shoots for a brand launch you should be excited about. But the apartment they’ve put you in is cold in that expensive, too-white way. You’ve got cupcakes from a PR box and flowers from people you’ve never met, and your phone has dozens of “Happy Birthday!!!” texts that make your screen light up and still leave you feeling completely alone.

You curl up on the couch in your pajamas that night, bare-faced and tired, a blanket around your shoulders as the skyline blinks outside the window. You sent Alex a photo earlier—of your sad little cupcake and a candle that refused to stay lit—but he didn’t answer. Neither did Lily.

You figured Carmen and George would call. Maybe FaceTime you together and make you laugh until your stomach hurt. But it’s almost midnight, and all you’ve got is silence. Until— knock knock knock. You frown.

No one knows you’re here. Not the building. Not the brand team. Not even your manager. You rise slowly, wrapping the blanket around yourself tighter as you cross to the door. You peek through the peephole.

And immediately stumble back, because—

“OPEN THE DOOR,” someone whispers through the wood.

You fling it open. Alex is standing there in a ridiculous party hat, grinning, arms wide open.

“Surprise!” he shouts.

“WHAT—” you start, eyes wide, but then Lily appears from behind him, holding a tray of homemade cookies and a box with your actual baby photo printed on it.

And then Carmen steps out from behind them, looking criminally good in sweatpants and a crop top, holding a tote bag with confetti spilling out.

And George—George—pokes his head in last, holding a bouquet that’s bigger than his torso.

Your breath leaves your lungs in one big, stunned exhale. “You’re all—here?”

“Happy birthday, loser,” Alex says, pulling you into the biggest hug, practically lifting you off the ground.

Lily hugs you second, tighter, whispering, “You didn’t think we’d let you spend today alone, did you?”

You’re already crying when Carmen cups your face. “I know you said you were okay, but you didn’t sound okay. And we weren’t going to let this pass without showing up.”

George presses a kiss to your forehead as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Plus, I missed you. Also, I really needed an excuse to eat cake.”

They come inside like they’ve always belonged there. Alex sets up music from his phone while Lily lays out snacks from a suitcase like she packed an entire party. Carmen pulls a birthday crown from her bag and puts it directly on your head, and George pops open a bottle of something bubbly while asking, “Did we miss dinner, or are we ordering five pizzas?”

Within ten minutes, your apartment feels like home. There’s laughter bouncing off the walls, confetti in the air, candles finally staying lit, and the people you love most in the world—all here. For you. At one point, you’re sitting on the couch with Carmen curled into your side, George stretched out with his head on your lap, Lily painting Alex’s nails while he argues about color choices—and it hits you. This is everything.

Not the flowers from brands or the influencer trips or the shiny gifts you’ll probably forget about in a month. Just this. The people who show up. You smile through your happy tears, and Carmen tilts her head to look up at you.

“What are you thinking?” she asks softly.

“That I might cry again,” you admit, voice cracking.

George shifts to press a kiss to your knee. “Good. We were going for tears.”

Alex raises his bottle. “To YN. The best sister, the most chaotic human being, and now—officially—another year older.”

You all clink glasses. And in that moment, surrounded by love, laughter, and far too much frosting—you feel exactly how you should on your birthday. Not alone. Not forgotten. So, so loved.

—

The next morning, you’re woken by someone aggressively playing the Spider-Man 2 theme song through a portable speaker. You sit up in bed, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, only to find Alex standing in the middle of your apartment with a bagel in one hand and a foam Statue of Liberty crown already on his head.

“Rise and shine, birthday brat,” he declares. “It’s your New York day. And I am your guide.”

“You’ve been here once, Carmen says, sipping coffee in a silk robe from your kitchen. “And you got lost in Central Park.”

George walks in from the balcony, wearing sunglasses and holding a laminated tour map. “Ladies and gentlemen, the group itinerary.”

“Absolutely not,” you groan, pulling the covers over your face.

“Absolutely yes,” Lily says sweetly, throwing a pair of “I ❤️ NY” socks at your head. “You’ve been working nonstop. Today is pure chaos. We’re being annoying. We’re being tourists. We’re buying matching shirts.”

—

You start the day in Central Park because, apparently, Alex woke up with the unshakable conviction that ‘bike rides = wholesome bonding.’ He’s already at the rental kiosk when the rest of you catch up, dramatically arguing with the attendant about whether he can get one with a basket.

Carmen and George are dressed like they’re shooting a Vogue travel spread—she in oversized sunnies and a windbreaker you know she stole from George’s closet; he in perfectly tailored shorts and the exact amount of smug. You, in contrast, are in leggings and a hoodie with a coffee in one hand and a deep mistrust of physical activity in the other.

“Ready to race?” George asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Lily raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m above humiliation?”

She takes off like a shot before anyone can answer. George yells “CHEATER!” and tears after her, nearly taking out a toddler and an elderly pug in the process.

You and Carmen opt for the scenic route. You pedal slowly through tree-lined paths while she keeps one hand on the handlebars and the other on your arm whenever she wants to point something out. She tells you stories from her first visit to New York with her uni friends, and you tell her how surreal it feels to be here now, like this—with them.

Halfway through the ride, Alex crashes dramatically into a bush, claiming he was “distracted by nature.” You’re crying from laughing so hard, and George has the audacity to pull out his phone and snap a picture.

Carmen kisses your cheek at a stoplight and whispers, “This already feels like the best day.”

The next stop you begged them not to go. Alex insisted. George supported him purely out of chaos.

It’s exactly what you expected—overstimulating, overpacked, and full of things you don’t want to touch without washing your hands. Carmen wraps a scarf around your head like a disguise while Lily buys hot dogs that may or may not be edible.

Alex immediately takes photos with every off-brand costumed character: a saggy Elmo, a sun-faded Batman, a Hello Kitty with glowing red eyes. “It’s for culture,” he says. “You can’t fight me on this. I was born here spiritually.”

George, meanwhile, ends up cornered by someone selling knockoff sunglasses. He nearly buys three before Carmen drags him away by the collar.

You finally agree to take one touristy group selfie. It takes eight tries because Alex keeps blinking, Carmen keeps kissing your cheek, and George keeps trying to photobomb his own photo.

When you check your camera roll later, one of the blurry pics is your favorite—you, surrounded by all of them, laughing mid-moment, chaos frozen in time.

George announces this stop with the gravity of an F1 team principal revealing new car upgrades.

“There are three key stops. First, Joe’s. Second, Prince Street. Third, the little place in Brooklyn I won’t name because it’s my spot.”

You make it through the first location with only mild cheese-induced burns. George insists on rating every slice like it’s Michelin-tier, even writing notes in his phone. 

Lily walks past him and mutters, “You sound like a guy describing his ex.”

At the second stop, Alex tries to eat an entire slice in one bite and ends up with sauce in his nose. Carmen refuses to share hers. George offers you a bite of his, only to “accidentally” brush your nose with sauce so he can wipe it off with a napkin and an absurd amount of smugness. Carmen retaliates by handing you her last bite and dramatically saying, “Because I actually care about your well-being.” By the third stop, you’re full, a little greasy, and completely, blissfully happy.

 The next stop starts off tame. You wander the galleries, the lighting cool and soft, the mood respectful. It lasts ten minutes.

Alex reads the name of every piece in a fake posh accent. 

George gets stopped by a group of teen art students who ask if he’s that “guy from TikTok,” and he leans in with a totally serious, “Only if you don’t tell my team principal I’m here instead of doing sim work.”

Lily attempts to interpret a Jackson Pollock painting as “Alex’s emotional state after Quali,” and honestly? It fits.

Carmen lingers behind with you in the more abstract galleries. She slips her fingers between yours and murmurs, “I think you are more beautiful than any of this art.” 

You blink at her. “Are you flirting in a museum?”

She smirks. “Can’t help it. You look good under gallery lighting.”

You’re still blushing when a security guard walks by and clears his throat, clearly done with your group’s nonsense.

—

By the time you reach the bridge, the sun is low, painting the skyline in gold and rose and streaks of violet. Carmen hands you an iced drink she somehow smuggled from the last café. George is already halfway up the incline with Alex, both loudly arguing over “who’s more photogenic in silhouettes.”

You walk slower. Lily’s taking photos behind you, catching little moments—you laughing with Carmen, George adjusting your scarf because the wind caught it, Alex mid-jump trying to be “cinematic.”

It’s calm in that surreal, glowing way New York sometimes is. Carmen wraps an arm around you, chin on your shoulder. George loops his arm over both of yours from behind, resting his chin on Carmen.

“I want this forever,” he says softly.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. They feel your answer in the way your hand finds theirs, in the way your eyes shine in the light.

—

They sneak you upstairs, Carmen covering your eyes with her hands while George hums Happy Birthday off-key. When they pull their hands away, there’s cake, string lights, paper crowns, and a banner that definitely says “YN IS A MENACE” in Alex’s handwriting.

Lily cues up music. Alex opens champagne like he’s won a Grand Prix. George tries to light sparklers and nearly sets his sleeve on fire. Carmen gets frosting on her cheek and doesn’t wipe it off until you lean in and do it for her.

There’s dancing. Loud, stupid, no-one’s-watching dancing. There’s a slow song that none of you can name, but Carmen tugs you into a sway, and George wraps his arms around both of you.

They sing Happy Birthday again. Off-key. Too loud. Perfectly you. And later, much later, as you sit barefoot on the rooftop with your legs in Carmen’s lap and George tracing circles on your knee, you close your eyes and think— This is the best birthday you’ve ever had. Not because of the city or the food or the sights. Because of them. Your people. Your chaos. Your heart.

—

yn_albon

liked by alex_albon, lilymhe, carmenmmundt and 9,010,107 others.

yn_albon : best birthday ever because i spent it with all my favorite ppl 🩷 love you all so much.

tagged : georgerussell63, carmenmmundt, lilymhe and alex_albon

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view 345,007 other comments.

lando : happy birthday yn!

liked by yn_albon

alex_albon : happiest of birthdays to my favorite menace! love you!

liked by yn_albon

lilymhe : love you my sweet girl! hope it was the best birthday ever❤️

liked by yn_albon

carmenmmundt : our pretty girl!! love you so much

liked by yn_albon

georgerussell63 : id say alex and i were very stellar tour guides 🤣 happy birthday beautiful! love you forever

liked by yn_albon

—

f1gossipgirls

3,012,002 likes.

f1gossipgirls : George Russell was caught kissing not longtime girlfriend Carmen Mundt, but her very close friend YN Albon—yes, Alex Albon’s sister and mega influencer. The steamy moment was snapped outside a SoHo café, and naturally, fans are spiraling. Last we checked, George and Carmen were still very much together—so is this a cheating scandal? An open relationship? Or something even messier? And before you say it—yes, Carmen was spotted in New York earlier this week. Yes, with YN. Yes, they were holding hands. No, we don’t know what’s going on either.

—

The photo is everywhere. You wake up to it—your phone vibrating endlessly on the nightstand, screen flooded with texts and notifications. It takes one swipe and a blurry blink to register what’s happening. Splashed across every F1 gossip account, tabloids, Twitter threads, Reddit forums already three theories deep. The angle is unforgiving—paparazzi-level candid, your hand curled into his hoodie, George smiling against your lips like you’re his entire world. Your stomach flips—not from guilt, but from the timing. Because the world doesn’t know the truth. Not yet. Not about you and George. Not about Carmen, either. You scroll down. The headlines are brutal.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until a FaceTime call blares across the screen. It’s Carmen. You freeze. Heart in your throat. She speaks before you can even say hello.

“Have you seen it?” she asks, voice low, hair still wet from her morning shower.

“Yeah,” you croak.

There’s a pause—heavy but not cold. Then she exhales, soft and steady. “George is already pacing the kitchen. He’s on his third coffee. I think he’s trying to rewrite time.”

You let out a small, surprised laugh. Then, more quietly, “Are you okay?”

She smiles gently. “I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re asking. Just tired of pretending. Tired of people thinking we’re lying, or worse—hurting each other.”

“I didn’t mean for it to—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “God, YN, it’s us. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just…” She sighs. “Do you think it’s time?”

Before you can answer, George joins the call, sliding into frame with a frown that melts the second he sees you. He’s still in sweatpants, hair messy, worry written across every feature.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve checked who was around—”

“George,” Carmen cuts in gently. “We’re not mad. We’re just… tired of hiding.”

He nods slowly. “I didn’t like watching people call me a cheater when all I was doing was kissing someone I love.”

That word hangs in the air—love. You feel your chest tighten. Carmen notices. Of course she does.

“We all love each other,” she says quietly. “We’re in this together, yeah?”

You nod, throat thick. “Yeah. Together.”

“So we tell them?” George asks. “Everything? The three of us? No secrets, no damage control?”

Carmen looks at you. “Do you want this to be real in the open? Because I do. I want to hold your hand in the paddock. I want to stop pretending you’re just Alex’s little sister. I want people to know that you’re mine— ours.”

Your eyes sting. You don’t even hesitate. “I want that too.”

George exhales like he’s been holding the words in since the post dropped. “Okay. We do it. Together.”

He reaches for Carmen’s hand offscreen. Carmen looks straight into the camera and says, “Let’s write the truth before someone else tries to write it for us.”

You smile. And for the first time that morning, your hands stop shaking.

—

georgerussell63

liked by yn_albon, lilymhe, carmenmmundt and 7,010,001 others.

georgerussell63 : love looks a little different on us. but it’s real. and it’s ours. 💙

tagged : yn_albon and carmenmmundt

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—

[cheftsunoda]

idk if you write wag x reader or you only do poly but i'm shooting my shot so hear me out...i'm thinking pride month. i'm thinking lily zneimer with a fem reader. i'm thinking shyness and mutual pining. please i beg.

ivy— lily zneimer

blurbs

lily zneimer x !fem reader

in which yn relives her biggest accomplishment in life— loving lily. and maybe all this recollection will bring lily back into her life.

(a/n) : to all my girls, gays and theys— i am so sorry if this breaks your heart. it broke mine writing it but i got inspired by one of my favorite gays (frank) and this is one of my all time favorite songs and writing using it as inspiration was so enjoyable to me. love you all.

poly george carmen story will be up later tonight!

pls pls listen to ivy while reading. i beg of you.

—

—

“I thought that I was dreamin’ when you said you love me” 🌿

It happened on a Friday night in November, in the makeshift fort of bedsheets and textbooks they’d built in Lily’s childhood bedroom—half a physics problem set between them and the soft hum of Bon Iver playing through a laptop speaker. The air smelled like cinnamon tea and the barely-washed hoodie Lily always wore when she was nervous about exams. You were lying on your stomach, half-asleep on a page of handwritten notes, your legs tangled with hers under the blanket. Neither of you had said anything for a while, just passing Lily’s highlighter back and forth like a secret. Lily had been quiet for longer than usual. You felt her eyes on you, her fingers toying with the edge of your sleeve.

“YN,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “Can I… can I tell you something?”

You rolled onto your side to look at her, cheeks pink from the warmth under the blanket or maybe from something deeper. “Yeah, of course.”

Lily blinked slowly. Her lashes fluttered like she was battling with herself, like the words were too big for her mouth.

“I—” She stopped. Then let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. Don’t laugh, okay?”

“I’d never laugh at you,” you whispered, and it was the truth. You wouldn’t. Not with your heart already halfway in her hands.

Lily looked down at where your fingers brushed, then finally met your eyes. “I think I love you. No—no, I do. I love you.”

Time stopped in that little room. The heater clanked. The highlighter rolled off the bed. Your heart tried to climb out of your chest. You sat up a little, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her squirm before you smiled—small, crooked, aching.

“You think?”

“I know,” Lily mumbled, immediately burying her face in the crook of your shoulder. “Oh my God. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

You laughed into her hair, holding her close, the both of you wrapped in that moment like you were the only two people on the planet. “I love you too, Lil.”

She peeked up, her eyes wide and glassy with something unsaid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, pressing your forehead to hers. “So much it scares me.”

Her hand found yours under the blanket. Fingers laced. A tiny kiss on your collarbone—featherlight, a question more than a statement. You let your fingers trace her jaw, the curve of her smile, the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced faster than yours. It didn’t go further than that—just limbs tangled, soft laughter in the dark, and the quiet safety of knowing someone saw you completely and still stayed. That was the first night you ever heard her say it. You’d hear it a thousand more times. But never quite like that. Never when it felt that pure.

—

“The start of nothin’— I had no chance to prepare— I couldn’t see you comin’” 🌿

You met her in sophomore chemistry, fourth period, the day your school switched up everyone’s schedules for no reason anyone could understand. You’d walked in late, still clutching a granola bar and a crumpled excuse note from the office, and there she was—Lily—in your usual seat, bent over her notebook, chewing the end of her pen and looking completely out of place and exactly like she belonged.

“Uh—sorry,” you mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the chair.

She looked up. Big blue eyes. Hair tucked behind one ear. Her lips parted like she’d been caught mid-thought. “Oh. Sorry—! I didn’t know someone sat here. I can move.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said too fast. “You can—yeah. Stay.”

So you sat next to her instead. Close. Not close enough to be weird, but close enough to feel the heat of her arm when she leaned over to read the board. Your skin buzzed where it nearly brushed hers. You didn’t hear a single word the teacher said.

For the next forty minutes, you fidgeted with your pencil and snuck glances at her whenever she wasn’t looking. She took notes like it was a test, all neat and underlined and color-coded. She smelled like citrus shampoo. She bit her lip when she was thinking. You were already doomed.

Halfway through the class, the teacher assigned lab partners. You both froze when your names were called together. You looked at her; she looked at you. A small, nervous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m Lily,” she said, once your stools were tucked in at the lab bench.

“I’m YN.”

Her smile widened. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence. You picked at the edge of the lab sheet while she tried to find the goggles that didn’t fog up. Every time your fingers touched while setting up the experiment—just a tap, just a brush—it felt like a firework in your chest. And maybe she felt it too, because she kept biting her lip and glancing at you like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You laughed when she poured too much iodine into the flask and stained her fingers, and she turned pink and smiled at you like it was the nicest sound she’d ever heard. It was small, barely anything, but by the end of class you both lingered at the lab station, not ready to leave. Everyone else had already packed up. Your backpack stayed zipped.

“You’re really smart,” you said, as she double-checked her notes. “I mean, like. The way you take notes. And stuff.”

Lily turned to you, flushed again, but grinning. “Thanks. I think you’re… cool.”

“Cool?”

“Like. You said I could keep the seat. That was… cool.”

You both laughed. And then the bell rang. And just before she turned to go, she said it in the softest voice, like she didn’t want to take up too much space in your life yet—

“Do you maybe wanna study together sometime? For the quiz next week?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I’d—yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled again—shy and glowing. “Cool.”

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no spotlight, no instant thunderbolt. But somehow, when she left the room, your world felt different. Lighter. Quieter. Like something had gently clicked into place. You hadn’t even touched her hand. But you already knew. You were going to fall in love with her.

—

“Ooh, I could hate you now. It’s quite alright to hate me now.” 🌿

It was raining the day she told you. The kind of rain that sticks to your clothes and makes everything feel heavier than it already is. You should’ve known something was wrong. Lily had texted ‘can we talk?’ earlier in the day, and your stomach had dropped before you even read the rest. She only said that when she couldn’t hold something in anymore.

You met in the parking lot behind the engineering building, the same place you used to kiss between classes when no one was around, where you used to trade energy drinks and kiss half-laughing with the scent of motor oil and asphalt on your hands. Now she stood in front of you, arms crossed tightly over her chest, soaked hair sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes wouldn’t meet yours. She looked like she hadn’t slept. You said her name once—soft, like maybe that would be enough to undo whatever she was about to say. But it wasn’t.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Lily said, her voice cracking halfway through. “But I need to. And I—I don’t want to lie to you. Not anymore.”

You waited. Your heart was already halfway out of your body.

“I think I’m in love with someone else,” she whispered.

You blinked. For a second, you couldn’t even understand the words. You thought maybe you heard her wrong.

She kept going. “With Oscar. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You couldn’t breathe. You took a step back, and she reached out instinctively, like she could take it back just by touching you. “No—don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I didn’t plan it, YN,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. We were just talking—just talking—and I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and I tried to push it down, I did, but I can’t lie to you anymore.”

Your voice was shaking when you finally found it. “How long?”

“Three months,” she said, barely audible.

You laughed—sharp and bitter. “Jesus.”

“I never stopped loving you,” she rushed. “I swear to God, I didn’t. I still do. I think I always will.”

“Then why?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, your hands clenched at your sides. “Why are you doing this if you still love me?”

“Because it’s not the same anymore,” she said, crying now. “It’s not fair to you. I can’t keep pretending I’m not thinking about someone else, and you don’t deserve that. I would never do this if I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “You’re choosing to.”

Lily broke down then, her knees folding slightly like she could barely hold herself up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking coward.”

And you stood there, rain soaking through your hoodie, watching the girl you built your life around crumble in front of you, and all you could think was God, I wish I could hate her.

“I could hate you,” you said, the words escaping before you even knew they were forming. “I probably should.”

She looked up at you, eyes red, mouth trembling. “You can. You should. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you wanted to. “Because I know you meant it. All of it. Before him.”

“I did.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking. “Then go.”

“YN…”

“No. Just—go.”

She hesitated. Like maybe she thought you’d stop her. Like maybe you’d reach out and say it one more time—don’t choose him. But you didn’t. Because some part of you knew she already had. So she left. And you stood in the rain long after she was gone. Soaking. Shaking. Trying to hate her. Failing. Because even now—especially now—you still loved her.

—

“When we both know that deep down, The feeling still deep down is good” 🌿

You see her for the first time in years on a screen. She’s in the background of a paddock interview, tucked under an umbrella with Oscar, laughing at something you’ll never hear. She looks a little older—so do you—but her smile is the same. That smile that used to light up your whole damn world before it broke you. You pause the video. Your finger hovers over the play button. You can’t bring yourself to press it again.

You thought you’d buried her, that girl from chemistry class with ink-stained fingers and nervous eyes. But she lives under your skin still, pressed into the quietest corners of your memories—your firsts, your almosts, your if-onlys. You don’t miss her in the way that keeps you up at night anymore. Not like it used to. But sometimes, on slow days, you catch yourself smiling at nothing—at the ghost of her. At the echo of a joke only the two of you ever laughed at.

You wonder if she thinks of you when it rains. If she remembers how you used to run through thunderstorms barefoot. If she still has that old hoodie of yours she said she’d never give back. You wonder if she’s still in love with you, just a little. Because you know you are. Not in the way you once were. But in a way that still feels good.

—

She doesn’t talk about you much anymore. Not to Oscar. Not to anyone. But you still live in her. Some nights, when the hotel rooms are too cold and Oscar’s away at press dinners, Lily lies on her back and watches the ceiling and thinks of you. Of the girl she loved before she even knew what loving someone meant. She tells herself it was another life. But she still remembers the way your laugh used to shake your shoulders.

She still wears the ring you gave her on a chain around her neck. Oscar thinks it’s from her mother. She’s never corrected him. She loves Oscar. She does. But some part of her heart still beats to the rhythm of your name. It doesn’t ache like it used to. It just… lives there. Sometimes, she drafts messages to you in her Notes app. Just to say I saw your name today, or Do you still make your tea too sweet?

She never sends them. But she doesn’t delete them either. You were her first real thing. Her truest thing. The one that shaped everything that came after. And no matter how much time stretches between you, the truth remains. The feeling is still there. Quiet. Tucked deep down. But good. Always good.

—

“If I could see through walls, I could see you're faking” 🌿

It had been months since you’d last seen her. Not since the parking lot. Not since the rain-soaked goodbye. Not since you told her to go, even though you never meant it. You’d tried your best to stop looking for her. You changed your walking routes, dropped the engineering elective she was still in, stopped going to that café near the mechanical lab where you always used to study together. You buried her in quiet routines and busy days, and most of the time it worked. Until it didn’t. You saw her on a Wednesday. Late afternoon, on the steps outside the main library, where the sun hit just right and made everyone look a little more golden than they really were.

Lily was standing in a small circle of people—laughing. Or at least, she looked like she was. But you knew her. You knew the real version of that smile—the one she used when she was belly-laughing on the floor of her bedroom, hair messy, cheeks flushed. The smile that unfolded slow and shy whenever she saw you across a room. This wasn’t that. This was the smile she gave when she was tired of being asked if she was okay. The one that pulled just a little too tight at the corners, that never reached her eyes. You knew that smile. You used to press your fingers to her jaw and whisper, “You don’t have to fake it with me.”

But you weren’t hers anymore. You didn’t get to say things like that. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, textbooks clutched to your chest, frozen in place while she laughed at something someone said—then turned slightly, like she felt you watching. Your eyes met. And for one second, just one, everything fell away. The noise, the students rushing past, the heat of the concrete through your sneakers. It was just her. And you. And everything you weren’t saying. She didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. But her laughter stopped. And in her silence, you heard everything. You turned away first.

Not out of anger. Not out of spite. But because you knew that if you didn’t, you’d walk to her and say her name and touch her arm and ask, “Are you okay?”

And she would lie. Because she always did when she was trying to protect you. And you would forgive her. Because you always did. Because even now, you still loved her. You walked away without looking back. But if walls were made of glass—if time and hurt and pride weren’t in the way—you would’ve stayed long enough to say—

“I see you, Lily. Even when you think I can’t.”

—

“If you could see my thoughts, You would see our faces” 🌿

Some days, you get through it without thinking of her at all. You go to class. You laugh with your friends. You remember to water the plant on your windowsill. You start to believe, maybe, that the ache is behind you. But then there are the in-betweens. The slow elevator ride. The quiet walk home after sunset. The click of a pen during a lecture. The taste of spearmint gum. And suddenly, there she is.

If Lily could see your thoughts in those moments—if she could press her hand to your temple and look inside—you know exactly what she’d find. She’d see your faces. Not just the two of you now, older and distant and hurting—but you as you were. Two girls in matching sweatpants at 2 a.m., trying not to wake your roommates with your laughter. Two girls kissing under a stairwell after acing a physics midterm. Two girls falling asleep on each other’s shoulders in the library, highlighters still in hand. She’d see the version of her you still carry… Smiling into your hoodie. Crying into your collarbone. Whispering “I love you” for the first time, voice trembling like it might break if she said it too loud. She’s in everything. Still. Quietly, softly. Like background noise your brain doesn’t know how to mute.

You wonder if it’s the same for her. If Oscar ever catches her staring too long at a wall. If he asks what she’s thinking and she lies, says nothing. Because what would she say?

“I was thinking about a girl I once loved so deeply I forgot what it meant to be alone. I was thinking about how I left her. And how some part of me never came back from that.”

But you’ll never know. So you keep it to yourself. You carry her in your thoughts—hidden, sacred. A collection of moments no one else gets to touch. And if she ever looked closely, if she ever really saw you again, maybe she’d recognize the pieces of herself still stitched into the way you smile at your coffee, the way you tilt your head when you read, the way you love. Maybe she’d know…You’re still there. In here. Always.

—

“We didn't give a fuck back then—I ain't a kid no more.—We'll never be those kids again” 🌿

It hits you while you’re walking past the old gas station near the edge of campus—the one with the flickering sign and the vending machine that never worked but still somehow stole your quarters every time. You’re not even sure why you’re here. You’d taken the long way home, just trying to kill time, just trying to stop thinking about her. But then you see the curb. The cracked pavement. The exact spot where you and Lily sat that night—sophomore year—so loud and alive and impossibly young.

You remember it perfectly. It was just past midnight, early spring, jackets zipped up over pajamas. You’d snuck out of your dorms and walked to that gas station just to buy slushees and sour candy and pretend you were living in a movie. You’d climbed onto the curb, your knees bumping hers, faces sticky from sugar and laughter, and you’d talked about nothing. About everything. You were seventeen. Maybe eighteen. In love in a way that felt endless.

You didn’t care about the future then. Didn’t think about careers or timelines or who you’d be when it all stopped feeling easy. You didn’t even care if anyone saw you holding hands under the fluorescent lights. You just were. Together. Whole.

“We should get matching tattoos,” Lily had said through a mouthful of watermelon sour strips. “Like dumb ones. Frogs or something.”

You’d laughed so hard your Slurpee spilled on your shoes.

“Why frogs?”

“Because frogs are underrated.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” you’d whispered. And she’d kissed you, just like that, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now you’re standing in the same place, older, quieter, bones heavier with all the growing up you didn’t ask for. And she’s not beside you. She hasn’t been for a long time. There’s no sugar on your tongue. No stolen kisses under flickering lights. Just the ache of knowing you can never go back. You’re not those girls anymore. You pay bills. You answer emails. You smile politely when people mention her name like it doesn’t gut you. You scroll past headlines that say Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend spotted in Monaco paddock and pretend your chest doesn’t tighten.

You miss her. But more than that, you miss you. The version of yourself who laughed too loud and believed love was enough. The version who sat on that curb and didn’t give a fuck. You ain’t a kid no more. You know too much now. And no matter how vividly you remember it, no matter how fiercely you want it back—you’ll never be those kids again.

—

“Everything sucked back then—We were friends” 🌿

It was the middle of junior year, and everything sucked. Your grades were slipping. Your parents were fighting again. You’d stopped showing up to half your classes because even the act of getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest. The world felt too loud, too sharp, and you were walking through it like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. You didn’t know how to explain it to anyone. Except Lily. You hadn’t kissed her yet. You hadn’t even told her you liked her like that. You were still just friends—in the loosest, messiest, most beautiful sense of the word. But she knew. She always did.

She’d show up outside your house with iced coffee and no questions. She’d drag you into her car and blast music you hated just to make you roll your eyes. She’d sit with you in silence for hours, her pinky brushing yours on the armrest like she knew how badly you needed to be touched without being asked. One night, when the world felt particularly cruel, you finally cracked.

You were sitting in her room, lights low, curled up under the blanket she kept for you. You weren’t crying. Not visibly. But you must’ve looked broken in some way because she turned off the movie you’d barely been watching and scooted closer.

“Hey,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You’re allowed to say you’re hurting.”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on a thread unraveling on the sleeve of your hoodie.

“I mean it,” she said, voice stronger now. “Everything is horrible. School. Home. All of it. You’re not crazy for feeling like it’s too much.”

Your chest cracked open just a little at that. The smallest breath of air getting through.

And then—softly, so gently—you said, “I feel like I’m disappearing.”

Lily didn’t speak for a moment. She just reached for your hand and laced her fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re right here. With me. I see you.”

You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear that until you were already crying—quiet, slow tears that leaked down your cheeks and soaked into her sweatshirt. She held you for hours. Said nothing else. Just kept her arms around you like her body was the only home you needed. And that night, as you drifted to sleep to the sound of her breathing, you thought— Everything sucks. But she doesn’t. She’s the one thing that doesn’t. You were just friends. But she already felt like the closest thing to love you’d ever known.

—

“In the halls of your hotel— Arm around my shoulder— so I could tell— How much I meant to you—meant it sincere back then—We had time to kill back then” 🌿

You don’t remember the name of the hotel. It was just one of those small, chain brand ones on the side of the highway—the kind with stale carpeting and vending machines that only took exact change. You were there for some high school engineering competition, wearing matching t-shirts and badge lanyards, sleep deprived and running on pure sugar and the rush of being somewhere new. It wasn’t anything special. But it’s one of the only memories that still comes to you clear and full, like it happened yesterday instead of years ago.

You and Lily had just come back from the closing ceremony—giddy and exhausted, her arm slung around your shoulder as you wandered the hallway, pretending you didn’t know how to get to your room just so you could stay close. Her hair still smelled like that citrus shampoo she always used, her hand warm against the curve of your neck. But that night, everything in you ached. You paused under the dim wall light near the elevator, her arm still resting comfortably around you, and it was then—you remember it so clearly—that she leaned her head against yours, just for a second.

And she said, voice low, almost sheepish. “You make everything feel easier, you know that?”

Your heart stumbled.

“I do?” you asked, like it was a joke, even though your throat was already closing with the weight of what that meant.

“Yeah,” Lily said, quieter now. “I just… I feel better when you’re around. Like nothing else exists but us.”

She was shy back then, even more than you. But that night, she wasn’t hiding. Not behind sarcasm, not behind jokes or nervous laughter. She meant it. Every word. And you could tell. That’s what made it different. Not the hotel or the hallway or the soft humming of an ice machine behind you. But the way she held you without needing a reason. The way she said you made her feel okay, like that was the most obvious truth in the world. You both knew it then—maybe not in full, but enough to carry the weight of what was coming. You had no plans, no pressure. Just time to kill and hearts too full to understand yet what they held.

You’d stay up until 3 a.m. that night, legs tangled on the scratchy hotel comforter, watching videos on her phone and whispering dreams into the dark. And in the morning, she’d braid your hair with shaky fingers before the awards ceremony and pretend it didn’t mean anything. But it did. You both knew it did.

Now, years later, you find yourself standing outside a different hotel. The kind she stays in now—sleek, international, impersonal. She’s probably upstairs somewhere, curled beside someone else, a life away from vending machines and fluorescent lights. But your shoulder still remembers the weight of her arm. And your heart still remembers the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that felt real. You had time back then. And now? Now you just have the memory.

—

“I broke your heart last week—You'll probably feel better by the weekend” 🌿

It had only been five days. Five days since Lily stood in front of you in the rain and told you she loved someone else. Five days since she watched the way your chest caved in on itself, your mouth set in a silence that sounded louder than anything she’d ever heard. Five days since you told her to go. And she did. She hasn’t stopped thinking about you since.

She lies next to Oscar now, in a hotel bed with too many pillows and none of your warmth. He’s asleep—peaceful, content in a way she can’t seem to reach. The room is quiet, but her head is screaming. Your name echoing through every thought like an ache she knows she brought on herself. She stares at the ceiling, her phone dimmed on the nightstand beside her. She hasn’t blocked you, but she hasn’t opened your messages either. She’s too afraid of what she’ll find. Too afraid of finding nothing at all.

“I broke your heart last week,” she whispers to no one. To herself.

She tries to soften it in her mind—You’ll probably feel better by the weekend. Like that makes it okay. Like it was just a paper cut. Like you hadn’t built a life around her hands. She tries to imagine you now, curled up in that worn hoodie you used to fight over, face buried in a pillow. Angry, probably. But you’ll be okay. You always were better at moving on than she was. Weren’t you?

She turns over, restless. Oscar shifts beside her, mutters something in his sleep. She closes her eyes and tries to pretend it’s enough—that this is the love that makes sense now. That the life she’s stepped into is one she didn’t have to destroy something beautiful to reach. But when she dreams, it’s you she sees. Not the heartbreak. Not the crying. But you—grinning in the hallway of that old hotel, braiding each others hair in early morning, whispering into her neck when she used to wake up from nightmares.

She broke your heart last week. She told herself you’d feel better by the weekend. But the truth? She doesn’t think either of you will feel better for a long, long time.

—

“All the things I didn't mean to say—I didn't mean to do —There were things you didn't need to say — Did you mean to? Mean to?” 🌿

You weren’t supposed to see her that day. But the campus bookstore is small, and the universe is cruel, and there she was—Lily—halfway down the aisle, running her fingers along a row of overpriced mechanical pencils.

You froze, book in hand. You should’ve turned around. Should’ve left. Should’ve pretended not to see her. But she looked up before you had the chance. Her eyes widened. And then dropped. And then she nodded once. Just enough to be polite. Just enough to be nothing. You couldn’t help it—you walked up to her, heart racing, some part of you still desperate for something more than silence. More than the way she left.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” she replied, voice too soft to touch. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You swallowed. “I come here all the time.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then you said it—the thing you hadn’t meant to say, not like this, not here.

“I still don’t understand how you did it.”

Lily blinked. “Did what?”

“Left. Just like that. Like we were nothing.”

She winced, but you were already in it, already unraveling.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you added, instantly ashamed, voice trembling. “I just… I think I needed to.”

Lily looked at you like you were holding her heart in your hands again. Like she wasn’t sure whether to beg for it back or let you crush it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”

“But it did.” You laughed, sharp and shaking. “And then you said all those things like they didn’t mean anything. Like I’d be fine. Like you were doing me a favor.”

Lily looked away. “You didn’t need me to say I loved him.”

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you did.”

And it hangs there. Between you. The one sentence that still tears open your chest every time you think about it.

“Did you mean to?” you ask, almost pleading. “Did you mean to say it like that? Mean to leave like that? Like I was just some phase you grew out of?”

She looks at you then. Eyes glassy. Tired. Honest.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean to. Any of it.”

And you believe her. God, that’s the worst part. You believe her. But belief doesn’t undo damage. And regret doesn’t undo goodbye. You both stand there for a moment longer, drowning in the words you never meant to say. The ones that still haunt you. The ones you wish you could take back, or at least soften. Then she nods again. One last time. And walks away. And you stay. In the middle of a bookstore. Holding a book you’ll never read. With a heart full of echoes and the awful knowledge that some things can’t be undone. Even when you didn’t mean to.

—

”I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you —I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you— I've been dreamin', dreamin'” 🌿

The train station in Milan is buzzing, but your head isn’t really here. You’ve just wrapped a four-day project with an Italian motorsport tech firm—long days, longer nights, cold coffee and hotter tempers—and now you’re sitting on a worn bench beneath the departure board, your laptop half-zipped in your bag, earbuds in, not playing anything. You’re tired. Not just physically. Soul-tired.

And maybe that’s why you let your thoughts drift the way they do, the way they always seem to when you’re somewhere new, somewhere far away from home. You think of her. Of Lily.

It’s been years now. Time has been both cruel and kind. You’ve built a life that isn’t defined by her anymore. You’re successful. Focused. A little lonelier than you care to admit. You don’t cry over her name like you used to. But you still dream of her.

Still catch glimpses of her in crowds. Still find her smile on strangers. Still feel her voice in the back of your head when you’re looking out the window of a train or walking through a city where no one knows your name. You’ve been dreaming of her lately. More than usual. That soft kind of dreaming—not always painful, but always real. You wake up with her name in your mouth and the shape of her hand still ghosting your palm.

So maybe that’s why, when you hear it—

“YN?”

—your first thought isn’t That’s impossible. Of course. You look up slowly. And there she is. Lily.

Standing a few feet away in the middle of the station, suitcase by her side, hair longer than it used to be but tied in the same half-messy bun she always wore when she was tired. Her eyes are wide, stunned. Like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing either. You blink, heart catching in your throat.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask, barely a whisper.

She exhales—shaky, like she might cry. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

And for a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, frozen in the middle of the station, a thousand people rushing past but none of them mattering. Just her. Just you. You rise slowly, walking toward her like you might scare her off if you move too fast. She doesn’t step back. Her eyes are glassy now.

“I haven’t seen you in—”

“Three years,” she says, too quickly. “I know.”

Your chest twists.

You want to ask her how she’s been. Where she’s going. Who she’s become. But none of it feels right. None of it feels big enough for this. Instead, you say, “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Lily’s lip trembles. Her hand tightens on her suitcase handle. “I know,” she says softly. “Me too.”

You don’t say I still love you. You don’t say Come back. But you both know. It’s in the way she looks at you like she never stopped. It’s in the way your body feels like it remembers her shape just standing near her. It’s in the breath you take, for the first time in months, that doesn’t feel heavy. You don’t know what happens next. Maybe this is just a moment. A final one. A soft goodbye dressed like a miracle. Or maybe it’s something more. But either way— You were dreaming. And for once, the dream came true.

—

The coffee shop is tucked away down a quiet side street near the station, small and warm and dimly lit—exactly the kind of place you would’ve brought her to back then, when you were younger and still believed the right setting could fix a broken conversation.

You sit across from her at a little table by the window. Your fingers cradle a ceramic mug that’s far too hot, but you don’t let go. It feels surreal. To be here. With her.

Lily hasn’t changed much. Her hair’s a little longer, her voice a little steadier. But the way she looks at you? That hasn’t changed at all. It still softens at the edges. Still makes your chest feel like it’s been cracked open just enough to let the past back in.

You’re both quiet at first. Sipping. Fidgeting. Letting the moment stretch.

Then she says, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

She smiles, but it’s not happy. It’s sad, in that way that only old love can be. “I kept dreaming it, though. I’d see your face in crowds. Hear your laugh in someone else’s.”

“I’ve been dreaming of you too,” you say, not bothering to lie. What would be the point now?

Lily looks down, fingers running along the rim of her cup. “I thought you hated me.”

You exhale through your nose. “Sometimes I tried to. I thought it would help.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

She doesn’t apologize. And maybe she doesn’t have to. Because it’s not just about the leaving anymore. It’s about the way you both kept carrying each other in silence.

“I loved you so much,” she says suddenly. Like it burst out of her before she could stop it. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

You look at her, and the air shifts. Your hands are still shaking. “You left.”

“I know,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself for it.”

You want to ask why. Why she chose him. Why she didn’t fight harder for what you had. But deep down, you know the answer won’t heal anything. And the truth is—you didn’t fight either. Not really. You let her go. You told her to. There’s a pause. A long one. She’s looking out the window now, watching the world pass by like it didn’t break you both.

And then—quietly—you ask, “Are you happy?”

She takes a long time to answer. “Sometimes.”

It sits heavy between you.

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t know what this is. If it’s closure. If it’s something new. If it’s just a moment you’ll carry for the rest of your life like a warm scar. But when you walk out of the cafe, side by side under a soft drizzle, you feel lighter than you have in years. Not fixed. Not whole. But softer. And when her hand brushes yours—accidentally, maybe not—you don’t move away. Some things don’t come back. But some things never really left.

—

[cheftsunoda]

update time (aka chef yapping for no reason)

hi besties! just got finished writing the most gut wrenching lily zneimer x reader fic. will be out tomorrow!

also another poly fic will be out tomorrow— i am half way through another charles x reader x alexandra and a george x reader x carmen

let me know which one you guys want first and I’ll finish whichever first!

thank you guys so much for all the love recently. ive been working through as many requests as i can recently so please don’t think i forgot about anyone! much love to all of you 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[cheftsunoda]

Hello,

I just want to say you are an amazing writer, I am in awe of all your stories

I have spent the last I’m not sure how long reading just the poly ones (including mrs. Hamilton)

i love you i love you i love you. thank you mi corazón<3

seriously guys, getting messages like these make my day. i spend so much time writing and perfecting and it makes me so happy that you all enjoy my writing so much.

messages like these keep me writing and just make me feel so loved and appreciated.

love you all so much.

new ob87 smau out now btw!

[cheftsunoda]

okay okay oscar sister who is exactly like oscar in personality and is also a driver and this is her rookie year or second year? but she has the biggest soft spot for ollie? and if you want to do poly maybe kimi and ollie

soft spot — ob87

smau + blurbs

ollie bearman x !piastri driver reader

oscar piastri x !sister driver reader

yn piastri is in her second year of formula 1, racing alongside her older brother — oscar. if you’ve seen him, you’ve basically seen her. same deadpan humor, same terrifying racecraft, same “please don’t talk to me unless you’re an engineer” energy. people say they’re twins born two and a half years apart. and honestly? they’re not wrong. yn piastri doesn’t smile unless she’s on pole. she doesn’t do drama. and she definitely doesn’t do feelings. or at least… that’s what everyone thought. until ollie smiled at her in the paddock — and she actually smiled back. yeah. it’s bad. oscar is horrified.

fc : f1 academy drivers + jazmyn makenna

reader is 21

(a/n) : someone recently asked if i would write 2nd person pov and i kind of suck it at but i wrote this in 2nd- lmk which y'all like better. love you bunches

—

yn_piastri

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, pierregasly and 7,100,011 others.

yn_piastri : flics from the world’s favorite piastri (hattie is catching up to me)

tagged : oscarpiastri, lando and pierregasly

—

view 347,012 other comments.

hattiepiastri : as long as it isn’t oscar idc

liked by yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : honestly same

↳ oscarpiastri : nobody on this earth can humble me like you two

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ nicolepiastri : you were given only sisters for a reason. we knew you would need humbled.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ username00 : the piastri’s are so special to me.

↳ hattiepiastri : but anyways, yn u look so good. imysm and pls send me that meme.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : miss u more. check your messages.

liked by hattiepiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : what the hell does it mean to look microwaveable?

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ yn_piastri : no clue but the world says you look the part.

lando : i gyatt something in my eye

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i cannot stand you 😭

↳ lando : so sit on me instead

liked by yn_piastri

↳ username1 : LANDO- can’t say I blame him.

↳ oscarpiastri : I do not care that we are on the same team. I am driving you off the track.

liked by yn_piastri and lando

oscarpiastri : also why are you hanging out with lando?

↳ yn_piastri : to give you anxiety.

liked by lando

↳ oscarpiastri : it is working.

liked by lando and yn_piastri

alex_albon : microwaveable might be the best adjective anyone has ever used for oscar.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i know!! it just makes sense.

↳ oscarpiastri : no it doesn’t ???

liked by alex_albon and yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : the prettiest girl 🩷

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : my girllll

username005 : yn was automatically promoted to my fave piastri the second she made alpine her bitch and managed a p3 in the tractor.

liked by pierregasly, francolapinto, yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : hey, someone had to do it.

username5 : ynierre is my fave teammate combo in recent years

liked by yn_piastri and pierregasly

↳ pierregasly : we are rather iconic. won’t lie.

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : you’ve been killing it recently, yn! 🤍

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : thanks olliebear!! ❤️

liked by olliebearman

↳ username00 : did she show- emotion?? using emojis and exclamations?? oh mr bearman has her whipped. CONFIRMED

—

It’s a few hours before qualifying, and you’re already suited up, arms crossed as you march down the paddock with one mission— annoy your brother into calling your mother before she calls you again. You find Oscar standing near the McLaren garage, quietly sipping from his water bottle and minding his own business — which, in your world, means he’s due for a sibling attack.

“Oi.”

You tap the back of his helmet with your fingers. “Call Mum.”

He barely turns his head. “Not happening.”

“She’s now threatening to tell Sky Sports that you wet the bed until you were eight.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. “That’s defamation.”

“Is it?” you smirk. “Because I have vivid memories.”

Before he can respond, Lando appears out of nowhere like the nosy older cousin he insists on being, slinging an arm around Oscar’s shoulder with a grin.

“What are we fighting about today?” he asks. “Family secrets? Childhood trauma?”

You open your mouth to reply, but then something — someone — over by the Haas garage catches your attention. Ollie Bearman. Helmet half-on, gloves in hand, mid-conversation with a race engineer — until he sees you. His eyes light up, and he lifts a hand to wave. Soft smile. The kind you pretend not to read into. And yet, before your brain catches up, your hand lifts. You wave back. And — god forbid — you smile. Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A genuine, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. It lasts three seconds, max. But that’s more than enough time.

Oscar is staring at you like you just declared love and Lando drops his drink.

“Wait—did you just smile?” Lando blurts, gaping. “At Ollie?”

Oscar squints at you like you’re malfunctioning. “Was that… affection?”

You blink, back in autopilot now. “Shut up.”

“You smiled,” Lando says, turning to Oscar. “She actually smiled. Like, a real one. With teeth and warmth and everything.”

You roll your eyes and walk off like nothing happened. Behind you, Oscar mutters, “I need to sit down.”

—

The second you climb out of the car and pull off your helmet, the noise hits you — cheers from the crowd, Alpine crew shouting and clapping, and somewhere behind you, someone yelling about how the ‘piastri’s have taken over the grid.’

You’re still catching your breath when you spot Oscar stepping down from the P1 board, helmet under his arm, cool as ever — but even he looks a little smug today. He makes his way over and bumps his shoulder against yours.

“P2, huh?” he says, grinning. “Not bad. For my mini-me.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be in front of you before you know it.”

Before you can say more, Lando bounces over from P3 like he’s won the whole thing. “Look at this!” he beams, throwing an arm over both your shoulders. “Oscar on pole, YN right behind, and me—beautifully, somehow—in third. Honestly? Iconic.”

The three of you walk off toward the media. Oscar looks like he’s trying not to enjoy it too much. Lando looks like he very much is. You? You’re riding the high of sticking it on the front row with your brother. And then—

“P2! Let’s go!”

You turn just as Pierre comes jogging over in full celebratory mode. He’s flushed, still in his race suit, hair a mess under his cap, but he pulls you into a quick hug anyway. “I knew it was coming today,” he says, still grinning. “That last lap was beautiful.”

You grin back. “You mean yours or mine?”

He snorts. “You’re not funny. But yes, yours.”

He ruffles your helmet hair just to be annoying, then heads off to debrief. You’re about to follow Oscar and Lando inside when you hear your name again — softer this time.

“YN.”

You turn. Ollie’s standing a few feet away, helmet in one hand, gloves tucked into his side. There’s a flush on his cheeks that’s definitely from the heat. Probably. Maybe.

“P2,” he says, smiling. “You were incredible.”

It’s not just the words — it’s how he says it. Like he means it. Like he was watching your lap the whole time and still hasn’t fully recovered. And despite the sweat, the adrenaline, the pure chaos in your veins… you smile. Again.

“Thanks,” you say, a little quieter. “That means a lot.”

Ollie hesitates for a second, then adds, “If you keep qualifying like this, I might start believing in Alpine.”

You raise a brow. “Don’t get carried away.”

He grins, stepping back as someone calls his name. “No promises.”

You turn back around just in time to see Lando whispering something to Oscar — who is staring at you like he just solved a mystery he didn’t want the answer to.

“Unreal,” Lando mutters as you approach. “I’ve never seen you smile twice in one day. This is emotional.”

Oscar crosses his arms. “I give it two weeks before we lose her completely.”

You smirk, brushing past them. “Come on boys, Let’s get this over with so I can win the race tomorrow.”

—

The paddock is buzzing — engineers checking last-minute data, cameras weaving through garages, team radios chirping nonstop. You’re standing by your car in full race suit, helmet under your arm, trying to lock into that pre-race focus zone. Almost there. You’ve got this. And then—footsteps. Familiar ones.

You glance to the side just as Ollie approaches, hands tucked into his Haas fire suit, eyes scanning the garage like he’s making sure no one’s watching. Subtle. Kind of. Not really.

“You ready?” he asks, stopping just in front of you. His voice is low enough that it’s meant for you, and only you.

You nod, trying not to smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

He hesitates, then dips his head a little closer. “You’ve got pace today. Just keep your head down in the first few laps. You already know what to do.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. You’d expected a smirk, a joke, maybe a thumbs-up from a distance — not this quiet, sincere energy. Your grip tightens slightly on your helmet. “Hush. You’ll get me all emotional.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder before returning his eyes to you.

“Good. Maybe it’ll slow you down.”

You roll your eyes. “You wish.”

Then he steps back, gives you one last nod — and that smile. The soft one that somehow always short-circuits your brain. And then—of course—

“Am I interrupting something?”

You jump slightly and turn to find Pierre standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the most smug expression plastered across his face.

You blinked, "No."

He raises a brow. “Because that looked a lot like a moment.”

You shoot him a warning look, but that only fuels him.

“Pierre—”

“Should I warn Oscar? Or let him find out on the broadcast?”

“Pierre.”

He grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it quiet. For now. But if you out-qualify me again next weekend, I am texting the group chat.”

You shove your helmet into his chest with a dramatic sigh, and he cackles all the way back to the garage. Behind you, someone’s camera flashes, and you swear you hear your race engineer mutter, “God help us if she gets a podium today.”

—

You’re still not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, you were sitting solidly in P2, chasing Oscar down like a dog after a steak. The next, McLaren boxed both cars too early, chaos unfolded, and suddenly you were flying down the pit straight in clean air, your engineer screaming in your ear that you were leading the race. And you held it. For twelve brutal laps.

Now? You’re parked in front of the P1 board. Out of the car. Helmet off. Surrounded by chaos. Drenched in sweat and disbelief and the overwhelming roar of a crowd losing its collective mind over you. You’re half-hugged, half-dragged by your crew and Alpine engineers, someone yelling “SHE DID IT!” while someone else nearly decapitates you with the team flag. You barely register any of it — your ears are ringing, your hands are shaking, your heart’s still trying to figure out how to calm down. And then Oscar appears. He pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, both of you laughing like idiots.

“You’re joking,” he says into your ear. “P1? That’s disgusting. You’re insufferable now.”

You pull back, grinning. “I learned from the best.”

“I wasn’t that good— especially in that car.”

“You also didn’t have Pierre screaming strategy codes in French in my left ear.”

Speak of the devil—Pierre shoves through the crowd next, yelling “P1! P1!” like he wasn’t there with you the entire last stint. He nearly tackles you with a hug, helmet still on, bouncing with the kind of energy a toddler on a sugar high has.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pushing him off playfully. “I still have to do interviews, I can’t look like I got mauled by my teammate.”

“You just won your first race,” Pierre says, beaming. “You should look like that.”

Then Lando walks past, looking miserable, soaking wet, visor down. He mutters, “I hate everything,” and you can’t help but yell “Thanks for the strategy!” after him.

Oscar high-fives you. Pierre howls with laughter. But as the madness starts to dull — as the mechanics scatter, the cameras shift, and the adrenaline begins to fade — there’s a beat. A rare, rare quiet moment. And in that sliver of silence, you feel someone step beside you. You turn, and it’s Ollie.

Helmet off, suit zipped halfway down, curls a little damp, a towel around his neck. There’s a small smile on his face, but it’s his eyes that catch you — bright, a little shy, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here, but came anyway.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your heart, which had just settled from the final lap, decides to go full tilt again.

“Hey,” you echo.

He looks at the crowd, then back at you. “I didn’t want to interrupt the chaos.”

“You kind of live in it,” you tease gently.

“Yeah, but this one was yours.” He smiles, and this one is all softness. “I’m really proud of you.”

You don’t mean to blush. You also don’t mean to look away that quickly, but the combination is lethal.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t feel real yet.”

“You made it look real.”

There’s a pause. A beat. And then, still soft, like he’s scared of startling the moment.

“Hey, um. This might not be the best time — you know, given you just beat half the grid senseless and all — but… would you maybe want to go out sometime?”

You blink. You actually blink. And then you blink again, because your brain is trying to replay the sentence in slow motion to make sure it wasn’t just a post-race hallucination.

You tilt your head. “Like… go out where?”

He gives you a sheepish, nervous laugh. “I don’t know. Like… dinner? Real clothes? A place where no one’s holding a stopwatch?”

You stare at him. Then—smile. A real one. Probably your third of the weekend, which is terrifying, if you’re being honest.

“I’d like that,” you say.

His face lights up in a way you’ve never quite seen before. You’re almost annoyed by how cute it is.

Before either of you can say more, you hear Lando from across the paddock yell, “SOMEONE CHECK HER TEMPERATURE—SHE’S SMILING AGAIN!”

Oscar, from next to him. “That is not my sister. Take the trophy away. Imposter.”

Pierre, sprinting back into the frame with a mic he stole from an interviewer.

“CONFIRMED— Piastri #2 is in love, pass it on!”

You sigh. Ollie laughs. Loudly. But even in the chaos, the roar, the teasing that’s definitely going to last until the next race weekend — he stays next to you. Close. Quiet. Soft. And for once, you don’t mind the noise at all.

—

nicolepiastri added a post to her story!

seen by oscarpiastri, yn_piastri, lilyzneimer and 1,002,002 others.

{caption : both of my children are on the podium but only one answers my calls— CONGRATULATIONS YNN! I LOVE YOU}

—

The second your boots hit the floor of the cooldown room, you finally exhale. Suit unzipped just enough to breathe again. There’s a bottle of water in your hand, a grin you still haven’t managed to shake off, and Oscar sitting on the bench beside you, towel slung around his neck and smirking like he’s the one who won. He’s been like this since parc fermé. Teasing. Poking. Looking entirely too pleased for someone who got bumped from P1 because of a McLaren meltdown.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, scrolling through your messages. The notifications are endless — texts, mentions, a dozen missed calls from your mum alone.

Oscar’s already watching you with far too much interest. “Oh good, you’re finally calling her. She’s going to yell at me and cry for you. What a reward.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you hit FaceTime. It rings once. Then twice. And then — your mum answers with all the emotional chaos.

“Oh my GOD, YN!”

You barely get a “Hi, Mum—” out before she’s off.

“You WON a Grand Prix! I almost passed out in the living room! Hattie screamed! I was crying during the last ten laps—you didn’t even look nervous! And then the overtake after the pit stop—!”

You hold the phone out slightly so she doesn’t deafen you. Oscar leans over your shoulder and makes a dramatic shocked face into the camera.

“Hi Mum,” he says flatly. “Your second-favorite child reporting in.”

“Oh hush, Oscar. You’re still on probation for ignoring my calls last week.”

You snort.

“I CALLED YOU FIVE TIMES,” she continues. “AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T SEE THAT SMILE, YN. Don’t even try to act like you weren’t looking at Ollie Bearman like he hung the moon.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“MUM!”

Oscar cackles. Loudly. “Knew it. I knew it. There was a look.”

You turn to him, horrified. “She saw it on the broadcast?!”

Your mum is beaming. “Oh, everyone saw it. You smiled like you were in love. It was very unlike you.”

Oscar’s already doubled over. “You’re DONE. You’re actually finished. Mum caught the soft launch before anyone. You’re slipping.”

“Both of you need to be quiet,” you hiss, gripping your water bottle like a weapon.

Your mum shakes her head fondly. “Darling, I’m happy for you. First race win and a boy you actually like? That’s a big day.”

Oscar snorts to himself “I give it two weeks before we’re picking wedding venues.”

You gave him a look and said, “I give it two minutes before I throw this at your head.”

“Do it,” Oscar dares, eyes wide with laughter. “Make it the first sibling fight broadcast live from the cooldown room.”

You sigh so hard you think your soul leaves your body. “I just wanted to say thank you and maybe get a little love from my supportive family and instead I’m being roasted alive.”

Oscar’s already taking selfies with your phone and trying to angle you both into the frame while your mum yells something about screen recording this for Hattie. Eventually, you end the call, cheeks pink, body aching from the race — and from the sheer emotional whiplash of it all. Oscar tosses you your towel. “Well, race winner. You’ve survived the podium, the press, and Mum. You’re practically unstoppable.”

You sigh, leaning back against the bench with a grin.

“God help me if she meets Ollie.”

Oscar just smirks. “Oh, she’s already planning it.”

—

yn_piastri

liked by olliebearman, nicolepiastri, pierregasly and 10,001,008 others.

yn_piastri : life as a race winner is pretty sweet

tagged : pierregasly and olliebearman

—

view 890,001 other comments.

logansargeant : we get it. you are fast and in love. so proud of you, kid!

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : ignoring the in love part. but LOGANNNNNNN i miss you

liked by logansargeant

hattiepiastri : text me back right this instant. i have questions. but oMG MY SISTER IS A RACE WINNER. I LOVE YOUUUUU

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : love you more

↳ oscarpiastri : i did NOT get this much love my first win.

↳ nicolepiastri : you also didn’t dedicate your first win to your mother and your sisters— yn did.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

nicolepiastri : i see him yn. i need to meet him.

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

pierregasly : absolutely incredible! (you are my favorite teammate) (no one tell estie bestie)

liked by yn_piastri

alpinef1team : OUR QUEEN 🩷💙🤍🏆

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : you are welcome.

carlossainz55 : LET HER COOK 🗣️

liked by yn_piastri

lando : you are the only person i’d be okay with stealing this race from me

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : blame your team, norris.

georgerussell63 : You were absolutely insane out there! Congratulations YN!

liked by yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : YAYYYYY! Congratulations YN! You made all of us so proud:)

liked by yn_piastri

franciscagomes : I am so proud of you, YN! Restored my faith in the team 😭

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : You are incredible. 🩷💙

liked by yn_piastri, lando and oscarpiastri

—

You’re used to chaos — engine noise, media scrums, strategy debriefs, Oscar’s constant dry commentary. What you’re not used to? This. Silence. Comfort. A night without cameras, paddock chatter, or telemetry breakdowns. Just soft lighting, quiet music, and Ollie Bearman sitting across from you at a candlelit table, cheeks flushed and curls slightly messy from where he kept running his hand through them.

He picks nervously at the edge of his napkin and smiles at you like you’re the only person who exists in the entire world. And somehow, that doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… right.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he says, breaking the silence with a sheepish little grin.

You raise an eyebrow over your wine glass. “You asked me right after I won a Grand Prix. Your timing was immaculate.”

He laughs — that full, warm, boyish laugh you’ve only ever heard from him around his engineers or when he’s completely relaxed. It settles something in your chest.

“Okay, fair,” he says. “I might’ve used the momentum to my advantage.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Would’ve said yes anyway.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then his voice drops, just a little.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

The words settle between you like a secret. Like something sacred. Dinner comes and goes — light food, laughter, gentle teasing. He makes fun of the way you concentrate so hard when you cut your food, and you tease him for still saying “thank you” to every single staff member like it’s his first day on Earth.

At one point, your feet bump under the table and you freeze — but he doesn’t pull away. Just smiles at you, like he knows how rare it is for you to let anyone close.

“You’re not what I expected, you know,” he says suddenly, once dessert is cleared. “When I first met you, I thought you hated me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s just my face. And you were loud.”

He laughs. “Still am.”

“Still true.”

But then you glance at him — really look — and say, a little quieter, “I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t know how to be around someone who made me feel like this.”

He pauses. His smile softens. “Like what?”

You shrug, like it’s not terrifying to admit this out loud. “Like I don’t have to be on guard. Like… I can breathe.”

It hangs in the air between you. He doesn’t rush to fill it, doesn’t joke, doesn’t look away. He just reaches across the table, gentle and sure, and lets his fingers brush yours. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand settle in his.

“Me too,” he says softly. “That’s how you make me feel.”

Later, when you’re outside under the soft glow of city lights, waiting for your car to arrive, he stands beside you with his hands in his pockets, the air thick with something sweet and unspoken.

He looks over at you. “Can I—?”

You beat him to it. You lean in and kiss him. It’s slow. It’s soft. It’s not fireworks or fanfare — it’s better. It’s quiet warmth. A kind of safety you didn’t know you wanted until now. When you pull back, his smile is dazed and dopey and perfect.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “That answers that.”

Your car pulls up. He opens the door for you.

Before you step in, you glance over your shoulder.

“Next time,” you say, “you pick the restaurant.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?” he teases.

You smirk. “If you keep smiling at me like that, yeah.”

You slide into the car, and he’s still standing there when you look back — grinning like he just won a race.

—

You should’ve known something was off the second your phone stopped buzzing. No texts from Oscar. No memes from Lando. Not even a meme. Just… silence. Peaceful. Suspicious. You’re halfway through a rerun of some terrible reality show, face scrubbed clean, hoodie three sizes too big, snacks in your lap — when it happens.  Someone’s pounding on your front door like you’re harboring state secrets. You pause. Narrow your eyes. It can’t be—You open the door. It is.

Oscar and Lando stand there like a chaotic sitcom duo, Oscar in a hoodie with a smug look on his face and Lando wearing sunglasses indoors like he is about to interrogate you.

Oscar raises a brow. “So. You had a date.”

You blink. “Hello to you too?”

Lando pushes past you like he owns the place. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“What—no—why would—”

Oscar follows behind, stepping over your shoes with the precision of a man on a mission. “You smiled three times in one weekend. THREE. We checked. And now you’re soft launching.”

You fold your arms. “Get out of my house.”

Lando flops dramatically onto your couch, eyes wide. “Did you let him kiss you? Did you—initiate the kiss?”

“I—”

Oscar points. “She did. She’s pausing.”

“Deny it,” Lando dares. “Say it didn’t happen. Say you didn’t fall for him.”

You open your mouth to snap back—and then the doorbell rings. The timing is cursed. You all freeze.

Oscar squints. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” you say slowly.

Lando’s already halfway to the door. “Oh this is good. This is cinema.”

You try to beat him there, but he swings the door open before you can even shout. And standing there — because the universe is a menace — is a delivery guy holding the most obnoxiously romantic bouquet you’ve ever seen. White peonies. Baby’s breath. Little bits of Alpine blue ribbon tied into the stems.

“Delivery for YN Piastri?” the guy says.

Behind you, Oscar lets out a strangled sound. “You’re joking.”

Lando’s cackling. Full on, no-holds-barred, bent-over laughter. “FLOWERS?! OLLIE SENT YOU FLOWERS?!”

You try to grab the bouquet, but Lando intercepts it instantly.

“He signed the card,” he says, reading aloud in his most smug voice. “‘Can’t stop thinking about last night. Hope today’s just as sweet. Ollie 🐻’ — there’s a BEAR EMOJI. I’m gonna be sick.”

“Give it to me,” you hiss, lunging for the card.

“You’re in LOVE,” Lando gasps, gripping the armrest of the couch like he’s witnessing a plot twist in a soap opera. “You’re actually in love. Our cold-blooded, deadpan ice queen is giggling over peonies.”

“I am NOT giggling—”

Oscar snaps a photo of you holding the bouquet like it’s evidence in a court case. “Mum is going to LOSE IT when she sees this.”

You nearly scream. “DO NOT SEND THAT TO MUM.”

“You’re lucky I’m not sending it to Ollie with a message that says ‘take good care of our emotionally unavailable menace,’” Lando says, grinning.

You collapse onto the couch and bury your face in your hands as the two of them spiral — Oscar dramatically pacing and reading the card out loud again, and Lando pretending to write a best man speech into your Notes app.

“You guys are unwell,” you mumble.

“And you,” Oscar says, dropping onto the armrest beside you, “are in trouble.”

“Big trouble,” Lando adds. “Because now we care. Now we’re invested. We’re emotionally attached to the Ollie situation.”

“God help him,” Oscar mutters. “He’s dating you.”

You look up, cheeks warm, bouquet in your lap. And despite the chaos, the teasing, and the complete invasion of your private life… you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Poor guy’s doomed.”

—

It’s late. The house is finally quiet. Oscar and Lando have been banished, the flower bouquet has been moved to the kitchen and you’re lying in bed, hoodie on, phone somewhere near your pillow. You should’ve known she’d call. When Nicole’s name flashes on your screen, you hesitate for half a second… then swipe to answer.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You got flowers.”

Her tone is calm, knowing — the exact way she used to say ‘I know what you did’ when you were seven and tried to hide chocolate under your pillow.

You sigh. “Yes. I did.”

“From Ollie Bearman.”

You groan and bury your face in your pillow. “I’m aware.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just soft. Then, gently—

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

You’re quiet for a long beat. And then, maybe for the first time, you don’t dodge the question. You stare at the ceiling and let the truth slip out in a whisper. “He’s… kind.”

“Kind?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He’s patient. And funny in this really low-key, unforced way. He doesn’t treat me like I’m difficult to figure out, he just… wants to. And he makes me feel safe. I haven’t felt that in a while.”

There’s another pause. But it’s warm. Like your mum is letting that settle in her chest. Then you hear her smile through the phone.

“I like him already.”

You exhale. “Yeah. Me too.”

“He’s going to get a proper interrogation when I see him, though.”

You groan. “Of course he is.”

Nicole laughs softly. “I’m your mum. It’s in the contract. But YN?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you. And not just for the win. For letting someone in.”

You close your eyes, heart unexpectedly full.

“…Thanks, Mum.”

You hang up a few minutes later. And for the first time that day, the silence feels calm. Not lonely. Just safe. Just sweet.

—

You should’ve known Ollie was up to something the second he picked you up on time. Hair slightly damp, curls pushed back, white linen shirt on. Waiting outside your flat in Monaco with a quiet smile and one hand behind his back.

“What’s that look for?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you stepped outside.

“I have a plan,” he said simply. “And no, you’re not allowed to make fun of it.”

Now you’re sitting in the back of a sleek car winding up the narrow streets of Monaco, your hand resting in his, the glittering lights of the coastline slipping past you like a movie. And you realize—this feels different. Intentional. Soft. Thoughtful in the way only Ollie seems capable of pulling off without it ever feeling overdone.

You glance at him. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

He grins. “Nope.”

You squint. “If it’s a boat thing, I swear—”

“It’s not a boat thing. Though I’m offended you think I’d try to drown you this early in our relationship.”

That word—relationship—hangs in the air for a second. Neither of you comment on it. But you smile. The car finally slows to a stop in front of a restaurant tucked into a quiet cliffside — all soft lighting, ocean views, and the kind of clientele that could probably buy half the grid.

You blink. “Wait… this place?”

Ollie only nods. Smug.

“You can’t get a reservation here unless you’re a royal or a Michelin inspector,” you murmur, stunned. “I’ve been trying for months.”

“I know,” he says, helping you out of the car. “I called them every day for a week. And also begged. A little. Not proud.”

You stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks. “Yeah. For you.”

The restaurant is perfect. It’s candlelit and quiet, with ocean air drifting in through open archways and the faint hum of a string quartet playing somewhere nearby. They seat you at a private table on a balcony overlooking the water. And Ollie? Ollie just watches you with that same soft awe he always seems to have when you’re not looking. Except now you catch him.

You tilt your head. “You’re staring.”

“Obviously,” he replies. “You look like you belong in a movie.”

You scoff. “You’re so full of it.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It’s kind of a problem.”

You eat slowly. Talk easily. About everything and nothing. He asks about your pre-race rituals. You ask about his favorite circuit to crash on in which you receive a snort. He makes fun of the way you order pasta like you’re judging the chef. You call him out for stealing bites of your dessert. But beneath it all, there’s this steady, comfortable rhythm — like the two of you are already past the awkward part of love and deep into the good stuff. The safe stuff. The quiet knowing. As the night winds down and you think it’s over, Ollie stands and holds his hand out.

“One more surprise,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re at the top of a hill in a tucked-away indoor karting track — privately rented out. You blink at the scene in front of you. The neon lights. The empty grid. Two karts already prepped.

“You… rented a karting track?” you ask, stunned.

He shrugs, trying to look casual. “You said you haven’t been in years. Just for fun.”

“That’s because when I go, I overheat the tires and scare children.”

He grins. “Exactly. I want to see that.”

And so, somehow, your perfect Monaco date ends with the two of you in full helmets and borrowed race suits, gunning down a tight corner in fifty-kilo karts, yelling across the straightaways and laughing like you’re both fifteen again. He tries to block you once. Once. You pass him on the outside, flick the rear end just to be cocky, and when you take the checkered flag, you slow down just in time to see him dramatically pull over and fake defeat. You climb out and yank your helmet off with a grin.

“Not bad for a date night, huh?” he asks, breathless.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed. “I won.”

He steps closer. “Yeah,” he murmurs, reaching to brush a bit of helmet hair from your face. “But I still feel like I came out ahead.”

You bite back a smile. “That was so cheesy.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

You do. God, you really do. And when he kisses you, right there at the edge of the track, under flickering fluorescent lights and the buzz of your post-race high, it feels like a new kind of perfect. The kind you didn’t know you deserved.

—

several weeks later…

f1gossipgirls

5,023,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a full family affair in the paddock today! YN Piastri was spotted arriving hand in hand with Ollie Bearman — and showed up with his family. One well-timed photo even caught him kissing her on the cheek. Soft launch? Over. Meanwhile, Nicole Piastri and Lily were seen walking the paddock together like seasoned pros. And yes, the Piastri sisters were all there too — spotted repping Alpine with their father, Chris Piastri, screaming for YN during quali. Busy day for the Piastris. And we’re eating it up.

—

You don’t do the whole hand-holding thing. Not usually. Not where cameras can see. Not where half the grid is lurking behind sunglasses and PR smiles. But today? Your hand is in Ollie’s, swinging ever so slightly as you walk through the paddock, and you don’t care who sees. His mum is on his other side, his siblings somewhere behind you, and the sun’s warm, and the media pens are quiet for once. It’s good. It’s easy. Until Oscar appears like a summoned demon. He materializes in front of you, squinting like he just saw something traumatizing. Which, apparently, he has.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You’re still holding hands?”

You blink at him. “Good morning to you, too.”

Ollie lets out a soft, polite laugh that makes Oscar narrow his eyes even harder.

He turns fully to you, arms crossed. “Right. Well. Mum’s waiting.”

You pause. “Okay… for what?”

Oscar jerks his thumb toward hospitality. “To meet him.”

Ollie blinks. “Sorry—what?”

Oscar shrugs like this isn’t the most dangerous escalation of your relationship. “She saw the kiss. She saw the flowers. She’s making tea and says she’s ‘ready for the boy with the curls.’”

You stare at him. “You set me up.”

Oscar grins. “No, Mum did. I’m just the messenger.”

Beside you, Ollie squeezes your hand — just once — like he’s steadying you, even though he’s about to walk straight into the lion’s den.

“Should I be scared?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

You sigh. “Yes. But smile and she might let you live.”

Oscar’s already walking ahead of you, smug as ever. “Hurry up, lovebirds. She’s heating scones and practicing her interrogation voice.”

And just like that, the paddock peace is over — and the Piastri family trial begins.

—

You walk into Alpine hospitality holding Ollie’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded — which, to be fair, it is. He’s calm. Charming. A little flushed, but smiling, like he doesn’t realize he’s about to be thoroughly interrogated by the people who know you better than you know yourself.

“Mum will be nice,” you mutter as you walk.

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” he asks, quietly.

“Both.”

And then there she is — Nicole Piastri, standing just inside the hospitality suite, sipping tea from a floral mug that she definitely packed from home. Her expression is warm but calculating, and beside her— Oh God. Dad’s here too. Chris Piastri, arms folded, wearing sunglasses indoors like he’s security, and looking very serious about this meeting. You stop short.

“Hi,” you say, maybe a little too loudly.

Nicole’s smile widens. “Darling. There you are.”

Ollie steps up beside you. “Hi, Mrs. Piastri. Mr. Piastri. I’m—”

“We know who you are,” Chris says flatly.

Nicole gently nudges his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chris, he’s adorable.” She turns to Ollie with a dazzling smile. “Sit down, dear. We made you tea.”

Ollie blinks. “You—what?”

“She brewed you her best tea,” you mutter under your breath. “I’ve never even been offered the best tea.”

Chris sits, still sizing Ollie up like he’s a rival team’s lead strategist. “So. You like our daughter.”

Ollie opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Uh—yes. Very much.”

Nicole hums. “He’s honest. I like that.”

“She’s emotionally unavailable,” Chris says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

Ollie, bless him, just nods. “She is. I like that too.”

You shoot him a look. He shrugs like—What? It’s true.

Nicole is delighted. “He’s charming. Chris, stop being a grump.”

Chris sighs like he’s being personally victimized. “Fine. But I reserve the right to glare at him.”

Then, like fate planned it, the doors swing open.

“Oh my GOD, is that him?!”

Hattie’s voice cuts through the air like a missile, and before you can even brace, three little hurricanes storm in.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae — your three youngest sisters, all armed with iPhones, iced coffees, and very little shame.

You immediately try to flee. “Nope. Absolutely not. Goodbye—”

But they swarm.

Hattie practically tackles you in a hug before turning to Ollie like a game show host. “So you’re the boy.”

“Nice curls,” Edie adds, squinting. “Did you style them just for her?”

Mae takes a photo from behind her phone. “This is going to be included at the wedding album.” 

“MAE.”

Ollie is visibly trying not to laugh. “I’m… honored? Terrified? A mix.”

Chris raises his mug. “Welcome to the family.”

Nicole just leans back with a satisfied smile. “I love when everyone’s here.”

”Oscar isn’t.” Mae said with a smirk. 

You look at Ollie — completely surrounded, pink in the cheeks, but grinning at your sisters like he’s having the time of his life. He catches your eye and mouths, You okay? You mouth back, You’re the one in danger. He just shrugs. Like he’d walk into the lion’s den a thousand times if it meant he got to hold your hand at the end of it. And honestly? That’s the moment you know he’s already one of them.

—

You’d done it. Again. The flag dropped, the roar erupted, and your name came through the radio— your race engineer’s voice first — “P1, YN. You’re P1.” This time, there was no shock. No disbelief. Just joy. Crashing, overwhelming joy. But nothing compared to the moment you stepped onto the top step of the podium and looked out at the sea of faces — and saw them. Your family. All of them. Nicole was standing in the front row of the Alpine viewing box, her hand covering her mouth, eyes shining. Chris stood behind her, his sunglasses off, wiping something off his cheek and pretending it was sweat. Oscar was already leaning over the rail, fists in the air, grinning like an idiot. Lily beside him, filming everything on her phone. And then there were your sisters — Hattie with her Alpine cap backwards, Edie screaming at a security guard to move, and Mae sobbing into a little handmade sign that read “LET HER COOK.”

And Ollie — in the Haas garage at first, but then suddenly appearing like magic at the edge of parc fermé, mouthing “I told you.” You barely held it together through the anthem. Through the champagne. Through the press photos. But the moment they let you go — the moment you stepped off that podium and your eyes met Oscar’s? You ran. Trophy tucked under your arm, still half in your suit, you sprinted toward the team area, dodging cameras and PR handlers, until you reached them. Oscar met you first — grabbing you and spinning you around before you could even say anything.

“Back-to-back wins?” he shouted over the noise. “You trying to make me look bad?”

You laughed, breathless. “I’m just better than you now.”

“Not wrong,” he said, grinning proudly.

Then came your mum. Nicole crushed you into a hug that smelled like floral perfume and peppermint tea and home.

“My girl,” she whispered. “You were magnificent.”

“I couldn’t hear you crying from the podium,” you teased.

“I was very discreet, thank you.”

Your dad pulled you into a quick, tight hug next, gruffly muttering, “You’ve made us so proud. But next time, don’t scare me with that overtake on Lap 42. I nearly aged ten years.”

Then the girls tackled you — all at once.

“You were FLYING!” Hattie screamed.

“You BLEW past Max like he was standing still!” Edie shouted.

“I’m not okay,” Mae sobbed. “I haven’t stopped crying since Lap 50.”

You were laughing and crying and breathless, overwhelmed and completely surrounded by love. And when you finally looked up, Ollie was standing a few feet away — waiting. Watching. Giving you space to have your moment. You stepped away from the circle of siblings and met him halfway.

“I told you,” he said again, voice soft, eyes glowing.

“I know,” you whispered, smiling. “But hearing it was different than believing it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, gently, reverently. “Do you believe it now?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not here. Not yet. But he squeezed your hand once, and it said everything.

—

Your family rented out a little restaurant tucked into a side street in town — your mum insisted it had to be cozy and not fussy. No press. No cameras. Just you, your family, and a table full of food and noise. Oscar sat at the head of the table like he ran the whole operation, passing bread baskets and complaining about the wine like he knew anything. Your sisters retold the race from their perspective at least six times, each version more dramatic than the last. Nicole ordered dessert for the table before anyone even got halfway through dinner.

Chris made a speech — short, emotional, voice cracking halfway through and he denied it many times. And Ollie? Ollie sat beside you, not trying to dominate the conversation, not trying to steal attention — just being there.

He listened. He laughed. He made Hattie giggle so hard she snorted lemonade through her nose. He leaned over when things got loud and asked if you were okay. He held your hand under the table when no one was looking. He fit.

By the end of the night, Nicole had slipped him an extra dessert plate and whispered, “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

And when Ollie looked to you — grinning, hopeful — you just nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s staying.” The table erupted again. And this time, when they toasted? They toasted to you. To the girl who won. To the girl who loved. To the girl who let herself be known. And for once — completely, deeply, happily — you let them.

—

olliebearman

liked by yn_piastri, oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 7,770,001 others.

olliebearman : 2 time race winner AND MY GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!

tagged : yn_piastri

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view 770,134 other comments.

oscarpiastri : AND MY SISTER!!!!!!! so watch yourself.

liked by olliebearman

↳ yn_piastri : no one is scared of your threats, remember, the internet thinks you look microwaveable.

liked by alex_albon and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MEAN

liked by yn_piastri, alex_albon and olliebearman

lando : you have to break up now. you gave her superpowers, she cannot keep winning.

liked by olliebearman and yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : BOOOOOOOOO. just get better at driving.

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and olliebearman

pierregasly : this is disgusting. i am sick to my stomach. but you guys are so cute i can’t be mad. take care of my menace.

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

hattiepiastri : can i be maid of honor?????

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : you are assuming he will want to marry her.

↳ olliebearman : i do.

liked by yn_piastri, hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri and lando

↳ hattiepiastri : SFJRBFJASDFNOISAERDFNG OMH

↳ oscarpiastri : never speaking again.

↳ yn_piastri : aw ollie u broke both of them. i love youuu

liked by olliebearman

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