cosmichughes

[cosmichughes]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[cosmichughes]

no ouai | oscar piastri x norris! fem! reader

summary; in which a paparazzi photo of oscar at a beauty store leads to one thing to another

fc; sunday kalogaras

warnings;cursing

note; i need to go down the f1 fic rabbit hole again bc ive only been reading isack and lewis fics so idk what anyone is doing here 😭

masterlist !

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liked by lando, iamrebeccad, and others!

ynnorris: frizz free hair routine perf for the hot summer out now on tiktok my loves 💗💗

user1: omg FINALLY

user2: my curls will thank u

user3: do i have curly hair? no. will i still watch y/n’s hair routine? yes.

lando: idk i just put water in it and call it a day

ynnorris: yeah i can tell

landonorris: don’t be so RUDE.

ynnorris: like u weren’t worse when we were kids 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

user4: i wanna be u so bad

user5: guys what if oscar bought the hair products for y/n

user6: girl???

user7: finally i’ve been looking for a routine for definition 😭🙏 thank u queen y/n

iamrebeccad: my curly haired baby🩷

ynnorris: i miss u pls let’s hang out soon🙁

lewishamilton: we love the natural hair era

ynnorris: yes unc exactly

user8: is y/n teaching lewis this lakaoakxos

user9: user8 uncle and niece duo fr

alexandrasaintmleux: literal angel hair 🪽

ynnorris: ily🙁

user10: THANKS Y/NNBN

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loading comments…

user11: anyone notice her slip up??

user12: her saying os? yes. yes we did

user13: BOYFRIEND????

user14: omg i have all of these i’m gonna try rn

user15: diffusing heat settings??

ynnorris: i usually stay w medium heat high speed!!!

user16: unbothered queen

user17: mentioned boyfriend… said os…. oscar piastri spotted at a beauty supply store… hm…

user18: DID YALL SEE THAT??😭😭😭

user19: see what???

user18: istg i saw a man sitting in the corner for a split second at 0:52

user20: I SAW IT TOO

user21: maybe it’s lando???

user22: no lando was spotted in monaco earlier today, y/n is at her home in london… and guess who else is in london👀👀👀👀👀

user23: WAITTTTT A DAMN MINUTE

iamrebeccad12: 😍😍😍

user24: queue all the curly girl influencers trying y/n’s hair routineeeee

user25: miss norris…. what did u say

alexandrasaintmleux: 💗💗

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liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux, and others !

ynnorris: omg no ouai

tagged; oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri: it was ouidad actually that got me caught

ynnorris: whatever whatever i needed it

oscarpiastri: i love u

ynnorris: i love uuuuu

user26: I KNEW ITTTT

user27: omg ???

lando: huh

lando: oh

lando: wha

lando: what.

lando: WHAT.

ynnorris: i sent u a funny tiktok abt a ferret can u pls go watch it it’s so funny

user28: she kills me😭😭

user29: she really dgaf and i respect it

lando: Y/N NORRIS WHAT IS THIS???

ynnorris: hard launch

lando: oh you’re so dead oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri: you don’t scare me ?????

lando: what the HELL

ynnorris: ok ur being a drama queen now

lando: my BABY SISTER is dating my TEAMMATE?????

ynnorris: and???

lando: omg ???

user30: this lando headloss is cinema

alexandrasaintmleux: hard launch me next??

ynnorris: u got it baby

charles_leclerc: woah woah woah

oscarpiastri: ?

user31: AHHANDLAKKD

user32: wait omg i love them already😭

user33: y/n using ouai in her caption after mistakenly calling ouidad ouai in her tiktok… i see u girl 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

user34: this is my taylor swift and travis kelce

user35: y/n wag era 😭🧡

[cosmichughes]

NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ? PART TWO — I KNOW LOVE.

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , march 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── march 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

[cosmichughes]

opposites attract ⏐ l.hughes

pairings: luke hughes x afab!reader genre: fluff ⎜ strangers-to-lovers ⎜ he falls first ⎜college au ⎜slow burn? ⎜ warnings: mentions of a shitty old ex ⎜protective Luke ⎜ Sick Luke ⎜ not much tbh ⎜mentions of Luke naked but not in a sexual way synopsis: you're not quite sure what to make of the oversized golden retriever defence man, especially when he asks for your help to pass his upcoming exams. word count: 11.3k authors note:  this took me a really long time to write and I was not expecting to enjoy writing it so much but I really did - so I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. (UNEDITED)

You remember the first time you saw him. You had been locked up in the library for hours, your notebooks scattered around you, your pens all over the table, two highlighters had already made it into the bin, and your laptop was begging for a charger. 

The library is quiet, it usually is around this hour - especially on a Friday night - just late enough that most students have given up and gone home to either finish their study or not do anything at all - but it was still early enough that it wouldn’t have you questioning all your life choices the next morning. The overhead fluorescents had been switched out for the small individual table lamps on each table - your usual table, the third from the back, right under the large window letting the soft moonlight in. 

Your laptop flashes the red warning again, begging you to plug it in. You oblige letting out a soft groan as you heft your tote bag onto the table and begin digging around for the white chord, only pausing when movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention - the library was almost completely empty, bar a few students littered around the stacks of books who were definitely not studying if the soft breaths were anything to go by - so what was this lanky, clearly overgrown, drank too much milk as a child, obvious athlete doing in here - at nine pm no less, no one comes in here after eight. 

You relax a little at the soft ‘bing’ of your laptop being plugged in, the warning disappearing instantly as you take in the new intruder. He was clearly an athlete, that wasn’t a secret, he was completely decked out in the u-mich sweats and shoes, the backpack slung over his shoulders looked heavy but it was clear that no one had used it since it was bought at the start of the year - the fabric looking almost coated with dust from sitting in a cupboard or under a bed for too long. 

You watch him as he looks around the library, his eyes darting between the shelves widening as they spot the couple that had been there all night, half mounting each other and his cheeks glow a bright pink as he turns back to the table, his eyes locking on yours and a smile spreading on his face. 

“Hey, you must be the tutor?” He says quickly as he shuffles over to your table, dropping his bag on the table with a loud bang, startling the librarian at the front desk, who just shakes her head and goes back to reading the ’90s romance she had been nursing for the past few hours. 

“I’m sorry?” You ask slowly, watching as he pulls his notebooks out of his bag, each book looking newer than the last one, also clearly unused despite being three-quarters of the way into the year. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The athlete pauses for a moment, staring down at you with confusion before letting out a soft laugh. 

“Ha, ha, very funny - I’m Luke, the guy that called you the other day, because of the flyer in the student athlete building.” He shakes his head as he laughs again, thinking your ‘antics’ were the funniest thing he’d seen all day. You continue to just watch as he settles into the seat across from you, your brow furrowed and your head cocked to the side as it all seems to click in his head. “You’re not the tutor.” He says quietly, almost completely to himself, his cheeks flushing back to the burning pink colour they were before. 

“I’m not.” You confirm, trying to stop the upturn of your lips as you watch him flounder for a second, his eyes looking over your work spread across the table, and the way he had thrown his books over the top. 

“I am so sorry — I shouldn’t have just assumed…” He starts as he tries to gather his stuff, the flush spreading down his neck as he fumbles, a few of his pens falling to the floor as he scrambles after them, “come to think of it I’m pretty sure I spoke to a dude.” He mumbles to himself as he places his pens back on the table, looking awkward as he bends over to pick up the rest. 

“Luke?” You say quietly, wanting to stop the chaos happening in front of you as quickly as possible. His head perks up at his name, his blue eyes wide, his curls bouncing as he turns to face you. 

“You know my name?” 

“You did say it like five minutes ago.” You correct, clearing your throat before leaning further over the table to grab hold of his textbook. “You’re in 102 ECON?” You question, flipping through the book that looks like it was pulled from its packet a total of twenty minutes ago - the book unmarred by any obvious study. He nods in response to your question, managing to gather his fallen pens before sliding back into the seat across from you, “I can probably help you with this — what do you need the most help with?” 

“Everything?” He lets out a chuckle as he raises a hand to scrub at the back of his neck — you shoot him a smile in sympathy before flicking the textbook to chapter one. 

“You know that the ‘student’ comes first in student athlete, right?” You tease, watching the blush rise on the tips of his ears, enjoying the way he seems to get so flustered so easily. 

“Wait, so you’ll help me?” He asks for clarification, his brows pinched in confusion. “I can pay you, the other guy wanted two hundred per session.” He says reaching into his bag and pulling out his wallet, not noticing your agape mouth at the number he threw out. 

“Well he was severely overcharging.” You say, straightening your posture, as you scoot your chair around the table, sliding the textbook between the two of you as you scoot by his side, “I will take a drink or snack every time you come here though.” 

“I can do that.” He agrees quickly, focusing his attention quickly on the textbook as you try to do a crash course in each chapter to see where he’s up to. It takes three hours, and the librarian coming to shut down your session before you have a good idea of where to start on the rest, Luke is by no means dumb and picking up most things pretty quickly, but he only remembers the basics of chapter one and you only have three weeks till his exam to get him through the next five chapters. 

“I really appreciate you doing this for me.” He says softly as the two of you exit the library, your books bundled in your arms, his back in his brand new backpack with notes on what to read through before the next time you meet up. 

“It’s fine, I have a soft spot for people in need.” You say, glancing down at your phone as it rings the last name you want to see lighting up the screen. 

“Are you going to answer that?” He asks quickly, as you shove your phone back into your pocket. 

“No.” You respond, already getting annoyed by the constant buzzing of the phone in your pocket, you begin to walk down the stairs of the library, your dorm only five minutes from the large building. “Remember, I want a hot chocolate on Wednesday.” You remind him, watching as he types it in his phone, before you begin walking back to your dorm, not looking back to notice the way he walks slowly behind you, his attention completely on his phone hoping you wouldn’t turn around to ask him why he was following you - maybe you would think his dorm was this way too - he follows you until he’s sure you reach your dorm building before he starts his own way home in the opposite direction. 

+

+

Despite not expecting to hear from Luke again - your phone had almost been set ablaze by how often it was lighting up with text messages from him over the weekend — though you weren’t able to contain your surprise that he was actually continuing on with the work you had asked him to do before your next meet up. 

Luke (library guy): read through chapter two! I’ve written all my questions so we can go through them on Wednesday. 

Luke (library guy): Is there anyway we can meet up on Monday as well? My questions are at least two pages long.😫

Luke (library guy): things are getting out of hand…send help. 🙃 I’ve never studied this much in my life.

Luke (library guy): I know you’re reading these — if you’re going to ignore me at least try a little harder, or turn off your read receipts ☹️

You leave another message on read, as you tuck your phone back into your pocket - your headphones over your ears and a stack of marked quizzes tucked closely to your chest as you wander through the campus, making your way to the 102 ECON class you assist with — hoping to god it’s not the session Luke is in. To be completely honest, you had assumed that the second you had entered your dorm room after the night in the librar,y you’d be receiving a text from Luke asking to rain check — he was an athlete after all, they weren’t really known to stick to a schedule outside of their sport. 

You glance up at the looming building in front of you, letting out a long sigh at the thought of suffering thorough yet another lecture you had already heard, and then getting stuck with all the questions from the upperclassmen who clearly thought this class would be an easy pass when they signed up for it two years ago. The freshmen were usually fine, barely asking questions, still going about their college lives without the pressure of impending failure — it was the juniors and seniors who were still stuck in the same class for the third - or fourth-year - in a row that tended to give you the biggest headaches. 

You walk through the open classroom door, shoving your headphones off the top of your head until they sit comfortably on your neck, adjusting the quizzes in your arm before plopping them on top of the small second desk towards the front of the room. The classroom is half full when you arrive, the room buzzing with conversation and the occasional squeaking of someone taking a seat, you keep your head down as you arrange the quizzes before moving them to the professors desk — preparing to mentally disappear before anyone can ask you questions about the lesson for the day, until you hear it - the soft calling of your name. 

“Pst, over here.” The first whispers of your name, seem to quiet most of the crowd, your body tensing as you glance up from the professors desk, it’s hard to miss Luke in his - what you think is typical - u mich hoodie, his curls bouncing against his head, seeming longer then they were last week when you last saw him, his hand raised in an enthusiastic wave. All dreams and hopes of Luke not being in this session are quickly sucked out the still open door, maybe you have a chance to make an escape? 

“I didn’t know you were in this class.” Luke calls out, and as he’s sitting in the fifth row back, he really does “call” out to you. You can’t help the way your mouth falls open a little, your eyes darting around the class and the sudden attention on you, your eyes moving back over to Luke as his friend sitting besides him elbows him in the ribs, Luke’s hand falling down to hold his side, his gaze turning a glare on the boy sitting next to him. 

“Dude, she’s not in the class, she’s the TA.” His friend scolds him in a very loud whisper, the grimace spreading across your face as you try to ignore the two of them. 

“Well, how was I meant to know that?” Luke hisses back, his friend rolling his eyes and leaning back against his chair. 

“Maybe if you’d been in class more than once a week, you would have known that.” You let out a long sigh as you sink into your chair besides the professors desk, sending the older gentleman a smile as he enters the room, thanking you as he picks up the quizzes from last week, and beginning to pass them out to the class, the flash of a D+ on Luke’s quiz flashing through your memory. 

Luke (library guy): My kind, thoughtful, handsome and very single friend Ethan, has very gently brought it to my attention that I may have made you uncomfortable - for that I apologise. 

You glance up when your phone buzzes on your desk, reading the message before glancing up towards the fifth row, seeing the two boys gathered around Luke’s phone, the message clearly thought of by the objectively good-looking man beside Luke, who shoots you what looks to be a genuinely apologetic smile. “It makes you seem smart.” You only just catch Ethan whispering to Luke, neither of them having much volume control now that the room is quieting down. 

“No, it just makes you look like an idiot,” Luke replies, tucking the phone back into his pocket with a shake of his head, his eyes catching yours once more, the smile dropping off his face, as you look away, focusing yourself on sliding into your chair and reorganising your already organised desk. You don’t look up again throughout the lecture - you try not to anyway - keeping your eyes trained on your laptop in front of you, just barely listening to the lecture, and maybe occasionally sneaking a glance up at the fifth row, pleasantly surprised to see Luke very intently taking notes in his notebook - the one he had sent you photos of, covered in an increasingly more chaotic chicken scratch throughout the weekend. 

You're halfway through your own sports psychology assignment when you hear the professor start wrapping up his lecture, deciding now is a better time than any to pack up your stuff and hope to make a quick escape once the class is done. Your laptop is only just in your bag when the professor draws all the attention back to you, “Now remember everyone has my email and the email of my wonderful TA this semester in their inbox, please let us know if you have any more questions, have a good week, everyone.” You curse quietly under your breath as you give the professor a tight-lipped grin, the kind old man none the wiser to the frustration deep in your soul at the idea of being the centre of attention once again. 

You shove the last of your stuff into your tote bag, taking a quick glance at the class, glad to see Luke busy packing up his own bag as you beeline for the door, your exit seamless as you thread between the flood of students, just making it to the building exit as you hear him call out for you again, “Hey— wait.” Luke seems breathless as he reaches you, just as you push open the heavy glass doors, joining you in the chilly winter air, your arms crossing over your chest as you frown at the cold. “Are you just pretending I don’t exist now or what?” He asks, his long legs making it easy for him to keep up with your fast walking, his hands gripping the straps of his backpack, his knuckles turning white as he tightens his hold. 

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you back there.” Luke starts, letting out another pant as his left hand releases its strap, grabbing hold of the shoulder of your coat, pulling you to a stop. “Give me a second, you walk really fast.” He says as he takes in a few big gulps of air. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you—” He starts again, another breath, “I was just excited to see you there, no wonder you knew so much about ECON.” He clarifies, his cheeks resuming their normal flush of pink, his gaze following yours to where his hand still holds onto your coat, his hand dropping like you burned him with a quick “oh, sorry.” 

“You didn’t embarrass me, Luke.” You say softly, trying your hardest to shoot him a reassuring smile, as you straighten out the wrinkle in your coat. “I was just a little surprised that you were so eager to greet me.” You try to explain, Luke’s head nodding as he cringes, sucking in air between his teeth, before his face relaxes into its usual soft smile. 

“I was a little loud wasn’t I?” 

“I wouldn’t say discretion is a forte of yours.” You joke back, letting out a soft chuckle as he lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck, his teeth trapping his bottom lip as he seems to relax a little. 

“So we’re still on for studying on Wednesday night?” He asks quickly, his hands returning to their place on the straps of his bag as you nod slowly. 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“Good, cause I didn’t understand anything the teacher said today.” You let out another soft laugh before promising him you’d go over it during your study session, Luke hovers for a moment not quite taking the hint that you’re conversation was over, you look up at him, an eyebrow raised as you wait for him to continue, seeing straight through him to the way his mind seemed to be running a hundred miles a minute. 

“Ethan wrote that text.” He blurts, his face seeming almost shocked that the words came out, but your lips just tilt up in amusement. 

“I figured. He was really selling himself there.” 

“Well he’s not kind or thoughtful so don’t look too much into it.” Luke huffs, his body seeming to radiate frustration as he thinks back to the text message. 

“Luke, don’t think so much, it’s not a good look on you.” You say quickly, reaching a hand out to gently squeeze his arm, watching as his frustration dissolves into shock, his eyes shooting down to where you had barely touched his hoodie. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.” He barely has a chance to react as you step away from him, tucking your tingling hand into your coat pocket before quickly rushing off to your next lecture, barely able to focus throughout your own lessons as your mind keeps floating back to the awkward athlete. 

+

+

The library is quiet when you arrive —  just how you like it — the cold from your walk here was seeping into your bones, the warmth of the library heater quickly fighting off your shivering as you shuck off your oversized jacket, and gloves slowly making your way back to your favourite table by the window  - your feet pausing as you notice the mop of curly hair already taking residence at your table. He’s tucked behind a stack of textbooks, the pen in his hand messily scribbling against his paper as his tongue sticks out a little, his teeth biting into it. 

Luke spots you quickly, his posture straightening straight away as he raises his hand to call out to you, but catches himself at the last minute, just giving you a soft wave and a quick smile, his long legs shoving out the chair opposite him in an offering. The sleeves of his - you guessed it - u-mich hoodie as shoved up to his elbows, you slide into the seat in front of him as you can’t help but blurt out, “Do you wear anything other than school merch?” You have to restrain yourself from slapping your hand across your mouth as you say it — the question coming out meaner than you intended, but Luke just laughs, a breathy chuckle as he shrugs. 

“It’s comfortable.” He responds, watching closely as you pull out your laptop and worn down notebook from your tote bag —  the same tote bag you used last time you were here, but not the same one you wore to class the other day — Luke notices, to be fair, Luke notices a lot about you. 

He noticed the way you tried to make yourself unnoticeable — he notices the way you use a different tote bag for different things — he notices the way you always look angry around campus but whenever someone approaches you, your face breaks out into a soft smile — he notices the way you twirl your hair when you get nervous or stressed — Luke had always noticed you, not matter how hard you tried, but that was something he would ever want to admit out loud, that would mean he would have to admit to watching you, and that would be creepy. 

“What have you been working on?” You ask as you slide his notebook towards you, glancing over his notes with an impressed smile, before frowning at his graph towards the bottom of the page. 

“I reread chapters two and three and thought I was doing well until they suggested mapping out the whole supply and demand thing and… well, it didn’t turn out so well.” He explains, The graph makes a lot more sense to you as he explains, "To be honest, I think I blacked out halfway through so I’m not even sure what this is measuring.” He says sheepishly as he points to the far box on the graph. 

“It’s messy—” You admit, sliding the book back towards him before flicking open your own notebook, “but you have the fundamentals down. This is from when I took 102 ECON in freshman year, use it as a guide, remember I’m marking your work so I’ll know if you cheated.” You say, pushing your own notebook towards him. 

Luke’s eyes widen in surprise as he flicks through the note book, neat, colour coded, handwriting careful and in print - each point defined and highlighted with a precision he could only every dream of - not to mention it seems to hold to answer to every question he has ever had about ECON, “This is the shit those Pinterest aesthetic girls dream about.” Luke says in awe as he continues to flick through the pages.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the small tingle down your spine at the praise, “Just be careful with it, it’s been through like four tutor students and has yet to succumb to one of them, and if you ruin it…” You trail off, hoping the threat would carry its own weight, but Luke seems entirely too distracted by what you said before. 

“You’ve tutored other students?” He starts, a frown dropping on his face, his eyes glaring down at your notebook of perfection — good heavens, it even smells like you — “God, you think you're special and then she goes as says she’s done this with four other people.” Luke grumbles to himself, his hand harshly flicking the book back towards you as he crosses his arms over his chest — “and to think I got you extra marshmallows in your hot chocolate.” You glance down at the book and shrug, lifting your hands to reach for it, but Luke is faster, his hand slapping down on it and dragging it back to himself. 

“On second thought, your apology can be letting me keep this for the rest of the semester.” He seems pleased by his decision as he pushes a take away cup closer to you, tucking your note book under his own before going back to what he was doing before your arrived, occasionally lifting his head to ask a question about his work, before deciding better of it and referring to your notebook — which does in fact have the answer, every time. 

It’s three hours later, when the library closure announcement rings overhead - your head snapping up in surprise, Luke lets out a long yawn stretching his arms over his head, his hoodie riding up ever so slightly the peak of pale skin enough to make your cheeks flush a little, you had still yet to figure out what sport Luke plays, but the defined ridges of his abdomen was a clear sign you were right to assume he was an athlete. 

“I suppose it’s time I walk you home then.” Luke lets out through another yawn, already shoving his books in his bag, carefully sliding your notebook into the laptop pocket in the back, safely tucking it behind the cool metal of his MacBook. 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” You exclaim quickly, following his lead and tucking your own books away. 

“Yes I do.” He affirms, “It’s cold and dark out there and you are tiny, it would be all too easy for someone to grab you on their way past.” 

“I’m not tiny — I’m of average stature, thank you very much.” You hiss, shooting him a very half hearted glare as you zip up your tote bag, pulling on your coat, as you watch Luke peel his off the back of his chair, he pulls his backpack on, and hangs his letterman jacket over his arm — Football then — you assume, the stereotypical image of a jock racing through your head, but Luke didn’t quite fit that, he was too… awkward. 

“Just let me walk you home.” He grunts, his hand lightly pushing yours out of the way as he pulls your tote bag off the chair, swinging it over his own shoulder before leading the way out. You both bid goodbye to the librarian who waits, annoyed by the front door, not being able to leave until you do. The cold winter air hits you like a slap in the face, your arms quickly curling around yourself as you tuck your face into the collar of your coat, your breath letting out hot puffs of air. 

Luke shuffles next to you for a moment, barely in your peripherals before a heavy fabric is draped over your shoulders, the navy blue jacket practically swallowing you whole, as he makes sure its tucked tightly over your shoulders — the fabric smells like him and is so soft against your cheeks as you burrow into it a little before realising what you’re doing. 

“Luke, it’s freezing out here; you should be wearing your jacket.” You quickly spit out, rushing to slip the jacket off your shoulders and hand it back to him, but he shakes his head, his hands readjusting the heavy coat until he’s pleased it won’t slip straight back off. 

“I’m used to the cold,” He says quickly, though his pink cheeks and nose are telling a slightly different story, “Besides, it looks better on you anyway.” He steps away from you a little, clearing his throat as he leads the way to your building, the question already bubbling in your mind as the two of your reach your dorm entrance. 

“You know where I live?” You ask quickly, your head tilted to the side, your eyes accusing as Luke sputters to think of an answer. 

“Apparently.” Is the best he can think of, his face scrunching in a grimace at his own response, but you just let out a guff of laughter. “I may have wandered back this way on Friday night to make sure you got home safe.” He admits, and you can’t fight the way your stomach flutters a little, an unreasonable response to him admitting he essentially stalked you the night after you tutored him. 

“Oh.” You say. 

“Oh.” He mimics the two of you standing on the front steps in silence for a few moments, before Luke clears his throat again, “Um, the guys and I are throwing a little get-together this Friday, I was wondering if you wanted to come?” His eyebrows are pinched as he asks the question, almost like he’s waiting for you to flat out refuse as soon as it leaves his mouth, “You don’t have to, I just thought I’d offer—” 

“I’ll come.” You say quickly, cutting off what you assume is going to be another ramble, another flutter in the pit of your stomach at the way his face immediately lights up. 

“Oh, cool.” He says, slipping his hands into his pockets, trying to remain calm as he nods to himself a few times, “It’s just at the hockey house a few streets over, I’ll text you the address.” He says quickly, the start of his sentence sticking out to you — hockey? guess there’s no more need to wonder. You nod quickly, taking your offered tote back from Luke and reaching in to fish for your keys, glancing up as Luke takes a few backward steps away, his head nodding for you to go inside. 

“Luke, wait, your jacket.” You call out as he takes a few more steps away, a pleased smile on his lips as he looks over his coat still draped over your shoulder, he just shrugs his shoulders, moving further down the pathway, not giving you the chance to bring it to him before he says, 

“Guess you’re gonna have to give it back to me on Friday.” 

That sneaky little shit, this is his guarantee you’ll show up to the “get together” he knows you’ll never be able to wait to give his jacket back. 

Fuck, you’ve never been to a “get together” — especially at a hockey house. 

+

+

You’ve changed your outfit three times in the last twenty minutes — first it was a sweater and jeans, cause it's cold out there and you want to try without looking like you’re trying, you know? But what if everyone else was trying, then you’d just look stupid — so next was the tight top and small skirt, cause as a Disney princess once said, the cold never bothered me anyway, but the cold does in fact bother you so it was a very quick veto — and here you are with your third outfit, the tight top from the second outfit and the flared jeans from the first all surrounded by the thick navy letterman jacket that to be completely honest you had barely taken off since Luke let you borrow it. 

You spare yourself one more glance in the mirror as you tug you hair into a claw clip, the overstimulation from it brushing against the back of your neck already too much to bare, the top fits well and does wonders for your chest, the jeans make your legs look longer and Luke’s jacket swallows your whole in the best way possible — it’s comforting in a way and somehow gives you just enough courage to pull your purse over your shoulder and shuffle your way out of the dorm. 

You phone buzzes softly in your hand, the message from Luke lighting up the screen. 

Luke (library guy): The party is in full swing. 🙃

Luke (library guy): No rush though, let me know when you’re on your way, or close and I’ll come out and greet you like a good host. ☺️

Luke (library guy): or I can meet you on the corner?

Luke (library guy): or halfway? 

Luke (library guy): just text me, please. 

You can’t help the way your lips tilt upwards in a smile as you read the messages, at the way Luke seems to have no concern over double texts or his overuse of the same three emoji’s despite what the contents of the messages say, you’re about halfway to the hockey house when you decide to put him out of his misery and text him back. 

Library Girl: I’m just about to reach the corner of your street. 

Luke (library guy): okay, be there in a sec. 

Luke (library guy) has changed your nickname to ‘bestie boo 👻’ 

bestie boo 👻 : oh we’re changing nicknames are we?

bestie boo 👻 has changed Luke (library guy) nickname to ‘tall and lanky’ 

tall and lanky has changed their nickname to ‘favourite student 📚’ 

favourite student 📚: don’t test me bestie boo, I can promise you I’ll win this one. 

You let out a breath of laughter as you tuck your phone back into your pocket, the tall and lanky figure making a slow jog down the street, catching your attention, your mouth falling open a little in surprise at Luke actually making his way to meet you on the corner of his street. 

“I thought you were joking.” You call out as you speed up your steps to reach him at the corner, his eyes dragging down your body as you stop in front of him, his eyebrows pulled up in surprise as his gaze catches on his jacket encompassing your torso. 

“I never joke.” Luke says, his face as serious as he can manage, — though the small twitch at the corner of his lip is a good hint that he is in fact joking —  as his hand reaches out to pinch the hem of his jacket, “you’re wearing it?” 

“Am I not allowed to? It’s warm.” You respond, the street lamps the only thing illuminating either of you, the only thing showing the way. Luke’s expression melts at your words, his head nodding slowly, his lips moving, though no words come out. 

“It really does look better on you.” He says softly, finally stepping away from the building suffocation between the two of you, moving his hands to gesture that the two of you continue the walk down the street to the lit-up hockey house in the centre, the loud bass of music already tickling your ears. You fall into step beside him, the two of you making your way down the pavement in almost silence, Luke seeming stuck in his own thoughts, his knuckles brushing against yours with every swing of his hand — a part of you wondering if maybe he’s doing it on purpose. 

If a part of him wants to hold your hand as much as you want to hold his. 

The two of you make it to the house without much said between the two of you, the music overwhelming as a cheer of Luke’s name choruses over the crowd on the front porch, his hand raising in a quick wave of greeting before dropping and finding the small of your back as he leans down towards you. 

“It’s pretty loud, are you going to be okay?” His question and concern make you falter a little, your mouth gaping as you think of something to say, the question of how much he’s noticed about you rising to the surface; “I don’t want to assume, but you don’t seem like the type of person to enjoy chaos.” He whispers, his hand a firm pressure on the small of our back as he leads you up the front porch steps. 

“I’ll be fine.” You manage to squeak out, the skin underneath the layers of clothes burning wherever his hand touches — more calls of his name chorus as he swings open the front door, sticking close beside you as he greets people in passing, leading you towards the makeshift bar in the kitchen. The warmth of the house makes you instantly sweat under the weight of Luke’s jacket, the house filled with boisterous and already drunk college students, furniture pushed out of the way to make a haphazard dance floor and people crowded around each other as the air is drenched in the smell of mingling cologne and perfume, but all you can smell is Luke. 

“Do you drink?” Luke asks softly as you reach the kitchen, his hand pulling away from your back hesitantly as he pulls two red solo cups off the pile, waiting for your response before pouring in any liquids. 

“Uh, not really.” You respond, watching as Luke nods, pulling a unopened bottle of coke from the ice box, filling both his and your cups with it before tucking it away again — you manage to shake off the jacket which is now making you overheat with the swell of warmth from the house, tucking it over your arm as you gratefully accept the drink Luke offers. “It’s really hot in here.” You explain, but Luke’s eyes are unfocused, darting over your body, landing on your collarbones before he shakes his head and moves them back up to meet yours. 

“You look real—” Luke is interrupted by a cheering of his name over by the dining table, riddled with half-filled solo cups, his teammates begging him to come join them. You watch as he goes to deny them at first, pointing to you with an apologetic look, but they’re relentless as they keep waving for him to join. 

“Go play.” You say quickly, cradling your red cup in both hands as you nod towards the table, “I’ll watch.” You say as you step towards the group of hockey players gathered around the table, Luke looks at them before back at you for reassurance, the soft nod of your head enough as he slowly joins his friends, who all let out hoots of excitement as he reaches the table. 

Luke is different here - you watch him play beer pong for over an hour, he introduces you to people as he goes, but his demeanour has changed completely, he’s confident here, at home. He’s not the same Luke that you see slouched over his ECON textbook most afternoons, stressing over his graphs and blushing when you compliment his understanding of what he just read; this is him in his element. He knows everyone, and you mean everyone. He knows their names, their stories, and asks them about random things going on in their lives before moving on to the next person. Everyone here loves him, and you can’t help the pressure building in your chest at the joy of being able to see him like this. 

Luke never strays far, only leaving your side for a moment to throw the ping pong ball before he’s back besides you, his arm rubbing against yours, he interacts with everyone, welcomes them with a hug or handshake but yet he never leaves you alone for long, occasionally bending down to your ear to make sure you don’t need anything before taking his next turn. 

It’s almost too much, his attention, his focus on you constantly — you feel like you can’t breathe but it’s not a bad feeling. 

You’re halfway through a conversation with Ethan, one of the defensemen who plays with Luke ,when a voice calls out across the room, a voice you hadn’t expected to hear, especially not today. 

“Hey, never expected to see little Miss Perfect at a frat party.” The voice is so close now, enough that you can feel the shiver run down your spine - the breaking of goosebumps along your skin. Ethan seems to notice something is up, his gaze looking over your head before he moves to nudge Luke with his elbow, bringing his attention to the man now loitering against the wall beside you.  

“Kyle?” You question slowly as you turn to face him, knowing the only way to get rid of his attention was to give him some of yours first. “What are you doing here?” You ask quickly, your grip tightening around your almost empty cup of Coke as you shift your weight on your feet. 

“A friend invited me.” You ex says like you had asked the most ridiculous question he had every heard, the answer coming out with a soft scoff. 

“No, I mean over here? Why’d you come over here?” You clarify, the music of the room fading away as your breathing becomes more shallow — you hadn’t seen Kyle since you walked in on him and roommate, together, in your bed, on valentines day last year — and his ‘it’s not me, its you’ had repeated on your mind for weeks after. 

“I thought we should talk.” He says casually, taking a long gulp of his beer as he moves a little closer, his body almost sandwiching you against the wall besides you - his grin downright gross as he looks you up and down, “I’ve missed you, you know.” 

“Well, I don’t really want to talk to you.” You say quickly, trying to force yourself a step away, not wanting to be stuck against the wall with no way out. Kyle had never been violent with you, but he had other ways of causing harm; his words tended to cut deeper than any knife. 

“Why? You’re too good for me now?” He questions, his eyes catching on Luke’s jacket still hanging over your arm, his eyes lighting with a fire that usually meant bad things, “You think now that you’ve found yourself a stupid hockey boyfriend, you’re better than me? You can do better than me?” His body is closing in now, the air being sucked away from you as your chest tightens, your hands gripping onto the fabric of Luke’s jacket for dear life as you try again, to skirt around your ex boyfriend. 

“She can do better than you.” Luke’s voice is gravely, his large hand gripping your hip as he pulls you back against him, his breaths coming out heavy as he keeps your body pressed against his, “She dropped her standards majorly to be with someone like you, you should be thanking her for giving you the time of day.” Luke huffs, his tone almost seeming bored, but you can almost feel the steam rolling off him as he stares down your ex-boyfriend, his thumbs rubbing softly against the harsh fabric of your jeans. 

You can feel everything — too much of everything as Kyle rolls his eyes, giving Luke a long once over before draining his beer and throwing the empty cup towards you, Luke quickly batting it away as he motions to one of the boys at the other end of the table, who make quick work of “politely” escorting your ex boyfriend from the house. 

“Hey, let’s go get some air.” His voice is soft as he whispers in your ear, both hands on your hips as he steers you towards the back door, both of ignoring the glances from his teammates — the backyard is almost completely empty as he slides open the back door, quickly grabbing the jacket from your arm as draping it over you before sliding the door closed behind the two of you, moving to lean against the balcony railing, waiting patiently for you to come join him. 

“An ex, I assume?” He says as you join him against the railing, your head nodding as you lean forwards, letting his jacket swallow you up, the warm material helping your shoulders relax back down to their resting position. “Is he the one who was blowing up your phone the other day at the library?” Luke asks, and you just nod, not entirely sure what to say or how to say it. 

Luke lets out a long groan, rubbing his hands down his face as he shakes the tension out of his body, a grin replacing the deep frown on his face, “He seems like a major dick, I’m sorry he made you uncomfortable.” 

“You shouldn’t be the one apologising.” Luke just lets out a soft laugh, running his fingers through the curled ends of his hair, pushing them away from his face as he pushes away from the railing, moving to box you against it — the position so similar to the one you were stuck in before, but feels so, so different. 

“I don’t like fighting…” Luke points out quietly, almost like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear what he just said, “But I’d fight someone for you, especially if they made you look the way you did back there.” Your breath catches a little as you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, the sparks between the two of you igniting against your skin. 

“I don’t know if I made it clear enough earlier, but you look really pretty tonight.” He whispers, the instant panic running across his face as he realises what he said, “Not that you don’t always look pretty, but you look especi— you know what, forget I said anything.” There’s something about the way he says it, about the way that you can see your Luke coming back to the surface that makes you smile, taking a step into his body — a step that seems to confuse him, panic him almost. 

“You’ve already said it, Luke, you can’t take it back now.” You mumble, your hands hanging by your sides as you wait for him to make the first move, but he’s stuck; he doesn’t move from his spot, just watching you. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Luke.” 

“What am I thinking?” You nod at his question, tilting your head to the side as you wait patiently for his brain to catch up, “I’m think that I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you tonight, I’m thinking that I wish you never came here and we were bundled up in the library so I can have you all to myself.” You barely register the rise in your heart rate as you let out a shaky breath. 

“Now ask me.” 

“Ask you what?” 

“Ask me what I’m thinking.” Luke seems to freeze, his whole body tensing up as he keeps his eyes locked with yours. 

“What are you thinking?” He finally manages to get out, his breathing shallow as he waits for you to respond, his eyes darting between your own, the red rising up the back of his neck as he waits. 

“I’m thinking that I’ve wanted you to kiss me since you gave me your jacket the other day.” You watch Luke’s eyes widen, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Luke doesn’t waste time responding — he just moves. 

One moment your looking up at him, your expression of surprise mirroring his — you can’t believe you just said that, just admitted you want him to kiss you — and the next his lips are on yours, his hands bunching in his own jacket still wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him as his mouth finds yours, warm and certain, something about it so slow and gentle, the kiss just barely registering in your brain before your hands are smoothing up his chest, bundling in the collar of his hoodie. 

This kiss is nothing like any other party kiss —  it’s not rushed or messy, not worried about someone rounding the corner to find you — it’s slow, almost rehearsed as if Luke had been imagining this for as long as you had, as if he was taking his time with you. Luke kisses you with the attention he puts into everything else — his whole focus, everything he has, is going into this one moment, this one sensation. 

His hands leave your jacket to softly cradle your jaw, his head tilting as he deepens the kiss, pulling a soft gasp from you as you raise on your tiptoes to push yourself closer to him. You can feel his lips break out into a grin as he pulls away, his eyes sparking with excitement as he rubs his thumbs against your cheeks. 

“I should take you home.” He says softly, his pupils blown out a little as the sound of the music and chatter from the house come back into focus, the reality of where you are sinks back in, “I mean, I should walk you home.” He corrects himself again, his ability to try to put his foot in his mouth still shining even now. 

“You should.” You agree, hesitantly detangling your hands from his hoodie, cleaning your throat as you lower yourself off your toes and straighten out the jacket over your shoulders. Luke just smiles as he watches you, waiting till you feel ready before reaching out his large hand towards you, his smile growing as you slide your palm against his. 

+

+

Luke was meant to be here two hours ago — and before you go on about how no one should wait around for two hours when getting stood up, this was different—different how, you’re not entirely sure, but something felt off. It had been three weeks of tutoring Luke, and not once was he late without notice, and he never, ever was a no show, even that one time he had stacked it in the courtyard on the way over here, he still showed up with blood running down his knee. 

This was weird, something was wrong. 

You glance down at your phone again, expecting it to light up with a message of apology but nothing — Luke was many things, a terrible liar, easily flustered, a cocky little shit when he was winning at any game the two of you played, but flakey was not one of them. The panic starts to set in — what if he was hurt? What if something happened at practice and he was too injured to let you know? The panic takes quick hold, your belongings shoved haphazardly into your u-mich tote, which Luke had gifted you a week ago, claiming ‘you needed something to show school spirit’ and tug your coat on before dashing from the library — well as fast as you can in an almost blizzard. 

There a mix of every emotion running through you, anger that he stood you up for two hours with no notice, concern that he stood you up for two hours with no notice and back to anger, you’re all but ready to give him a verbal lashing when you reach the front porch of the hockey house, slamming your fist into the door a few times before stepping back to cross your arms over your chest, needing the physical boundary to keep the anger inside of you. 

You mouth opens to say something as the front door is pulled open — Ethan, one of Luke’s friends stands there looking confused before there’s a lightbulb moment and he’s calling out into the dark house, “Lukey, your girlfriend is here, and she looks pissed.”  

There’s a soft shuffling behind the door as you start to say “I’m not his girl—”  but the words die in your throat as Luke comes into view. 

He looks like shit. 

His sweat-drenched hair is pushed back on his head with a white sweat band, and his body is cloaked in a severely oversized tracksuit, his eyes a bloodshot red, skin pale and clammy, and his chest rattling with a wet cough. “Shit.” You mumble as you do a second once over before stepping forward and into the doorway, ushering him back before you slam the front door closed behind you. 

“Fuck, I forgot about the study session.” Luke curses, his voice barely coming out as anything more than a croak as he winces. “I’m so sorry, I was only supposed to nap for like five minutes — that was four hours ago.” He says quickly, his eyes still droopy, probably only just having woken up from his ‘nap’. 

“You look really bad, Luke.” You whisper as you step forwards reaching up to press your cold hand against his forehead, the heat radiating off him enough to boil a pot of water - Luke lets out an appreciative sigh as he leans further against your hand, a delirious smile on his face. 

“Does this feel good to you, too? Or is it just me?” He whines when you pull your hand away, “Don’t leave, you just got here.” He continues to complain when you take your coat and bag off by the door, tugging your large bottle of water out of the bag before turning back to him. 

“Have you had any water today? Or showered?” You question, your only response a soft shake of his head and a grimace. 

“The doctor said it was just a chest infection, he gave me some antibiotics.” Luke explains and you nod, looking over to his friends perched on the couch, who confirm his answer and throw you the box of pills, which thankfully look like Luke has been taking the recommended doses. 

“Where’s your room? We should get you cleaned up.” You ask, watching as Luke’s eyebrows raise in surprise. 

“I don’t think it’s an appropriate time to be inviting yourself to my room.” He starts, a cheeky grin spreading on his face as he leans down, swaying a little at the movement, “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not feeling very well.” You roll your eyes and slap at Luke’s chest as he stands back up, letting out a chesty laugh which immediately turns into a crackling cough. 

“Don’t be delusional — lead the way.” You hiss, keeping your hands ready to catch him if he decides to tumble to his death as he makes the slow trek up the stairs to the second floor. “Oh, thank god you have a bathroom in here.” You say as he swings open his door, the ensuite bringing some relief as you walk around him to take in the large shower. 

His room is a mess, clothes and books strewn on every surface, his bed looking like he’s been rotting in it for weeks, and the number of tissue boxes he’s been hoarding by his window is a tell-tale sign of how long he’s been feeling unwell. “Okay, do you think you can stand long enough for a quick shower?” You ask, and he immediately shakes his head. 

“I tried two nights ago, and almost passed out.” He admits, leaning down to sniff his own armpit before pulling back with a wince, “I’ve been using baby wipes instead.” He continues, wishing to god you are just a figment of his imagination and not actually here, seeing the state he’s in. 

“Would you sit in the shower while I clean up?” You ask quickly, “The steam will be good for your chest, and I promise I won’t look below your shoulders.” If Luke’s eyes were wide before, they are full-grown saucers now — if he tried to widen them anymore, they would pop out of his head. 

“You want to see me naked?” 

“No, I want you to get naked so we can get you clean, there's a difference.” You snort as you start to pile his used tissues into the waste bin in the corner — Luke still perched on the end of his bed, looking more confused than ever. 

“So you don’t want to see me naked?” 

“Maybe another day, now take your clothes off while I start the water.” You respond, leaving Luke whispering to himself on the bed. 

“I’ve never been so confused in my life.” He grumbles as you walk back into the room, but he’s kindly stripping off his sweat-soaked clothes, and you fight to keep your eyes on his face, refusing to steal his dignity as you reach your hands out for him to take. The second he’s under the water, he lets out a sigh of relief, and you watch as he leans against the wall, slowly sliding down till he’s happily sitting on the floor under the warm stream of water. 

“I’ll be right back.” You promise, as his head lulls a little to the side, the effort of making it all the way upstairs and into the shower is taking its toll. You quietly fuss around his room, making it somewhat presentable before stripping his bed, finding clean sheets in the walk-in closet off to the side of the bathroom, as well as some reasonably clean boxers and a well-worn t-shirt. There aren’t many towel options as you search the ones scattered along the floor, finally finding two that smell more of fabric softener then death — which will have to do — as you walk back into the bathroom and plop your findings on the counter before stripping off your jeans and making sure your hair is pulled away from your face, you pause at the sight of Luke, still on the bathroom floor, steam wrapping around him, his head tipped back against the cold tiles and water streaming over his reddening skin. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his mouth is slightly open in content; he looks almost peaceful. 

“Scoot over, I want to wash your hair.” You say gently as you step into the shower, your t-shirt already getting wet as you grab his shampoo and conditioner off the shelf, before placing yourself next to him on the floor. His head shoots up as he looks over at you, but your expression must give no room for debate as he nods, pushing himself away from the wall, turning his back towards you as he scrunches his knees to his chest. 

“I think I’m dreaming.” He mumbles as you squirt a little bit of shampoo onto your palm, rubbing it between your two hands before threading your fingers into his hair. Luke melts — there’s no other way to describe it — his body almost immediately relaxing against you, his whole body weight leaning back against you as you scrub the shampoo into his hair, taking the time to really detangle his mess of curls. 

“Why do you think that?” You ask, as you grab the shower head and rinse out the soapy mixture before reaching for his conditioner, squeezing a generous amount on your hand before slowly running it through the ends of his hair, looping the softening curls around your fingers before letting them bounce back against his scalp. 

“Because when else would I have a pretty girl sacrificing her clothes to wash my hair when I’m sick.” He explains, his eyes shutting again as you massage his scalp, his head leans further back, almost landing on your shoulder as he lets out another long sigh. “You smell so good, like you always smell amazing — like apples and home.” His words are getting sloppier, his body somehow getting heavier as you decide now is a good time to rinse out his hair and get him out of the shower. 

“I’m gonna steal some of your clothes, do you think you can manage washing your body?” You ask as you stand handing him a loofa covered in soap as he nods in determination, watching longingly as you grab a towel off his counter before leaving the bathroom, digging through his cupboard for a T-shirt and some shorts to borrow. 

Luke is out of the shower and pulling on his t-shirt when you walk back into the bathroom, a little of his colour already returning to his face as he pushes his wet hair back from his face. “You didn’t need to do all of this, you know.” 

“Someone had to.” You say with a soft shrug, trying to keep your expression relaxed as you glance over to his fresh bed and hold your towel out to him, “Want me to dry your hair?” Luke is never one to turn down an offer to have you fuss over him; he thinks it’s becoming one of his new favourite things. You perch yourself against his headboard, patting the open space between your legs. Luke wasted no time in climbing onto the bed and lying himself between your legs, a shaky groan leaving him as you start to use the towel to dry his hair, your fingers continuing to work their magic on him. 

“You know how you said you might want to see me naked another day?” The question is out of Luke’s mouth before he can second-guess it, maybe it’s the antibiotics, but a part of him has lost any and all filter he may have possessed before this moment. You let out a long groan as Luke continues, “I think I want there to be another day, like lots of another days — as many as you’ll give me, I can even keep pretending to understand ECON if it pleases you.” 

“Luke, you don’t have to pretend to do anything to please me.” Your words a gentle, followed by a smile he can picture on your face, “You're pleasing me right now by being clean and mildly coherent.” 

“Do you think we can have another days?” Luke’s question is so genuine and raw that it sucks all the air out of your lungs, your heart slamming so hard against your chest you’re sure he can hear it. 

“We can have another days once you’re better.” You agree slowly, but you know before you check that he’s already asleep, his face pressed into your thigh, his arm wrapped around your calf, his body spent from the shower. His skin is still simmering with a fever as you continue to run your fingers through his hair, massaging the base of his neck as he lets out an annoyed whine anytime you try to slip out from under him. 

“Just stay, please.” He whispers as he settles further into your lap — so you do. You stay until your legs are numb and you beg him, quietly, to let you lie down on his mattress next to him, he obliges, his arm wrapping over your waist and pulling your tightly against him, his fever keeping you warm despite the fan blowing the winter chill over the two of you. 

You manage to sneak out the next morning as the sun shines through his half-opened curtains, Luke only waking momentarily to take his medicine before slumping back against his mattress. 

“Get some more rest, I’ll text you later.” You whisper as you pull on your now dry clothes, briefly crouching beside the bed to push some hair off his forehead and check for his lightning fever. “I think we’re going to have lots of another days.” You whisper as his breathing slows, his body falling back to sleep, and you lean forward to press a soft kiss against his forehead before sneaking out of the hockey house and back to your own dorm. 

+

+

Finals week hits the two of you like a freight train — the only time you and Luke actually get to see each other is during one of the rare study sessions you manage to slip into your schedule. You barely have time to eat or sleep, but you keep managing to find time to check on Luke’s progress and make sure you answer any questions he might have before his exam. You just can’t manage to stop thinking about the boy who only a few days ago was lulled into a feverish sleep in your lap, whom you promised “another days” to. 

It’s in the middle of your final exam review with Luke that he seems to crumble any resolve you had left, his voice barely above a whisper as the clock ticks to ten pm, the two of you barely able to read your notes anymore, your third coffee of the night sitting next to you on the table. 

“You really are something special.” 

“What?” Your pen drops to your notebook as you raise your head to glance over at him. 

“I just need to put it out there, everything you’ve done—” he pauses, “Everything you’ve done and are still doing for me, it takes a special person to be able to do all this.” He corrects himself, his eyes boring holes into yours as you feel everything inside you crumble — if you had any tears left in you from the hell that is finals week, you would have cried at the proclamation. 

You really are something special.

You really are something special.

You really are something special.

You really are something special.

You really are something special.

You really are something special.

It plays in your head on repeat for the rest of the week, his tone soft and sweet every time you hear it run through your head again. He was too sincere, too honest, too open — and now you’ll never be able to stop thinking about him, be able to shake the fact that you think a part of you thinks of Luke as more than just a friend, just a fellow student you’re helping pass his exams. 

Everything is getting too real now.

It’s a week later when the message wakes you up. 

favourite student 📚: can you meet me at the library? I have something for you. 

It takes you a few times to read and comprehend the message, your brain no longer functioning well at eight in the morning since the semester ended, and you barely have enough brain power to figure out he means now.  You roll out of your bed, tugging on the large hoodie you had stolen from Luke a few nights ago - not that he seemed to care - and slip your feet into shoes before your bursting out of your dorm room and to the front entrance, almost running straight into a broad shoulder, lanky hockey player. 

He manages to hold out a hand to catch your arm as you skid to a stop in front of him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “I thought you told me to meet you at the library?” You ask quickly, not second-guessing the hot chocolate he hands you, taking a long swig of it before he shrugs. 

“I couldn’t wait for you to get there.” He says quickly, reaching out to pull your drink from your hand, placing it beside his on the ground before he reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone, typing on it quickly before beaming down at the glowing screen and turning it to face you. 

89% 

102 ECON final exam - 89% 

He passed. 

Luke Hughes, finally passed 102 ECON. 

“I told you, you were something special.” He says with a grin that could rival the gods, your body practically vibrating with excitement as you throw yourself forward and into his arms, your own looping around his neck as you let out a high pitched squeal. 

“You did it, Luke.” You coo as his arms encompass you, a breathy laugh echoing in your ear as he sways you back and forth, his own excitement buzzing. “This was all you,  Luke — I’m so proud of you.” Luke barely gives you a chance to pull your head back before his mouth is on yours - his fingers digging into your back as he holds you tight against him. 

This kiss is different to the one at the party, it’s quick and heated and filled with every emotion Luke can think of pouring into it, your breaths coming out ragged as he pulls away from you a little, his forehead resting against yours as he lets out another laugh. 

“I really couldn’t have done it without you.” He says softly, like this is a secret between only the two of you, like the world doesn’t deserve to know what’s happening in this moment. The whole world has gone quiet, waiting to see what will happen next, as you stretch your neck to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. 

“I think I was just an excuse.” You say quietly, your smile rivalling his, “You had it in you the whole time, Luke, you just needed a little help brining it out.” 

“Still, I really needed y—” He pauses for a moment, thinking his words through carefully before correcting himself, “I really needed and still need you, if you plan on hanging around?” 

“I’m sure I can fit you into my schedule. I’m a pretty busy girl.” You can’t help the hammering of your heart as he slowly places you back on the ground, his smile — a smile you hope is only ever reserved for you—spreading across his face as he nods. 

“I’ll take what I can get.” 

[cosmichughes]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[cosmichughes]

MEANT TO BE YOURS

summary: you didn't expect to realize you didn't want to marry your fiancé at the altar, and you sure as hell didn't expect your formula one driver best friend to be your getaway car. still, you and oscar piastri are facing the neverending coast, and the true reason why you bailed out of your wedding. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « i have never loved before as i love you─ with tenderness, to the point of tears. »

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x best friend!f!reader wordcount: 10.3K content: best friends to lovers, road trip, bittersweet, fluff, toxic/controlling relationship, age gap (not with oscar), happy ending note: requested here! i told myself i'd only write semi-short fics for this event but i have a severe case of overwriting. can you tell i enjoy writing op81 friends to lovers?

♫ paul - big thief, from eden - hozier, anchor - novo amor

SOMEONE RANG THE church bells by accident, a shrill clang which startled the officiant in the middle of his question. Most of the assembly had laughed, albeit awkwardly, to the obnoxious melody coming from the metallic giants, and the man behind the lectern had sputtered out a weak joke to ease the discomfort creeping up your spine at the interruption. Your fiancé, whose callouses still scraped your fingers he held in an iron grip, rolled his eyes and urged him to carry on.

It was the moment you knew.

“Y/N,” the officiant starts again. Your name felt pasty and foreign in his mouth, and reverberated back at you as a distorted echo of yourself you no longer recognized. “Do you take Elijah to be your husband, your best friend, and love for life?”

The look your fiancé laid upon you was nothing short of expectant. His wedding band is cold on your burning skin, branding you with its white hot ore, and you realize you hadn’t had a say in how your own looked like. The venue hadn’t been your choice either: it had been carefully curated by a wedding planner Elijah had paid, draped in strings of pearls and pristine white roses— the thorns on your bouquet hadn’t been removed and poked at your fingers through the gloves.

Your gaze drifted through the assembly. Your side blinked away tears, blotting them with monogrammed napkins bearing the last name you were meant to take, whispering their admiration about how well you were marrying for a girl of your background. His side wore rigid Venetian masks of neutrality, keeping their head high and eyes narrowed in funeral silence, all except for one.

Oscar had his eyes locked upon you. Rust-gold hair fell across his brow, hands tucked on his lap, ever the picture of calmness. Yet, you knew your best friend like no other, and the confusion swirling in his pupils told you he noticed the sweat beading on your forehead, the shuffle of your heels. He knew you just as much—if not more.

Seconds ticked by like hours, your silence was arousing raised eyebrows and disapproving stares. It took you a longer moment to notice the tightening grip Elijah had on your hands. His eyes were harsh and urgent, nothing like the soft questions in Oscar’s. He hadn’t seen it. He didn’t know.

But you did, now.

You took a step back, and the shift was almost imperceptible, still, your heel seemed to strike against the marble floor like a gunshot, rippling through the entire crowd. Gasps turned the air thick with incomprehension, building up the pressure in your lungs. Your vision frayed at the edges. Elijah’s mouth moved in a whisper, “What are you doing?”. Oscar worryingly stirred in his seat. 

It took everything in you, every ounce of will and bodily strength, to tear off your hands from your fiancé’s grasp. You didn’t look back at the people seated in front of you. You didn’t even glance back at Elijah, the man you were supposed to marry today.

Desperate, breathless, you looked at Oscar. Mouth agape in search of any intakes of air, tears pearling at your lower lashes. His confusion melted, replaced by a soft understanding, because he knew— he always did. In that moment, your shoulders unknotted. He nodded. Got up from the wooden bench, along with many outraged others.

And you ran.

Your feet pounded against the floor, echoing louder than the gasps behind you. The half-opened side-exit loomed ahead, beckoning you closer, and you hurried toward it without looking back. Cold air wrapped around you, bracing after the weight of the ceremony hall. Behind you, the commotion dulled into a muffled roar: voices tangled together in an indecipherable mess, heels clicking in panic, Elijah’s voice yelling your name. You gathered the heavy layers of your dress, bunching the white satin and lace with trembling fingers, and sprinted through the maze of narrow corridors and clerestory windows, past wooden doors creaking in protests mixing with the rush of blood in your ears.

The last door slammed open beneath your palm, leaving you stumbling to a parking lot, and the bright morning sun seared its shape into your irises. You shielded your face with one hand, lungs dragging in the sharp air. For a moment, light, color and sound blurred together.

Then there was the low purr of an engine, the hasty screeching of tires against the tarmac. A car swerved into view, and the pacific blue of it glinting under the sunlight so familiar it took your heart with the last move of its steering wheel. It came into a clean, urgent stop in front of you.

Oscar threw the passenger door open, already leaning over to push it wide enough. Your breath caught in a sob. He didn’t say anything. You didn’t either.

Wordlessly, you rushed toward him. The train of your dress snagged on the doorframe of the church, and you let out a small, strangled laugh, somewhere between hysteria and relief, as you fought to stuff the endless fabric into the cramped footwell. Oscar helped as much as he could, waiting, always a careful eye set on you.

Once you were in, he met your eyes, hands firmly on the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.

You swallowed and turned your head to the window.

“Anywhere.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate once. The tires squealed as he floored it, the engine growling beneath you like a beast let off leash. Speed took the wheels, and the church disappeared in the rearview mirrors until it was but a grain of sand in the endless ticking of an hourglass. The guests, the whispers, the life you almost disappeared into, and somewhere, amongst it all, Elijah stood at the threshold, watching you vanish.

The bells were still ringing when you passed by the exit sign.

You met Oscar Piastri three years ago. It was the first time Elijah had invited you to a Formula One race. In the two years you’d been dating, it had always come first: he was gone more often than not, attending meetings, galas, and testing weekends.

Elijah wasn’t just anyone in the motorsports world. Not that he was of any importance in the intricacies of engineering, steering the heavy cars across the narrow corners or knew how to navigate overtakes from behind a helmet— he didn’t do any of that. What Elijah did was pay for the parts and repairs, and the logo from the company he had inherited from his father graced the pristine pink and blue of the Alpine racing suit. When you first learned about it, your eyes went wide in childlike excitement. You were only in your second year of university, only nineteen, and the most expensive thing you owned was an Ipad you’d saved for one summer. So when a man, ten years older, confident and polished, told you he had his last name stitched into one of the most elitist sports in the world, it had stunned you into admirative silence.

You’d looked at him like he had been touched by Midas himself. You thought it meant something about him.

Looking back on it now, you could only describe it as garish, and note that he shouldn’t have been talking to you in the first place.

But here you were, twenty-one, dressed like you belonged, stepping into the paddock. 

You had always imagined it to be somewhat organized and polished. Instead, you were met with the blur of motions and noises: staff members pushing past, PR agents shouting into headsets, camera shutters clicking in quick succession. Conversations overlapped in different languages, and bodies moved like currents, in which you were just another thing to dodge. However, you had no time to get accustomed to it: Elijah had to leave—“Important meeting, you see,” he said with a formal kiss to your forehead, “you’ll be fine, Alpine’s hospitality’s nearby”—and left you to your own devices in the den of lions.

The Miami heat had a devastating effect, sticking to you like molten plastic. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, and your dress, carefully picked by Elijah, dug uncomfortably into your ribs. Every time you tried to step aside, someone shoved past, never long enough to help.

Vision tunneling, you pressed a hand to your forehead, but even that felt wrong. You didn’t belong there, and Elijah was right not to invite you for so long. The humidity stuck to you like a second layer of skin, your breath shallow.

“Hey.”

A voice, calm and low, cut through the static.

You blinked up, sight clearing, only to find a pair of soft brown eyes studying you, brows furrowed beneath sun-drenched hair. It was Oscar—well, you didn’t know his name yet, but at that moment he already looked familiar, a barrier between you and the world.

“You okay?” he asked, hands tucked in the pocket of his shorts as if not to startle you.

You nodded too fast, then winced at the sudden movement when the world around you started spinning again. “I’m just… I’m supposed to find Alpine’s hospitality? I can’t figure out where that is.”

His gaze flickers past you to the swarm of people. “Yeah… it’s chaos today.” Pulling a hand out one of his pocket, he handed you a water bottle—or what you assumed was a water bottle, warranting your vision could only make out blotches of pale blue. “You should sit for a minute. Shade’s better over there.”

Hesitation overcame you, visible on your face, but he didn’t urge you. He waited.

You took the water.

He led you toward a quiet stretch of wall just beyond the media scrum. It was hardly private, but the sun wasn’t blistering your skin anymore, and fewer people were circulating. You sank to the curb, grateful for the cool concrete against the back of your legs. He sat beside you, elbows on his knees, a polite distance away. You silently thanked him for it.

“I’m Oscar,” he said after a moment, glancing over at you with the same grounded calm. “Oscar Piastri.”

You managed to muster a smile. Shaky, yes, but a smile nonetheless. “Y/N.”

Your hands were trembling slightly when you reached for the cap of the bottle. Observant, as he always was, you’d come to discover down the line, his fingers brushed against yours in a question. You let him take the bottle, which he unscrewed open without much of a word about it. “First race?” he asked.

Nodding, you took back the plastic container. “First time… all of this.”

“Yeah, it can be a lot,” Oscar smiled. It was a tiny stretch of the lips, it could be mistaken for a frown, but it didn’t escape you. “You’ll get around it though, if you stick around.”

“Is that your way of asking if I come here often?” you probed after a gulp of water, arching a brow.

That got a flustered chuckle out of him, the first out of many that you’d elicit in the years to come, and your heart whipped in a somersault. “Not really, but now I’m curious.”

Elijah would later find the two of you engulfed in the small corner, deep in conversation, your laughter a thread of relief amid the chaos of the paddock. His anger, visible in the tight line of his jaw, melted almost immediately when Oscar’s gaze landed on him, unassuming. That day, you’d learn that Oscar was McLaren’s rookie on his first season, just a year older than you, and that he and Elijah had been friends since karting days. For Elijah, it had always been a hobby to brag about at dinners. For Oscar, racing was simply etched in his bones, similar to all nineteen of his colleagues who fought to get there.

You’d smiled and nodded as Elijah threw a possessive arm around your waist, pestering you to the Alpine hospitality. Oscar gave you a small wave as you were pulled away.

It wouldn’t be the last time you’d meet him. You’d run into him on multiple occasions: galas, race weekends. Sometimes he’d find you alone, and you’d share coffee on a bench, no matter how stifling the heat. Among those many instances, you’d exchange numbers. From there, the rest felt inevitable: Oscar would start calling you after races to ask how your day was, participate in movie marathons during which you’d eat room service on the ground and fall asleep leaning on his shoulder, keep the other company in quiet corners when black-tie occasions rose and Elijah left you unsupervised as he networked. Oscar would listen, hold your deepest secrets, and you would hold his, cradling them between your intertwined fingers. 

It felt like fate written in the margins. But at that moment in time, you didn’t know. Not yet.

You couldn’t have known he’d be the same guy, three years later, driving well over the speed limit to get you as far away as possible from your own wedding either.

The landscape would be suffocating if it didn’t steal your breath away: the tall pine trees loomed over you like ancient sentinels, their dark bark and deep green needles wrapping around the world in quiet reverence. They stood close, tangled together to form a living fortress stifling any clear view of the coast? In the fleeting glimpses between trunks, you could see the ocean foam itself into a fury against the cliffs, hear its wild applause in the distance.

The air was cooler than it had been at the altar. A bracing wind tore at your carefully pinned curls until they unraveled into ribbons, leaving strands dancing across your face. The car windows were rolled down all the way; you leaned your head back, letting the rush of air thread through your fingers. The radio played low, echoing the chords of a half-forgotten melody you barely listened to.

The tear tracks on your cheeks had dried in delicate salt lines, reminiscent of the sea. You couldn’t remember the last time either of you had spoken.

Oscar’s driving had settled from frantic to steady, but his knuckles remained white on the steering wheel. The sun shifted overhead, sliding across his profile—sharp, yet gentle, a hint of shadow pooling in the curve of his jaw.

You wanted to ask where you were going. He wanted to ask what you were running from. Both questions simmered on your tongues, both knowing, yet neither of you voiced it out. That’s what often happens when you know someone from the inside out—things were left unsaid under the impression the other already understood.

Except sometimes, only sometimes, it didn’t work like that. It had been what Oscar and you struggled with for a while, now.

The car began to slow, easing out of the rapid pace of the highway. Caught up in your own thoughts, you felt the shift before you could see it: Oscar’s foot lightened on the pedal and the hum of the road softened beneath the tires. Through the pines, you noticed the glint of an old, flickering neon sign, weathered by time but still clinging to its pink glow, even in the middle of the day. Rosie’s Diner.

The small building was a 1950s-style chrome beacon, half-buried in the woods, clashing with the darkness by its bright colors. The parking lot was cracked asphalt, wild grass sprouting through the grass in a fragile attempt of a rebellion against time. Oscar pulled into the lot and cut the engine. For a moment, only the soft ticking of the cooling car filled the silence.

You opened your mouth to form a question, but the Australian spoke up first. “It’s almost lunch.” He turned to face you. His gaze flickered to the tear lines on your cheeks, then back to your eyes. “And I know you didn’t eat this morning because of… everything.”

A blush rose to your cheeks, embarrassed by how transparent you could be to him. You looked down at the disheveled wedding dress gathered in your lap, filling the passenger seat with white satin gone grey at the hem and torn lace. “Oscar,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I can’t go in there like this.”

A gentle smile ghosted across his lips. “Y/N, we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s probably two people in that place. Nobody’s going to look twice at you.” His smile grew a fraction warmer, like it often did with you. “Even if they do, it’s not like we’re going to see them again, are we?”

“You’re a celebrity, Oscar,” you noted, acerbity laced in your trembling tone.

He shrugged. “I don’t see how that factors in anything.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking free as would a breath held for too long. There had been no hesitation in his words, only a factual reassurance. Oscar believed what he was saying, he didn’t see the issue because there wasn’t one. Elijah would have rather died than got out of this car with you in such a state.

Oscar’s hand found yours on the center console, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. The gesture sent a shiver down your spine, no matter how familiar. “Come on,” he said, a quiet invitation to something new.

So you took his hand, letting him anchor you in the moment, and together, you stepped out of the car.

Saying the diner was empty would have been an understatement. Apart from two tired-looking waitresses with roller skates leaning on the counter and a couple of line cooks half-heartedly flipping burgers in the back kitchen, even the rats seemed to have deserted this place.

The years had left their marks: chipped vinyl booths, gritty floor tiles that hadn’t been swept in god knows how long, and walls that might have been white but now leaned closer to a yellow shade of old nicotine. You slid into a corner booth near the window, the cracked red leather sighing under your weight. The menus, laminated and curling at the corners, looked like relics coming straight from the nineties—Comic Sans titles and cartoonish doodles framing a faded list of cheeseburgers, milkshakes, and fries.

Oscar sat next to you. It was an unspoken rule in your friendship, because sitting across from each other always felt too impersonal. He was still in his tuxedo that had started to crease in the humidity of the coast, and his tie was coming undone at his throat. Your gaze lingered on that detail for a split second before you caught sight of yourself in the window: a disheveled bride in a wedding dress, smudged in dust and tears.

What a pair you made.

A waitress ambled over, pencil tucked behind her ear. She glanced between the two of you, curious eyes remaining a beat too long on your wedding dress. You tensed up, and Oscar’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the movement. “Well, don’t you two look like something out of a movie,” she drawled. “What can I get for you today?”

Oscar lifted a brow at you. “Bacon cheeseburger?”

You laughed softly, the sound a little bit broken. “Bacon cheeseburger. As usual.”

She scribbled it down. “Two of those, coming right up. Oh—” she leaned in conspiratorially, a wicked grin on her lips. “And since it looks like you’re getting married and all, that’s half price for y’all today. Congratulations, by the way!”

The comment struck something in your chest, although you couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly. You know it should have stung, tug on what you had left behind, and it looked like Oscar expected as much: he flinched, eyes darting to you, his lips parted as if to protest. You knew what he was thinking about it—your tears, the cadence of your feet as you fled the altar—and he was ready to explain, to protect you from the memory.

You stopped him with a gentle touch on his hand. “Thanks,” you said to the waitress. You offered her a small smile, “Half-price is too good to pass up, right?”

Oscar’s eyes widened in understanding. He quickly went with it, and the waitress winked and bustled off. For a second, the silence between you and Oscar threatened to swallow the air, but then you locked eyes. You both burst out laughing, the sound bright and unexpected, so needed it nearly broke your heart all over again.

“We didn’t need the discount, you know,” he managed to say between laughs.

“I know,” you sighed, “but it doesn’t hurt. Besides, these burgers are so overpriced.” You turned the menu around again, squinting at the faded prices. 

Oscar leaned over, close enough that you caught a faint whiff of his cologne, clean and citrusy, washing over you. His cheek brushed your shoulder and you didn’t miss the pink flush at the tip of his ear either. “Maybe the quality’s good?” he teased.

You snorted. “Do you actually believe what you just said?”

“Not at all.”

The waitress came back with your orders in record time, balancing two plates stacked high with cheeseburgers and fries, looking way more delicious than you’d expected. The smell, greasy and comforting, sent your stomach into a frenzy of need. Oscar was right: you were starving.

You grabbed a fry and popped it into your mouth. You groaned in pleasure at the taste, and Oscar raised an eyebrow at you in a way that looked suspiciously like a non-verbal I told you so. You swatted his arm with a napkin.

Between bites, the conversation flowed like seawater, laughter bubbling up to the surface and dissolving into other topics as you made your way through your meal. The remnants of the morning’s panic were at the back of your mind, which was a cruel thing to notice, but the pang in your heart disappeared as Oscar threw another offhand comment at you. At one point, as you set your burger down and wiped a red smear of ketchup from your cheek, you sighed and leaned back against the cracked booth.

“This,” you started lightheartedly, halfway through a burger bite, “reminds me of that time I fake-proposed to you in that little restaurant in Italy.”

Oscar’s groan was immediate and full-bodied, and the sound only widened your grin. “Please, don’t remind me,” he mumbled, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I had to have the weirdest conversation with my media team afterwards— ‘Yes, she’s my best friend. No, I’m not hiding a wedding. Leave me alone.’ Absolute nightmare.”

You cackled at the memory, so dear to you, and the sound echoed bright and sharp, like something cracked open in your chest. “But hey! We got the meal for free! And you got the prettiest ring made out of a napkin.”

He couldn’t help but laugh too, and the inflections of it were so utterly soft, the eyes he set on you captivated as you threw your head back in a chuckle. There was something worshipful in the way his gaze never left you even as he took a slow sip of his soda, and it made you feel blasphemous to sit under it inside a diner booth.

“You know,” Oscar murmured, his voice dropping just enough, “this is nice.”

His tone softened your grin into a smile. “What is?”

“Being with you, like this. You haven’t laughed like that in…,” he sets his drink on the table, “I don’t know. A long time. You kinda—” Oscar paused, searching your face. “You kinda lost your spark. Your thing, you know? So it’s nice. You and I, like this.”

Like old times.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words dissolved on your tongue, instead taking the shape of the sudden sting of tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. The words didn’t hurt, but the reality behind them hit you like bullets: you couldn’t recall the last time you let your tongue run free of any overthinking, your laugh coming from the deepest cracks of yourself, your shoulders released of any tension.

You come to the realization you forgot what it was like to be you, and hamburger grease drips down on the white of your wedding dress.

“Shit!” you gasped, dazed, staring at the growing yellow splotch on your bustier.

Frantically, you grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, but it only smeared. Tears pricked at your lashes, as you bit back a sob as you muttered, “Sorry— god, I’m such a mess.”

Oscar reached across the table and gently took hold of your wrist, fingers marching the warmth of your skin. “It’s okay,” he murmured, and it felt like a balm. “Who cares?”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. The sticky table, the harsh overhead light in the middle of the day, the chatter of the waitresses, all of it faded, and your world narrowed down to the feel of Oscar’s hand on yours, the salty beads pearling at your eyes, and that stupid stain on your stupid dress. “Yeah,” you breathed out, your voice breaking into a chuckle. “Who cares?”

Oscar’s answering smile lit up his entire face, and you couldn’t help but revel in it. It felt like a sunrise, one you hadn’t seen in a really, really long time.

Because you had forgotten what it was like to be you, and Oscar offered you fragments of it. A reminder you were still there, somewhere in the deepest parts of yourself and the most evident parts of him. 

When the waitress dropped the bill, you both paid with cash from the bottoms of your pockets—who brought their credit card to a wedding?—and practically rushed through the door, a newfound lightheartedness in the way your hand rested on his bicep. Oscar took a moment to help you gather the layers of tulle and satin that had tangled around your ankles, his fingers brushing yours as he lifted the skirt with exaggerated care. 

“Honestly,” you groaned, tilting your head back, “this dress is the most impractical thing I’ve ever worn.”

Oscar’s eyes crinkled with a grin. “You do look like a giant cupcake.”

The fact that he was bent over and helping you gather the fabric gave you better access to smack his shoulder—playfully, always. “You just know how to reassure a woman, don’t you, Osc’?” That made him laugh.

“Seriously, though,” you sighed, glancing down at the ruffled mess of your skirt, “I need to change. I’m sweating my ass off in this thing.”

Even though your tone was as light as you could make it, your best friend seemed to get the undertones the moment they left your tongue.. “Well, Maps did show a thrift shop about forty minutes from here,” he said, cutting your thoughts short. “Not exactly designer, but…”

A quiet, reckless joy bloomed in your chest. “Screw that, like I care about price tags anyway.”

And just like that, the two of you were rushing back to the car. Oscar hurried ahead and opened the door for you with playful flourish. You tumbled inside, not stopping the string of half-formed sentences and childish giggles that spilled from your lips.

Oscar’s grin widened as he closed the door shut and jogged to the driver’s side. The engine roared back to life with a satisfying growl and with one last glance at you, eyes bright and wild like he had missed, he pulled away.

The hefty silence had been left in Rosie’s Diner’s parking lot. The car had come alive under jokes thrown to the wind funneling in through half-opened windows, and the radio blared loud enough to tempt your lips into finally humming the melody. Sometimes, Oscar's gaze wandered from the road, catching yours, and you’d meet it, beaming. Other times, you’d stare at him as he maneuvered the tight curves of the mountainous coast, seeking any sign of exhaustion in the way the early afternoon light carved shadows in the dark of his irises. There was none, there never was— just unbridled warmth.

Forty minutes slipped by like five and, before you knew it, you were pulling into the dirt lot of a questionable wooden building. The weathered facade had been battered by sea salt and wind until the paint cracked, the structure groaning in rhythm with the coastal gusts. The sign had long given up its name, now only legible by its function: Thrift and Pawn Shop.

“What a fine establishment,” you quipped, eyeing the warped planks.

Oscar killed the engine. “But you don’t care about price tags, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk on your lips was nothing if affectionate. “You know, maybe I should’ve let myself die of thirst the day I met you.” You don’t mean it.

“Maybe I should’ve let you,” he fired back, and his traits only carried the same knowing softness. He didn’t mean it either. That was the whole point.

You entered the shop side by side.

The inside was a considerable improvement from the outside, to say the least. It was an Aladdin’s cave of mismatched treasures: clothes and antiquities climbed each wall like ivy, so much the ceiling was brimming with another rack to choose from. Shoes and hats littered the floor to form a winding makeshift pathway to the front counter, a glass table at the back cluttered with multiple trinkets varying in quality, all overseen by a middle-aged woman. When her eyes set upon you, her eyebrows shot up in surprise at the wedding dress trailing behind you and the tuxedo at your side. You offered her an awkward smile, to which she answered with an indifferent shrug.

You and Oscar shared a look—that could be translated by Let’s get this over with—before diving into the efficiently organized chaos.

The options felt endless and overwhelming. You didn’t even know where to start, Oscar either, and the oppressive gaze of the woman at the counter didn’t help your hesitation: racks sagging under the weight of too-small shirts, dresses with questionable patterns, and pants that looked like they’d fit a twelve-year-old or a linebacker, no in-between.

You decided to divide and conquer. Oscar took the left side of the store while you made your way to the right, burying yourself in a twisted maze of dusty shelves.

As per thrift shop customs, everything seemed to miss the mark: too tight, too loose, too… everything. You huffed in frustration, and the creeping feeling of spending the entire day in that wedding dress, like you were originally supposed to, came crashing upon you. Just as the thought swallowed away your renewed optimism, a beacon of hope reached your eyesight.

A pair of worn jean shorts peeked out from underneath a dizzyingly high pile of knitted sweaters. Hoping for a miracle, which would take the form of a size that could actually fit you, you grabbed them. That was when the shelf next to it caught your attention with a slightly askew hanger.

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud when you took it. “Oscar!” you called, giddy and wheezing. He appeared from between racks of 80s windbreakers, eyebrows raised.

“What’d you find?”

With all the pride you could gather, you held up the brand-new, bright orange McLaren shirt you had found, with the number 81 in bold lettering on the front pocket.

His eyes, both reflecting so much and so little, went back between your smile and the shirt a few times.. “I’m… mildly offended to find that in a thrift shop,” he finally said, deadpan.

You chuckled again, and the sound of it stole a fond grin out of Oscar. “It’s half-priced too, $40,” you read off the tag attached to the hanger.

“That’s a bargain.”

“Yeah… might be because of that.” You turned the shirt around.

The number 81 was bigger on the back, but it wasn’t the star of the show. The real showstopper was Oscar’s last name, written similarly, right below it, spelled out in bold—PAISTRY.

There was a moment of silence during which Oscar stared at the letters, entirely too dumbfounded to manage one of his usual dry remarks. You snorted, and that broke the dam: you were both bursting out in messy laughter, doubled over with shaky shoulders and tears prickling at your eyes. The sound ricocheted off the cluttered walls, drawing a loud, pointed cough from the woman at the counter. Reminded of the time and place, you straightened abruptly, slapping a hand over your mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the giggles. Oscar mirrored your motions, clearing his throat, his lips still twitching.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to wheeze out, wiping at your cheeks, “but I have to have this. I can’t just leave it here.”

Oscar laughed. “You could’ve just told me if you wanted one, I’d have stolen you a dozen from the HQ.”

“That’s not the same!” You flipped the shirt back around so you could see the misspelled name. “I can’t pass up the chance to be Mrs. Paistry, can I?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and the significance hit you like a rogue wave, leaving you too dizzy to take them back before the momentum passed. Oscar’s eyes widened just a fraction, a bright, telltale pink dusting his ears and cheeks. You could feel the heat rising in your own and the tip of your fingers tingling as you clutched the shirt tighter. Eye contact felt suddenly unbearable, so you busied yourself looking at every worn vest and secondhand jacket, shifting from one foot to the other like you reverted back to being an awkward sixteen years old, and not at the wise age of twenty-four.

Maybe the truth was that becoming Mrs. Piastri—or Paistry—wasn’t such a terrifying thought after all. Somehow, it sounded better than Mrs. Elijah Hart.

Oscar cleared his throat, cutting your train of thoughts short. ”Do you even have forty bucks?” he asked, voice a touch too casual as if he was trying to keep things light save for his obvious fluster. “I’d get it for you, but I barely have gas money after the burgers.”

“Oh.” You deflated a little. You didn’t have forty dollars. Hell, you probably didn’t have ten. Brides didn’t usually carry money on their wedding days, after all—the rest of your cash and your card were safely tucked at home, which seemed like a whole other world right now.

You ran your thumb absentmindedly over the wedding ring on your finger, something you found yourself doing whenever you were thinking. The smooth gold caught your eye, glinting artificially under the store’s dim light. The idea hit you right here and there.

A spark of defiance bloomed in your chest. Trembling breath and limbs, you took a hold of the layers of your dress and turned toward the counter, where the middle-aged woman still watched you with detached disinterest. “This is a pawn shop, right?” Your voice carried strength, even if you couldn’t feel it in your muscles.

Next to you, Oscar frowned, but kept quiet.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it is,” she answered, her tone slow and a little suspicious. “Why?”

You paused for a second, letting your skin absorb the coolness of the metal one last time, and before you could hesitate, you slipped the wedding ring off. It fell onto the glass counter with a small clink, which seemed to reverberate inside the entire shop, bouncing off the walls until it was inside your bones. Yet, it was more satisfying than it should have been. “How much for this?”

Oscar let out a stunned exhale, a silent panic flickering in his eyes. The movement was subtle, but there nonetheless: he reached out, the pad of his fingers scraping against your sleeve as he gently held your elbow. “Hey— are you sure about this?” he asked softly, barely above a whisper. “I can get you a better shirt, or a hundred of them. You don’t have to—” He faltered, took a deep breath to regain his usual composure. “If you really want to do this, you have to be sure. It’s big.”

You looked down at the spot where your ring had sat, and spotted the faint tan line that marked the absence of something that had once meant everything, or so you thought. Now, it just looked like a parcel of skin bruised and branded white, a part of yourself that didn’t belong to you anymore but rather to the ghost of something past. You thought of all the sun you’d soak up, the laughter and scratches that would paint over that line, a testimony of the spark you’d welcomed back in the past hours.

You weren’t attached to the ring. Or the marriage. Or any of it, truly.

You took a deep breath and met Oscar’s gaze, smiling. “I’m sure,” and you meant it.

Oscar’s expression melted into a thing of warmth, pride, and maybe a bit of relief. He gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, his eyes shining. “Alright, let’s do it then.”

The woman eyed the two of you before her eyes set back on the ring. Minutes passed while she scrutinized under the glare of a magnifying glass and poked it with a few tools. Pursing her lips, she finally lifted her gaze back to you. “This is expensive stuff. You sure you want to sell that here?”

“Never been more sure of anything.” 

She raised her brows and gave you a slow once-over. “Not a happy… almost-marriage, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s say I tend to gravitate more toward silver,” you said in a sigh. The woman looked back at the golden band with an empathetic hum. Oscar, who’s been hovering right behind you, let out a snort.

“That’s a nice way of saying he was a dick,” your best friend interjected dryly, and you turned to him in surprise. Elijah and him had been friends, or so you thought. You wouldn’t have expected Oscar to openly berate him, but then again, today had been a day of surprises—and he had been front row for your entire disaster union.

After a bit of back-and-forth and some haggling, the woman finally relented. She handed you a surprisingly heavy wad of nine hundred dollars in cash—minus the cost of your jean shorts, the McLaren shirt, the surprisingly pristine white sneakers Oscar had found for you, and a new outfit he’d picked out himself. You’d insisted on paying for his clothes, too. Reparations, you’d called it, and he had rolled his eyes at you.

You both made your way to the single changing area at the far end of the thrift shop. Giddy to escape the heat of your dress, you ducked into one stall, while Oscar took the one beside you.

But as you kicked off your heels with relief, cold realization trickled upon you: the tight, back-laced corset. You cursed under your breath. It had taken the combined effort of your mother, your sister, and a few Hail Marys to get it on in the first place. You were a fool to think you could manage it alone. Still, you tried.

You twisted and contorted your body, which definitely earned you a type of scoliosis, and the knots only seemed to get tighter the more you moved. In another effort, your elbow slammed against the thin wall separating you from Oscar’s stall with a loud thud.

“Is everything alright?” Oscar’s voice floated through the cheap wood paneling.

A frustrated laugh, tinged with desperation, escaped you. “No I— I think I might need help. With the dress. This goddamn corset—”

There was a pause. After what felt like forever, you heard the hesitant creak of Oscar’s door and a few footsteps before your own cabin door eased open. He stood there, a little unsure, his shirt half-opened and his jacket forgotten somewhere. He was probably in the middle of changing, you thought, and a flush crept up your neck.

“Can you—?” you gestured awkwardly toward your back.

His brown eyes softened. “Yeah. Of course.”

Oscar carefully stepped inside. The space became more cramped than it already was with the addition of his presence, so when you turned so your back faced him, you were almost leaning entirely against his chest. His breath was a warm wave on the nape of your neck, catching at the sudden closeness, and the mirror in front of you showed the clear tension in your cheeks, your chest heaving.

His fingers, steady, found the first knot and began to loosen it. Oscar was methodical in his movements, making his way slowly through each row with brushes so gentle you wondered if he was even touching you at all. The imperceptible sweep of his knuckles against your spine had been featherlight, maybe accidental, but echoed through your entire body as if he had dug his fingers in your hips. Your breath hitched, and your eyes flew to the mirror.

His had too.

Oscar’s expression was nothing if focused, save for the tenderness of his eyes gliding upon you. His hands untied the last row of ties, achingly measured, each loosened lace a small liberation. The corset eased off, and the cold air hitting your bare back was a relief that almost brought tears to your eyes. Yet, what reduced you to pieces was the subtle ghost of Oscar’s fingertips, his eyes transfixed, tracing down your spine in sheer reverence. You don’t think someone had ever touched you so.

A soft gasp slipped past your lips. “Oscar—” you whispered. Your voice was trembling, carrying gratitude and something else, something you couldn’t quite name, or were too scared to.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, and his cheeks flamed red. His name seemed to have brought him back to whatever trance he had been plunged in. Oscar stumbled back, his hands dropping to his side. “Uh— I’m going to— I’ll go get changed,” he stammered, looking everywhere but at you. “I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

You watched him retreat, a thunderstorm waging in your ribcage, the mirror reflecting your dazed expression. The wedding dress pooled at your feet as you released the iron grip you had on the bustier.

Reaching out for the McLaren shirt hanging on the side with shaky hands, you caught a glimpse of your back in the mirror: hard pressure scars were left where the lace had clung too tightly, where Oscar had let the pad of his fingers drift for mere seconds.

You thought about the pressure of the basque waist. The overwhelming smoothness of the satin against your legs, trapping sweat in every crease. The beading heat between your breasts. Your ribs had cracked, and you had bent yourself into someone whose spine had to fracture in order to breathe.

Slipping on the orange shirt with Oscar’s name on the back, no matter how misspelled and large on your fragile stature, felt like mending bones. Little by little, one vertebra at a time.

Oscar was indeed waiting for you by his car, half-perched on the hood with his arms folded across his chest. He’d traded his tux for a short-sleeved grey shirt that clung to his arms, some well-worn cargo shorts, and a pair of sneakers that matched the ones he picked for you. The outfit was so unapologetically Oscar that you couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

He caught the sound immediately and grinned, before pushing himself off the hood. With practiced ease, he opened the backseat door and gestured at the sad remains of your wedding dress you held in your arms, now crumpled like a white flag.

“Figured you’d want to put that behind you,” he said.

“God, yes,” you muttered, dropping it in the backseat. It hung there like a ghost.

You slipped into the passenger seat, stretching your legs. You relished in the space you had, your feet finding a home on the dashboard without a hint of shame. Oscar’s lips twitched in amusement as he buckled up. “So, where to?” he asked

You heard the question beneath the question. Want me to take you home? Get you someplace safe, so you can finally think?

Except you didn’t want safe. You wanted the rest of the world, the horizon you could squeeze in the rest of the day and what Oscar made you see you missed. You wanted everything, or as much of it as you could have right now.

You grinned at him. “Anywhere.” It sounded like a dare, and his smile widened.

He took you there.

You drove down the winding coastal roads with the radio turned all the way up, sea wind tangling in your air as you leaned out the window and belted out every song, no matter how wrong the lyrics. Oscar threw his head back in a laugh, and though he made fun of your singing, he couldn’t resist when you demanded he join in. His voice was lower, just a hum, but it occupied the car entirely.

At a run-down gas station, Oscar filled the car up while you wandered inside and returned with a cheap keychain—a gaudy plastic seahorse with a chipped tail. You looped it around the rearview mirror. Some other charms you had already gotten him were already dangling there, untouched.

An hour down the road, you parked on the shoulder to share sandwiches he had gotten at the gas station behind your back. You sat on a nearby bench, up in each other’s personal spaces as if there wasn’t enough space on the wooden seats for both of you, crossed legs and crumb-covered. Between bites, you caught up on everything that had slipped through the cracks of the preceding year: you both had grown and stumbled, drifted and returned. The reality that you spent a year with Oscar at arm length grew more irrational by the minute, especially when being with him felt so natural.

Eventually, the road leveled out, giving way to a flat stretch of cracked asphalt. On the near horizon, a glimmer of white sand and the loud sound of rolling waves called to you like a siren’s song. You bolted upright in your seat. “We really got to the beach?”

You didn’t have to voice your request. Oscar squinted, frowning at the sky. The clouds had begun to gather in thick gray bunches, and shadows had already started stealing the sunlight. “I don’t know… looks like it might rain.”

“Come on!” You threw your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s just sight-seeing, it’s not going to take long.”

Oscar shook his head, yet a fond expression tugged at his facial traits despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

He parked right here and there.

The beach was a place of wilderness. The rocky cliffs you’d been riding on blurred into the misty edges of the pale sand, littered with dark driftwood and the bleached skeletons of forgotten trees, left to rot amongst the seascape. You could have found poetry in it, about endings and new beginnings, but your mind was too tender to poke at metaphors, bringing you back to your own issues and the meaning behind them. You settled on the simple, superficial beauty of it all.

You and Oscar strolled along the shoreline, careful to keep your semi-new shoes away from the forty reach of the waves; neither of you wanted to risk soggy socks and the humiliation of having to resort to the abandoned loafers and heels. Bits of conversations floated between you, punctuated by the kind of comfortable silence only best-friends shared.

A blush-pink seashell, perfectly intact and glistening in the sand, caught your eye just before you would’ve stepped on it. You bent to pick it up, already imagining nestled in the little collection on your shelf back home, until—

A cold splash of water hit the thin cotton of your shirt. You gasped as more droplets splattered across your arms. You could have sworn it was the rain Oscar had warned about, at least if the latter wasn’t standing there, grinning, with dripping wet hands.

“You little—”

Before you could finish, he flicked another handful of water at you, his laughter joining the rising wind. You lunged, scooping up water with both hands and launching it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and he let out a high-pitched yelp you’d never heard from him before.

Water flew back and forth, each splash accompanied with screeches and half-formed curses. By the time the first real raindrops fell from the darkening sky, your hair was already clinging to your forehead and your clothes were sticking to your skin. Oscar caught your eyes, a tad breathless, and you both turned your faces upward just as the sky opened.

The drizzle turned into a downpour. 

“Shit, let’s run!” he shouted, grabbing your hand as you bolted toward the nearest cover: a massive pine tree at the edge of the forest line. You both stumbled underneath, breathing hard and dripping wet on the mix of sand and grass. The rain roared around you like a thousand tiny drums.

Oscar was laughing, really laughing. The kind of laugh he never let out in public, the one with the wide open mouth and the hand on his knees that shook his whole body and took his voice with it. It stole yours away too, reducing you to a look of wonder, taking him in between huffy intakes of air, a parody of the sound that was supposed to come out of your lips.

The reality of what this day had come to was a comic realization, and it struck you right in the chest when you and Oscar locked eyes. His smile was broad when he spoke up, loud enough to be heard above the pounding of the rain. “God, started with a wedding and ended drenched in thrifted clothes on some random beach. That’s wild.”

The giggle bubbled in your throat and escaped your lips, trembling in disbelief at the scene around you. The rain poured down harder now, piercing through the pine canopy and spattering your arm like cold bullets. The air was thick and heavy with fog, choking your lungs and turning the beach sweltering in a shroud of gray. The salt bit at your eyes. The waves roared in a relentless crash. The cold of the settling evening. The breathless laughter splintered into a sob—one miserable gargle at the back of your throat.

Everything came out at once.

You pressed your palms to your eyes in a final, useless attempt to dam the flood, but the tears wouldn’t be stopped. They streamed down your face, and your shoulders convulsed with the strength of them, the effort to hold yourself together failing with every ragged breath.

Oscar’s smile faltered. He stepped forward without hesitation, without a word, and wrapped his arms around you, strong and warm despite the chill. He held you against his chest, a shield against the wind and the rest of the world. You tried to anchor yourself to the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“It’s okay,” he murmured in your ear, one hair smoothing over your hair. “I got you, it’s okay.”

Beneath the shelter of the pine tree, with the storm raging and the ocean crashing in wild, beautiful chaos, you finally let yourself break. You fell apart for good, in ugly, keening sobs and pained wails clawing for blood at your throat, trembling but safe, held fast in the arms of the person who had carried you through everything.

Eventually, the rain relented, leaving a misty calm in its wake. The silence stretched, and stretched, until you felt brave enough to talk again.

“I just— Oh my god. I left him at the altar,” you choked out, your voice hoarse from crying. “I ran away like a coward. And you know the worst of it, Osc’?” You pulled back just enough to see his face, but your hands still rested on his chest. “I’m not even feeling guilty about it. I ran away from my wedding, I sold my ring in a sketchy pawn shop, I got hamburger on my dress and it just felt… freeing. Like— Like I could breathe again. Does that make me a bad person?” You sobbed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Oscar studied you with that careful focus you’d seen a hundred times, like the night before a race, analyzing data while you dozed next to him on the couch, or after a weekend where the car let him down and he reviewed every lap. Only this time, his eyes were gentler. This time, he didn’t assume he knew the answer.

This time, Oscar asked.

“What pushed you to do it?” There was no judgement in his question. Only curiosity, along with an unbridled desire to understand you.

When you opened your mouth, you knew it was already too late.

“I don’t know, I— He was being rude to the officiant, when the bells rang. And I—” Your voice wavered. “I dropped out of the most prestigious marine biology programs in the country because he asked me to. I sat in his house alone for days while he called me from god-knows-where to ask me to buy a dress and show up at galas I couldn’t even speak at. He asked me to stop being so close to you because it could make him look bad with Alpine. He picked my wardrobe and told me how to stand and what to say, and I let him. I let him. All that— so he could treat the officiant like garbage on our wedding day?”

A sob tore at your throat. “And it’s such a small thing, so insignificant. There were probably a thousand telltale signs before that, but I just— I realized that I couldn’t live my whole life like that. I’m only twenty-four. I met him when I was nineteen, and I— I feel like I wasted such a big part of my life on… nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Delusions. I deserve more. I know I do, but… what am I supposed to do now? With all the things I wasted?”

Your question was met with silence. Truth be told, you hadn’t been expecting an answer—the question had been more directed at yourself than at Oscar. Yet, his hand rose to your cheek, and his thumb swiftly brushed away a tear that had clung stubbornly to your skin. His eyes were so full of tenderness, no matter what you just confessed, it made you shudder. More tears welled up as he smiled at you.

“I’m not… amazing at comforting people, you know it,” he started, “but it doesn’t take an empath to know you didn’t waste anything. Like you said, you’re twenty-four. That’s nothing in the grand scheme of things,” he shook you a little bit when he said that, and a strangled laugh fell from your lips. “You’re not a bad person for knowing what you want, you just had bad timing. You’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you to decide what you actually want and to take it, instead of wallowing on what you’ve ‘wasted’.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, so gentle it felt like a balm on an old wound. “You’ve always deserved more than what he gave you.”

You blinked through the tears. Oscar’s words wrapped around your heart, swirled in between your ribs, chasing away all guilt and shame. Something in the way he looked at you, so open and certain unlike you’d ever been, hit you in a way you hadn’t quite prepared yourself for. A tremor of realization that cracked open a door you’d been too afraid to look behind.

Maybe the reason you’d run, the reason you’d found your strength, hadn't been just because of what you lost and left behind. Maybe, deep down, it had been because of what you’d always wanted, and who you wanted by your side. Among the corpses of feelings you’d been forced to bury, hopes, dreams, and softest truths, something had survived. Someone had survived. And maybe that someone had been standing right in front of you all along.

Your heart raced at the possibility. It felt as if Oscar could sense the sudden shift in the air between you, the weight of what you’d never dared to name.

You never had the time to figure out what love really was. You didn't know at nineteen any more than you had at sixteen, cradled by storybook fantasies. In reality, every chance you’d had to understand love had been smothered under the suffocating weight of a man’s expectations, with delusions of grandeur packaged as tenderness, objectifying greed dressed as devotion. Your definition of love had been shaped by cold beds and lonely nights, by a hand that hovered at your lower back only when cameras were near, by an iron-tight grip on your wrist and the wrong flowers arriving a day late. Love, to you, had been a cage—a brand name on a leash.

In the span of a single day, between thrift shop and laughter in the rain, you’d learned more about love than you had in the last five years.

Love didn’t need to be grandiloquent in order to be real. It didn’t have to be bought and paraded to matter. Love could be gentle, and match the rhythm of the heart it belonged to, quiet and careful. It could be found in the smallest gestures—wiping away tears, helping someone out of a corset, listening, asking.

You didn’t need grand gestures to know that you loved Oscar Piastri, and maybe you had for a long time now.

“Oscar?” you called, shaky.

Decide what you want and take it.

You could do that.

“Yeah?”

You wanted Oscar, so you took him by the mouth and made him yours.

The gesture was as clumsy as it was true, as hesitant as it was pure. Your lips had moved on their own, seeking the only warmth that ever felt like home. For one suspended second, Oscar froze and you could feel the tension in his body, the startled catch of his breath. In that heartbeat, every doubt you’d harbored came flooding back. Maybe it had been all in your head, that you’d mistaken friendship for something more and lost your best friend for good.

But that’s when Oscar kissed you back.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, not the kind of kiss you’d expect after a day like this. It was soft, as though he was afraid of breaking something precious if he ever moved too abruptly. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, drawing you closer until there was no air left between your bodies but the one you shared. Oscar kissed you the way you’d find peace in the eye of a storm: slow and patient, with a quiet devotion that made your knees go weak. He tasted like the sea.

No urgency, no hunger, just the relief of being known and being wanted exactly as you were.

When you pulled back for breath, your eyes fluttered open to find him staring at you, memorizing your face as if you’d vanish in the next second. A small, incredulous smile curved at Oscar’s lips, and his eyes shined with unshed tears of his own. He dipped his forehead to touch yours.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, breaking with emotion, “how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Your heart lost its rhythm, and something between a sob and a laugh escaped you as relief and wonder alike washed over you. Oscar’s arms tightened around your frame and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Me too,” you admitted. God, did it feel good to finally say it out loud.

But even in the midst of that newfound honesty, a quiet hesitation tugged at the hem of your being. You loved Oscar—oh, you did—and you wanted him. There wasn’t a single doubt in your heart about that, not anymore, at least. But you’d left your wedding just this morning. You’d left an entire life, five years of your life, and there were wounds you hadn’t even begun to understand, let alone heal.

You drew in a shaky inhale, eyes darting between his, searching for understanding. “I think…” Your voice cracked. “I think I need a little more time before we… you know. Before we start… us.”

Oscar’s gaze softened with a characteristic, unwavering kindness. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully, and in them, you saw the steady promise of every whisper, every late-night talk, every wordless understanding you'd share. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’ll figure it all out. Everything you want, everything you deserve—I’ll be there. I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears streaming down your cheeks were ones of relief. You exhaled a trembling chuckle. “I know you will.”

The rain had softened back to a drizzle by the time you both made it back to the car, the world around you washed clean. As you settled into the passenger seat, damp, messy, and more at peace than you’d felt in years, Oscar turned the keys and the engine hummed to life.

He glanced over at you, his smile easy and open, like it had always been just for you. “Where to, now?”

You didn’t have to think about it. Your head tipped back in a laugh, the sound unburdened. Free.

“Anywhere.”

And this time, anywhere meant home. Home in his apartment that already had a space carved out for you on the bed, and a toothbrush with your name on it. Anywhere, as long as it was with the man who saw every piece of you and never once tried to turn away, who was letting you reassemble the puzzle yourself. As long as it was with Oscar and no one else.

There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be, anyway.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[cosmichughes]

oscar piastri’s “partner”

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: oscar piastri x lando norris sister!reader

summary: you appear on the race broadcast and f1 mistakenly puts “oscar piastri’s partner” as your title even though the two of you have never spoken and youre lando’s younger sister

notes: i love making smau one shots so much and would love to take requests from you guys!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: lexi jayde

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux and 263,198 others

y/nnorris shoutout to my brother for winning monaco and giving me a free paddock pass

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user6 imagine being so girlfriend coded that sky sports couldn’t even wait for confirmation

↳ y/nnorris confirmation of WHAT😭

↳ user93 the relationship that apparently only you don’t know about

user14 paddock pass this, paddock pass that. GIVE US A PIC WITH OSCAR BE SERIOUS

lando glad to know i’m just your paddock pass provider now

user23 not her pretending like she didn’t get introduced as OSCAR’S PARTNER on live TV

user67 "free paddock pass" no babe they put your full relationship status on the international broadcast

user19 the way she’s not just a drivers sister now but a whole wag too

↳ y/nnorris WHOSE wag??? be so serious rn

↳ user43 girl don’t play dumb we all saw the monaco broadcast

user89 the fact that you’re confused just confirms it. that’s exactly how all the lowkey couples act

↳ y/nnorris I AM NOT A LOWKEY COUPLE

↳ user10 yeah that’s what the last lowkey couple said too

y/nnorris just added to their close friends story!

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 289,472 others

y/nnorris pls stop tagging me in “wags of the grid” edits sorry to disappoint but i’m just lando’s little sister

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user27 girl be so fr. you expect us to believe sky sports made a whole graphic for fun???

user4 she debunked the rumor but i somehow feel even more convinced

lando you had a boyfriend and didn’t tell me?? damn thought we were close

↳ y/nnorris YOU ARENT HELPING

user38 “just lando’s sister” okay but why did oscar like this post 17 seconds after it went up? be fr

user3 the fact that oscar liked the “we’re not dating” post is the exact behavior of a man IN LOVE

user32 girl you had us in the first half but now you’re following each other??

oscarpiastri sorry about the graphic btw… not sure how that happened

↳ y/nnorris nah it’s okay 😭 my mum was so excited and now i have to explain we’ve literally never spoken

↳ user27 “we’ve literally never spoken” and yet… here they are… speaking

user29 girl he commented. he FOLLOWED. he LIKED. sky sports knew before y’all did

user2 no but how have they never met before oscar and lando have been teammates for like 3 years???

y/nnorris just added to their close friends story!

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 304,592 others

y/nnorris he ordered for me so now i have to marry him i guess

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user63 rue when was this??

user87 we went from “sky sports accidentally exposed them” to this?? i’m grieving

user93 this is so sick. sky sports gave us hope just for you to do this vague little boyfriend soft launch??? and you’re saying it’s NOT oscar????

↳ user5 she never said it wasnt oscar

↳ user35 nurse she’s out again

user73 we were rooting for you. we were all rooting for you.

user26 this post aged me 7 years and it’s only been up for 6 minutes

user48 idc if his face isn’t in it. that’s oscar. my heart told me.

lando hilarious post considering who took the second pic

↳ y/nnorris i’m going to unplug your sim rig

↳ user26 WHAT DO YOU KNOW LANDO

↳ lando 🤐

y/nnorris just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and 430,982 others

y/nnorris my love just won the spanish gp!!! congrats to my brother too ig

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user16 no bc oscar hugging you was already too much but this caption just buried us alive

user75 nah bc the fact you posted this with ZERO photos of lando is sending me

user41 okay but does anyone feel like this happened too quick

↳ y/nnorris babe i’ve had a crush on him since he joined mclaren so no it def didn’t happen to quick

↳ oscarpiastri i’m sorry WHAT i didn’t know that??

↳ y/nnorris u ever try flirting while your brother’s also in the hospitality suite??

↳ lando alrighty logging off forever

user73 can we talk about the fact that oscar LIKED THIS POST IN UNDER A MINUTE

user26 con😭grat😭ula😭tions😭

lando you’ve known me 22 years. oscar? like 3 months. betrayal.

↳ y/nnorris ok but who won today? that’s what i thought

oscarpiastri wait wait wait… you’ve liked me this whole time??

↳ y/nnorris yes bro. i was literally fighting for my life in silence while you talked to my brother about tire degradation.

liked by y/nnorris, lando and 987,924 others

oscarpiastri 25 points, a podium, and a photo that might be my favorite

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user26 “a photo that might be my favorite” YOU ARE NOT SLICK

user4 25 points for McLaren and -1000 points for my emotional stability

user15 we won. sky sports was RIGHT. the prophecy is fulfilled.

lando y’all are gross. blocked. reported. see you at dinner.

↳ y/nnorris don’t be mad ur teammates pulling more than you 😌

↳ oscarpiastri she said it not me

↳ lando i’m sitting between you at dinner. say goodbye to holding hands

↳ yourusername bold of u to assume we wait for dinner

↳ oscarpiastri bold of you to assume we just hold hands

↳ lando I’M CALLING MOM

user46 he said “my favorite photo” and it’s HER??? we lost him. it’s over.

user16 y’all called me delusional for connecting the dots but LOOK AT ME NOW

user72 WE DID IT JOE

[cosmichughes]

for the touch prompt list, can I get 3 with oscar? ty!

osc win means osc fic! here you go lovely <3

oscar piastri x reader, 1.4k. request something from here :)

The morning starts with Oscar’s alarm going off, much too early and much too loud. 

Incessant buzzing and chiming jerks you out of your sleep rather unwelcomingly, slicing through the cozy silence like an axe, and you scowl. An arm slung over your waist prevents you from moving to turn it off, but the owner of that arm doesn’t seem to be in a rush to turn it off either. 

Oscar still snores from where he’s pressed up behind you, nose still buried deep into your neck the way he’d fallen asleep last night after a long day of training. You know from experience he can and will sleep through anything. 

“Osc,” You groan, searching fingers finding his bicep. You poke him once, twice, then a little harder on the third time when he doesn’t stir one bit. “Oscar!” 

Oscar exhales deeply at the force of it, finally waking up. “What?” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You jab him again, this time in the ribs with your elbow, and now he gets the hint. 

He peels himself away from you, rolling back over to his side of the bed to finally turn off the godforsaken alarm. 

“Thank you,” You huff, burrowing deeper into the covers. 

Oscar gives a sleepy, haphazard noise in acknowledgement. “Sorry, babe,” He mumbles softly. “Thought I’d turned it off last night.” 

“You should’ve,” You grumble, eyes still squeezed firmly shut. “Today’s your day off.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

You’re expecting him to roll back into your space, to tuck himself behind you again so you can both sleep until the sun’s golden beams stretch across the room, preferably sometime in the late morning. What you aren’t expecting is for him to throw his legs over the side of the bed to sit up properly. 

He’s getting up. He’s leaving. The sun is barely out right now, and he’s climbing out of bed. Who is this boy and what has he done with your very-much-not-a-morning-person boyfriend? 

“I should try to get in a morning run anyway.” 

“You’re kidding me, right?” You yawn, peeking one eye open at Oscar. He looks barely even half awake, very much the epitome of a sleepy, slightly disgruntled kitten with his sleep mussed hair and squinty expression. “It’s your day off, Osc.”

“I’m fully aware. It’ll just be a short run, I promise.” He sprawls over the expanse of the bed and back into your space again, sweeping a gentle hand along the hill your hip makes under the blankets. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back by the time you wake up again, and then you’ll have me for the rest of the day.”

You frown, scooting yourself close enough to hide your face in his neck in a last ditch effort to get him to stay. His skin is still warm with sleep, smelling faintly of his body wash and familiar cologne, and it makes you want to keep him here next to you forever. But when all he does is chuckle quietly, you sigh.

“Promise?” 

“Swear on my life.” 

“Fine. Go before I change my mind and drag you back into bed.” 

Oscar presses a kiss to the top of your head, two more to your shoulder on his way out. “Be back soon.” 

You aren’t sure how long Oscar is gone on his run, but you do hear the front door slam a while later, signalling his return. He disappears into the bathroom to shower, and only when he’s finished with it do you finally muster the energy to drag yourself out of bed. You nearly trip over one of the many jumpers he’s left scattered around the room, letting out a soft grumble before pulling it on begrudgingly. 

Maybe you should make him spend his off day picking up all the clothes he’s left everywhere.

The hardwood floor is cold underfoot as you shuffle into the kitchen. You wrap your arms around Oscar’s torso, pressing your forehead right between his shoulder blades in an attempt to draw some of his warmth into your body. He’s freshly showered and a wonderful human heating pad because of it. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” He hums, continuing in making his post-run smoothie. You don’t say a word, instead opting to snake your chilly hands under the hem of his t-shirt, splaying them against his stomach and making him jump. “Ah—shit, babe, that’s cold.” 

“Serves you right, Piastri,” You grumble. “Leaving me alone earlier.” 

“Said I was sorry already, didn’t I?” He chuckles. You let out a huff in response. “Fine, then I guess you don’t want the blueberry muffins I picked up from our usual bakery on my way home.” 

You poke your head around the broadness of his back, interest piqued, searching the counter until you spot the telltale paper bag of goodness. “You’re forgiven,” You chirp, giving him a squeeze around the torso. 

“Lucky me.” 

You hop onto the counter next to him with a muffin in hand, letting your legs swing as he finishes dicing up his bananas. On instinct, you turn to grab the protein powder from the cabinet behind you before he has the chance to ask, already well used to his routine by now. He sets aside a few slices of various fruits from his smoothie for you to munch on, and you feed him a bit of your muffin in return. 

Then it’s out to the balcony after everything is done, where you get to invade his space on the sofa there while he recovers from his workout. The city of Monaco is busy down below, but up here is your pocket of peace away from the hustle and bustle of it all.

Days like these are fleeting with his busy schedule, so you like to make sure to take full advantage of the time you do have with Oscar before he has to jet off somewhere else away from you again. 

You stretch out onto his lap like a cat, settling on your back with your head propped on his thigh comfortably. Immediately, his hand comes around to your shoulder, thumb rubbing over your collarbone absentmindedly. 

“So what’s the plan for today?”

“Got some errands to run later. Have to pop into the bank, then try to find a dress for your sister’s graduation. And we have to find your mum a nice gift for when we go back home for her birthday next month. D’you know what perfume she wears?” 

“...No.” 

“Oh, nevermind. I’ll call Hattie later. Or whichever of your sisters answers first, one of them probably knows,” You continue distractedly, nose scrunching in thought. “Actually, would you mind coming with me to—why are you smiling so hard?” 

“You called Melbourne home.” 

“I did?” 

Oscar nods. “You did.” 

“Oh. Well, I guess it is kind of home for me now. It’s where your family is.” 

“Better not let my mum hear you say that. Reckon she’ll never let you leave.” 

“I don’t think I’d want to,” You say, smiling like the thought of staying around makes you happy. “Like, I could see us moving back there one day. After you’re done with racing, when we feel like we’re ready to settle down.” 

Oscar tilts his head thoughtfully, grin turning into such a lovesick, syrupy sweet it makes your insides turn to mush. “Really? You’d wanna do that with me?” 

“Don’t make it a big deal,” You sniff, feigning annoyance. Oscar nods again, features going stoic.

“My girlfriend just said she could see a life together for us, around my family, in my hometown. Totally not at all a big deal, got it.” 

Despite his best efforts, his smile is already starting to show right through. 

It totally isn't a big deal, but then you catch him looking up houses in the Melbourne area on his phone later that night. It totally isn’t a big deal, but a few days later, you overhear him on the phone with his mum, asking something about a family heirloom he was seeking permission to give you.

A promise of a future. 

By no means are either of you ready to uproot the life you’ve built together here in Monaco anytime soon, but one day, when the time is right, you will. 

Maybe you’ll get a dog, maybe you’ll start a family. Maybe you’ll do something wildly different. You don't know what it’ll be yet, but you do know that anything that happens will be perfect as you get to do it with Oscar.

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

[cosmichughes]

tomorrow, i’ll be sober

summary: in the electric aftermath of oscar’s first f1 win, what begins as a celebration spirals into something unexpected, a moment of honesty shared in the quiet between the noise. you’re not used to being seen the way he sees you that night and when morning comes, you're left wondering if it meant as much to him as it did to you.

content: kissing, mutual pining, coffee-related accidents, soft!oscar, drunk!Oscar, drunk!reader, slow burn vibes, hoodie sharing, emotional tension, post-race kiss, light angst, workplace rule-breaking

word count: 5,6k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: the quote that inspired this is from a old movie The Dreamers, never watched it but the quote hits lol

a´s masterlist

The champagne hadn’t even dried on the back of your neck before you were being shoved into a crush of bodies backstage—papaya t-shirts, camera flashes, the sound of your name called over and over, somewhere between congratulations and “Can you get him for one more shot?”

Oscar stood on the top step of the podium like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. Not in disbelief, exactly. More like he was still catching up to the fact that this was real. That it was happening now. The trophy gleamed in his hand. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the line of sweat and champagne running down his neck. But what really struck you—what wouldn’t leave your mind even hours later—was his smile.

Not the press smile, that you knew all too well. Not the polite, quiet curve he gave in interviews or even the rare, playful smirk he sometimes gave during media day hell. This was wide. Unfiltered. Raw happiness spilling out of someone who always tried to keep the lid screwed on tight.

He was glowing. And you felt it in your throat, in your ribs, in the way your hands trembled as you pressed the shutter of the camera.

It wasn’t like you usually went out. Not with the team, not after races. You were Mclaren PR—your job was to keep things clean, polished, appropriate. But someone had grabbed your wrist, handed you a drink, and said, “C’mon, one night. Everyone is a part of the win today.”

So now, hours later, you were leaning against the bar of a club too exclusive for your credentials, your orange team polo traded for something black and slinky. Your skin still smelled faintly like champagne.

The place was all glass and gold and smoke. Bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat. Oscar had disappeared into the crowd with a handful of engineers and Lando not long after arriving. You nursed your drink slowly, fingers curled loosely around the condensation.

You were only a few sips in when someone’s hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here,” came his voice—familiar, tired, giddy.

You nursed your drink slowly, condensation slipping down your fingers as the music pulsed warmly through the club air. The ice clinked with each slow sip, your eyes scanning the crowd just beyond the rim of your glass.

Around you, more of the PR team had gathered—laughing over photos, recounting the chaos of the pit wall, teasing each other about who had cried when Oscar crossed the line. It was easy company, full of the post-race glow and secondhand euphoria. A few people had already told you how good your pictures looked on the socials. Someone had toasted to “team effort,” and even though you weren’t one to usually go out after races, tonight it felt right. Good. Like you were part of something worth celebrating.

You were already a few drinks in—warm, happy, a little soft around the edges—when a familiar hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here.”

The voice was low, slurred ever so slightly, and unmistakable.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Oscar. Flushed. Lit up.

His cheeks were pink from the heat or the alcohol—or maybe the sheer weight of a win finally sitting in his bones. His curls were damp at the temples, his shirt unbuttoned one more than usual, collar wide and loose. He looked electric and a little out of place and exactly like he belonged.

There was something in his posture too—looser than you’d ever seen him. Like the sharp lines of focus had softened just enough to let something else slip through.

His grin was crooked when your eyes met, and his words melted together like honey on the rim of a glass. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You shrugged, sipping again. “Even PR has to celebrate sometimes.”

He leaned in just a bit closer—not touching, but near enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Good. ‘Cause I was starting to think this night couldn’t get any better.”

Your heart skipped.

The line might’ve been cheesy. Hell, it was cheesy. But it didn’t sound rehearsed coming from him. It sounded raw. Tired and giddy and honest in the way only someone slightly drunk and completely unguarded could manage.

“You don’t usually come,” he said, words a little round at the edges, eyes trailing down to your hand still curled loosely around your glass.

You blinked, one brow rising with a smirk. “Well,” you said slowly, already tilting your head, “that’s one way to start a conversation.”

Oscar’s face flushed, an even deeper pink now blooming across his cheeks. “I meant—shit.” He laughed, sheepish, tipping his head back like it could shake the words back into order. “Out. With the team. After races.”

You leaned a hip into the bar, shoulder brushing his just slightly. “You don’t either,” you said, smiling into your drink.

“Right,” he echoed. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something softened in them. “Guess we both broke tradition.”

For a while, it was just the two of you—carved out in a little pocket of stillness against the noise. The crowd moved like static around you, music pounding and lights flickering overhead, but none of it quite touched the space you shared.

It wasn’t deep conversation. Nothing serious. Just the kind of back-and-forth that existed in that perfect in-between: light, easy, just this side of flirty. You joked about the chaos in the garage, the pre-race panic over the telemetry glitches, the way Lando tried to soak everyone—and somehow just you—in champagne. Your laughter came easier than usual, loosening like a ribbon pulled free. Oscar laughed too, head tipping slightly to the side every time you surprised him.

There was something charming in how his smile lingered longer than it should have. Like he wasn’t quite ready to look away.

You noticed the way he swayed, just barely, as he stood. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring, but his sharpness had gone soft at the corners. Eyes a little glassy, posture a little relaxed. His shirt had shifted slightly—creased at the collar, unbuttoned just low enough to suggest the hour—and you had the sudden, strange thought: he looks like someone who just stepped into himself. Like he’d finally let the pressure fall from his shoulders and just was.

You felt it too—less guarded than usual. Maybe it was the drink, or the lights, or the thrill of the win still echoing through your ribs like a held breath. But talking to him didn’t feel like navigating PR, like scripting moments for cameras or plotting timelines. It felt... normal. Easy. Nice.

Then the music surged again—bass rolling deep and sticky through the floor—and a pack of people pushed between you. Laughter and bodies and half-sung lyrics wrapped around you like a wave, and you blinked, just for a second—

And he was gone.

The crowd thinned, and your shoulder no longer brushed his. Your drink was empty. Your hand felt colder.

You turned your head, scanning—but no flash of his brown hair, no crooked smile in the crowd.

You stayed at the bar for a while longer, the buzz of celebration still humming in the walls, even as the crowd began to thin. Your heels pinched at your toes with every shifting step, the skin behind your knees aching from standing too long. The warmth from the drinks had softened the edges of your thoughts, made everything feel loose, detached. But beneath the fog of champagne and music, something lingered—something unsettled. A sense that the moment you’d shared with him hadn’t quite ended, even if the space between you had.

Eventually, you slipped away. The rooftop was nearly empty now—only a few stragglers clinging to their drinks, talking in low murmurs. The cold hit your skin immediately, biting through the fabric of your dress and raising goosebumps along your arms. The air was crisp and strange after hours of warm bodies and sticky dance floors. Above, the stars blinked faintly against the dark sky, distant and impossibly clear, like they’d only come out for nights like this.

You leaned against the brick wall of the building, the roughness scraping faintly through the thin fabric at your back. You closed your eyes. Just for a breath.

Then—

Footsteps. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just there.

A breath behind you. Familiar.

“Oscar?”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He stepped fully into view, clearly more unsteady now, his gait loose and his balance lagging just slightly behind each step. His hands were jammed deep into his pockets, his curls damp with sweat and night air, cheeks still flushed from inside. When he heard your voice, he turned his head and smiled, slow and crooked like it had to climb up his face.

“I thought you already left,” he said, words sticking just slightly as they left his mouth. Then that smile stretched, wider now, like he was amused by his own honesty. “Needed air. Didn’t expect you here.”

He came to a stop beside you, shoulder just barely brushing the brick wall where yours rested. You could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the chill. His breath made small clouds in the air. His eyes were glassy—not lost, but softened, his guard dropped just enough to let something else through.

You glanced at him sideways. The moonlight picked out the edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. You could still smell whatever citrusy drink he’d had on his skin—sharp and sweet. His breathing had slowed now, more even, but still deep like he hadn’t fully caught it all night.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked. Not the kind of glance you’d shared during briefings or behind-the-scenes shots. Not the polite, practiced gaze of someone used to being seen. This was something else. His eyes were fixed on you like you were a question he’d just realized he needed an answer to.

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

He laughed, low in his chest. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. You felt it—buzzing in the stillness between you. That quiet shift in gravity, the part where everything hung just a second too long. The unspoken edge of something waiting to tip forward.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on yours. “You’re really beautiful, you know.”

You gave a soft snort, not quite prepared for that. “You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved, but the words stayed clear. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m drunk. But you’re beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober.”

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the words to settle.

“But you’ll still be beautiful.”

The air left your lungs all at once, and for a second, you didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Your heart hammered against your ribs with something sharp and sudden. His face didn’t flinch—there was no joke in it, no teasing grin. Just that quiet, open look that felt more naked than anything else all night.

Then, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, he leaned forward. The space between you closed to nothing. And he rested his forehead gently against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a question.

It was just... there. A fragile press of warmth, of breath shared, of something honest in the silence.

And then—Lando’s voice cut across the rooftop, yelling something about shots and being next up at the bar.

Oscar’s head lifted. He grinned again, lopsided and tired.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked backward a few steps, still facing you, that same smile soft on his face.

Then he turned, disappearing back into the noise and lights.

And you stayed where you were, staring at the door he’d vanished through, the stars still burning quietly above your head, like they knew something you didn’t.

The hotel room is too bright.

Harsh daylight slices through the narrow break in the blackout curtains you forgot to pull shut, lighting the room in slanted lines. You groan and roll deeper into the bed, burrowing your face into the stiff hotel pillow. The cotton smells faintly of detergent and the faintest trace of your perfume—warmed into the fabric after last night when you all but collapsed face-first on top of the covers.

You hadn’t even taken off your clothes.

Your dress is still half-on, bunched at the waist. Your phone is dead somewhere on the nightstand. One heel is toppled near the bathroom door, the other nowhere in sight.

Your head throbs—not a sharp pain, but a dull, wet pressure just behind your eyes, like your thoughts are too swollen to move properly. You lie there for a while longer, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of your breath and the occasional twitch of a muscle that wants to get up but can’t quite remember how.

Eventually, your body overrides your brain. You peel the dress off with slow, clumsy fingers and shuffle barefoot into the bathroom.

The tile is cool beneath your feet. You turn on the shower and wait until the steam starts to fog up the mirror. The water is hotter than usual when you step under, but you don’t flinch. You let it burn a little, let it drag the ache from your limbs and the film of sweat and smoke and champagne off your skin.

Your head leans against the wall for a moment, the water rushing around your ears. Your eyes close. The memory of Oscar’s flushed cheeks and soft slur of voice floats up, uninvited. You see his smile again, the one that didn’t feel rehearsed, and the words—you’ll still be beautiful—echo in your head louder than the spray.

You exhale.

You don’t know what that was, or what it’s supposed to mean now, in daylight.

Wrapped in a towel, you pad across the carpet, gathering your things slowly. Your dress gets folded and stuffed into a corner of your suitcase. Makeup bag zipped. Chargers coiled. You find your missing heel behind the armchair, of course. Your phone finally comes to life as you plug it in, buzzing faintly with missed texts and one blurry photo from the night before—Oscar, mid-laugh, drink in hand, someone’s arm around his shoulders. He hadn’t seen you take it.

Your stomach flips.

When everything’s finally packed, you sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, palms braced on your knees. You’re not ready to leave, but staying won’t solve anything.

So you stand, grab your suitcase handle, and head down to the lobby.

The lobby is too bright—marble floors gleaming under morning light, too clean, too loud in its stillness. You step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, fresh from the shower but still not entirely present. The weight of sleep clings to your shoulders, and last night feels half-dreamed, half-lost.

Then you see him.

Oscar.

Sitting low on a leather couch by the windows, hoodie slouched over his head, water bottle untouched on the table in front of him. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers absently picking at the hem of his sleeve. He looks like he feels exactly how you do: run through, hollowed out by celebration and too many hours without real rest.

And for a second, you pause.

Because you remember. The rooftop. The cold air. The smell of citrus and sweat. His words, slurred but certain: "I'm drunk. But you're beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober. But you’ll still be beautiful."

Your stomach flutters—but then he lifts his gaze, meets yours with a tired sort of smile. Easy. Blank.

No flicker of recognition.

Your heart drops a little. Of course. He was drunk. You were too, to be fair. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it didn’t even land.

Still, you smile back. Casual. Friendly.

“Morning,” you offer.

“Hey,” he says, voice raspier than usual. He clears his throat, sits up slightly. “Rough one?”

You nod, dragging your suitcase closer. “Could’ve been worse.”

He chuckles faintly. “Could’ve been better.”

There’s a pause where neither of you says much—just the faint murmur of voices near the doors as the team filters into cars. Then:

“You heading to MTC?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Few of us from PR are reporting in later this week.”

He nods, gaze flicking toward the spinning doors. “Same. I’m going back with the engineers though.”

You nod too, chewing your lip like you might say something else. But what would you even say? Hey, remember calling me beautiful like it was the most honest thing you’ve ever said? You don’t.

“See you there, then,” you offer instead.

He lifts his water bottle in a mock-toast. “Yeah. See you.”

And just like that, the moment passes—quiet and unacknowledged. You pull your suitcase away with a faint tug of regret trailing behind you. Maybe it meant more to you. Maybe he really doesn’t remember.

The MTC feels colder than usual.

Not the temperature—though the glass-walled corridors always carried a clinical chill—but something else. Something in the way people move, fast and focused, laughter from the race weekend now just a faint echo in the past.

You’ve been back for hours already. Meetings, debriefs, emails stacked like bricks in your inbox. It’s the first real pause you’ve had, and you find yourself at the café corner of the atrium, hands wrapped around a paper cup of burnt coffee, eyes scanning the light-dappled water outside but not really seeing it.

And then you feel it.

Not quite a sound. Not quite a shadow.

Just the shift of the air when someone enters the space. When he enters the space.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around right away. You don’t have to.

You can sense him—quiet but not unnoticed. He’s standing across the room, near the vending machines, shoulder tilted against the wall, deep in conversation with a mechanic you vaguely recognize. He’s wearing black MTC gear, arms folded, curls pushed back messily from his face.

Your heart skips—just slightly.

You see it then. The way his eyes flick across the room. Just once.

You force yourself not to read into it. Not to linger.

Instead, you push off from your seat, paper cup in hand, notes clutched to your chest as you make your way toward the corridor. Your mind’s already halfway to your next meeting, shuffling bullet points and strategy when you round the corner—and crash directly into someone.

Coffee sloshes violently from your cup, splattering across your notes. Papers flutter like startled birds. You gasp, stumbling back, and then:

“Oh shit—sorry, I didn’t see—” Oscar’s voice. Closer now.

You look up, eyes wide.

Of course it’s him.

Of course it’s him.

He’s already crouching, long fingers chasing runaway pages with quick, fumbled movements. “That’s my fault,” he mutters, brows knit. “I wasn’t watching—”

“No, I wasn’t,” you rush to say, kneeling across from him. Your fingertips touch the same page, and you both freeze for a beat too long. “Really. I should’ve—”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quieter now. Closer. “I’ve made bigger messes.”

He offers a sheepish smile, holding out a soggy corner of your schedule. You take it carefully, your fingers brushing his.

You both glance up at the same time. And you’re too close.

For a heartbeat, no one says anything.

Then:

“You alright?” he asks. Gently. Sincere.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. You?”

He gives the smallest shrug, looking down again. “Could be worse. I didn’t get scalded by your coffee.”

Then, Oscar clears his throat, gesturing vaguely at your front. “I, uh… kinda spilled coffee all over you.”

You blink. Look down. Oh.

The pale fabric of your blouse is soaked, clinging to your skin in places and already browning along the seam. You inhale sharply, suddenly aware of how bad it must look.

“Shit.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide, hands sort of frozen in midair like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. “I—I have a small office, just around the corner. There’s a sink in there. If you want, I can try—like—washing it out? Before it stains?”

You hesitate. He looks so earnest. So mortified.

“…Now?” you ask, a little tentative.

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” he says, already turning slightly, motioning you to follow. “If you’re okay with it.”

You glance again at your ruined shirt and sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”

The short walk is quiet. Tense, but not uncomfortable—just that thick kind of silence where neither of you knows what to say first. His office is small and clean, papers stacked in careful piles on the desk, a grey MTC hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He holds the door open for you.

“I’ll, um…” He gestures toward the sink tucked into the corner, then back to you, clearly scrambling. “If you want to give me the shirt, I’ll try rinsing it.”

You raise a brow. “Right. Just like that.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous. “I mean—not just like that. I’ll use soap.”

You stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—just if you want. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say slowly, fingers already moving to the buttons, more out of instinct than thought. “You’re probably right. It’ll stain.”

Oscar turns a little to the side as you undo the blouse, the damp fabric peeling off with a soft tug. You’re left in your tank top, suddenly hyper-aware of your bare arms, the chill of the air conditioning, him just a few feet away.

He turns back too soon.

His eyes catch on your exposed shoulders—just for a second—but it’s enough to make his throat bob with a quiet swallow. “Uh—I have a hoodie. If you want.”

You nod quickly, covering yourself instinctively with the now-offending blouse.

He grabs the one from his chair, crossing the small space in two strides, and holds it out. You duck your head as you take it, the soft cotton brushing your arms, his scent already warming through the fabric.

As you pull it over your head, your fingers tangle in the sleeve—and before you know it, he’s stepping in, helping untwist it.

And suddenly, you’re close.

Too close.

His hands fall to your wrists, steadying the fabric, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

The hoodie settles over you with a quiet finality.

You glance up at the same moment he does.

Neither of you moves.

The silence presses in again, thicker than before. But there’s something fragile in it now—something that feels like it might break open, or shift everything, if either of you leans an inch further.

“I’ll just… rinse this,” he says, voice lower now, as he gently takes the blouse from your hand.

You nod, still watching him.

And for a long second, even as he turns to the sink, he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

He lets go of your wrist finally, almost like he had to remind himself to do it.

You don’t say anything as he turns, sleeves pushed up, and starts running water over the blouse at the small sink. The room is quiet except for the faint hiss of water and the rustle of fabric. He’s careful with it, more careful than you expected, using the gentlest bit of soap and his thumb to work at the stain.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, the hem of the hoodie curling against your thighs. It swallows you whole—warm, soft, his.

“Didn’t think I’d be hand-washing someone’s clothes in my office today,” he says after a beat, not looking back.

You laugh softly. “Didn’t think I’d be half undressed in someone’s office either.”

He freezes for a split second—shoulders tightening—then glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “We’re really breaking McLaren protocol, huh?”

You smile, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve that still smells faintly like his cologne and worn cotton. “Rebellious.”

He turns back, attention fixed on the blouse like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. The water runs soft against the fabric, soap swirling through the fibers. His movements are steady, but you see it—the slight tremble in his fingers, the faint flush that climbs up the back of his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he says after a moment. His voice is soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water. “I think I probably already broke a few McLaren rules last weekend.”

It’s not a joke—not really. He laughs a little, but it’s uneven. Nervous.

You don’t answer, not yet. Not while he keeps scrubbing at your blouse like it’ll save him.

“I just…” he hesitates, the fabric slack in his hands now. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up. Or if you even remembered.”

The silence stretches, but only for a heartbeat.

“I do,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you expected, your voice caught between surprise and something gentler. “I remember.”

That makes him turn. Not just his head this time, his whole body pivots slowly toward you. His hands still drip with water, your blouse hanging limp in his grip like a peace offering he doesn't quite know how to present. His hair is a little messy from the steam. His eyes, though—those are wide. Searching.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “If that was weird. Or if I was weird. Or—God—when I was awkward. Or when I obviously broke rules.” His words tumble out too fast, falling over each other. “I mean, I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t mean to say it like that. But…”

He finally meets your gaze.

“I meant what I said that night.”

The words settle into the quiet like a landing. Not jarring, but solid. Sincere.

You look at him—really look at him—and you can tell how long he’s been carrying this around. How much of that night has played on repeat behind his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just alcohol that loosened his tongue. Maybe it was something heavier, older, waiting.

You stand slowly, the oversized hoodie shifting over your frame as you do. His gaze flicks down for the briefest second, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying his best not to mess it up this time.

You step a little closer.

He sets the blouse aside carefully and takes a small step forward, like he’s afraid to break the spell. But you don’t move away.

You just keep looking at each other.

The air between you hums, charged but quiet like something sacred lives in the pause.

You tilt your head just slightly, chin tipped up as you look at him, eyes steady. “You were really drunk,” you murmur, almost teasing, but not quite. It’s gentler than that, softer around the edges. A reminder, maybe. Or a question.

His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s a fragile sort of smile—like he knows what he’s about to say matters.

“I was,” he admits. His voice is low, careful. “Maybe that’s where I got the confidence.” He breathes out, eyes never leaving yours. “But like I said… I’m sober now. And I still think you’re beautiful.”

You feel it then, the subtle shift in the space between you—the way it tightens like a held breath, like something long-held is about to give way.

A strand of hair slips forward, falling across your cheek. His hand moves before you even register it, fingers brushing the strand back, his touch so featherlight it sends a quiet thrill down your spine.

He doesn’t drop his hand.

Instead, his palm finds your cheek, warm and tentative, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You lean into it, instinctive, breath catching slightly in your throat.

His gaze flickers, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes again.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks. A whisper, almost.

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it, your voice caught somewhere between the thud of your pulse and the heat blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you breathe.

And then he leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, like he’s trying to memorize the moment just before and when your lips meet, it’s not rushed. It’s not sharp.

His thumb lingers for a second along your cheek before his palm settles there fully, grounding, steady.

It’s not fireworks or breathless urgency.

It’s soft, like a secret. A question more than an answer.

His lips find yours in a kiss that feels... delicate. Not unsure, but intentional—like he’s been carrying this moment for days and wants to make it last. You lean into it slowly, fingers curling around the fabric of the hoodie at your waist, pulling him just a little closer.

The room is quiet around you. The only sound is the distant hum of the building. But here, now, in this tiny office with a damp blouse forgotten on the desk and your heart thudding beneath borrowed cotton, it feels impossibly warm.

When he pulls back, barely, your noses still brush. His voice is quiet.

“I thought about that night more times than I probably should’ve.”

You exhale, your forehead touching his now. “I did too.”

His smile is small. Shy.

Weeks passed. The season rolled forward. Races, travel, press—it never stopped. But neither did the small, steady gravity between you.

Sometimes, he would find you during lunch breaks just to sit beside you, knees brushing beneath the table. Other times it was a shared coffee left on your desk with a little note tucked under the lid. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.

Just him. Just you.

You had moments. Lots of them.

Like that night, after a chaotic media day, when he knocked softly on your hotel door and said, barely above a whisper, “Can I come in?” You didn’t need to ask why. He came in, curled beside you under too many blankets, and said, “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re near.”

And then there was the photo from the garage—the first one he posted with you half-visible in the corner, his caption not about the race, but a lyric. One you recognized.

One that made your heart twist, in the best way.

But maybe the clearest moment came months later.

Another win.

You were already pressed against the barriers, camera in hand, lens trained on the blur of papaya as he crossed the line. The crowd roared around you—mechanics yelling, pit wall erupting. It was chaos, joy, adrenaline wrapped in noise. But your world narrowed to the frame in your viewfinder.

Oscar.

You tracked every movement—the way he slowed the car, waved at the grandstands. The way he unbuckled with practiced hands, climbed out of the cockpit, raised his fists to the sky like the moment might lift him off the ground.

Then he jumped down, helmet tugged off, hair damp against his forehead.

And that’s when you saw it.

The way his eyes scanned the crowd—not aimless, not distracted. Searching. Intent.

For you.

You lowered your camera just in time to see him take the last step.

There he was.

Closer than you'd expected, already in front of you. He didn’t stop. Just folded you into his arms, sweat and heat and joy pressed against you in one breathless second.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his voice low, husky, wrecked from shouting.

“Feels like I’m drunk,” he said. “And you’re still beautiful.”

You blinked up at him, startled, a laugh caught in your throat. “Osc, babe—everyone is watching” you whispered.

But he was already pulling back, just enough to look you in the eyes, that same glint from the rooftop all those months ago—only now clearer, grounded, real.

And then he kissed you.

Right there, over the barrier. Pressed his lips to yours like the world had gone still. Like nothing else mattered.

Cameras flashed.

People screamed.

The team lost it behind you, Lando somewhere yelling “Are you kidding me?!” and someone else whooping, and photographers already elbowing each other for the angle.

But you didn’t notice any of it.

You kissed him back.

And that was it.

[cosmichughes]

COULDN’T MAKE IT ANY HARDER.

“You say you can take it, but you don't know how hard I can make it”— You convinced yourself love wasn’t meant for you—not after everything. The heartbreak, the lingering wounds. But Oscar saw past all of it. He refused to let you push love away, proving it was always yours to have.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x fem! reader.

warning. slight angst (?), 8,2k words, strangers to ?? kinda, overthinking, mentions of being unlovable, feels rushed (cuz it is, sorry i tried), timeskips, part of event + based on this request!

music. Couldn’t Make It Any Harder by Sabrina Carpenter.

800 event. // event masterlist.

FOR A TIME, LOVE HAD BEEN A PURSUIT—an endless chase through whispered promises, fleeting glances, and the delicate art of hoping. It had felt like something tangible, like a treasure waiting to be unearthed, if only the right person appeared. So you searched, tracing the contours of affection through late-night conversations, through touches that lingered just long enough to make you believe.

But eventually, the search lost its urgency. The same patterns emerged, the same disappointments, and the same quiet realization that maybe, despite everything, love was not something that could be captured. It was a mirage—a beautiful illusion that dissolved the moment you thought it was finally within reach.

So, you stopped searching.

Not in a moment of sadness or resignation, but rather in a moment of clarity. Love, as the world had promised it to you, was a concept wrapped in uncertainty, in longing, in an ache that never truly faded. But here, in this life you had crafted—one of silken nights and sun-drenched decadence—you began to understand that love was not the only thing capable of filling the empty spaces.

Monaco stretched out before you like a shimmering dream, the streets lined with opulence, the air thick with possibility. You were young, effortlessly beautiful, draped in the kind of wealth that turned heads and whispered your name like a secret. People watched when you passed, their eyes tracing your silhouette, their voices hushed in admiration. You had power—not just in your possessions, but in your presence, in the way you carried yourself with quiet confidence and undeniable allure.

Perhaps you had no love, but did it truly matter?

Once, it had seemed like the missing piece—the thing that would make life whole, the final stroke in the masterpiece of your existence. But standing on a terrace with the Côte d’Azur rolling out beneath you, waves kissing the shore in rhythmic devotion, you began to question everything you had once believed. The sky melted into hues of lavender and gold, the scent of salt and citrus lingering in the air, and for the first time, there was no sense of incompleteness.

Until you found him.

Oscar Piastri arrived in your life like an inevitability, a force you had long resisted but could no longer ignore. He carried himself with quiet confidence, never asking for permission, never second-guessing his place in the world—or in yours. Unlike the others, he was relentless in the way he looked at you, in the way he approached you, as if he had already decided there was no escaping what lay ahead.

You had warned him, not once but many times. Your world was not simple. Love was not easy. But he did not flinch. He did not retreat. From the beginning, he was determined to show you that love was more than what you had known—more than fleeting passions, more than careless touches, more than the quiet ache of loneliness disguised as independence.

There was no hesitance in the way he stayed. Where others had faltered, where admiration had faded into uncertainty, Oscar remained—solid, unwavering, unafraid. He saw the walls you had built, the armor you wore, the cynicism you carried like a shield, and still, he did not turn away. Instead, he dismantled it slowly, piece by piece, until you were forced to see love not as something to be chased or avoided, but as something that had always been waiting.

───

Monaco shimmered under the golden embrace of the setting sun, every surface bathed in warm hues—bronze over the rooftops, molten gold spilling into the waves, lavender creeping into the edges of the sky. The city was alive, humming with quiet luxury, the distant laughter from terrace bars threading through the evening air.

You paused, drawn into the perfection of the moment. The way the sea swallowed the light, the way the buildings leaned into the fading day—it was something that demanded to be remembered. You pulled out your phone, steadying your hands, adjusting the camera until every color mirrored exactly what your eyes saw. The sunset was delicate, its brilliance fleeting. You had seconds—only seconds—to make sure the image held everything just right.

And just as you pressed the button, movement cut through the frame. A shadow, a blur, someone dashing past, slipping between the lens and the masterpiece beyond.

Your breath hitched out of frustration, the fleeting perfection of the sunset disrupted in a single careless moment. “C’mon,” you sighed, letting the exasperation slip into the evening air as your gaze followed the figure.

He had heard you—of course he had. Pausing mid-step, he turned, his expression open, unbothered, his laughter light. “I’m sorry, should I pose again?” There was amusement in his voice, but something genuine in the apology too.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “I think I’m okay.” But the man, with messy light brown hair catching the last golden rays of the sun, stepped closer.

His gaze flickered toward the horizon, where the sky melted into deep shades of amber and violet. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer now, as if the moment deserved reverence. Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “Tag me when you post it?”

There was something effortless about him, something that made the interruption feel less like an annoyance and more like an unexpected twist in the evening.

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. Was he really asking for your Instagram? Of course he was. The confidence, the casual ease—it was all so predictable, yet somehow still intriguing.

“You want my Instagram?” you chuckled, tilting your head slightly.

He didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening just enough to suggest he had expected the question. The sunset painted warm strokes across his face, casting shadows that made his messy light brown hair look even softer, catching the gold in his brown eyes.

“Would it be so bad if I did?” he countered, tone light but laced with something just enough to keep you on your toes.

The laugh slipped past your lips—soft, amused, unconsciously entertained by his confidence. Monaco was filled with people who asked for things too boldly, too quickly, always moving like they had somewhere more important to be. But there was something different about him. Less like an arrogant presumption, more like a playful challenge, an easy kind of charm that made the moment linger longer than it should.

You pulled out your phone, fingertips brushing against the screen before handing him your profile. He took it without hesitation, his own phone appearing in an instant, fingers moving swiftly as he typed your name into the search bar. A brief pause, then the familiar sound of a notification—the small moment of digital proof that you now existed in his world.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing a grin that reached his eyes. “Gotta go, or I’ll be late. I’ll text you later.”

You smiled, watching as he turned, as he disappeared into the slow-moving crowd, effortless in the way he carried himself, like the city itself had already carved out space for him. He walked away with a kind of unhurried certainty, pausing just enough to glance back once, catching your gaze, holding it for the briefest second before continuing on.

And yet, as he vanished into the golden stretch of the evening, something tugged at your thoughts.

Late to where?

A dinner? A meeting? A date—with someone waiting for him at a candle-lit table, phone in hand, expecting him to arrive, to sit across from her, to smile at her the way he had smiled at you? The thought settled, pressing against the edges of your excitement, dulling it just slightly.

You hadn’t opened the notification until you got home. The moment had lingered at the back of your mind, tucked somewhere between curiosity and a quiet sense of anticipation. You could have checked it earlier—while walking, while waiting at a crosswalk, while the city lights flickered on one by one—but something held you back. Maybe it was the thrill of prolonging the unknown, of not rushing the discovery. Maybe it was the way the evening air had still carried the warmth of the day, the way Monaco wrapped itself around you in golden luxury, letting you savor the afterglow of the encounter before unraveling its meaning.

But now, the door barely clicked shut, shoes kicked off without thought, body sinking into the familiar softness of the sofa. It was only then that you allowed yourself to reach for your phone, the glow of the screen casting a pale shimmer over your hands as you tapped the waiting notification.

oscarpiastri followed you.

The name stared back at you, simple yet suddenly significant. Your gaze flickered over the profile, the first thing catching your attention—a blue checkmark, verification. Official. Then the number beneath it. 4.1 million followers.

Wow.

It wasn’t just the number itself, though that alone was striking. It was what it represented. The reach. The recognition. The fact that, for all the effortless charm, for all the ease with which he had interrupted your sunset, he was not just another face passing through Monaco’s glittering streets.

He was someone.

Your thumb hovered, then pressed lightly against the screen, opening his profile, the digital window into a life lived at high speed. Monaco. Silverstone. Snapshots of race cars blurred in motion, podium celebrations frozen mid-cheer, quiet behind-the-scenes moments that hinted at exhaustion, at focus, at the relentless demands of a world that never slowed down.

Formula 1 driver.

The realization settled in your chest, not heavy, but shifting something. It changed the weight of the encounter, redefined the context. He wasn’t just a random stranger with a sharp grin and easy confidence. He had a career, a following, a life structured around precision, adrenaline, victory.

And yet, for whatever reason, amidst all of it, he had chosen to follow you.

Without overthinking, without weighing the possibilities, you tapped the button.

Followed.

The action felt strangely significant, like an unspoken acknowledgment—of the encounter, of the intrigue, of the way a single sunset had led to this small, digital connection. The seconds stretched, your screen still open on his profile, your thoughts hovering somewhere between curiosity and anticipation.

Would he notice immediately? Would he say something?

And then, as if the universe had been waiting for your decision, your phone vibrated softly in your palm. A new message.

From him.

Your phone buzzed softly in your palm, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

Oscar Piastri sent you a message.

Your heart skipped—just slightly, enough for you to notice, enough for you to acknowledge the intrigue curling at the edges of your thoughts. With a quiet breath, you tapped on the message, the text appearing crisp and simple against the glow of the screen.

oscarpiastri that was quick. Are u stalking me?

A smirk tugged at your lips. He had noticed.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating your response, the weight of the moment settling somewhere between casual and significant. You could play it cool, keep it light, tease him back. Or you could lean into the curiosity, let the conversation unfold in a way neither of you expected.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a second longer than necessary before you finally tapped send.

yn don’t think much of it dear

A simple response, measured, unreadable. Not too distant, not too eager. You leaned back into the sofa, phone still resting in your palm, waiting. He had replied quickly before—would he do the same now?

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. Then another soft buzz.

oscarpiastri not sure if I should be offended or impressed

There was that easy confidence again, woven into the words as effortlessly as it had been in his voice earlier. You could picture him saying it, the smirk, the knowing look, the air of someone who was just amused enough to keep things interesting.

A small smirk tugged at your lips. He was playing along, keeping the conversation light yet just intriguing enough to make you want to respond.

Your fingers tapped against the screen absently as you read his message again.

You thought for a moment before finally typing back:

yn why not both?

Short. Playful. Just enough to keep him wondering.

It didn’t take long before the screen lit up again with his reply.

oscarpiastri fair. Maybe I should be impressed you’re not making a big deal outta me lol

That pulled a quiet laugh from you. You tilted your head, considering how to respond, the weight of his words settling into something that felt almost like a challenge.

Your phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another message.

oscarpiastri how about a proper monaco experience? Dinner, maybe?

You stared at the words for a moment, the weight of them settling in. A date. He was offering a date.

It wasn’t surprising, not really. The way he had carried himself, the way he had effortlessly slipped into your evening, the way he had made the simplest interaction feel like something more—it all led to this. And yet, there was still something about it that made you pause.

A Formula 1 driver, asking you to dinner.

You smirked. He’d have to earn that.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating your response. You could play it cool, keep it light, tease him a little. Or you could lean into the intrigue, let the moment unfold exactly as it was meant to.

yn sounds nice, but I’m not that easy

You sent it, leaning back into the couch, waiting.

Seconds later, the screen lit up again.

oscarpiastri so what’s the challenge? Do I need to win a race first?

You laughed softly, shaking your head. He was sharp, quick to keep up, refusing to back down. But you weren’t going to make it that easy.

yn i think a little more effort than just being charming and driving fast expensive cars is required

A pause. Then another buzz.

oscarpiastri alright, then. Tell me Y/n, what would convince you?

Now this was interesting. He was game. He was willing to play along. And suddenly, the power shifted—you held the cards.

Your lips curled into a smirk as you stared at the screen, considering your next move. He wanted to know what would convince you—but letting him figure it out would be far more entertaining.

You typed slowly, deliberately.

yn that depends. How creative can u get?

A pause. Then, another soft buzz.

oscarpiastri me creative? Asking f1 driver for creativity is wild

You chuckled, shaking your head, but you didn’t type back immediately. Let him wait. Let him wonder.

Another buzz.

oscarpiastri okay fine. How about this—tomorrow, same time, same place?

The moment stretched between you—just a beat longer than necessary—as you let the anticipation simmer.

Then, with a single tap, you sent the message.

yn deal

No over-explaining. No unnecessary details. Just a simple agreement that placed the ball squarely in his court. He wanted to be creative? He wanted to impress you? Well, now he had the chance.

Seconds passed. Then your phone vibrated again.

oscarpiastri alright. Tomorrow, then. But No backing out

You smirked, shaking your head slightly. Confident. He was playing his part well, leaning into the challenge you had set without hesitation.

─── one day later.

The day arrived wrapped in the same golden warmth Monaco had gifted you the evening before. The sun hung low, casting elongated shadows across the waterfront, its fading light stretching across the sea like liquid gold. The sky, once a brilliant azure, softened into a watercolor blend of pinks and oranges, bleeding seamlessly into the horizon. The city hummed with life—voices drifting through the air, laughter rising from sunlit terraces, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore threading through the background like a quiet melody.

And yet, despite the beauty, despite the perfection Monaco had effortlessly curated, your thoughts were elsewhere—caught in the weight of an unspoken promise.

Same time, same place.

You hadn’t given him any guarantees. No reassurances. No indication that you would actually show. And yet, as the hour crept closer, anticipation simmered just beneath your skin, settling somewhere between curiosity and quiet intrigue.

Your steps were deliberate as you made your way through the winding streets, your presence merging with the slow-moving crowd that drifted along the waterfront. The scent of salt and expensive perfume mingled in the air, wrapping around you, pulling you further into the evening.

Then—just as effortlessly as the moment had formed—you saw him.

Oscar stood near the railing, his posture relaxed, bathed in the last golden streaks of sunlight that framed him like something deliberate. He wasn’t checking his phone, wasn’t impatiently scanning the crowds. No, he was simply waiting.

The second his gaze found yours, a slow smirk tugged at his lips, something knowing, something just amused enough to suggest he had never doubted you’d come.

You took your time approaching him, letting the moment linger between you, stretching the silence until it felt deliberate.

"You actually showed up," he mused, straightening slightly, his voice carrying the same easy confidence he had worn the night before.

You scoffed lightly, crossing your arms. "So did you."

He chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets, as if this moment belonged to him just as much as it did to you. "Had to," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "I made a promise, remember?"

Oscar’s smirk lingered as he watched you, the glint of amusement still dancing behind his eyes. He didn’t move immediately, letting the moment stretch, as if testing to see whether you’d break the silence first.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze, waiting—curious to see what he’d do next.

Finally, he exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Alright then,” he said, motioning with a tilt of his chin. “Come on.”

He turned, stepping away from the railing, weaving effortlessly into the slow-moving crowd, expecting you to follow.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before falling into stride beside him. The evening wrapped around you—warm, threaded with conversation and the scent of sea air. The hum of Monaco felt different now, charged with an unspoken anticipation.

“So,” you mused, hands slipping into the pockets of your coat as you glanced sideways at him, “what exactly does a ‘proper Monaco experience’ entail?”

Oscar chuckled, his expression unreadable but amused. “You’ll see,” he said simply, stepping forward, leading the way toward the heart of the city.

Oscar led you through the winding streets of Monaco, the city alive with the quiet hum of conversation, the distant clinking of glasses, the rhythmic pulse of waves against the shore. The evening air was warm, threaded with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, wrapping around you like a whispered promise of something unforgettable.

He didn’t rush, didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. Instead, he let the anticipation build, let the mystery linger just long enough to keep you guessing.

Finally, after a few turns, he stopped in front of a restaurant tucked away from the bustling crowds—a place that didn’t need grand signs or flashy displays to announce its presence. The terrace stretched out toward the sea, candlelit tables glowing softly beneath the evening sky, the kind of setting that felt effortlessly intimate.

Oscar glanced at you, reading your expression before smirking. “Figured you wouldn’t settle for anything ordinary.”

The restaurant is effortlessly elegant, the kind of place where conversation hums softly between flickering candlelight, where the scent of fresh seafood and rich wine lingers in the air. The terrace stretches toward the sea, waves murmuring below, the sky fading into a deep indigo, scattered with the first hints of stars.

Oscar pulls out a chair for you with an ease that suggests he’s done this before—confident, comfortable, knowing exactly how to play the moment without overdoing it.

You settle into your seat, glancing around, taking in the quiet intimacy of the space, the way it feels deliberately removed from the rush of the city. This isn’t a restaurant that begs for attention—it simply is effortlessly refined.

Oscar leans back slightly, fingers tapping idly against the table. “So,” he muses, a slow smirk playing on his lips, “what’s the verdict? Am I off to a good start?”

There’s something in his tone—teasing, but edged with quiet curiosity. He’s watching your reaction, gauging whether you’re impressed, amused, or indifferent.

You leaned back slightly, a smirk playing at your lips as you picked up the menu, glancing over it with casual interest.

"Hmm," you mused, drawing out the moment deliberately. "I don't know. I was expecting something a little more… grand."

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head, clearly entertained. "Grand? Should I have booked the entire restaurant instead?"

You hummed, pretending to consider. "That would’ve been a solid effort. Though, I guess this will do."

He scoffed, feigning offense. "Harsh. And here I thought I was making a decent impression."

You lowered the menu slightly, meeting his gaze. "You're trying," you admitted, letting the words hang for just a second longer than necessary, teasing without giving too much away.

He exhaled dramatically, tapping his fingers against the table. "Alright, noted. Monaco’s finest seafood and ego bruising. Got it."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Don’t worry, I promise not to be too hard on you."

Oscar leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and intrigue.

"So, I have to ask," he mused, voice carrying an unmistakable curiosity. "Were you always planning to show up, or did I just happen to catch you on a good day?"

You smirked, swirling the stem of your wine glass lightly between your fingers. "That depends," you teased. "Would you have waited if I didn’t?"

His lips quirked, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he held your gaze, weighing the response, letting the question linger between you before finally exhaling a soft chuckle.

"Maybe," he admitted, leaning back slightly. "But if I did, I wouldn’t have let you know."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Ah, so you’d rather suffer in mystery?"

Oscar shrugged, smirking. "Better than looking desperate."

The energy between you shifted, the teasing woven effortlessly into the conversation, blending into something just on the edge of sincere. He wasn’t just playing along—he was enjoying this.

"You know, Oscar," you said, letting the words settle between you, "you're quite an interesting man."

It wasn’t just a passing compliment—it was an observation, one that had formed slowly throughout the evening. He carried himself with a confidence that should have been overwhelming, but somehow, it wasn’t. It was effortless, natural, the kind that didn’t demand attention but commanded it all the same.

And strangely enough, in this moment, you weren’t analyzing the situation, searching for flaws, second-guessing the night the way you usually did. For once, you just let it be.

Oscar’s smirk flickered into something softer, something quieter. "Interesting, huh?"

You nodded, fingers lightly tracing the stem of your glass. "You don’t try too hard, but you don’t hold back either. You’ve got a balance."

“You’re interesting too, you know," Oscar said, his voice carrying the same easy confidence that had been present all evening. But then, after a brief pause, there was something else—a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his gaze. "A lot of men must love that, huh?”

It wasn’t just idle conversation anymore.

The question arrived sooner than expected—direct, unfiltered, cutting through the careful layers of amusement and teasing that had carried the night so far. It wasn’t just about your confidence, about the presence you carried with ease. It was about what lay beneath it.

You held his gaze for a moment, fingers absently grazing the cool surface of your wine glass.

Should you tell him? Should you admit that, despite the way you moved through the world—sure of yourself, never hesitating—it wasn’t always that simple? That confidence was sometimes a mask, that beneath it lingered uncertainty, fear?

Fear that getting attached meant getting abandoned.

That people—no matter how present, no matter how convincing—always seemed to leave eventually.

You could keep the conversation light. You could tease him back, brush off the moment, let the evening remain untouched by the ghosts of your past.

Or you could let the truth slip, just enough to reveal that, despite everything, despite the effortless charm and quiet confidence, there was something about this that scared you.

Oscar’s gaze never wavered, watching you carefully, waiting—not impatiently, but attentively.

He had asked the question. Now, the answer was yours to give.

Your heart lurched—not because you didn’t know how to answer, but because you hadn’t been expecting this conversation. Not yet. Not like this.

And before you could stop yourself, before you could smooth over the moment with a playful laugh or a teasing remark, the words left your mouth, unchecked.

"Love, maybe," you murmured, the confession threading into the dim glow of candlelight between you. "But they don’t stay anyway.”

Silence followed.

A beat too long. A pause too noticeable.

Oscar’s smirk faded just slightly—not gone, but shifted, as if he had caught something in your tone, something not meant to be revealed. He studied you, his fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass, gaze sharp, attentive.

"Is that what you expect?" he asked, voice quieter now, deliberate. "That people won’t stay?"

Damn.

Yeah, he saw through you. Saw through the confidence, through the carefully crafted ease, through the practiced rhythm of detachment that had kept you safe for years.

You were quiet.

Not because you didn’t have an answer. But because the answer sat too heavily in your chest, too tangled in past moments, past mistakes, past departures that had shaped every instinct you had now.

The easy thing would be to brush it off. To tease him, to shift the conversation, to laugh in a way that said, Don’t take me so seriously.

But then—

"I would never leave," he said, voice steady, controlled, unshaken. "Not if you were mine."

Damn. That fast?

The weight of it landed. Not just in the words—but in the way he said it. Not performative. Not just another moment of Monaco charm.

No, this was something else.

You felt it press against the edges of your ribs, curling against something cautious, something waiting, something terrified to believe it.

You leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, letting a playful smirk pull at the edges of your lips. "Let’s talk about you, champion,” you teased, steering the conversation away from the moment that had settled between you a little too heavily. It was an easy escape—one you knew he’d catch, but one you hoped he’d allow.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the base of his glass. "Deflecting," he mused, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "That’s bold."

You shrugged, picking up your drink, taking a slow sip, savoring the cool, rich taste before setting the glass back down. "Or maybe I’m just genuinely interested in Monaco’s finest," you said smoothly, tilting your head slightly.

His chuckle was soft, thoughtful, the amusement still present but now layered with something else—something measured. "Alright," he conceded, resting his forearms against the table, eyes locked onto yours. "What do you want to know?"

You inhaled slowly, relieved by the shift—grateful that he didn’t push, didn’t try to dissect the vulnerability that had almost surfaced just moments ago.

And yet—there was something lingering between you. Something about the way he let it go, but didn’t let it disappear completely.

A small smirk tugged at your lips, the edge of teasing returning as you leaned forward just slightly, matching his posture.

"Everything," you chuckled, eyes glinting with challenge.

Oscar raised a brow, studying you for a beat before his smirk returned—this time edged with something deliberate.

"Everything?" he echoed, letting the word hang between you, stretching the moment just long enough to make it feel deliberate. "That’s a lot to ask, don’t you think?"

You tilted your head, the playful glint in your eyes unwavering. "Depends," you countered smoothly, fingers tracing the cool surface of your glass. "Do you have a lot to tell?"

His chuckle was low, thoughtful, carrying the same measured confidence he had worn all evening. "Maybe," he admitted, watching you carefully. "But you don’t strike me as the type to settle for maybe.”

The conversation had shifted—still teasing, still light, but threaded now with something more intentional. He wasn’t dismissing your curiosity, wasn’t brushing off the challenge. He was engaging, letting the moment stretch into something more than just playful banter.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the table, chin perched lightly against your hand. "I don’t," you agreed, your voice edged with quiet amusement. "So, let’s make this interesting."

Oscar raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling upward. "A game?"

You nodded, matching his smirk. "A trade. You tell me something worth knowing, and I’ll do the same."

He exhaled lightly, shaking his head as he sat back, considering the offer. Then, after a brief pause, his smirk widened just slightly. "Alright," he said. "You first."

Of course.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I said you first."

Oscar’s eyes gleamed with challenge, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let the moment settle, drumming his fingers against the table as he thought. Then, finally—he spoke.

"Alright," he mused, his tone shifting just slightly, edged now with something quieter, something real. "Here’s one for you—I never planned on staying in Monaco long-term. Wasn’t supposed to. But then…" He tilted his glass slightly, watching the wine swirl inside before looking at you again. "Things changed."

The honesty was subtle, carefully measured, but there—a glimpse into something beyond the effortless charm, beyond the confidence that had carried the evening.

You held his gaze, watching him, curiosity flickering at the edges of your thoughts. "Changed how?"

Oscar smirked, laughing, but this time, it wasn’t just amusement—it was cautious. “I gave you one answer. Your turn."

Fair.

─── four days later.

The soft hum of the car’s engine intertwined with the distant rush of waves crashing against the cliffs below, Monaco stretching out ahead, bathed in the muted glow of midnight. The city, ever luminous, felt quieter now, wrapped in the intimacy of late hours, where words carried more weight, where silences lingered just a little longer.

Oscar’s voice cut through the stillness—not hurried, not hesitant, but deliberate sliding into the moment effortlessly, as though he had been waiting for the right time to ask.

"Can I ask you something?"

You glanced at him, your fingers resting lightly against the leather interior, but he didn’t look back. His focus remained on the road, one hand loose over the wheel, his posture relaxed but intentional, like this wasn’t just idle curiosity—like whatever he was about to say already mattered.

Then, without hesitation, he asked, "Do you expect I won’t stay?"

The question landed abruptly, unsettling in its simplicity, in its precision.

A slow, quiet breath pressed against your ribs, the weight of his words settling in the space between you.

Why was he pushing so much?

Your grip tightened slightly against your lap, the pulse of the night suddenly louder, the car’s movement too fluid, too smooth, as though the entire world outside was indifferent to the shift unraveling between the two of you.

Because this wasn’t just about him.

This wasn’t just a question. It was an acknowledgment. A confirmation that he had seen through you long before this moment, long before this drive, long before the effortless charm and teasing deflections had given way to something deeper.

He had caught it—the hesitation, the careful avoidance, the way you pulled back just enough to not give someone too much room to disappoint you.

The way you had already assumed, long before now, that he would eventually leave.

Your lips parted slightly, the urge to laugh bubbling at the edges—to wave the conversation away, to steer things back to something easier, something comfortable, something that didn’t ask you to dissect your own fears in the glow of streetlights and midnight air.

But you didn’t.

Because avoiding it now felt obvious, too predictable, too much like something he would see right through.

Instead, you swallowed lightly, exhaling as your gaze flickered back toward the city ahead, its streets quiet, shimmering.

"Why do you keep asking that?" you murmured, your voice lower now, edged with something softer, something cautious.

Oscar let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, his gaze still locked on the road ahead.

"Because," he said, voice steady but quieter now, more thoughtful, “I want to know if you believe it—or if you just assume it’s inevitable."

Your stomach tightened.

Because what if it was both?

A quiet tension settled between you, thick with the weight of words unsaid, with the truth you had let slip before you could stop it.

Oscar’s question had pressed too much, pushed too hard, and part of you was frustrated. Not at him—not exactly—but at the way the conversation kept circling back, forcing you to acknowledge something you had spent years ignoring.

You exhaled, fingers tightening slightly against your lap, your gaze flickering toward the city lights shimmering beyond the windshield, golden and distant.

"Everyone I did things like this with left," you murmured, barely above a breath, the confession raw, untouched.

The second it was out, it felt too real, too exposed.

Oscar didn’t react immediately—didn’t offer an apology, didn’t rush to assure you that he was different. He didn’t try to argue, didn’t push.

Instead, he was silent, his grip shifting subtly on the steering wheel, his brow furrowing just slightly in thought.

Then, after a beat, after the weight of your words had settled fully between you, he inhaled lightly.

"Then maybe you’ve never done this with the right person," he said simply—without hesitation, without pretense, without expectation.

Something flickered in his voice—not arrogance, not certainty, just fact, like he wasn’t trying to prove anything, just stating something that, to him, felt obvious.

You swallowed, staring ahead, the rhythmic pulse of the night pressing against your ribs.

Was he right?

Or was he just another moment before the inevitable departure?

You exhaled softly, eyes drifting downward, fingers tracing the seam of your sleeve as the weight of the moment pressed against your ribs. You hadn’t expected this conversation—not here, not like this, not in the quiet intimacy of midnight, where words felt heavier, where silence felt more telling than any hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Oscar," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could decide whether you even wanted them to.

Oscar glanced at you, his grip adjusting slightly on the steering wheel, brows furrowing just enough to show he was listening, that he wasn’t just letting the words settle without care. "For?"

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, willing yourself to meet his gaze even as your fingers curled slightly against your lap. "For not making it easy."

For making this complicated. For hesitating. For overthinking. For questioning something that—if you were completely honest—felt unlike anything you had ever known before.

You had spent so long assuming the worst, expecting people to leave, waiting for disappointment to arrive before you even let yourself want something. It was easier that way—simpler, safer. But with Oscar, everything felt different. Unpredictable in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

But he didn’t flinch at your words, didn’t soften them with meaningless reassurances.

Instead, without hesitation, he simply said, "I don’t do easy."

And somehow, that made it worse.

Or better.

Or maybe something else entirely—something you couldn’t quite name, something that sat heavy in your chest, curling around the edges of your thoughts, demanding that you believe him.

The words hung between you, stretching into the quiet hum of the engine, settling into the warmth of Monaco’s midnight glow. Everything about this moment felt too big—too significant in ways you hadn’t quite prepared for.

"I mean, even though I’ve only known you for a few days, I’m not planning to leave," Oscar said, his voice steady, unwavering, carrying none of the hesitation that lived so comfortably in the back of your mind. "We have a whole lifetime."

Lifetime. Future. Forever.

The weight of those words pressed against your chest, curling into the spaces between logic and emotion, between self-preservation and reckless belief. You smiled—instinctively, without thinking, because the idea of it was beautiful. Comforting. Something you had always wanted to hear but never dared to expect.

And yet—

That lingering doubt remained, whispering from the corner of your mind, cautioning you against letting this moment sink in too deeply. Against letting his certainty become your certainty. Because what if it wasn’t real? What if it was just a well-placed promise, something effortless, something that felt good in the moment but didn’t hold when time actually tested it?

Oscar had been nothing but intentional since the beginning, deliberate in the way he showed up, in the way he stayed, in the way he never made you feel like this was fleeting.

So maybe—just maybe—this time was different.

Maybe he meant it.

─── six days later.

Almost a week later, Oscar was still here—not just in passing moments or fleeting texts, but fully, in ways you hadn't expected but found yourself slowly beginning to embrace.

He called—not just once, not just when it was convenient, but because he wanted to.

Because he liked hearing your voice, because he never let too much time slip between conversations. Each call was effortless, filled with laughter, quiet confessions, shared silences that never felt awkward, only comfortable.

He texted—not just quick responses or empty words, but messages that made you feel seen. The kind that arrived in the middle of the day, seemingly random but thoughtful, like he had been thinking about you, like you had already made space in his world. The kind that carried inside jokes, teasing remarks, genuine questions that made you pause and think, that pulled you deeper into something you hadn't realized you'd been waiting for.

He stayed over—not in a way that disrupted, but in a way that settled in naturally, as if he had always been meant to be here. The way his presence folded into your routine, effortless, unforced. The way he took up space without making it feel overwhelming, without making it feel like a statement— just something that was, something that felt right, felt easy.

And most of all, he cared.

Not in grand gestures, not in overwhelming declarations, but in the small, simple ways that mattered the most. The way he noticed things—the shift in your voice when you were exhausted, the way your fingers absently traced the rim of your glass when you were deep in thought. The way you hesitated before sharing certain things, but never felt the need to hide around him.

It was different.

You were different.

And in quiet moments—when he wasn’t looking, when he wasn’t saying all the right things, when he wasn’t effortlessly slipping into your world—you realized something.

Monaco lay quiet beneath the dim glow of streetlights, the kind of stillness that felt charged, like the hush before a storm, like the world was holding its breath. Only your laughter broke the silence, echoing softly against the polished façades of designer boutiques and grand hotels, blending into the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement.

Your hand curled around Oscar’s bicep, fingers pressing lightly against the firm muscle, the warmth of his presence grounding you, steadying you in a way you didn’t expect. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease, just let you hold on, his body relaxed, his steps effortless as he matched your pace.

Everything about this night—about him—felt dangerously comfortable. The kind of comfortable that made walls crumble without warning, that made hesitation feel unnecessary, that made you forget, just for a moment, that caution had always been your safest bet.

A deep rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, shaking the air around you with an unspoken warning. You glanced at Oscar, your brows raising in amusement as you tightened your grip around his arm, fingers pressing slightly against his strong bicep.

"No way," you murmured, your voice carrying a hint of irony, the kind that lingered in the spaces between certainty and doubt.

Oscar barely reacted, shrugging with the effortless confidence that had somehow become second nature to him. "It’s not going to rain," he said simply, without hesitation, like the sky itself would listen.

But it didn’t.

Because as soon as the words left his lips, the heavens opened up.

The first drops landed softly—cold against your skin, hesitant at first, as if testing the air, testing the moment. Then, within seconds, it became everything— a full downpour, relentless, washing over the streets, turning Monaco’s polished avenues into shimmering reflections of golden storefront lights.

Your laughter bubbled up instantly, breathless and sharp, caught somewhere between disbelief and sheer joy.

Oscar let out a low exhale, running a hand through his hair, which was already dampening under the sudden rain. He shook his head, amusement flickering behind his eyes even as he sighed in surrender.

"Well," you teased, blinking through droplets clinging to your lashes, shivering slightly at the cool rush of water soaking through your clothes. "That aged terribly."

Oscar exhaled again, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Alright, fine,” he admitted. "I might’ve been slightly wrong."

You laughed again, gripping his arm tighter as the rain turned heavier, wild and uninhibited, crashing against the pavement, soaking both of you entirely.

"We can run," you said breathlessly, the rain already soaking through every inch of fabric, clinging to your skin, turning the world into a chaotic blur of glistening streets and golden lights.

Without hesitation, you kicked off your heels, the cool pavement beneath your feet shocking against the warmth of your adrenaline-fueled body. Before you could rethink it, Oscar’s fingers found yours, gripping tightly, lacing through with certainty. His hold was firm, steady—a silent promise not to let go.

And then—he ran.

Not cautiously, not carefully—recklessly, unapologetically, pulling you with him, laughter spilling into the storm like something raw, something untamed, something alive.

Your breath caught as the rush of cool air whipped past, the weight of the downpour drenching your hair, your clothes, your skin, every single part of you now claimed by the storm. You stumbled slightly, the slick pavement making each step a test of balance, but Oscar never loosened his grip, never hesitated—he dragged you forward, faster, laughter shaking through his chest in a way you’d never heard before.

"This is crazy!" you shouted between uncontrollable giggles, your voice barely audible over the relentless pounding of rain against stone and glass.

Oscar turned his head just enough to catch your expression—your wild grin, your soaked hair sticking to your cheeks, the way your fingers refused to let go of his. And in that moment, under Monaco’s storm-lit streets, he laughed —a real, unguarded, breathtaking kind of laugh that made your stomach tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with the running, the rain, or the recklessness of the night.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he ran faster, and you didn’t fight it. You let him lead, let the world blur, let the cold seep into your skin while the warmth of him grounded you, keeping you here in this perfect, absurd, fleeting moment.

And somewhere in the chaos—in the storm, in the way his fingers never let go—you realized something.

You weren’t afraid.

Not of him.

Oscar’s grip tightened around your wrist, pulling you closer in one swift, deliberate motion. The rain clung to both of you, dripping from your soaked clothes, sliding down your skin, turning the night into something electric—something charged with an energy neither of you fully understood but neither of you wanted to stop.

"You are crazy,” he murmured, his voice low, edged with amusement, but there was something else there too—something unspoken, something just beneath the surface.

You laughed, breathless, rain-slicked hair clinging to your face as you looked up at him, catching the flicker of something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

"And yet," you teased, tilting your chin slightly, a smirk pulling at your lips despite the cold, despite the chaos, "you didn’t leave."

Oscar shook his head, his hand shifting slightly, fingers brushing against your wrist where his grip had softened. "What kind of idiot would leave now?" he muttered, but his voice had lost its teasing edge—now it was something more honest, something real.

The rain continued its relentless downpour, soaking into every fabric, dripping down your skin, cold and unyielding, but none of it mattered. Not in this moment. Not with him standing this close, his presence pressing against you, his breath warm despite the chill, his grip still firm at your waist, grounding you, keeping you here.

Oscar had leaned in, slowly, deliberately, and instinct had kicked in before your mind had caught up—you had moved away. It was fast, automatic, a reflex born out of hesitation, out of old habits refusing to die, out of caution you had carried with you for too long.

But the second you pulled back, realization crashed through you. His brows furrowed just barely, his gaze flickering downward for half a second before finding yours again, steady, questioning, but not retreating. He hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t let go. He was still here, still watching you, still waiting. And that flicker of awareness burned through you—the understanding settling between you unspoken but undeniable.

He had wanted to kiss you. And you had pulled away. But why?

The answer curled somewhere deep inside you, tied to instinct, tied to self-preservation, tied to the belief that moments like this were dangerous because they meant something. But as the rain poured, as Oscar remained unmoving, unwavering, as everything else faded but him, you realized something else.

You wanted this.

You wanted him.

So this time, you leaned in.

Your lips met his, soft at first, testing, confirming, closing the space you had unintentionally created. And then—certainty took over. Oscar inhaled sharply against you, his hand sliding to your waist, his fingers pressing more firmly, pulling you closer, securing you against him like he wasn’t just kissing you, he was choosing you.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, the rain slipping between you, merging with the warmth of him, with the impossible electricity of the moment, with the quiet, undeniable truth neither of you could take back now.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! this was supposed to have another part but I got kinda writer block mid this. Anon, I hope you like it though <3

[cosmichughes]

Oscar Piastri x reader

Series summary: You and Oscar keep bumping into each other, and these meetings aren't always accident-free...

It’s an itsy bitsy accident. 

In fact, it’s nothing more but a silly little incident, really, because when you reverse into the car behind you, there’s no real damage done. No scratch, no chipped paint, no bent metal. You checked it. 

Twice.

But your parents raised you right, so you leave a note under the wipers with your number, asking the owner to call you when he finds it. Considering it’s a McLaren in Monaco, you highly doubt the owner will bother to call you if the car is still spotless, though. 

You can’t help but wonder how you could do something stupid when your car has everything needed to avoid such things, like a camera and sensors.

God, you’re such an idiot. 

There are socially acceptable things to do in such situations. He digs out his phone from his pocket, type the number that’s on the wrinkled piece of paper tucked neatly under the windshield, then wait for a series of excuses pouring in his ear from the other end of the line. 

If the number truly belongs to the perpetrator, that is. 

But Oscar doesn’t feel like doing this today. He doesn’t feel like making a big deal out of it. The car is in one piece, no damage as far as he can see, and he can always download the dashboard cam video just in case. 

Doing that later in the day is what changes his mind, though. Because the camera started recording upon impact, and he had a great view at the gorgeous young girl who looked a little panicked as she checked the car. If it’s your fault, maybe he should make that call after all. 

Why not? 

Well, maybe because if he contacted you, and if he made a move on you at the same time, you might assume he wants you to pay him for the non-existent damage by going on a date with him. Even as a regular guy, this would be a terrible idea, but considering a big chunk of the world knows him, it’s better not to risk a potential PR shitstorm.

Especially now that he’s leading the championship.

The fans would want to crucify him, Zak, his press officer, and above all, his dear mother would strangle him without a question. In fact, his mother would probably first send him a chain of gently bullying tweets on the way to Monaco, then she would strangle him upon arrival.

So, no, he isn’t about to call, although he saves your number under the name “Hot Carwrecker” just to be safe.

[cosmichughes]

book girls belong to biker boys? - ln4

⋆˚✿˖°a/n: i was inspired by lando's biker outfit on media, and inspiration just struck (i swear i will get back on so close to what) ⋆˚✿˖° where a close run-in leads to something else ⋆˚✿˖° faceclaim: alisha newton

liked by mclaren and others f1 lando arriving to the paddock in style! the mclaren driver pulled up to media day on a moped in principality

user5 someone sedate me

user6 monaco weekend let’s go lando!

user7 omg biker lando??? he looks so good

user8 hold on @/bookiemonster is this the guy who almost hit you?

bookiemonster wtf that’s him he’s a driver??? brb jumping off a cliff

user9 lando almost hit someone 😭

liked by mclaren and others bookiemonster “i would rather die of passion than boredom” - vincent van gogh (book rec of the day: this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone)

bff forever in your debt 💞

bookiemonster anything for you

mclaren glad to have you with us! liked by author

user13 wait WHAT?? who is she and how did she get garage passes?

user14 living my dream fr

user15 great. for. you. 😭

user16 pity invite??

user17 stay mad @/user16

user18 OMG THE BOOK REC?? I LOVE TIHYLTTW it’s so so beautiful

[lando is now following you!]

bookiemonster posted to their story!

caption: front wing all by itself hehe fp1 & fp2 done

bff replied: WTF WHEN DID YOU PICK UP ON F1 JARGON?? bff replied: I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TEACH YOU bff replied: IT’S A LANDMARK DAY

lando replied: yep! you’re a fast learner

bookiemonster added to their story!

caption: at least they have good bookstores and pretty streets here

bff replied: gorg as always 😍

lando replied: no photo creds? do you hate me or something?

liked by bff and others bookiemonster “i hope it’s love” - richard siken

bff when you told me you were going out, you neglected to say that it was a DATE

bookiemonster sorry! it was just a quiet date and i needed to just process it forgive me 🥺

bff forgiven but tell me all about it asap

user19 how could you do this? think about your book boyfriends

bookiemonster they’ll forever have a special place in my heart, i haven’t forgotten my roots 😔

user20 THE RICHARD SIKEN QUOTE oh my heart

user21 calling me single in literature is a violation 😭

user22 i hope he knows enough literature to match her freak

bookiemonster 😅 about that…

user23 top 10 anime betrayals

user24 he better treat her right

liked by mclaren and others lando cya tomorrow for quali, monaco

user25 lando using commas in places i don’t even remember to put them 😭

user26 a changed man

mclaren is it time to hire you for the photography team?

user27 mclaren jesus 💀

user28 this is lando.jpg type post

user29 pic is gorg just like lando 😍

user30 who else is hyped for qualifying?

bookiemonster added to their private story!

caption: hope you get pole or whatever

bff replied: posting him already? bff replied: ooh girl you are so down bad for him

lando replied: hey look that’s me! thanks for the luck

liked by mclaren and others bookiemonster “there is no dishonor in losing the race. there is only dishonor in not racing because you are afraid to lose.” - the art of racing in the rain by garth stein (which is my book rec of the day!)

bff i am so glad i dragged you here with me

bookiemonster i too, am very glad i went with you

mclaren our own garage literature scholar 🧡 liked by author

user31 oh so she’s close close w the team

user32 omg the movie for the art of racing in the rain was so good 🥹 yet another banger rec

user33 not her pretending to become a fan for clout

user34 sybau :)

user35 so here for her f1 x literature crossover

user36 imagine if she starts matching f1 moments to poetry? i would perish

user37 RIGHT? like emily dickinson with half the grid?

user38 did not expect her to get into sport this year let alone f1

liked by mclaren and others lando monaco pole. bam.

user39 LANDO POLE WE USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS

mclaren mega lap!! 👏

user40 new track record is insane

bookiemonster “bam”? just like how you almost hit me with your moped?

user41 HELP that was a violation

lando you’ve been waiting to say something like that, huh?

bookiemonster can neither confirm nor deny

user42 i know my goat!!

user43 lando nation we never left

liked by others f1gossip lando wanted to impressive a “pretty girl” with his pole 👀

user44 HELLO?? what kind of bombshell is this

user45 fr like casually dropping this in a post quali interview is crazy

user46 that should be me 😔

user47 guys be so fr it’s just another model like “pretty girl” is so shallow

user48 is that supposed to be a revelation? lmao they always date models

user49 he’s so happy when he’s mentioning his parents and the girl 🥹

user50 idk which insta model he’s hooking up w atp my driver got pole

liked by bookiemonster and others lando “let me name the stars for you” - richard siken

bookiemonster 🫶 liked by author

user51 he’s officially down bad

user52 past down bad

user53 she’s so gorgeous omg 🤭

user54 he’s quoting richard siken it’s over

user55 WAITTTT SO THEY WERE SOFT LAUNCHING EACH OTHER

user56 you’re so right how did we not see this?

user57 new otp alert!!

liked by lando and others bookiemonster “you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him” - richard siken

lando 💘💘💘 liked by author

user58 he’s in his loverboy era

user59 stopppp their matching posts are so cute

user60 god i’ve seen what you’ve done for others

user61 is no one talking abt how beautiful their richard siken quotes are?

user62 no real because why are they calling me single and kicking me in the gut

user63 oh how i wish to quote poetry with someone i loved

user64 and to think it all started with lando almost running her over

user65 😭😭

[cosmichughes]

future wife - ln4

summary: lando always says that yn russell is his future wife. the entire paddock thinks he's just joking, but he's not. wc: 6k + social media posts

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!! FINALLY !! i loved writing lovesick puppy lando so so much and i really hope you love him too. PLEASE SEND YOUR FEEDBACK AND LEAVE A REBLOG !

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 206,378 others

yn.russell silverstone race weekends always hit different 🥹 big bro starting front row tomorrow and i couldn’t be prouder LETS GOOOO

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username1 the most iconic russell

username2 COME ON RUSSELL NATION

landonorris excuse me why didn’t you include a picture of your future husband here ??

↳ yn.russell lando your delusions are talking again

↳ username1 hey he ALWAYS does this

↳ username2 lando and yn’s banter will never get old

carmenmmundt Love you both ❤️

username3 LANDO BEING ANNOYING IN THIS COMMENT SECTION AS ALWAYS

charles_leclerc I see homeboy trying to shoot his shot again

↳ landonorris what are you talking about? we’ll get married

↳ yn.russell LANDO STOP 😭

username4 she’s the real paddock princess

username5 lando really said fake it till you make it

username6 GEORGIE BOY DID IT

georgerussell63 Love you so much little one 🤍 Also Lando, she’s still my sister

↳ landonorris and? she’s my girl 😍

↳ yn.russell STOP

liked by yn.russell, maxverstappen1 and 986,409 others

landonorris honey i’m hooooome 🇬🇧😘 picture by my favorite girl @/yn.russell

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username1 LANDOOOOO

username2 the papaya hat is killing me

username3 CALLING LITTLE RUSSELL HIS GIRL AS ALWAYS

mclaren Papaya forever 🧡

username4 manifesting lando and yn wedding

carlossainz55 Just wait until George finds you cabron

↳ landonorris he knows she’s my future wife

↳ georgerussell63 I HATE YOU

username5 DYING AT THIS COMMENT SECTION LANDO YOU HAVE NO SHAME

username6 lando and yn are my favorite platonic lovers (actually there’s nothing platonic about them we all know it)

username7 SO BOYFRIEND CODED

yn.russell lando i need you to look at me when i tell you this…

↳ landonorris yes i do darling 😍

↳ georgerussell63 I’m literally never letting you two fly together again

↳ username1 IM WHEEZING

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You're lounging in George's motorhome at the track, scrolling through your phone while he reviews data with Alex. Carmen is perched on the sofa beside you, both of you sharing occasional knowing looks at the boys' intense focus on lap times.

"Oh, by the way," you say casually, not looking up from your phone, "I won't be around for dinner tonight. Got a date."

The effect is immediate. George's head snaps up from the screen, Alex nearly drops his water bottle, and Carmen tries (and fails) to hide her amused smile.

"A date?" George's protective brother mode activates instantly. "With who?"

"That new marketing guy from McLaren," you reply, finally glancing up. "Jacob. You know, the one I was talking to at the paddock party last week?"

"The tall blonde one?" Alex pipes up, earning himself a sharp look from George.

"Not helping, mate," George mutters.

"He seems nice," Carmen offers diplomatically, though there's something knowing in her expression that you can't quite read.

"Speaking of nice," Alex says with a poorly concealed grin, "should we tell Lando? You know, since he's been planning your wedding since 2018 and all."

The friendship between you and Lando dates back to karting days, when you'd tag along with George to races. You were fourteen when you first met a tiny, curly-haired Lando who immediately declared you were "pretty cool for a girl." Despite George's protective big brother routine, you and Lando became inseparable during race weekends.

The marriage jokes started right when Lando was making his F2 debut. You were both hanging out in the paddock when he suddenly announced, "When we get married, our wedding colors have to be papaya orange. Because I know I'll drive for Mclaren"

"Bold of you to assume I'd marry you, Norris," you'd laughed.

"Please, you love me," he'd grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Plus, I've already told my mum you're the one. Can't disappoint her now, darling."

That was the first time he called you darling, but it certainly wasn't the last. Over the years, the pet names multiplied - love, sweetheart, future wife - each one delivered with that characteristic Lando grin that somehow managed to be both cheeky and endearing.

But at the end of the day, he was Lando. And it was all jokes.

"He's probably too busy planning our honeymoon in papaya-colored paradise to care about my actual dating life," you said, trying to sound casual.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Carmen murmurs, just as the door bursts open.

Lando's characteristic energy walks in, his curls slightly messy from his helmet. "Hello lads! Future wife," he grins, making his way over and dramatically flopping onto the couch, his head landing in your lap like it's his designated spot.

"Comfortable?" you ask dryly, but your hand automatically goes to his curls.

"Very," he beams up at you. "Why's everyone looking so serious though? Did George finally realize his neck's too long?"

"Ha ha," George deadpans, while Carmen tries to hide her laugh behind her hand.

"Little Russell was just telling us she's got a date tonight," Alex announces, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding.

Lando sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you. "A what now?"

"A date," you repeat, watching as his face does a complicated journey before settling on forced nonchalance. "With Jacob from marketing."

"McLaren Jacob?" Lando's voice goes up an octave. "My Jacob?"

"He's not your Jacob," you roll your eyes. "And yes, that Jacob."

"The one who still can't figure out how to work the coffee machine?" Lando scoffs, repositioning himself to face you properly. "Come on, darling, you can do better than that. What happened to our sacred Friday night FIFA tournaments?"

"Sacred?" George snorts. "Is that what you call screaming at the TV when she beats you?"

"Oi, whose side are you on?" Lando throws a nearby cushion at George. "Besides, I let her win. Can't have my girl crying, can I?"

"Your girl?" you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his words.

"Obviously," he grins, but there's something slightly off about it. "Who else is going to fulfill my mum's dreams of having you as a daughter-in-law?"

"I'm sure Jacob would love to hear about these marriage plans," Alex teases, earning himself a glare from Lando.

"He better watch himself," Lando mutters, then louder, "Where's he taking you anyway? Probably somewhere boring like that chain restaurant near the factory."

"Actually," you say, "he's taking me to that new rooftop place in town."

"The one I said we should try?" Lando looks genuinely offended now. "That's just... that's just rude, love. I called dibs on taking you there."

"When exactly did you call dibs?" Carmen asks innocently.

"In my head," Lando protests. "This is not fair."

You poke his side. "Jealous, Norris?"

"Of course I am," he says, and for a moment, his voice loses its playful edge. "Can't have someone stealing my future wife away. We've got plans, remember? House in Surrey, three kids, dog named Fernando..."

"You've really thought this through, haven't you?" you laugh.

"Been planning our future since I was fourteen, love," he grins, but there's something soft in his eyes. "Now, would you cancel on Jacob and have a proper movie night with your future husband instead?"

"Still not your wife, Lando," you remind him.

"Not yet," he corrects, "But I'm a patient man, darling."

"Okay this is getting weird," Alex chimes in, "Lando, we're leaving. Little Russell, have fun on your date."

"Right," Lando stands up, but his usual bouncy energy seems subdued. "Have fun with boring Jacob. But just remember," he points at you with mock seriousness, though something flickers in his eyes, "I'm not giving up without a fight. Can't let some marketing guy steal the love of my life, can I?"

"The love of your life?" you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heart skips.

"Since karting, darling," he winks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Alex, let's leave the Russell siblings to their protective brother-sister chat."

As soon as the door closes behind them, Carmen turns to you with raised eyebrows. "You really have that boy pining over you, you know that right?"

"Oh please," you wave her off, though your cheeks feel warm. "We're just joking around. We've been doing this since forever."

"Sure, sister, sure," George snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Carmen. "Because every guy I know plans out their future house in Surrey with their 'joke' wife."

"And names their future dog Fernando," Carmen adds.

"It's just Lando being Lando," you insist, but you can't help glancing at the door where he'd disappeared. "He jokes like this with everyone."

"Really?" Carmen leans forward. "Because I've never heard him call anyone else 'the love of his life' or 'darling' or plan out their wedding colors."

"Or look like someone kicked his puppy when they mention going on a date with someone else," George adds.

"You're both reading way too much into this," you say, standing up and grabbing your bag. "I have to go get ready for my date with Jacob."

"The date that Lando looked absolutely thrilled about," George mutters under his breath.

You pretend not to hear him as you leave, trying to ignore the way Lando's slightly hurt expression keeps playing in your mind.

Because it's all jokes. And he's just Lando.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 211,984 others

yn.russell great great night 😙

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username1 OMGG LITTLE RUSSELL

username2 she's so pretty its not fair

flonorris1 we need to catch up 👀

username3 HUHH DID LANDO FINALLY ASK HER OUT

username4 how did george allow her to go on a date

charles_leclerc Oblivious little baby russell

↳ yn.russell ?

↳ username1 EXPLAIN

iamrebeccad Prettiest girl 😍

jacob___ ❤️

↳ yn.russell 😘

↳ georgerussell63 I'm watching...

↳ username1 IM YELLING

↳ username2 WHATS GOING ONNN

landonorris the prettiest girl in the world and my future wife idc idc

↳ username1 lando have some class ffs

↳ yn.russell ENOUGH

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liked by carmenmmundt, jacob__ and 229,836 others

yn.russell snaps from the summer break 💙 happy happy

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username1 AN ICON

username2 i wish i was this pinterest feed coded

carmenmmundt Love you my girl !

username3 HOLD ON. THE SECOND PICTURE

username4 did she just soft launch 👀👀

username5 LITTLE RUSSELL HAS A BOYFRIEND ?????

username6 if her bf is not lando we don’t want it

alex_albon i know someone who’s NOT going to like this

landonorris my darling 😍😍 do u miss me as much as i miss youuuu?

↳ username1 HES SHAMELESS

↳ yn.russell STOP THIS MADNESS

georgerussell63 I know a lot of ways to make a crash look accidental

↳ yn.russell you’re literally not intimidating anyone BYE

↳ username1 SO SHE DOES HAVE A BF

jacob__ ❤️

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The sun is surprisingly bright as you make your way through the Zandvoort paddock, dodging various team personnel rushing around for Thursday preparations. The summer break was finally over and it was time for race cars again. You're just turning the corner when you hear a familiar voice.

"There's my darling!" Lando calls out, jogging over with his signature grin. "Thought you'd forgotten about your future husband during the break."

Before you can respond, he's pulled you into a tight hug. You catch a whiff of his familiar cologne, the one he's worn since F2, and automatically hug him back.

"How was your summer?" he asks, keeping an arm around your shoulders as he starts walking with you. "Did you miss me terribly? Cry yourself to sleep thinking about our FIFA rematch?"

"Actually," you start, feeling unexpectedly nervous, "I've got some news."

"Oh?" His eyes light up. "Did George finally admit his neck is abnormally long? Because I've been saying—"

"Jacob and I are officially together," you cut in quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. "Like, properly together. Boyfriend and girlfriend."

Lando's step falters slightly, his arm dropping from your shoulders. "What?"

"Yeah," you continue, fiddling with your paddock pass. "We kept seeing each other after that first date, and during the break... it just got serious."

"Serious?" His voice sounds strange. "How serious? When did this— why am I just finding out about this?"

"We wanted to keep it quiet at first, you know? But he talked to the higher-ups at McLaren today about dating someone connected to another team, and they're cool with it, so..." you trail off, watching his face carefully.

"Cool with it," he repeats slowly. Then, visibly forcing his usual grin, "Well, that's... that's great, love. Really great. Though I have to say, my mum will be devastated. She was really counting on those papaya-themed grandchildren."

But his joke falls flat, lacking its usual warmth. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lando—"

"No, really," he cuts in, running a hand through his curls. "I'm happy for you. Even if he is rubbish at making coffee. And boring. And probably doesn't even know your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip, or that you secretly love watching those terrible reality shows, or that you—" he stops himself, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Good for you. Both of you."

You're about to respond when his race engineer calls him over.

"Duty calls," he says, already backing away. "But hey, tell Jacob he better treat my future wife right. Even if she's... not actually my future wife anymore."

He tries to wink, but it looks more like a flinch. Before you can say anything else, he's gone, leaving you standing alone in the paddock with an inexplicable heaviness in your chest.

But you immediately brush it off. Because at the end of the day, he's just Lando.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,504 others

yn.russell making it official 🤍 @/jacob___

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username1 OH?

username2 YALL HE WORKS FOR MCLAREN ??

username3 what happened to lando ?? the marriage proposal??

georgerussell63 About time you stopped sneaking around 🙄

↳ yn.russell shut up old man

↳ carlossainz55 Protective brother mode activated

carmenmmundt You guys look so cute! ❤️

↳ yn.russell love you xxx

alex_albon Well this is going to be interesting 👀

↳ landonorris mate.

↳ alex_albon what? I said nothing

username4 But what about Lando?? 😭 They were literally perfect together

usernsme5 nooo my ship is sinking

username6 the way lando looks at her tho…

jacob___❤️

↳ yn.russell 🤍

landonorris i guess i need to find a new future wife then 🤷‍♂️ applications open x

↳ danielricciardo i volunteer as tribute mate

↳ landonorris sorry mate you're not george's sister

↳ carlossainz55 You okay there buddy?

↳ yn.russell don't worry, you'll always be my favorite husband-that-never-was x

↳ landonorris 💔

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yn.russell has added to their stories

landonorris has replied to your story

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The Singapore night air is thick with humidity and celebration. The club's bass thrums through your bones as you watch Lando being congratulated for what feels like the hundredth time. He's practically glowing, champagne-drunk and victory-high, but something seems off about his smile.

"Babe, want another drink?" Jacob's voice pulls your attention back. His hand is possessively placed on your lower back, and you notice Lando's eyes flicker to it before he quickly looks away.

Across the VIP section, Alex nudges Charles, nodding towards where Lando is now aggressively stabbing at his ice with a straw.

"Subtle, mate," Alex smirks, sliding into the booth beside Lando. "Very subtle."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Lando mutters, but his eyes betray him, darting back to where Jacob is now whispering something in your ear.

"Ah, l'amour," Charles sighs dramatically. "It is painful, no?"

"Nothing's painful," Lando protests, straightening up. "I just won a Grand Prix, in case you forgot."

"And yet you look like someone stole your puppy," Alex points out.

"Or your future wife," Charles adds with a knowing look.

"She was never actually going to be my future wife," Lando says, but his voice lacks conviction. "It was just jokes. Always has been. She's George's sister, for fuck's sake."

"Right," Alex drawls. "So you wouldn't mind if I told you they're probably going to move in together soon?"

Lando chokes on his drink. "They're what?"

"He's joking," Charles quickly intervenes, shooting Alex a look. "But your reaction..."

"Means nothing," Lando insists, but his knuckles are white around his glass. "I just... I don't want her to rush into anything. As a friend. A protective friend. Who happens to be her brother's mate. And her future husband. But like, as a joke. Obviously."

"Obviously," Alex repeats dryly.

Suddenly, Charles straightens up. "Where did they go?"

The spot where you and Jacob were standing is empty. Lando's eyes scan the crowd, something uneasy settling in his stomach.

"Probably just getting more drinks," he says, but he's already standing up.

"Lando..." Alex starts.

"I just need some air," Lando cuts him off, making his way through the crowd.

The corridor leading to the outdoor area is quieter, the music muffled. That's when he hears raised voices.

"You're being ridiculous," Jacob's voice is sharp. "I was just talking to her."

"With your hand on her waist?" Your voice sounds tired. "While I was right there?"

"Oh, so I can't even network now? That's literally my job, YN. But I wouldn't expect you to understand that, since you're only here because of your brother."

Lando's feet move before his brain catches up.

"Everything alright out here?" His voice is deliberately light, but there's steel underneath.

"Fine," Jacob snaps. "Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend."

"Doesn't sound very private," Lando steps closer to you instinctively. "Or very pleasant."

"This doesn't concern you, Norris."

"See, that's where you're wrong, mate," Lando's usual playful demeanor is gone. "YN's wellbeing always concerns me. Future wife contract, remember? Legally binding and all that."

"We're still doing that joke?" Jacob scoffs. "Bit pathetic, don't you think?"

"Not as pathetic as hitting on sponsors' daughters while your girlfriend watches," Lando retorts, then softer, to you: "You okay, darling?"

The familiar pet name makes your chest tight. "I'm fine, Lando."

"Great, she's fine," Jacob moves to grab your arm. "Let's go."

"Touch her like that again," Lando's voice is deadly quiet, "and you'll be looking for a new marketing job. Might want to learn how the coffee machine works first though."

Jacob looks between you and Lando, jaw clenched. "Whatever. This is bullshit anyway. Call me when you're done playing happy families with your brother's friend."

He storms off, leaving you and Lando in charged silence.

"So," Lando finally says, attempting his usual lightness, "does this mean I can keep the dog name Fernando?"

You let out a watery laugh, and without thinking, he pulls you into a hug. You fit against him like you always have, his cologne familiar and comforting.

"My darling," he murmurs into your hair, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't call you that anymore."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "You've been calling me that since we were teenagers."

"Yeah, well," he gives you a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "things change, don't they?"

The way he's looking at you makes your heart stutter. Has he always looked at you like that?

"Is he always like this?" Lando asks quietly, still holding you close. His usual playful tone is gone, replaced by something more serious than you're used to hearing from him.

"No, no," you shake your head quickly. Maybe too quickly, because Lando's brow furrows as he studies your face. "It's not— he's not usually... it was just a misunderstanding."

He's silent for a moment, his hands fidgeting like they always do when he's worried about something. "You'd tell me though, right? If he ever... if he's not good to you? Or tell George at least?"

"Of course," you try to smile reassuringly. "But really, today was just a bad night. Too much pressure, too much champagne..."

"YN," he cuts in, and the way he says your name instead of one of his usual pet names makes you look up at him. His eyes are intense, concerned. "Promise me."

"I promise," you say softly. "You're a great friend, Lando."

Something flickers across his face – so quick you almost miss it – before his signature grin returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Friend?" he scoffs, but his voice sounds slightly strained. "Future husband, remember? Can't have my darling dealing with drama alone. Bad for our future marriage prospects."

You laugh, and he joins in, but there's something heavy hanging in the air between you. Before either of you can say anything else, Alex's voice carries from the doorway.

"Found them! Everything okay out here?"

"Never better," Lando announces, stepping back and throwing an arm around your shoulders with practiced ease. But you notice how his smile doesn't quite match the one in all those podium photos from earlier. "Just reminding the future Mrs. Norris about our very legitimate marriage contract. Very binding. Legally waterproof and everything."

He's doing that thing he does when he's uncomfortable – talking too fast, jokes tumbling out one after another. But his hand squeezes your shoulder gently before he lets go, and you catch him glancing back at you as he bounces toward the club entrance, his "Let's celebrate my amazing win, shall we?" almost drowning out the sound of your heart beating too fast.

Alex watches the exchange with knowing eyes but mercifully says nothing, just offers his arm to escort you back inside.

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texts between george and yn

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 287,540 others

yn.russell british boy steps foot in mexico city and instantly thinks he's a local... who's gonna tell him

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username1 LANDO X LITTLE RUSSELL IS SO BACKKK

username2 he looks so cuute

username3 i know her bf is not going to like this

alex_albon he can't even keep tequila shots down. such a fake

↳ landonorris want to test that theory?

↳ charles_leclerc Poor little Lando Norris

username4 HELP SHES SO IN LOVE WITH HIM 😭

jacob___ 👀

↳ username1 i know he's JEALOUS

username5 the way yn's feed is like 60% lando

username6 MY PARENTS

landonorris why is my future wife so mean to me

↳ yn.russell LANDO

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Later that afternoon, you're sitting with Carmen in the Mercedes hospitality when George joins you, stealing a bite of your sandwich.

"Get your own food," you swat his hand away.

"Sharing is caring, little sis," he grins, then notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," you say automatically, but Carmen raises an eyebrow.

"She's overthinking," Carmen supplies helpfully. "About Jacob."

"I'm not overthinking," you protest. "I'm just... thinking. Normal amounts of thinking."

"About?" George prompts.

You fidget with your paddock pass. "He wants me to meet his parents. After Abu Dhabi. Says it's time we got more serious."

George's expression shifts slightly. "And you want that?"

"I mean... yeah? I think so. It makes sense, right? We've been together for a few months now, things are good..."

"Are they?" Carmen asks gently.

"Of course they are," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. "The Singapore thing was just a one-off. He apologized. He's been really sweet since then."

"Sweet enough to make up for being a dick?" George mutters.

"George."

"Sorry, sorry," he holds up his hands. "Just... you don't sound very excited about meeting his parents."

"I am excited," you insist. "It's just... a big step."

"Not as big as naming your future dog Fernando," Carmen says under her breath.

You shoot her a warning look. "Can we not?"

"Not what?" George asks.

"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just... Carmen thinks I'm not fully committed because..."

"Because you still light up every time Lando calls you 'darling'?" Carmen finishes.

"That's not— he calls everyone darling."

"No, he doesn't," George and Carmen say in unison.

"I hate you both," you groan. "Look, Lando and I are friends. That's all we've ever been. The whole future wife thing is just our running joke."

"Sure," Carmen nods. "That's why he looks like someone kicked his puppy every time Jacob touches you."

"He does not—" you start, but stop when you catch sight of Lando walking past. He gives you a small wave and his signature grin, but something about it seems off.

"Doesn't what?" George prompts.

"Nothing," you shake your head. "I should go. Jacob's waiting for me."

As you leave, you hear Carmen say to George, "They're both idiots, aren't they?"

"Complete idiots," George agrees. "But at least they're consistent about it."

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liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 298,605 others

yn.russell happy birthday to my favorite “future husband” 🎂 from stealing your caps in karting to stealing your FIFA records (still undefeated btw), you've somehow become one of my favorite people in this weird little world of ours. here's to many more years of terrible jokes, impromptu dance parties in the garage, and you pretending to let me win at everything (we both know I'm just better 😌). love you loads landolorian 🤍

ps: fernando the nonexistent dog says happy birthday to his future dad x

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username1 THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 YOUR HONOR IM CRYING

landonorris still waiting for that marriage certificate darling 💍 also you definitely cheated at FIFA last time

↳ yn.russell sounds like someone's a sore loser

↳ landonorris sounds like someone's avoiding the marriage topic

↳ georgerussell63 get a room you two

↳ landonorris working on it mate

↳ username1 LANDO WTF

↳ username2 HE HAS NO SHAME

mclaren Happy Birthday @/landonorris! @/yn.russell when's the wedding?

↳ landonorris asking the real questions admin

↳ oscarpiastri I'll officiate

↳ landonorris DEAL

↳ yn.russell STOP IT

jacob___ 🙄

↳ landonorris problem mate?

↳ yn.russell boys.

↳ username3 THE TENSION

username4 why aren't they together yet??

username5 my heart can't take this anymore just date already

liked by username1, username2 and 3,976 others

f1.gossip Lando Norris and YN Russell spotted getting cozy at his birthday celebration last night. Swipe for more 👀

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username1 "just friends" my ass

username2 no because why does he look at her like she hung the stars

username3 wait where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 apparently he left early...

↳ username2 he posted from a different party later that night

username4 george watching his best friend and his sister like 🧍‍♂️

↳ username1 he's been watching this slow burn for years poor man

username5 jacob watching these photos like 👁👄👁

username6 the way lando calls her darling more than her actual boyfriend does

username7 who's gonna tell jacob his girlfriend has better chemistry with lando in these photos than their entire instagram feed

username8 the "future wife" jokes don't seem so jokey anymore huh

username9 okay but can we talk about how she literally glows when she's around him?

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The afternoon sun filters through your apartment windows as you put the finishing touches on your makeup. You're going out to dinner with Jacob - another fancy restaurant, another chance for him to network while you smile politely beside him.

A knock at your door makes you pause. Opening it reveals Lando, holding a bag of takeaway and what appears to be your favorite ice cream.

"Oh," he says, taking in your dress and heels. "You're going out."

"Yeah," you adjust your earring, but can't help smiling at the familiar sight of him with food. "With Jacob. Remember?"

"Right," his smile dims slightly. "The boyfriend. Must've slipped my mind." He holds up the bags. "I brought provisions for our traditional post-race debrief. You know, where you tell me how amazing I was and I pretend to be humble about it?"

You laugh despite yourself. "Since when are you ever humble?"

"I'm incredibly humble. The most humble. No one's more humble than me," he grins, then peers around you into the apartment. "But seriously, can't you reschedule? I got your favorite ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, because I'm the best future husband ever."

"Still going with that, are we?" you ask, turning back to the mirror to check your lipstick.

"Always, darling," he follows you in, setting the food down and flopping onto your couch like he owns it. "It's legally binding, remember? Can't disappoint my mum now."

"I can't tonight," you say, checking your phone. "Jacob said he has something important to tell me."

"The one who made you cry?" Lando's voice loses some of its playfulness.

"That was one time," you defend, though without heat. "And he apologized. He actually told me he loves me last week. Says he wants us to be serious."

Lando sits up straighter, his usual energetic demeanor momentarily stilled. "And do you? Love him?"

"You don't know anything about my relationship, Lando," you say, but it comes out softer than intended.

"I know you," he counters, standing up and moving to lean against the wall near your mirror. "I know you scrunch your nose when you're trying not to laugh at bad jokes. I know you secretly love those terrible reality shows but pretend you're 'just watching them ironically.' I know you stress-eat ice cream when George has a bad race."

"That's different," you say, but you're fighting a smile.

"Is it?" he challenges, but his tone is gentle. "Look, I just... I want you to be happy. Even if it means dealing with boring Jacob who still can't work the coffee machine."

"He figured it out last week, actually," you laugh.

"Finally! Only took him what, six months?" Lando grins, then sobers slightly. "But seriously, if he makes you happy..."

"He does," you say, though something in your chest tightens. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Lando raises an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, darling."

"Nobody's perfect."

"I am," he says immediately, making you laugh. "What? I'm just saying, our future children would have excellent genes. Plus, I make a mean cup of coffee."

Your phone buzzes - a text from Jacob asking where you are.

"I have to go," you say, grabbing your purse. "Lock up when you leave?"

"Fine," he sighs dramatically. "Abandon your future husband with melting ice cream. But just know, Fernando the dog is very disappointed in you."

"Still haven't given up on that name, huh?"

"Never," he grins, but something flickers in his eyes. "Save me some time this weekend? For proper FIFA revenge?"

"You mean so I can beat you again?"

"Excuse you, I let you win," he protests, following you to the door. "It's part of my long-term strategy."

"Which is?"

"Can't have my future wife thinking I'm bad at something, can I?" he winks. "Even though we both know I'm actually terrible at FIFA."

You shake your head, laughing. "Goodbye, Lando."

"Wait," he calls as you start down the hall. "Just... be happy, yeah? Even if it's with someone who took six months to learn how to make coffee."

"I am happy," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"If you say so, darling," he says quietly. "But just remember, the Fernando name reservation is still valid. You know, in case the coffee-challenged boyfriend doesn't work out."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling as you walk away, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be arguing with your head about exactly what - or who - makes you happiest. Behind you, you can hear him humming what sounds suspiciously like the wedding march, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Because at the end of the day, he's still Lando. Your Lando. Even if you're not quite ready to admit what that really means.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,498 others

yn.russell last dinner date before heading back to the circus 🏎️ @/jacob___

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username1 ewww

username2 cute couple tbh

jacob___ miss you already x

↳ yn.russell ❤️

landonorris see you in las vegas darling x

↳ jacob___ can you not?

↳ landonorris sorry mate, contractual future wife obligations

↳ yn_russell boys. please.

↳ georgerussell63 🍿

↳ carlossainz55 Share some with me

↳ username1 LORD

↳ username2 THIS IS SO MESSYYYYY

username3 THIS COMMENT SECTION HAS ME IN TEARSSSS

username4 i feel like shit is about to hit the fan reaaaally soon

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"I just don't understand why you have to be there for every single race," Jacob's voice carries down the paddock corridor. "It's not like you're actually part of the team."

You're standing outside the McLaren hospitality, what started as a casual conversation having turned into yet another argument. "My brother races in F1, and Lando's one of my closest friends. Of course I'm going to be here."

"Right, Lando," Jacob scoffs. "Because God forbid you miss one of his races. Wouldn't want to disappoint your 'future husband.'"

"Don't do that," you say tiredly. "You know it's just a joke."

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you'd rather spend time with him than support your actual boyfriend's career."

"Your career? I've been to every single marketing event you've asked me to attend. I've smiled and networked and played the perfect girlfriend."

"Perfect?" He laughs humorlessly. "You barely talk to any of the sponsors. You're too busy hanging out in the Mercedes garage or watching Lando's practice sessions."

"That's not fair—"

"You know what's not fair? Having a girlfriend who's more invested in other people's careers than mine."

"I didn't realize I was supposed to give up my entire life just because we're dating."

"Your entire life?" His voice rises. "You mean hanging around the paddock like some glorified fan?"

You step back like he's slapped you. "Is that what you think I am?"

"I think," he says coldly, "that you need to figure out what's more important - playing happy families with your brother's friends or having a real relationship with someone who's actually going somewhere in life."

"Hey!" A sharp voice cuts through the tension. George is standing there, face thunderous. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend," Jacob says stiffly.

"Doesn't sound very private to me," George steps closer, positioning himself slightly in front of you. "Or very respectful."

"George, it's fine," you start, but he cuts you off.

"No, it's not fine," he says, not taking his eyes off Jacob. "No one talks to my sister like that."

Jacob holds up his hands. "Look, this is between me and YN."

"Not anymore it's not," George's voice is dangerously calm. "I think you should leave."

For a moment, it looks like Jacob might argue, but something in George's expression makes him think better of it. "Whatever. Call me when you're ready to be a proper girlfriend."

As he walks away, George turns to you, his anger melting into concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice wavers.

"Come on," he wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you toward his driver room. "Let's talk."

Once inside, you sink onto the couch while George grabs two water bottles. "How long has he been talking to you like that?"

"It's not... it's not usually that bad," you say, fidgeting with the bottle label. "He's just stressed about work."

"That's not an excuse," George sits beside you. "Has he said things like this before? About you being just a fan?"

You stay quiet, which is answer enough.

"YN," George's voice softens. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's embarrassing," you admit quietly. "He's right, isn't he? I am just hanging around because of you."

"Stop," George says firmly. "You've been part of this world since we were kids. You understand racing better than half the people in the paddock. Hell, you probably know more about tire strategies than some of the engineers."

You manage a small laugh. "Only because you never shut up about them."

"Exactly," he grins, then turns serious again. "Look, being here isn't just about me. It's your life too. You've built relationships with everyone here. Carmen loves you, Alex considers you a little sister, and Lando..."

"Don't," you cut him off. "Please don't bring Lando into this."

George studies you for a moment. "Why not? He's your best friend."

"Because..." you trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated mix of emotions that surface whenever Lando's name comes up lately.

"Because Jacob's jealous of him?" George suggests gently.

"He's not... it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" George raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like your boyfriend has a problem with how close you are to someone who's been in your life a lot longer than he has."

"Lando and I are just friends," you say, but the words feel hollow.

"Are you?" George asks softly. "Because friends don't look at each other the way you two do. Friends don't have elaborate future plans including dogs named Fernando. Friends don't get that look in their eyes when the other person is dating someone else."

"George..."

"I'm just saying," he continues, "maybe Jacob isn't entirely wrong to be jealous. Just... wrong about everything else."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do," George says simply. "You just need to be honest with yourself about what - or who - actually makes you happy."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" He challenges. "Because from what I just heard, Jacob doesn't make you happy. He makes you feel small. And my little sister," he squeezes your shoulder, "deserves someone who makes her feel like she could take on the world."

"Someone like Lando?" You ask quietly.

"I didn't say that," George grins. "But now that you mention it..."

You shove him playfully. "Shut up."

"Make me," he laughs, then sobers. "Seriously though, YN. You deserve better than someone who makes you question your place here. This is your home too."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. I'm the older sibling, remember?"

"By like two years!"

"Still counts," he says smugly, then adds more seriously, "Just... promise me you'll think about what I said? About being honest with yourself?"

"I promise," you say softly, even as your mind drifts to a certain curly-haired driver who's probably wondering where you are for your traditional pre-race FIFA tournament.

"Good," George stands up. "Now, want to go watch Lando absolutely butcher his quali prep? I heard he's still convinced he can take turn 3 flat out."

You laugh, letting him pull you up. "Some things never change, do they?"

"Nope," George agrees, but there's something knowing in his smile. "And some things are just waiting for you to realize they've been there all along."

As you walk toward the McLaren garage, you can't help but think about how some of the best things in life start as jokes - like a fourteen-year-old boy declaring you'll have papaya orange wedding colors, or a nickname that feels more like home than any other word in the world.

Maybe it's time to stop pretending it's all just a joke.

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liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and 301,988 others

yn.russell my big brother just won in VEGAS!!! 🏆✨ from watching you race karts in the rain to watching you stand on top of the podium under those lights... i've never been prouder to be a russell. you deserve this more than anyone georgie. also thanks for letting me steal your champagne and ruin your hair before the photos 😘

ps: mum's crying, dad's crying, i'm crying, even fernando the dog is crying and he's not real x

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username1 I LOVE THEM SMMMM

username2 THIS IS MY FAMILY

georgerussell63 love you little sis ❤️ (but i was definitely the cuter kid)

↳ yn_russell keep telling yourself that x

↳ landonorris can confirm yn was the cuter kid

↳ georgerussell63 no one asked you lando

↳ landonorris just supporting my future wife mate

↳ yn.russell boys please this is george's moment

username2 THE WAY SHE RAN TO HIM IN PARC FERME 😭

username3 sibling goals fr

username4 ok but can we talk about how lando waited to celebrate with george until after yn had her moment with him 🥺

↳ username1 future brother in law behavior

username5 wait why isn't jacob in any of these photos? Wasn't he there?

carmenmmundt so proud of you both ❤️

↳ landonorris *all three of us

↳ carmenmmundt ?

↳ landonorris future wife = future family

↳ yn.russell this is GEORGE'S post omg

↳ landonorris sorry darling carry on x

charles_leclerc the russell genes are strong

↳ landonorris hopefully our kids get her genes

↳ georgerussell63 LANDO.

↳ yn.russell i swear to god

↳ landonorris what? just planning ahead 😌

username6 THIS COMMENT SECTION IS KILLING ME

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yn.russell has added to their stories

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The Abu Dhabi night is alive with celebration, the McLaren garage covered in papaya and champagne. But you're hidden away in one of the quiet corridors behind hospitality, mascara smudged, trying to muffle your sobs.

"There you are, darling! We've been looking everywhere for—" Lando's voice cuts off abruptly when he sees you. "YN?"

You quickly try to wipe your tears, but it's too late. His championship-winning smile vanishes instantly as he drops down beside you.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, concerned. When you don't answer, he gently takes your hands away from your face. "Talk to me."

"It's stupid," you manage to say. "You should be celebrating. You just won the constructors'."

"Pretty sure the champagne will still be there in ten minutes," he says, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "What happened?"

You take a shaky breath. "Jacob... he..." Your voice breaks.

Lando's expression hardens. "What did he do?"

"He broke up with me," you let out a bitter laugh. "Apparently now that he's secured a position at Mercedes for next season, he doesn't need the Russell connection anymore."

"He what?" Lando's voice is dangerously quiet.

"Turns out I was just... convenient. A way to get closer to Toto. To Mercedes." Your voice cracks again. "God, I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Lando says fiercely. "He's the stupid one. He's worse than stupid, he's a complete—"

"I really thought..." you cut him off, fresh tears falling. "I actually thought he cared about me."

Without hesitation, Lando pulls you into his arms. You bury your face in his race suit, still damp with champagne, and let yourself break.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, darling."

You stay like that for a while, his hands running soothingly up and down your back as you cry. The distant sounds of celebration feel like they're from another world.

"Want me to crash his car?" Lando finally asks, making you let out a watery laugh. "I could do it. Make it look like an accident. I am a professional driver, after all."

"Lando..."

"Or we could put laxatives in his coffee. Though he'd probably notice, since he still can't make a proper cup himself."

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling slightly.

"There's my girl," he says softly, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't..."

"It's okay," you whisper. "I've always been your girl. Even if it was just as a joke."

Something shifts in his expression. "YN..."

"Don't," you pull back slightly. "Please. I can't... I can't lose you too. Not tonight."

He studies your face for a long moment, then nods, pulling you back against his chest. "You'll never lose me. Future husband contract, remember? Legally binding. Can't get rid of me that easily."

You close your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "Promise?"

"Promise," he kisses the top of your head. "Besides, Fernando still needs both his parents."

This gets a real laugh out of you. "We don't actually have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects. "We don't have a dog yet. But when we do—"

"His name will be Fernando," you finish with him, and for a moment, everything feels okay again.

"Want me to get George?" he asks after a while.

You shake your head. "Not yet. Can we just... stay here for a bit?"

"As long as you need," he says, and you can hear his heart beating steadily under your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the distance, someone calls his name.

"Go," you start to pull away. "They need their champion."

"They can wait," he says firmly, pulling you back. "You need me more."

And maybe it's the way he says it, or the gentle kiss he presses to your temple, or how his arms feel like the safest place in the world, but suddenly you realize what everyone's been trying to tell you all along.

This was never just a joke to him.

And maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke to you either.

But that's a revelation for another night, when your heart isn't quite so broken and his race suit isn't covered in your tears. For now, you let yourself be held by your best friend, your future husband, your Lando, as the Abu Dhabi night carries on without you.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 288,760 others

yn.russell back to my favorite job: professional thirdwheel 🏖️ (at least they feed me occasionally) @/georgerussell63 @/carmenmmundt

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username1 MY PARENTS

username2 wait... where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 he unfollowed her last week 👀

↳ username3 tea incoming

georgerussell63 You love us

↳ yn.russell debatable

↳ carmenmmund We literally paid for your dinner

↳ yn.russell okay fine you're alright

landonorris need a fourth wheel? 👀

↳ yn.russell ...

↳ landonorris i'll bring snacks

username4 THE WAY LANDO COMMENTED SO FAST

username5 LANDO THIS IS YOUR CHANCE

username6 single little russell era is coming

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The winter sun is setting early, casting long shadows across your apartment. It's been a month days since Abu Dhabi, a months since Jacob revealed his true colors, and you're curled up on your couch in your comfiest sweats, surrounded by empty ice cream containers.

George and Carmen tried to cheer you up, making you tag along on their vacation, but now that you were back home, the sulking feeling inevitably came back too.

A familiar pattern of knocks at your door makes you groan. "Go away, Lando."

"Not a chance, darling," his voice calls back. "I come bearing provisions!"

"I don't need provisions," you call out, but you're already getting up to open the door. "I need to wallow in peace."

You open the door to find Lando, arms full of bags, wearing a ridiculously oversized hoodie that you're pretty sure belongs to George.

"Wallowing is officially cancelled," he announces, breezing past you into the apartment. "We're having a proper heartbreak recovery session."

"We are?"

"Absolutely," he starts unpacking the bags. "I've got all the essentials. More ice cream - mint chocolate chip, obviously. Every terrible rom-com Netflix has to offer. Popcorn. Those weird crisps you like that no one else understands. And..." he pulls out a bottle with flourish, "your favorite wine."

"Lando..."

"No arguments," he says firmly, but gently. "I'm not leaving you alone to cry over that coffee-challenged idiot."

"I wasn't crying," you protest weakly.

He raises an eyebrow at your clearly tear-stained face. "Right. And I'm not the most talented driver on the grid."

This actually makes you laugh. "Your modesty never fails to amaze me."

"I know, I know, I'm incredible," he grins, already making himself at home on your couch. "Now come here. We're starting with The Notebook because I know it's your guilty pleasure, even though you pretend to hate it."

"I do hate it," you say, but you're already curling up next to him.

"Sure you do, darling," he throws a blanket over both of you. "Just like you hate reality TV and actually love Jacob's boring marketing presentations."

You wince slightly at Jacob's name, and Lando immediately softens.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "No more mentions of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Though I still think we should put glitter in his car ventilation system."

"George already offered to have him banned from the paddock," you smile slightly.

"Good man, your brother," Lando nods approvingly. "Though my revenge plans are much more creative. I was thinking we could reprogram his laptop to only play 'Baby Shark' when he opens PowerPoint..."

You can't help but laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Made you smile though, didn't I?" he says softly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him.

"You always do," you admit quietly.

He holds your gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. "Right, well, that's what future husbands are for, isn't it? Can't have my darling being sad. Bad for our wedding photos."

"Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he says, and despite his light tone, there's something earnest in his eyes. "Someone's got to look after you properly."

"I can look after myself," you point out.

"Oh, I know," he grins. "But it's more fun together, isn't it? Plus, who else is going to appreciate your terrible taste in movies?"

"My taste is not terrible!"

"Darling, you genuinely enjoyed that film about the talking cats."

"It was artistic!"

"It was horrifying," he laughs, pulling you closer. "But I watched it three times with you anyway."

"Because you're a good friend," you say softly.

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "The best friend you'll ever have. Even if you have questionable taste in everything except future husbands."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Speaking of questionable taste, weren't we supposed to be watching The Notebook?"

"Oh right!" he brightens, grabbing the remote. "Time to pretend you're not going to cry at the end."

"I never cry at the end."

"Darling, you've cried every single time we've watched it."

"Have not!"

"Have too! Remember last time? You got tears all over my favorite hoodie."

"That was one time!"

"One time this month, maybe," he grins, then softens. "It's okay though. My hoodies are always available for your tears. Even if they're about stupid coffee-challenged marketing guys who don't deserve them."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Lando."

"For what?"

"For being you. For being here. For..." you gesture at all the supplies he brought. "For everything."

He's quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Always, darling. In sickness and in health, remember?"

"We're not actually married, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, but there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "We're not actually married yet."

The movie starts playing, but you're more aware of his steady breathing, of how perfectly you fit against his side, of how safe you feel in this moment. And maybe it's too soon, maybe your heart is still too raw, but you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the right person has been here all along.

But that's a thought for another day. For now, you let yourself be comforted by your best friend, your constant, your Lando, as he quotes along with the movie and keeps you supplied with ice cream and terrible jokes until you're laughing more than you're crying.

And if you do end up crying at the end of The Notebook, well, his hoodie is already there to catch your tears.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 291,483 others

yn.russell FIRST RACE OF THE SEASON. WHAT A RIDE !!!! lando winning and georgie on podium. ALEX P5 !!!! all of my boys killing it 🥺 so happy to be back, i missed this so much

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username1 LITTLE RUSSELL BIGGEST SUPPORTER

username2 SHE WAS SO HAPPY FOR LANDO OMFG

username3 still gutted for the missed mclaren 1-2 but GEORGE P3!!

carmenmmundt You almost broke my hand with all the squeezing !! Missed you so happy my girl 🤍

↳ username1 AHH LITTLE RUSSELL IS HEALING

username4 the way she JUMPED into lando's arms

ciscanorris My future daughter in law! It was so good to see you

↳ username1 AHH MAMA NORRIS CLAIMING HER

landonorris THAT WAS FOR YOU MY DARLINGGG

↳ yourinstagram 🥺

↳ username2 AHH SHE DIDN'T CORRECT HIM

georgerussell63 Love you sis, even tho you hugged Lando first

↳ yn.russell he won okay

↳ landonorris and i'm her future husband

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Miami night air is warm and sweet, carrying the distant sounds of celebration from the post race party below. You're leaning against the balcony railing, watching the lights of the circuit sparkle in the distance, when familiar footsteps approach.

"There's my darling," Lando's voice is soft as he joins you. "Hiding from your adoring public?"

You smile, not looking away from the view. "Just needed some air."

The past few months flash through your mind - Lando showing up at your door with takeaway after particularly hard days, marathon gaming sessions that somehow always ended with you falling asleep on his shoulder, countless movie nights where he'd quote every line just to make you laugh. He never let you wallow, never let you retreat into sadness. Whether it was surprising you with your favorite coffee in the morning or sending you ridiculous memes at 3 AM, he was constantly there, slowly piecing your heart back together without you even realizing it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, bumping your shoulder gently with his.

"Just thinking about everything that's changed since last season."

He hums in agreement. "Good changes though, right?"

You finally turn to look at him, really look at him. His curls slightly messy from running his hands through them - a nervous habit you've known since you were teenagers. But there's something different in the way he's looking at you now, something that makes your heart skip.

"Yeah," you say softly. "Good changes."

He takes a step closer, and suddenly the air feels charged with possibility. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous hobby," you tease, falling into your familiar pattern.

"Very dangerous," he agrees, but his voice is serious. "Been thinking about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes."

Your breath catches. "Lando..."

"Like when a fourteen-year-old boy tells this pretty girl she's going to be his future wife," he continues, taking another step closer. "And he keeps saying it for years, making it this big running joke, because it's easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke at all."

"What are you saying?" you whisper, though your heart already knows the answer.

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. "I'm saying that I've been in love with you since we were kids. I'm saying that every time I called you darling, every time I talked about our future dog Fernando, every time I claimed the future husband title - I meant it. All of it."

"Lando..." your voice wavers.

"I know it's only been a few months since... everything," he says quickly. "And if you're not ready, if you don't feel the same way, we can pretend this never happened. We can go back to just joking around. But I needed you to know that for me, it was never just a joke. You were never just a joke."

You stare at him, this boy who's been your constant, your safe place, your home for so long. And suddenly everything clicks into place.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says softly, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don't.

His lips meet yours, gentle at first, like he's afraid you might break. But when your hands slide into his curls, pulling him closer, the kiss deepens into something that feels like coming home and falling free all at once.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "So," he says, slightly breathless, "about that legally binding marriage contract..."

You laugh, the sound full of joy. "Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. "Though now I'm thinking maybe we should make it official. You know, for Fernando's sake."

"We still don't have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, pulling you closer. "We don't have a dog yet. But we will. Right after the wedding. Which will definitely have papaya orange colors because I called dibs when we were fourteen and—"

You cut him off with another kiss, feeling him smile against your lips.

"FINALLY!"

You break apart to find George standing in the doorway, grinning like he just won the championship.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Lando grumbles, but he doesn't let go of you.

"On a balcony door?" George raises an eyebrow. "Besides, I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. Years, actually."

"Have not," you protest.

"Have too," both men say in unison.

"I hate you both," you mutter, but you're fighting a smile.

"No you don't," Lando says confidently. "You love me. You're going to marry me and we're going to have a dog named Fernando and—"

"Still with the dog name?" George groans.

"It's tradition!" Lando defends. "Tell him, darling, tell him how important traditions are."

You look between your brother and the boy - no, the man - who's been your everything for so long, and feel your heart might burst with happiness.

"Actually," you say slowly, "I was thinking maybe we could name the dog George."

"What?" both men exclaim.

You burst out laughing at their expressions. "Just kidding. Fernando it is."

"See?" Lando beams at George. "She agrees with me. Because she loves me. Because we're getting married. Because—"

"Because it was never really a joke?" you finish softly.

His expression softens as he looks at you. "Never."

"Right," George clears his throat. "I'm going to leave before this gets any more sickeningly sweet. But Lando?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurt my sister and they'll never find your body."

"Please," Lando scoffs, pulling you closer. "I've been planning our future since I was fourteen. I'm not about to mess it up now."

As George leaves, shaking his head but smiling, Lando turns back to you.

"So," he says, his eyes twinkling, "about those wedding colors..."

You silence him with another kiss, thinking about how sometimes the best love stories start as jokes, and how sometimes the person you're meant to be with has been there all along, calling you darling and planning your future with a dog named Fernando.

And maybe, just maybe, those papaya orange wedding colors don't sound so bad after all.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 201,384 others

yn.russell turns out some jokes become reality 🧡 @/landonorris (yes, we're actually getting the dog. yes, his name will be fernando. no, this isn't a drill - the future wife position has officially been filled, i love you my lando)

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username1 SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING??? 😭😭😭

username2 THE WAY I JUST SCREAMED IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS

username3 THE FUTURE WIFE JOKES WERE REAL ALL ALONG

georgerussell63 About bloody time 🙄 (but actually very happy for you both)

alex_albon the group chat can finally rest, no more "should I tell her?" messages from lando every 5 minutes

carmenmmundt The paddock's favorite love story

ciscanorris Finally! I've only been waiting for this announcement since they were teenagers 🥰

username4 the way this man has been calling her darling for YEARS and we all thought it was just banter 😭😭

username5 THE WAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE 2019

username6 ok but can we talk about how he's literally been manifesting this since they were TEENAGERS???

username7 this is actually the cutest thing ever like???? he's been planning their wedding since he was 14???? hello???

username8 the way george is probably somewhere being like "finally i don't have to pretend i don't see them flirting"

landonorris worth the wait, every single second❤️ love you darling x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in late summer, and you're curled up on your couch with a book when you hear Lando's key in the door. You smile, not looking up - he's been coming and going from your place so much lately that it feels more like his home than his own apartment.

"Darling!" his voice calls out, sounding suspiciously excited. "Close your eyes!"

"Why?" you ask warily. "Last time you had a surprise, it didn't end well."

"Just trust me!"

You sigh fondly, closing your eyes. "Fine, but this better be good."

You hear him moving around, and then something warm and furry lands in your lap.

Your eyes fly open to find yourself face to face with the most adorable chocolate Labrador puppy you've ever seen. The puppy immediately starts licking your face while Lando watches, beaming with pure joy.

"Lando..." you breathe, already in love with the wiggling bundle of fur. "What did you do?"

"Well," he drops onto the couch beside you, reaching over to scratch the puppy's ears, "I was thinking about how we've been together for months now, and living together basically even though we pretend we don't, and how there's this one very important member of our family still missing..."

"You didn't," you whisper, even as the puppy settles contentedly in your lap.

"I did," he grins. "Meet Fernando. Finally."

You look between Lando and the puppy - Fernando - feeling your heart might burst. "You actually named him Fernando?"

"Of course I did! I've been planning this since I was fourteen, remember?" His eyes soften. "Plus, I made you a promise, didn't I?"

"We're not married yet," you point out, but you can't stop smiling.

"Yet," he emphasizes, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "But really, I thought... I mean, we practically live together anyway. Might as well make it official. You, me, and Fernando."

You look down at the puppy, who's now snoring softly in your lap, then back at Lando. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Properly?"

"Maybe," he fidgets slightly. "Unless you think it's too soon? I know we haven't been together that long, but it feels like we've been building towards this forever, you know? And I thought, with Fernando here now..."

You cut off his rambling with a kiss. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move in with you. Properly. All three of us."

His face lights up like you've just given him the best gift in the world. "Really?"

"Really," you laugh.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him fondly.

"You love it," he says confidently.

"I do," you admit softly. "I love you."

His expression melts into that soft look he reserves just for you. "I love you too, darling. Both of you," he adds as Fernando stirs and licks his hand.

Just then, your phone buzzes - a text from George.

"Oh no," you groan, reading it. "George is coming over."

"Perfect!" Lando brightens. "He can meet his nephew!"

"You did not just call our dog George's nephew."

"Of course I did! He's family now. Speaking of which..." he pulls out his phone, "my mum's been asking when we're bringing Fernando to visit."

Before you can respond, George's voice carries through the door. "Why is there puppy food in the hallway?"

Lando jumps up excitedly. "Ready to meet Uncle George, Fernando?"

The puppy perks up at his name, tail wagging as George opens the door.

"You didn't," George says, taking in the scene.

"We did!" Lando announces proudly. "Meet your nephew!"

"My... nephew?"

"Fernando Russell-Norris," Lando declares. "Well, technically just Norris for now, but that'll change once your sister finally agrees to marry me."

"Still waiting on that proposal, aren't you?" George smirks.

"All in good time," Lando winks at you. "Got to do it properly, haven't I?"

You watch George pretend not to be completely smitten with Fernando, while Lando chatters about all his plans for family weekends and teaching Fernando tricks. You can't help but think about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes about future marriages and dogs named Fernando.

"Our little family," Lando says softly, pulling you close while Fernando attempts to climb into George's lap.

And as you lean into his side, watching your brother and your boyfriend argue about who gets to be Fernando's favorite uncle (while the puppy seems more interested in chewing George's shoelaces), you realize that this - this moment, this love, this little family - is better than any dream you could have had.

It's your reality. Your perfect, slightly chaotic, absolutely wonderful reality.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

[cosmichughes]

Baby, It’s You. | Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader, (feat. Ethan Edwards x Best Friend!Reader)

warnings! enemies to friends to enemies to lovers, angsty, mean!Luke, mentions of drinking, stress, slow burn lol, oh and Luke being a dick. word count: 25.5k (im so sorry)

summary: You are the sports media intern for the UMich hockey team which is so great because your best friend, Ethan Edwards, plays for the team. However, his friend and your arch nemesis is also on the team and his name is Luke Hughes. He gets the most joy by pestering you without realizing the effects it had on you.

a/n: another lukey fic for you guys! I tried something new by changing up how I typically write Luke and how I wrote this in general and I am so sorry that it is so long and lowkey super repetitive... I wanted to capture the push and pull between them but I think I went overboard. This was my first time writing enemies to lovers so please be nice if it’s actually awful😭 Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the too-white walls with scratches from chairs scraping against the paint a couple of times, and the scuffed linoleum floor of the student athlete resource center. The buzz of the printer echoed in the mostly empty area in addition to the occasional crunching of the paper jamming halfway through the rollers. The place smelled faintly of printer ink, stress, and forgotten coffee cups.

You stood at the front of the print station, one hand clutching onto the edge of the table, the other pressing the Reprint button repeatedly, “I swear, this machine has a personal vendetta against me.”

Ethan Edwards laughed behind you, the sound warm and easy, like it always was with him, “Maybe it just knows you’re not officially on the team and feels threatened.”

You shot him a playful glare over your shoulder, “Hey, I’m helping you with your disaster of a paperwork situation, you should at least be nice.”

He grinned with his expression unbothered, “You're right, I’m sorry. You’re an angel. A queen, and coach would have my head if I forgot to bring in these papers again”

You snorted, rolling your eyes at him, “These forms are the only thing standing between Michigan Hockey and NCAA travel sanctions.”

Ethan leaned on the counter beside you, his Wolverines jacket slightly rumpled, a half-empty shaker bottle in one hand. His eyes were crinkled at the corners from laughing too much. You’d met him in Sport Management 101 your first semester of college. He’d been one of the only athletes who actually participated in discussion and didn’t act like the class was a punishment. You’d bonded over a shared love for Canadian sports teams, given that you two are both from Canada. He was the kind of friend who texted you links to ridiculous sports Instagram posts at 2 a.m. and brought you a spare umbrella when the forecast betrayed you. Ethan never tried to be more than your friend, never crossed a line, and in a major where networking often blurred into flirting, that made him gold.

“You still owe me for this,” You said, stacking the semi-wrinkled waivers into a neat pile.

He nodded, “A week of bagels, I know. I’m thinking cinnamon sugar. Toasted. Maybe with a cold brew as a chaser?”

You handed him the last sheet with an amused smile, “And this is why you’re my favourite.”

“Tell that to Luke,” Ethan mumbled under his breath. You stiffened slightly at the mention of his name, but before you could reply, the door swung open with a squeak of the hinges.

Speaking of the actual devil, Luke Hughes walked in, dragging the sharp chill of the fall air with him. His team hoodie clung to his frame, still damp from sweat. His skates were slung over his shoulder by the laces, the metal blades clinking faintly with each step. His curly hair was a mess of dark blonde, his jawline sharp, his eyes sharper.

His eyes landed on you instantly, and his expression shifted from neutral to unmistakably irritated in a split second.

“Oh,” He said flatly, “It’s you.”

You didn’t even flinch, “Unfortunately.”

He turned to Ethan, “You ready? Coach is losing his mind about ice time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan replied, picking up the forms that you had stacked up for him, “We’re good. She helped me print them.”

Luke glanced at the stack in your hands, then at you, eyebrows arching like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “Didn’t know they taught you how to print in sport management.”

“Didn’t know they taught you how to be a dick in hockey, I guess we’re both learning new things today,” You shot back with your eyebrows raised. 

Ethan shifted his weight uncomfortably, clearly sensing the growing tension, “Okay, cool. I love this banter. Let’s… save this energy for the game tomorrow, Hughesy.”

You took a step forward, plopping the stack of papers in Ethan’s hands a little harder than necessary, “Here, good luck with whatever this season turns into.”

You were halfway out the door when Luke’s voice followed you, as smooth and smug as ever, “You know, some of us are actually going places.”

You stopped in your tracks and slowly, you turned around to face him. He was still leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed, half-grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“My skills come naturally, y’know,” He said. “It’s basically genetic, like my brothers both play in the NHL and I’m already drafted. So while I’m signing pro contracts, you’ll be figuring out how to pay off your student loans for the next ten years.”

The words landed like a slap. But instead of backing down, you met his eyes and smiled sweetly.

“Wow,” You scoffed, “Was being an asshole also mandatory when getting drafted? Or is that just the online hype getting to your head?”

Something flickered in his expression, barely noticeable. You didn’t wait for him to answer, you turned on your heel and walked out, letting the heavy door swing closed behind you.

Outside, the crisp late September air bit at your cheeks, but you welcomed it. Anything to clear the residue of Luke Hughes off your skin. He was the only person who could make a hockey rink feel like a battlefield.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You hadn’t meant to walk past Yost.

The smart thing would’ve been to take the long way around, down State Street, away from the thick smell of rubber pucks, melting ice, and testosterone. But your marketing lecture had let out early, and your shortcut to your apartment required you to go straight through the arena’s lobby.

The glass doors creaked as you pushed them open. Inside, the air was cooler, the walls were lined with black-and-white photos of championship teams and action shots of hockey legends frozen in time, and Luke Hughes among them, of course.

You kept your eyes down, footsteps quiet on the slick floor. The rink was alive behind the glass, with players slicing across the ice, barked instructions from a coach echoing off the boards. The clatter of sticks and skates blended with the distant hum of the Zamboni, like the building was vibrating with movement.

You were halfway across the lobby when a familiar voice cut through the static.

“Hey,”

Your shoulders tensed before you even turned around. He leaned against the wall just outside the locker room, damp curls sticking to his forehead, sleeves of his Michigan hoodie pushed up his forearms. He looked like he’d just walked off the ice, and right back into your personal space.

You paused, “Don’t you have calls to argue about or something?”

He grinned, all sharp edges and irritating confidence, “I was hoping you’d swing by. Wanted to thank you for earlier, your printing skills were truly elite.”

You tilted your head slightly, “You’re still hung up on that? You must be exhausted from all the grudges you’re carrying.”

Luke pushed off the wall with lazy ease, “Not a grudge. Just a public service. Thought I’d give you a little reality check before your delusions got out of hand.”

You blinked, stunned by the sheer nerve of him, “Excuse me?”

“You act like you’re some rising exec by being in sports management,” He said, stepping closer, “But let’s be honest, you hang around the team like it’ll magically get you somewhere. Like it’s just your golden ticket to the press box, or maybe to dating someone on the roster.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, “I’m in this program because I actually want a career in sports,” You snapped with your voice low, “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered, “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You think being drafted makes you untouchable. But you’re just another kid with a big name coasting on your back.”

That landed. You saw it, the moment his jaw clenched slightly. His smirk dipped for half a second. But then it was back,

“Don’t act like you know me,” He told you with his voice firm

“Oh, believe me, I don’t want to,” You shot back, “But unfortunately, you keep making that impossible.”

“Wow. You guys really going for Round Two today?” Ethan appeared at the end of the hallway, his hair still wet from a post-practice shower. He looked between you and Luke like he’d just walked into the middle of a fight he hadn’t agreed to referee.

Luke stepped back, his eyes still locked on yours, “Just offering her some career advice.”

“Yeah,” You muttered, brushing past him, “Let me know when you’re finally qualified to give it.”

You pushed through the exit doors, cold air hitting your face in an instant, wind threading through your hair like ice. It wasn’t just that Luke was rude. It was that he saw you and chose to treat you like you didn’t belong. Like your ambition was cute but pointless. Like you’d never belong in the world of sports. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You stood near the long folding table by the windows, clipboard in one hand, your other hand rifling through a pile of jerseys that weren’t in the right order. Your hair kept falling in your face, sticking slightly from the humidity that rose with the sheer body heat in the room. You pushed it back absently, scanning the team media schedule you’d printed that morning.

Behind you, Ethan Edwards was laughing at something one of the freshmen players had said, but he still caught your eye every few minutes to make sure you were doing okay. You appreciated that about him, how he always managed to make sure you didn’t feel like just background noise.

He wandered over to you between photoshoots, “You surviving the chaos?”

You laughed lightly, “Barely, they keep knocking the sponsor signs off the walls. I’ve re-taped the same Tim Hortons logo four times.”

“Honestly, you’re the only reason this thing is running at all,” Ethan said, peeling the backing off a fresh name tag and handing it to you, “They should put you on payroll.”

You shrugged, “It’s just part of the internship, it helps my resume.”

“Still, you didn’t have to stay this late, I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

You smiled at that, “You said you wanted to hang out after, remember? I figured I’d earn it first by helping out your team”

Ethan looked like he was about to say something else but then the locker room door swung open with a solid thud, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Luke Hughes walked in, late as always. His shoulder pads still on beneath his school-branded jersey, a helmet tucked under one arm. His cheeks were flushed from the cold of the rink, and his eyes landed on you almost immediately.

Something in his posture changed, but you didn’t look away. Luke’s gaze dragged across the room, and then his voice cut through the chaos, smooth and loud enough to turn heads, “Oh. She’s still around? I thought she would’ve made other friends by now.”

The words floated in the air for a second too long. Your heart dropped and you froze, caught in that horrible space between wanting to say something and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under your skin.

A few of the guys laughed awkwardly, but most went quiet.

Ethan’s face dropped instantly. “Hughesy, chill dude.”

Luke shrugged as started unlacing his skates, completely unaffected.

You tried to brush it off, and try not to let the tears build up in your eyes. But the room suddenly felt too loud, too bright, too small.

“I should just go,” You said quietly to no one in particular as you quickly wiped the threatening tears away from your eyes while you shoved your things into your bag.

“No, hey,” Ethan stepped between you and the doorway with his hand out, “No stay, c’mon you said you’d hang out today.”

“Maybe on your walk back, you can meet some girls you can actually be friends with,” Luke chirped without looking at you, “Then you’ll have someone to hang out with instead of showing up here every day.”

Silence fell again but this time, no one laughed. Not even Mark, who normally matched Luke’s sarcasm beat for beat, looked down at his phone and said nothing.

You felt your throat tighten as you clutched the strap of your bag, “I just—” You started, barely holding your voice steady, “I should go… I’m sorry Eddy, maybe another time.”

You shoved the clipboard you held gently into Ethan’s chest and turned toward the hallway, footsteps echoing too loud in the silence that followed. You didn’t hear Luke say anything else, though whether he actually stopped or you just blocked him out, you weren’t sure.

Ethan caught up with you a few seconds later, his brows furrowed with a mix of concern and quiet frustration. You shook your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly

You looked up at him, “I’m really sorry, Eddy. I just… I don’t want to be there if I’m not welcome. I don’t get why he’s still acting like this,” You told him before you paused as your voice cracked slightly, “It’s been over a year. I was hoping he’d drop the bit by now.”

Ethan sighed, running his hand through his hair, “Me too. I thought he had.”

You crossed your arms, hugging yourself without realizing it, “I don’t even care that he doesn’t like me, but I know that I don’t deserve to be humiliated in front of half the team.”

“You don’t,” Ethan’s jaw tightened, “And if he says anything like that again, I’ll call him out harder.”

“I don’t want you to fight my battles,” You told him gently, still trying to hold onto your pride, “I just want to do my job and not feel like I’m a joke for showing up.”

Ethan nodded, like he understood on a level deeper than just sympathy.

You took a breath, mainly to steady yourself, “Thanks for coming after me.”

“Always,” He said with a gentle squeeze to your shoulder, “You’re not alone in this.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The post-media day haze settled like a fog over the house as each of the boys slowly walked in, dropping their hockey bags by the door. A half-eaten pizza box lay open on the coffee table, the TV screen glowed with some muted sports replay, and the clatter of video game controllers had faded into nothing. The guys were around, with some on their phones, others talking in low voices, but for once it wasn’t loud.

He hadn’t said a word since you left Yost. Not when Ethan went after you with that look on his face. Not when Mark gave him that sharp, disappointed shake of the head. Not when no one cracked a joke to break the tension in the media room.

He sat slouched at the end of the couch, bouncing his knee, a lukewarm Gatorade bottle clutched in one hand. The kind of silence that stretched on too long had always made him feel itchy, like he was standing on a sheet of thin ice, and everyone else could hear it cracking but him.

God, what the hell had he said? He reflected on how the words had come out fast, too fast. That smug, sharp tone that always cut too deep when he let it. He hadn’t meant it the way it landed. Except maybe he had.

The front door opened, cool night air slipping in as another one of his housemates entered the house. He heard them shut it behind themselves with more force than necessary. The guys kept their heads down, Luke didn’t look up until Ethan dropped into the chair across from him.

“You seriously need to cut the shit,” Ethan told him, his voice wasn’t loud, but there was an edge in it and disappointment. A lot of it.

Luke exhaled, slow and heavy, “It was a joke.”

Ethan’s laugh was empty, “You think that was funny?” He asked, “Making her feel like garbage in front of everyone?”

Luke shrugged, jaw tight, “She doesn’t need you to defend her. She gives it back just fine.”

“Yeah, she does. But that’s not the point, Luke,” Ethan leaned forward as elbows pressed onto his knees, “You don’t get it, do you?”

Luke didn’t answer and Ethan continued to stare at him, “You think she’s just some girl hanging around the team for fun?”

“She’s always around,” Luke mumbled, with a roll of his eyes, “It’s not like-”

“She’s around because she’s doing work,” Ethan snapped, “The kind of work no one thanks her for. The kind of work that makes our lives easier.”

Luke blinked, clearly taken aback from Ethan’s tone.

“You ever filled out a compliance form? Coordinated team travel with six guys forgetting to turn in their info? Talked to a professor to help get someone excused from a class for away games?” Ethan’s voice rose, “No? Because she does all of that. Quietly. Without complaint.”

Luke opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“She goes to class, works a part-time job, handles internship stuff, runs media days, helps keep the coaching staff sane, and still finds time to show up and support this team more than half of the people getting scholarships to play here.”

Luke stared at the floor, his throat dry and his fingers fumbling with the silicon bracelet that surrounded the rim of his gatorade bottle.

“And you treat her like she’s in the way,” Ethan’s voice had dropped to a low tone, “Like she’s some annoying fan who doesn’t belong.”

A beat passed, then Ethan added, “She told me the other day she thinks you hate her.”

Luke sat back further into the couch cushions. He hadn’t realized she thought that, but he remembered the look on her face from earlier. The way her voice cracked when she said she should just go. The look in her eyes when she apologized to Ethan, like she was the one at fault. Like he hadn’t just dragged her down in front of the entire team for a quick laugh.

“I don’t hate her,” Luke said, but even to his own ears, it didn’t sound convincing.

“Then what is it?” Ethan asked, softer now, “Because if you like her, you’ve got the worst way of showing it. And if you don’t, then why can’t you leave her the hell alone?”

Luke didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to explain the way something in him twisted up whenever he saw you laughing with the guys, how he hated that it felt like you fit in better than he did sometimes. That you didn’t carry the weight he did, of the Hughes name, the fourth overall draft pick, the spotlight, and still shined like it came naturally. Like you didn’t have to try.

That when you looked at him, he couldn’t tell if you saw Luke Hughes, third brother, NHL-bound golden boy... or just Luke, who didn’t know what the hell he was doing half the time.

“She didn’t want to make it awkward,” Ethan told him, “She just wanted to help and you made her feel like an inconvenience.”

Luke looked up from his lap to his friend who was already staring back at him.

“You’re gonna go pro,” Ethan continued as he kept his voice gentle, “You’ve got everything lined up. But if you keep pushing people like her away, you’re going to get there and find out you lost something way more important.”

And with that, Ethan stood and walked down out of the living room, his footsteps fading up the stairs and into his bedroom. Luke sat in his same position on the couch, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor as he thought back to your interactions that day.

You didn’t go to the rink the next day, you didn’t even leave your apartment. Your desk lamp was the only source of light in the room, casting a warm glow across your cluttered desk, dimly lighting over your half-finished notes. Outside the window of your bedroom, morning had come and gone, unnoticed. The sky was overcast, soft and heavy with the threat of rain and occasionally, wind rattled the loose pane in the top corner of the glass.

You pulled your sweatshirt tighter around your frame with your legs tucked beneath you in the chair by your desk. One hand rested on your trackpad, aimlessly scrolling through your mock proposal for University of Michigan Sports and Athletics’ Management Department though you hadn’t read a word of what you have written in the past twenty minutes.

It didn’t matter. You couldn’t focus. Not after yesterday. Your mind drifted back to the locker room, the scuffed tile floors, the sharp tang of sweat and men’s deodorant in the air, the echo of camera shutters, of laughter that didn’t feel like it included you. And then, his voice. That perfectly timed jab that landed like a punch to the chest, right in front of everyone.

“Oh she’s still around? I thought she would’ve made friends by now.”

You hadn’t said anything. Just laughed awkwardly, a fragile sound that cracked at the edges. And then you left, before your throat could fully close and before anyone could see your face fall.

You were drawn out of your trance when your phone buzzed for the third time that morning.

Ethan :) : Hey, you good?

Ethan :) : We’re doing promo photos. You usually run the form chart, remember?

Ethan :) : Melanie said you haven’t been in all day, where are you?

You bit your lip, staring at the screen, thumb hovering. The memory of Luke’s smirk flickered in your mind, rather than responding to Ethan like you usually did, you opted to turn your phone facedown. Let them figure it out without you for once.

The air in your room felt heavier than usual, like it hadn’t been moved in hours. Maybe it hadn’t. You hadn’t opened a window and you didn’t shower in the morning like normal. The coffee from this morning was still sitting in the mug beside your laptop, now cold and untouched.

It wasn’t just the embarrassment that was chewing away inside of you. It was the accumulation. You’d worked your ass off all freshman year to prove you could hang in the sport management world, especially one so saturated with guys who either underestimated you or overestimated your interest in them. But you did it. You'd navigated the politics of team culture, built trust, juggled fifteen-hour weeks between your classes and your assignments, and somehow made it all work.

And still, with just one careless comment, Luke Hughes had managed to reduce all of that to nothing. Like you were just there, tagging along, tolerated but not wanted. Worse, no one really stood up for you.  Even Ethan, who you knew meant well, had tried to smooth it over like it was just Luke being Luke. It wasn’t some harmless teasing joke anymore, not when it had chipped away at your confidence, your joy, and your reason for showing up.

You exhaled shakily and clicked to your email inbox. One new message notification.

From: Coach Email Subject: Missed you at the rink, everything alright? Hey Y/N. Noticed that you didn't show up today for team photos. Just checking to see if you're alright.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over your keyboard as you debated your options. You could lie and say you had a midterm or caught the flu. Something they’d believe, no questions asked. Instead, your fingers typed something honest.

From: Y/N Email Subject: Re: Missed you at the rink, everything alright? Hi Coach. Would it be possible to reassign me from hockey media duties for a few weeks? I think it might be good to rotate to another varsity team. I’m happy to take on football or rugby if coverage is needed. — Y/N.

You stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before pressing send while inhaling sharply, within seconds, a response message appeared in your inbox

From: Coach Email Subject: Re: Missed you at the rink, everything alright? Understood. Thanks for the heads-up. We’ll switch you to football for now. Hope all is well.

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes still glued to the email as you tried to accept your changing reality.

Outside, the wind finally delivered on its promise. Rain began tapping against the window in soft, uneven rhythms. First as a drizzle, then steadily, soaking the glass and blurring the view of North Campus in watercolor streaks.

You watched students walk by on the sidewalks in front of your house, each under umbrellas, some sprinting for cover, some strolling like they had nowhere to be. Each of them moving, existing, belonging. And you? You felt frozen and stuck in a space you had once loved, now made hollow by one boy’s casual cruelty.

Your phone vibrated against your desk again.

Ethan :) : Wasn’t the same without you today.

Ethan :) : Let me know if you want to talk.

You stared at his text message, you sighed and typed out a reply, deleted it, and tried again.

You: Hey. Sorry I’ve been off. Yesterday just kind of… sucked.

You didn’t know what else to say to Ethan, and Ethan, ever the fast replier, his response came.

Ethan :) : Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, he was way out of line. I talked to him last night.

Ethan :) : You didn’t deserve that, okay?

You closed your eyes and you wished you could believe him. You wished the ache in your chest didn’t twist tighter at the thought of walking back into that locker room, or bumping into Luke in the hallway, or sitting next to players who had laughed but said nothing.

So instead, you stayed wrapped in your hoodie, feet curled beneath you, fingers tracing the rim of your forgotten coffee cup. You opened your planner and started filling in blocks with highlighters, pretending that color-coded to-do lists were enough to restore control, but you found yourself staring blankly at the pages. And for the first time in a while, you let yourself cry.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The locker room had long emptied out, but Luke stayed in his locker with his phone in hand as he texted his brothers. His curls were sticking to the back of his neck and his hoodie was draped over his lap. The air reeked of sweat and stale Gatorade, the blinding lights above casting their dim yellow tinge that made everything look more tired.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t left yet, even though he was certain that his teammates and housemates had already gone back. Just that something about the silence tightened the knot in his chest. Then he heard Ethan’s voice from down the hall, “Hey, hey, slow down. I can barely hear you.”

His tone was unfamiliar, nothing like the playful Ethan that Luke was used to hearing. His voice was gentle but strained. Luke sat up straighter.

Ethan was near the coaches’ offices, standing in that narrow hallway with his phone pressed tight to his ear. His back was to the wall, shoulders slightly hunched like your voice on the other end of the call might crack if he breathed too loud.

Luke didn’t need to ask who he was talking to, he already knew.

Your name wasn’t said. It didn’t have to be. There was a trembling edge in Ethan’s voice, and in the silence between his words, Luke could hear you sniffling, breathing in those tiny hitched gasps that meant you were crying and trying not to be and something cold twisted in his gut.

“Where are you right now?” Ethan asked you, there was a pause that was filled with silence. Luke looked away. He hated himself for listening, hated himself even more for wanting to, “You don’t have to apologize, alright? You’ve done so much for us, hell, we’d be lost without you half the time.”

Another pause, “I mean it. None of the guys know what you're juggling. You show up early, stay late, you handle everything. And you never ask for anything in return.”

Luke’s heart dropped like a stone in his chest. He had noticed those things, every one of them. He’d noticed how you always showed up to the rink earlier than anyone, laptop in hand, hair still wet from your morning shower. How your shoulders stiffened every time the locker room doors opened and you had to brace for whatever mess someone left for you. He noticed how you never complained. How you always figured it out and he’d respond with sarcasm and smug little digs, like an idiot.

Ethan’s voice was quieter, “I'm coming to get you, okay? Just tell me where you are.”

Luke turned slightly, just enough to glance around the corner and that’s when Ethan saw him. The glare he sent felt like a slap. It wasn’t fury. It was disappointment, deeper and sharper than anger ever could be.

Ethan shifted the phone slightly away from his mouth, “You hear that?” He asked him, “She’s crying right now because of the way she’s been treated around here.”

Luke couldn’t breathe and his jaw remained clenched. Ethan stepped forward, voice rising just enough to slice through the stillness, “You think this is just some joke? That teasing her is funny? You think she didn’t show up today for no reason?”

Luke opened his mouth, but the words dried up before they formed.

“She skipped today. Reassigned herself to another team,” Ethan snapped, “And I don’t blame her.”

He looked Luke up and down, shaking his head, “You have no idea what she gives up for us. She stays late editing your goddamn interviews. She helps organize schedules, puts out fires we start, reminds guys about deadlines we all ignore. She makes this entire operation work, and you make her feel like a fucking joke.”

Luke couldn’t look him in the eye because every word was true.

“You act like you’re the only one under pressure. Like your problems are heavier than everyone else’s. And maybe they are. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat her like she’s beneath you,” Ethan stepped toward the door now, phone back to his ear, “I don’t know what your problem is,” He mumbled, half to himself, 

“But if this is how you treat someone who gives a shit about you… maybe you’re not the guy I thought you were.” Ethan told Luke firmly as he threw his letterman jacket over his shoulder and grabbed his bag. He headed out of the locker room and gave one last look over his shoulder, “You want to be a leader? Then stop pretending you don’t care now that she’s gone.”

And then he left. Luke sank back into his locker, the weight in his chest collapsing in on itself like an implosion. Your voice, choked and quiet, haunted the edges of his memory.

The house was silent with your roommates out for the night. You sat curled up in the corner of your couch, knees tucked close to your chest, a throw blanket draped over your shoulders like some kind of protective armor. The tears had come and gone, leaving your eyes dry and sore. Every time you blinked, you felt the sting of regret, the regret that you couldn’t just brush it off. The way Luke had treated you, the way he’d smiled with that arrogant little tilt of his head. You had almost convinced yourself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t hurt.

But it did.

A soft knock on your door jolted you from your thoughts. You didn’t even have to check the time to know it was Ethan. It had been twenty minutes since you’d hung up with him, and you could feel the weight of his concern lingering even through the distance between your two worlds.

You stood, letting the blanket fall from your shoulders, and walked over to the door. Your legs felt heavy, like they weren’t entirely your own as you unlocked the door.

Ethan stood there, the cool night air behind him, carrying the faint scent of rain. His eyes softened when he saw you, his brows pulling together in a way that made your chest tighten. He looked like he was trying to keep it together, just like you had been trying to do.

"Hey," he said, his voice gentle but firm, like a steady hand reaching through the chaos, "I’m here."

You nodded, stepping back so he could enter. The door clicked softly behind you, sealing you both inside the small, dimly lit home. Ethan didn’t waste time. He walked toward the couch and when he sat down beside you, the space between you felt vast despite how close he was.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid the wrong question would send you further into yourself. You wanted to lie, to say you were fine, but you couldn’t at least not to him. You shook your head, not trusting your voice. Instead, you wrapped your arms tighter around your knees, curling into yourself.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt like understanding, like Ethan knew you didn’t need words right now, just presence. He’d always been that way, a friend who could sit with you in your mess without expecting you to explain.

After a few minutes, Ethan sighed deeply, and when he spoke again, his words were measured, like he’d been holding them back for a while.

“Listen… I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but you need to hear it.” He hesitated as you glanced at him, his gaze steady but full of something else. Worry? Pain? You weren’t too sure, but it made your throat tighten.

“I hate seeing you like this,” He told you, “I hate seeing you put yourself last just to clean up our messes. You’ve been doing that for way too long.”

You blinked, unsure of how to process his words. You weren’t sure if you’d ever heard him talk like this. Ethan continued, his voice growing more intense, “You take care of everyone else, Luke, Mark, all of us. But who takes care of you when you’re the one falling apart?”

The truth of it hit you hard, but you couldn’t let him see that. You didn’t want to seem weak, especially not now, “I’m fine, Ethan,” You said, your voice shaky but trying to sound confident, “I’m just tired.”

His eyes softened, and he shook his head lowly, “No, you’re not and you’re burning out, and I can’t stand watching you do that to yourself.”

You swallowed thickly, biting your lip to keep the tears at bay. But they were there, just below the surface, and you could feel them threatening to spill again.

“Luke…” you started, your voice soft and shaky, but you couldn’t finish. 

Ethan didn’t interrupt. He just looked at you, his gaze understanding, “He’s an idiot, you know that, right? You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re invisible just because you’re not on a damn hockey rink. You’re smart, you’re hardworking, and you matter.”

The truth in his words, the way he said them like they were facts, made something break inside you. You looked down at your hands and holding your tears back,

“He’s not a bad guy,” You whispered, your voice so small you barely recognized it, “He just... he doesn’t see me, Ethan. Not really.”

Ethan’s face softened, his hand reaching out to gently pull your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, “He does see you, but he’s too scared to admit it.”

You blinked up at him, confusion and disbelief swirling in your chest, “What do you mean?”

He sighed, running a hand across his jaw, frustration flickering across his features, “Luke doesn’t know how to handle someone like you.” His words came slowly, as if he was trying to choose them carefully, “He’s not used to people who don’t fit into his world of high expectations and constant pressure. You’ve got it all together in ways he never will and that makes him uncomfortable. So he pushes you away,”

You opened your mouth, but Ethan quickly cut you off.

“I know you think it’s you, but it’s not. It’s him, okay? He’s the one who’s scared.”

Your chest tightened at the weight of his words. For the first time, you wondered if maybe it had never been about you. Maybe it was always about him. You took a deep breath, the air feeling thicker now. You had no idea what the next step was, or if there even was one. 

Ethan’s eyes softened as he watched you, his hand still resting lightly on yours and giving your hand a reassuring squeeze, “You don’t have to do this alone,” He told you softly,. “I’ve got your back. I always will.”

You squeezed his hand back, grateful for his unwavering presence, but still, part of you wished you could just step away from the mess of it all. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The sound of your phone buzzing on the table in the library barely registered at first. You were focused, as always, on the pile of work in front of you. A mix of emails, assignments, and team-related documents from the last few days had kept you buried in your thoughts. But when your phone buzzed again, the name that flashed across the screen made your stomach twist.

Luke.

You stared at the message for a long moment before reluctantly tapping on the notification. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to reach out, but the sting from his words and actions still hurt you enough to make you not want to reply.

Luke Hughes: Can we talk? I’m sorry. I really need to say something. Meet me at the rink?

You didn’t know what you expected, but something about seeing him try made you hesitate. But the words that followed weren’t what you had hoped for. They felt like empty promises. And you had spent far too much time dealing with apologies that came too late.

You typed back a quick reply before you could talk yourself out of it.

You: Fine. But I’m not sure there’s anything left to say.

He stood at the edge of the rink, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, the cold air nipping at his face. The glow from the bright lights above reflected off the ice, casting a soft sheen on everything below. His gaze flickered back toward the entrance, where you were supposed to meet him. His heart pounded, he wasn’t too sure why, but the weight of this conversation felt heavier than any game he had ever played.

It wasn’t like him to apologize. It wasn’t even something he was good at, but Ethan’s words had been haunting him for the past few days, replaying in his mind with every mistake he’d made, every moment he had taken for granted. If there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he was good at running away from his problems.

When you walked into the rink, your face was hard to read. The walls you’d built up around yourself were even stronger now, like you were trying to make it clear that you didn’t even want to be there. You stopped a few steps away from him, arms crossed over your chest, your eyes studying him with an unreadable expression.

"I’m here," You said flatly, your voice echoing slightly in the large space of the rink, "So say what you need to say."

Luke swallowed, trying to push the lump in his throat down, trying to find the words that he had been avoiding, "I—" He paused, running a hand over his face, "I’m sorry. For everything. The way I’ve treated you. The way I’ve acted. I know I’ve been a complete asshole,"

He looked at you, trying to read your reaction, but your face remained neutral, like you were shutting him out, guarding yourself from getting hurt again. It made his chest tighten. You didn’t immediately respond. Instead, you let out a slow breath, your arms uncrossing, but your body language was still closed off. You stared at him, your eyes full of something he couldn’t quite place, maybe it was the look of hurt.

"You’re sorry," You repeated, your voice calm but with an edge that made him wince, "That’s great, but I’ve heard it before and I’m tired of hearing it."

Luke flinched, the words landing harder than he expected, "I know I’ve said it before, but," He took a step toward you, "This time I mean it. I don’t want you to think I don’t care, because I do. I just-"

You cut him off before he could continue, and your words stung like a slap across the face, "Have you ever thought that maybe not all people care about sports? Some of us care about more important things in life. Family. Friends. And working to support our living. Not everyone has the luxury of being able to screw up and have everything handed to them because they’re good at a stupid game."

Luke blinked, clearly stunned by your words and for a moment, he couldn’t find a way to respond. All of his usual defenses like the sharp retorts and the sarcastic comebacks felt useless.

You shook your head, the cold rink air swirling around you, "I’ve been doing this for so long, Luke. Watching you walk around like the world owes you something, pushing me to the side like I don’t matter. But you don’t get to just pull me back in with an apology, I’ve spent enough time trying to make myself fit into your world, only for you to push me away again."

His chest constricted as you spoke, each word feeling like a blow to the gut. He had always seen you as strong, independent, someone who could handle anything thrown her way. But hearing you say those words, he realized he had never really seen the pressure you were under, the sacrifices you had made just to keep everything in balance.

"I’m sorry," He told you again, the words coming slower now, "I was an idiot. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. Hell, I don’t even deserve it, but I want to make it right. If you’ll let me."

The air between you and Luke felt colder than the rink’s steel beams above you. Luke’s apology lingered in the space between you, but the bitterness you had carried for so long wouldn't let you accept it. You shook your head, staring at the frozen surface beneath your sneakers, your arms once again wrapped tightly across your chest. If you let yourself believe him this time, if you let your guard down even a little, you’d be putting yourself at risk. And you couldn’t do that anymore.

"I don’t know why you expect me to believe that, Luke" You said to him, "You’ve apologized before, and you’ve said the same damn thing before, and look where it’s gotten us. You never change."

You looked up at him, your gaze hard, "It’s exhausting. Always waiting for you to actually do something to prove it but you never do, so why should this time be any different?"

Luke opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The anger and regret mixed into something like desperation as he took a hesitant step toward you, "I get it and you should feel that way because I’m the one who’s messed up, and I’m the one who has to fix it. But please," He hesitated while his eyes searched your face, "Give me a chance. I will prove it this time."

“I don’t know, Luke,” You whispered, your voice softer now, the walls you had built around yourself slowly starting to crack, “I just don’t know.”

The silence stretched between you both, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. But then, just as you thought you were about to leave the conversation behind you, Luke’s voice broke the quiet.

“Please,” Luke said with a gentle tone, “At least come back to the team. It’s not the same without you. The team misses you. I miss you.”

You could hear the genuine plea in his voice, but even then, it didn’t sway you easily, “I don’t know if I can, Luke. It feels… complicated now.” You shifted your weight, “It’s not just about me being there for you anymore. I need to take care of my own priorities.”

“I get that,” Luke replied, stepping closer, “But you’re not just some background figure. You’ve always been a part of the team, and it’s weird without you there. I miss working with you, with everything you do for the guys. It’s not the same without you.”

You stared at him and despite yourself, you felt a small flicker of something, something like warmth, something like a reminder of the bond you once shared. But it was buried beneath so many layers now, so many wounds, that it felt almost impossible to touch.

“I don’t know, Luke. I just… I need some time.” Your words were softer now, quieter, but no less firm. “I don’t know if I can just pick up where we left off like nothing’s happened.”

Luke took another step, just a fraction closer, and his eyes softened with understanding. “I don’t expect you to, I know I’ve lost your trust but I just want to make it right.”

You looked down at your feet, the weight of his words pressing against you like a physical force. Maybe, just maybe, you could give him a chance, but you weren’t ready to let him back in just yet, “Let me think about it, okay?” You said quietly before turning toward the door. 

He nodded, the silence between you both growing heavy again before you pushed past the glass doors and started heading home for the night. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You hadn’t expected to feel so out of place, but the moment you stepped back into the team’s office for your internship, it was like you had never left. The familiar hum of printers, the clutter of gear bags stacked in corners, the whiteboards covered in tactical diagrams, it all looked the same. But the atmosphere felt a little different now, like everyone was walking on eggshells around you.

Ethan and Mark were the first to notice you walk in, their heads snapping up from their conversation as if they had been waiting for you to return. Ethan’s face immediately broke into a smile, his expression clearly thrilled that you decided to come back rather than work with the football team. Mark, on the other hand, gave you a short nod, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you with a protective, almost assessing look.

"Hey," Ethan greeted as he walked over to you, making a point to stand a little closer than necessary, his broad frame almost shielding you from the rest of the room. It was a subtle gesture, but you noticed it, "Good to see you back."

You smiled weakly, "Thanks, Eddy, it’s good to be back."

Mark’s gaze flickered toward the door, his expression hardening slightly. You followed his gaze just as Luke entered the office, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. The room seemed to tighten in response, a collective shift in the air as everyone adjusted to his presence.

You could feel the old tension immediately. Luke’s eyes briefly met yours, but you didn’t acknowledge him. You weren’t ready to let him in, not yet. Instead, you turned to Ethan and Mark, who seemed to sense your discomfort instantly. Ethan leaned closer, lowering his voice to make sure only you could hear.

"Just let us know if you want to step out, okay?" Ethan told you, his tone barely above a whisper, "We’ve got your back."

You nodded, grateful for the quiet support, but you didn’t want to make it obvious to Luke that you needed it. That would give him the satisfaction of knowing he was still affecting you, even now.

"Hey," Luke said, his voice uncharacteristically soft for the first time in a while. "Can we talk for a minute?"

You didn’t answer right away, and instead, your eyes shifted to Ethan and Mark. Both were standing just a little too close to you, their arms subtly brushing against yours in a way that felt comforting. They didn’t say anything, but the protective stance they took was clear. They were not going to let you be alone with Luke. 

 "You can talk to her later, Luke. Maybe after the team meeting." Ethan told him with his tone that was casual yet protective, "We’ve got things to do now."

After a long breath, Luke nodded, giving you a final hesitant glance before turning to walk toward the back of the office, muttering something under his breath to one of the coaches. You could feel the weight of the conversation lingering, but you couldn’t bring yourself to follow.

Mark gave you a brief glance, "You okay?" He asked you

You nodded, though the tightness in your chest told you that you were anything but okay, "Yeah. Just a lot to figure out."

Ethan, ever the optimist, gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. We’re here for you, and don’t worry about Luke. He’s not going to get in the way of what you need to do."

You gave them both a small smile, feeling the weight of their protection and support settle over you like a blanket. As the hours passed, you kept your focus on the work at hand, doing your best to ignore the tension between you and Luke, even as it lingered in the air, thick and unspoken. Ethan and Mark were there, making sure the space around you remained safe, and though you appreciated their efforts, you couldn’t help but feel the pull of something unresolved, something that needed to be addressed sooner or later. For now, you were surrounded by the team again, your internship resuming with a new sense of wariness, and the fragile thread of your relationship with Luke hanging in the balance.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The arena was nearly empty, the echo of your footsteps echoing off the cold and concrete walls. The usual hum of activity from the hockey excitement had long since dissipated, the buzz of the game had been replaced by the silence of late-night work.

You should’ve been home hours ago, but there was always more work to do. Always another form to fill out, another task on the checklist to complete. The workload never ended for you, not when there was always something else to be done, another deadline to meet. It was the price you paid for being one of the few students with an internship tied to the hockey team. The job wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours, and you were determined to prove you could handle it. Even if it meant spending a Friday night buried in paperwork while everyone else had already gone home to their weekend plans.

Your back ached from being hunched over the desk for so long, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. You ran a hand through your hair before pulling it into a messy bun and adjusted your hoodie over your frame.

The facility felt colder now, quieter. The team’s locker rooms were dark, the zamboni machines in their corners waiting for their next shift. You sighed, rolling your shoulders back to loosen up the tension. It had been a tough week, just one of those weeks where everything seemed to pile on top of you at once. You didn’t even have the time to think about the tension between you and Luke, let alone confront it.

The sound of sneakers padding against the cold concrete broke the stillness, and you didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

"Late night, huh?" Luke asked, his tone wasn’t the usual sarcastic you’d grown used to. He sounded... neutral, maybe even a little concerned.

You didn’t have the energy to deal with it tonight. Not with everything already weighing you down. Not with the frustration you had bottled up every time he had pulled that same smug attitude around you.

You looked up at him, annoyance flashing in your tired eyes, "What do you care?" You snapped, your voice sharper than you had intended, "Shouldn't you be getting some rest for your next game or at some frat party?"

Luke blinked, taken aback by your tone, but he didn’t pull back as he just stood there, his gaze softening slightly as he studied you, "I wasn’t trying to make fun of you," he said slowly, his voice almost hesitant now. 

But you were too far gone, already on the edge of your limits. All the exhaustion, all the stress, all the things you’d been bottling up came crashing down on you in that moment, and before you could stop it, the words slipped out.

"It’s not just hockey," You breathed out, your voice cracking slightly, a tear you hadn’t even realized falling down your cheek,  "It’s everything, I’m always running on empty, trying to do everything for everyone, trying to prove I’m good enough for this stupid internship when no one even thinks I belong here in the first place. It’s too much."

You blinked your eyes quickly as you tried to stop yourself from letting the tears fall, but it was already too late. The tears came, spilling over in frustration, exhaustion, and all the pressure you had been holding in.

Luke’s expression shifted to something softer, more vulnerable in his gaze now, something that made you pause even in the midst of your breakdown.

“Hey,” He said, his voice low and steady, stepping closer to you, “Please don’t cry.”

No one had ever said that to you before, not like that, and not with that kind of genuine care, like he wasn’t trying to fix you, but just to be there for you. You tried to brush the tears away, frustrated with yourself for even letting them fall, but it was impossible to stop now. You were too tired, too broken down, too stretched thin to keep up your mask.

Luke hesitated for a moment, and then, without saying another word, he moved closer, his presence suddenly surrounding you. He was still quiet, his steps tentative as though he wasn’t sure whether to comfort you, but it was clear he wanted to. He just didn’t know how to do it without making things worse. But the hesitation, the careful nature of his actions, was almost comforting. 

“You’ve been doing this alone, haven’t you?” His voice was soft, almost like he was reading your mind, “All of this pressure and you’re carrying it all by yourself.”

"I’m sorry," You mumbled out, your voice trembling as you were embarrassed by the tears, "I shouldn’t be acting like this."

Luke’s hand suddenly appeared on your shoulder and this touch was gentle, “It’s okay,” He told you and his eyes were sincere, like he wasn’t just saying the words but actually meant them for once, “I never really understood what you’ve been managing, but I can see it now and you’re doing your best. You’re doing something a lot of people wouldn’t even think to do.”

The quiet sincerity of his words hit you like a wave. For the first time, in that moment, you felt seen. The tension between you that had been simmering for a while now, it didn’t matter anymore.

You sniffled, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, and nodded again as you tried to regain your composure. Luke stood still, not rushing you, just waiting. When you finally looked up at him, you saw the same hesitant expression, but there was something else in his eyes now, like something more gentle and less guarded.

“Let me walk you home,” He offered suddenly, which broke the silence that fell between you two, “It’s late and you shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

You hesitated, there was a part of you that wanted to turn him down, mainly to maintain your distance. But, at the same time, you were so tired, and the thought of walking home in the dark alone didn’t feel safe.

You looked at him and for the first time in a while, you felt that maybe he wasn’t the same person who had been so rude to you earlier in the year.

"Okay," You nodded, the word slipping out easier than you expected it to, "Thank you."

Luke gave you a small and genuine smile that tugged at the edges of his lips, and for the first time since you had met him, the tension in your chest seemed to loosen a little. Tonight, he wasn’t the enemy, rather he was someone who was there, offering to help you find your way home. The two of you left the arena side by side, the cold night air surrounding you, and for the first time, you didn’t feel like the defenseman hated you.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The campus was quiet the next morning, the kind of quiet that only came after the rush of classes and team practices. The late autumn air had a crisp to it, carrying with it the faint scent of fallen leaves and the promise of cooler days ahead. You walked across the quad, your backpack slung over one shoulder, the late night still fresh in your mind. You had spent the rest of the evening trying to shake off the exhaustion that seemed to have seeped into every part of you. You somehow felt lighter. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath, constantly bracing for the next blow from Luke. Maybe it was just the relief of finally not being alone in your stress.

When you turned the corner of the crosswalk, you spotted Luke leaning against the brick wall with his hockey bag at his feet, eyes scanning the campus like he was waiting for someone. The moment he saw you, he pushed off from the wall and made his way to you..

"Hey," He greeted with his voice a little rough, like he hadn’t quite woken up yet, "I thought I’d catch you before you headed to class."

You nodded as you unsure what to say, you weren’t exactly expecting to see him this morning. Last night had been a turning point, but it felt too soon to figure out what it all meant. Was it just a random moment of kindness? Or was something changing between the two of you?

“Oh, thanks for last night,” You said quietly and Luke’s expression softened.

“Don’t mention it," He told you before clearing his throat, "You were... you seemed like you needed someone. It’s no big deal."

The easy, almost careless way he dismissed it made you smile despite yourself. It was almost like he was trying not to make a big deal out of his actions, but you could tell by the slight shift in his tone and the way his gaze lingered on you that he was at least starting to understand. Before you could respond, a voice from behind you interrupted the moment.

"Really?" Ethan called out, you turned to see him approaching the two of you with his eyes narrowing slightly as he caught sight of Luke. 

"You’re really gonna start acting like a good guy now?" Ethan scoffed, but Luke didn’t flinch. He just stood there with his jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.

“Ethan, it’s okay,” You reassured him while keeping your voice steady, though you could feel a tiny shake of nervousness running through you, “I’m not a kid anymore, you don’t have to defend me from everyone.”

Ethan’s brows furrowed, his gaze flicking between you and Luke, searching for any signs of insincerity from either of you, “I know you’re not a kid, but you’ve been through enough with this guy. He’s not just going to suddenly change and become your best friend, just because he’s decided to play nice now.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words, but you had to admit, Ethan had a good point. You had your doubts too, although you felt like something was different this time. The apology wasn’t just a word, you had felt the sincerity behind it.

“I know, Ethan,” You sighed, “But last night when he helped me, it wasn’t like how he used to act, I just need you to trust me on this.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He told you as his voice stayed low, “I’ve been watching you get pushed around by this guy for the past year and whatever number of months, I don’t care if he’s showing up with some half-assed apology now. He hurt you (Y/N), you can’t just forget that.”

Luke didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence hang between them and for a moment, you thought maybe it would escalate into something else, but then Luke broke the tension, his voice quieter than it had been before.

“Dude, I get it,” He said as a sigh escaped him, “I don’t deserve forgiveness, and I don’t expect it to come easy. I’m trying to do better for her. I just need a chance to show I’m not that person anymore.”

You glanced at Luke as you searched his expression. There was no arrogance there now, just an honesty that made you think maybe  he was telling the truth. Ethan was still hesitant, his gaze hard, but his posture softened as he looked between you and Luke.

 “I don’t know,” He mumbled, with his eyes still on you.

“You don’t have to,” You reached out to place a hand on Ethan’s arm, “But I trust him, okay? I need you to trust me, too.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything but with a slow nod, Ethan stepped back, still wary,

“Fine,” He breathed out but still not fully convinced, “But if he messes up again, I’m not letting you go through that again.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

Luke sat next to you on the wooden bench in the hallway outside of the locker room, with his legs stretched out, a half-empty Gatorade bottle dangling from his fingers. Practice had ended nearly an hour ago, but you’d stayed behind, sorting through a pile of tangled jerseys and team media requests at the small table. You didn’t notice he had stayed behind too until you turned around and he was leaning against the wall, watching you without saying a word.

That used to annoy you, with the quiet way he hovered, like he was too good to speak unless it was to make a snide remark. But now it felt slightly different. He was still quiet, still awkward in his stillness. But his presence wasn’t sharp anymore. It was softer, less suffocating. He didn’t speak unless you looked at him first. He didn’t push. He didn’t tease. He was just there and honestly, that meant more than you could say.

“Here,” He said, finally breaking the silence as he offered you the bottle. You took it without thinking, the plastic cool against your palm even though you weren’t even thirsty.

“Thanks,” You murmured as you kept your eyes on the hallway floor. You were just tired, drained from balancing everything: classes, your internship, the emotional strain of still trying to believe Luke wouldn’t shoot some insult to you at that moment.

“You always stay this late?” He asked quietly.

You glanced over at him, “Lately, yeah.”

He nodded slowly, “You ever get a break?”

You gave a dry laugh as you typed away at your laptop, “Not really.”

He went quiet again, and for a moment you worried he’d say something backhanded or smug. That old instinct to brace yourself coming up, but it faded as you caught the way his brows pinched slightly, like the idea of you constantly overworking yourself actually bothered him.

“You shouldn’t have to do all of this by yourself,” He commented as he fiddled with his phone, “The team relies on you for everything. I didn’t realize how much until you stopped coming around.”

You shrugged, “No one really noticed before.”

“I noticed and I was a dick,” He added, “To you for no reason.”

You stayed silent, your fingers curling around the edge of the table in front of you.

“You were always just so good at everything, smart, and confident. People actually wanted you around. And I don’t know, I guess I hated that.”

You blinked as the words continued to fall from his mouth.

“I mean, not hated,” Luke corrected quickly with his cheeks slightly flustered, “I just  resented it. You didn’t have to constantly prove yourself the way I do. You’re not expected to be some golden child or carry a last name.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the words spilling out now, “And Ethan, he’s always been close to you. He talks about you like you’re this genius superhero, and it pissed me off. I told myself you thought you were better than everyone, but you weren’t. You were just doing your job. You’ve always worked harder than the rest of us and never asked for anything back.”

You stared at him for a moment as you felt your chest tighten

“That doesn’t make it okay, but I need you to know I know that now.”

You took a slow and slightly shaky breath. The hallway in Yost was so quiet you swore that you could hear your own heartbeat. You didn’t want to forgive him, not entirely, however a part of you recognized how hard it must’ve been for Luke to say any of that. You gave him a small nod, “Thank you.”

He nodded back and gave you a small smile.

Over the next few weeks, things began to shift between you and Luke, not all at once, but slowly. A conversation here, a shared laugh there, just the little things.

He stayed behind after practice more often, offering to help with things you knew he probably hated, like paperwork, setting up video equipment, and adding transcripts on video footage. He didn’t complain, though. He just did it.

One evening after another long day, you handed him a media release form with a weak smile, “You do realize you don’t have to be my assistant, right?”

Luke smirked, “I don’t mind, it makes me feel useful.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him. What surprised you most wasn’t the change in behaviour, but it was how easy the silence between you had become. It was comfortable and friendly, and it didn’t weigh you down anymore. If anything, it started to feel like something you could lean into.

Of course, Ethan still kept a close eye on you. He noticed every time Luke lingered a little longer in the media office. Every time he offered to carry a stack of folders or filled your water bottle without being asked. Every time his gaze lingered on you like he was trying to learn your behaviours and habits that he’d never bothered with before.

One afternoon, as you and Luke stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the gear room, laughing at a crooked helmet sticker, Ethan walked in and froze.

He crossed his arms, eyebrows raised, “You good?”

Luke grinned with amusement, “Better than ever, Eddy.”

You shot Ethan a glance, trying to silently reassure him. You could see the conflict on his face, his desire to protect you and the fact that you weren’t pushing Luke away anymore.

Later that day, as you were packing up your things, Ethan pulled you aside.

“You sure about this?” He asked you gently.

You nodded, “Yeah, it’s different now and I can tell he’s trying, I’m not saying we’re best friends or anything, but I want to see where it goes.”

Ethan sighed as he leaned his head back against his locker, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I know,” You whispered, “But I don’t think he wants to hurt me.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The rink was quiet again as it was nearly midnight. The majority of the team had left hours ago, and you should’ve been gone too, but the pile of rosters and unfinished budget forms on your laptop had kept you longer than intended, yet again.

You sat in the small lounge next to the training room, legs curled beneath you on the old leather couch, the only sounds were the hum of the vending machine that stood in the corner and the shuffling of papers on your table.

You didn’t hear Luke come in, it was only when you looked up, when you saw him leaning the the doorway with his hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, a quiet sort of tired etched into his features.

“You live here now?” He chuckled as he leaned further against the doorframe.

You managed a half-smile, “Sure feels like it.”

He gave you a smile before he walked in to grab a chair, and sit across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like being here with you, even past midnight, was exactly where he wanted to be.

You closed your laptop slowly, sensing something different in the air tonight, “You okay?”

 Luke looked off as if he was debating whether or not to tell you about the thoughts running through his head, “I used to think if I wasn’t the best, I was nothing.”

You blinked as you were startled by his confession.

He stared down at his hands, picking at a thread on his sleeve, “My brothers, Jack and Quinn, they’ve always been incredible. NHL stars, everyone talks about them like they’re gods. I love them, I do. But growing up in that constant shadow, it messes with your head.”

You stayed quiet, sensing he wasn’t finished as his mouth opened and shut a few times in the silence, 

“I got drafted and everyone said I’d made it. But I still feel like I’m just trying to catch up, like no matter what I do, I’m always just Luke Hughes, the little brother.” He looked up at you, eyes drooping slightly from fatigue, “You probably think that’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t,” You told him softly

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “You always seem like you have it figured out, Ethan thinks you’re the glue holding this whole program together.”

“That;s not true,” You mumbled, “I’m just holding myself together long enough to get through each day.”

His brows furrowed as you spoke, you took a shaky breath, the words slipping out before you could catch them, “My parents are barely getting by at home, I’m working this internship unpaid, taking on shifts at the student center, applying for scholarships every semester just to stay here. Some nights I don’t sleep, so I just try not to drown.”

The room fell into a weighted silence, you looked at him and you saw not just the hockey player. Not the cocky, golden-boy persona he typically wore. You saw the boy behind it all, tired, afraid, trying so hard not to fall short of the people around him and it felt a lot like looking into a mirror.

“I think we’re more alike than we realized.”

Luke met your gaze, something soft and quiet flickering in his expression, “Yeah,I think so too.”

Neither of you moved for a long time, you didn’t need to. It felt safe and it felt like the start of something new.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You weren’t even sure why you agreed to come.

The hockey house was already booming with music by the time you got there, windows glowing blue and gold from the inside, bass thumping hard enough to feel in your chest. They were celebrating yet another win. You hadn’t been to one of these in a while, but Ethan had asked, and the way he’d looked at you with that half hopeful and half protective look, made it impossible to say no.

Besides, you missed this, not the chaos and not the sticky floors or the overpowering cologne clouds. But rather the people and the moments when you could just exist without carrying everything on your back.

“Come on,” Ethan had said, slinging an arm around your shoulder as he led you into the house, “We’ll stick together, just like old times.”

For the first hour, it was fine as you stayed near the kitchen while Ethan handed you a solo cup with something vaguely citrusy inside. You talked with Mark and Dylan, laughed with a couple of the rookies who had no idea how much of the team’s media magic was your doing. You felt seen and in a way you hadn’t for a while.

Then Ethan got pulled away, something about someone stealing his speaker and you found yourself standing alone by the counter, your cup mostly empty and your body buzzing more from exhaustion than the drink you held.

Luke showed up like he always did, the sleeves of his black t-shirt hugging his biceps perfectly, curls still damp from a shower, and his usual smug energy was replaced by something lighter. He didn’t say anything at first as he just nodded at you like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

You raised a brow, “What? No sarcastic comment about how I’m slumming it with the peasants?”

His lips curved into a slow smirk, “I’ve been working on that.”

“Your sarcasm?”

“No, not being a jackass.”

You snorted, and he laughed, the sound warm and open in a way you hadn’t heard from him before. A few people brushed past you as the hallway was tightening with bodies, so he shifted closer, not too close, but enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Ethan ditched me,” You told him as you glanced around, “So much for sticking together.”

Luke tilted his head with a small knowing smile, “Guess that makes me your emergency contact now.”

You gave him a side-eye, “That’s a terrifying thought.”

He grinned, “I’m excellent in emergencies, watch this.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he darted away and returned seconds later with a fresh cup with same citrusy drink, but colder this time.

“See? Life-saving,” He said while handing it to you with a cocked bow.

You rolled your eyes but took it, “Heroic.”

You ended up finding a quieter spot in the corner of the living room, where the music wasn’t as deafening and the couch cushions didn’t smell like beer yet. The two of you talked, like really talked. About stupid things, like the worst pregame pump-up songs on the team’s playlist. About more real things too: how overwhelming classes had been and upcoming exams and deadlines.

At one point, you were both laughing so hard your drink almost spilled. Luke was telling a story about Mark locking himself out of the team bus in only compression shorts, and you could barely breathe, cheeks aching from the large smile that was stretched across your face.

“I forgot you were funny,” You said between giggles.

“I forgot you could stand being around me,” He replied.

You looked at him and there was no mask this time and no shields. Just Luke, and it startled you how comfortable you felt because of how easy it was to be near him when the tension was stripped away.

Someone bumped into the couch which caused some of the cushions to shift. You swayed slightly, your shoulder brushing his, and he didn’t move but neither did you.

“Hey,” He added after a moment, voice low, “I like this.”

“This?” You asked, pretending not to notice the closeness of your bodies.

“Being around you when I’m not screwing it up.”

You swallowed hard as your heart skipped a beat or two while you didn’t know what to say. You enjoyed it too, it was easy and comfortable. The way your laughter hung in the air between you. The way the noise of the party blurred into the background. The way Luke looked at you like a person he wanted to get to know.

You were content to stay right where you were.

The party had started to thin out by the time you stepped outside, the music still humming behind the walls like an echo refusing to die. The night air wrapped around your shoulders like a relief, it was cool and calm, scented faintly with pine and wet pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed by, headlights cutting briefly across the sidewalk before disappearing into the dark.

Luke stood beside you. He hadn’t said anything when you pulled your jacket on. Just followed you to the door like he’d already decided he wasn’t letting you walk home alone. You didn’t argue. It was late, and your limbs were heavy with exhaustion and a few drinks, and, if you were being honest, a small part of you wanted him there.

You walked in silence at first, shoes scuffing along the uneven pavement, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Every so often, your arms would brush. Neither of you pulled away.

“Thanks for not letting me sit in a corner all night,” You finally said, your voice quiet in the hush of midnight.

Luke glanced over, eyes catching the glow from a streetlight, “You were holding your own pretty well.”

“Still, you didn’t have to hang out with me.”

“I wanted to.” There was no edge to his voice. No teasing. Just honesty. 

You glanced down at the sidewalk, counting cracks to keep your thoughts in order. You weren’t used to this version of Luke, the one who didn’t talk like he was trying to win a game. The one who laughed without smugness, who looked at you like he actually saw you and was doing things to your chest you didn’t want to think about.

At the corner of State Street, the world felt softer and quieter. A few golden leaves skittered past your shoes. You slowed your steps.

“You’ve been different lately,” You told Luke while keeping your eyes straight.

Luke exhaled, like he’d been expecting that, “Yeah. I know.”

“What changed?”

“You did,” He answered

That landed harder than you expected. You looked at him, and he was already looking at you. Something bloomed in your chest, small and uninvited. A warmth that had nothing to do with the drinks earlier or the brisk November air. It curled around your ribs in a way that made breathing harder.

“Well,” You said, mustering a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “don’t get used to me being impressed by your emotional growth.”

Luke laughed quietly. “Noted.”

You reached the steps to your house with the yellow porch light flickering overhead. You paused, turning back toward him, “Thanks for walking me,” 

He shrugged, but there was something almost shy about the way he stood there, rocking slightly on his heels, “Anytime.”

The silence stretched again but it wasn’t awkward, just filled with something that wasn’t there before. Like something had shifted between you and hadn’t quite settled.

You gave him one last smile and turned toward the door, but as you slipped inside and leaned against the back of your front door, heart beating a little too fast, you realized something.

You were starting to feel something for Luke Hughes and it terrified you.

So you shoved it down and buried it deep beneath school and work and exhaustion and self-preservation, because caring about Luke meant giving him the power to hurt you again. You weren’t sure you could survive that twice.

Luke had watched you disappear behind that door, a quiet click sealing the space between you, but he didn’t move right away. Just stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the empty step like it might give him an answer. The walk back to his house felt longer than usual. The November air had dropped fast, cutting through his sweatshirt and nipped at his skin. He shoved his hands deeper into the front pocket, footsteps loud against the quiet streets. The city was asleep, but his mind? It was restless.

He wasn’t sure what was happening, all he knew was that something had shifted between the two of you.

He could still hear your laugh echoing in his memory from the party earlier, the way you leaned into him when Ethan disappeared, trusting him enough to stay by your side, and the way you were starting to let him in, piece by piece.

It scared the shit out of him.

By the time he made it home, his head was buzzing. Not with adrenaline, not with nerves before a game, but with you. With thoughts of how tired you looked tonight, how you still stayed until the end, how your smile lingered even when you tried to hide it behind sarcasm.

Luke plopped onto the mattress of his bed, stretching his legs out before relaxing. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was Jack, so he pressed the green button without thinking.

“Yo,” he mumbled, one hand on his forehead.

Jack’s voice crackled over the speaker, “How was the game?”

“Good. 4–1 win. Felt solid.”

“You looked sharp, I saw the clips.”

Luke let the compliment pass, the game already felt like a memory and the only thing still playing in his brain was you.

“You good?” Jack asked after a brief moment, “You sound off.”

Luke hesitated, “I walked her home.”

Another pause, “Her?” Jack repeated and Luke could practically hear the grin forming on his brother’s face, “Wait, like the girl you’ve been beefing with since freshman year?”

Luke ran a hand through his curls and sighed, “Yeah.”

“No way.”

“She’s not who I thought she was.”

Jack laughed, “You’re telling me the girl who’s been busting your balls for a year suddenly has your attention?”

“It’s not sudden,” Luke said a bit more quietly like he was afraid that one of his teammates would hear him through the thin walls, “She’s always been something. Smart. Sharp. But tonight I saw her actually relax. She’s amazing, Jack.”

“Damn,” Jack mumbled, “You’ve got it bad, dude.”

Luke didn’t argue as he leaned his head back on his headboard, eyes on the ceiling, “She stays late for the team. Does stuff no one even notices like Ethan was telling me, she makes everything run smoother and she never complains. Never asks for credit. She’s just there, holding everything together.”

Silence stretched for a moment too long which made Luke’s stomach twist since Jack was typically quick at saying something back.

“She sounds awesome,” Jack told him carefully, “But Luke...”

“I know.”

“You don’t know when the call’s coming.”

Luke shut his eyes. The call. The inevitable weight of it, like the clock he couldn’t see but always heard ticking in the back of his head.

“It’s gonna be soon, I can feel it. Like you could be in Jersey next week. You don’t want to get attached, man.”

Luke swallowed hard and his voice was dry, “Too late.”

There was a rustling on Jack’s end like he was pacing his apartment, “Just be careful, alright? I know you want something real, but you’re not in a normal situation. Don’t give her something you can’t promise, it’s not fair to her.”

Luke didn’t respond right away because he knew that Jack was right. And it hurt.

Because in the flickering light outside your door, Luke had seen something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time, you. The one person who didn’t expect him to be anything but himself and still somehow made him want to be better.

He didn’t know when the call would come, but for the first time, he kind of wished it wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” Luke said eventually, “I’ll figure it out.”

Jack sighed, “Alright, I gotta crash but you’ll be okay.”

“Night, man.”

The call ended. Luke stared at the dark screen as you were still lingering in his thoughts. And now, you were in the one place he didn’t know how to guard anymore, which was his heart.

He should’ve kept his distance, but it was already too late.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You noticed the shift.

It started subtly like a slow retreat, soft and quiet and careful. Luke still showed up. He still flashed that crooked, boyish grin whenever your paths crossed in the hallway outside the team room. Still bumped your shoulder with his when he passed by and still called you “rookie” even though you were both well past that title.

But there was something different now.

His texts used to come quick — fast, teasing replies in the middle of the night or a random meme that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Now they came late, hours after the conversation had moved on or sometimes they didn’t come at all.

He used to lean against the wall and talk to you until the equipment room emptied, until it was only the two of you in the entire arena. Now, he always seemed to be somewhere else. Skates half-laced. Phone in hand. Eyes drifting toward the exit like he had one foot already out the door.

“It’s just the Frozen Four,” Ethan said when you mentioned it offhandedly, “He gets like this before big games, like hyper-focused and shit.”

And maybe that was true, maybe Luke was just locked in and chasing the championship that had been dangling in front of them since the start of the season. Maybe it had nothing to do with you at all.

But still, something in your chest curled in on itself every time he passed you in the hallway without stopping. Every time you said hi and he said hey back but didn’t linger around you.

Tonight was worse.

You were alone in the equipment room, the dull lights making your eyes ache. The clock on the wall read 10:03 PM. The arena had long since emptied, the hum of the Zamboni now replaced with the occasional sounds coming from your typing. Everyone had gone home, except you.

Your laptop was open, with its battery almost dead. A spreadsheet full of media schedules glared back at you. You’d been finalizing graphics, sending press requests, and rewriting email drafts for the third time, your brain foggy with exhaustion. You couldn’t remember the last time you blinked.

A cold can of Diet Coke sweated on the desk beside you, untouched and you were so tired.

Not just physically, but in that deep, bone-heavy way that comes from caring too much and never knowing where you stood. You told yourself you didn’t care about Luke, about the distance and the confusion, but it was a lie you were starting to trip over.

You cared and you cared way too much. You blinked hard when your eyes started to sting. The door creaked open, and your head snapped up, heart skipping a beat.

Luke stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed, hair damp from his shower, his stick slung casually over his shoulder. His eyes found yours instantly.

“I didn’t think anyone was still here,” He said, voice lower than usual.

You swallowed, fingers dancing over your keyboard, “Just wrapping stuff up.”

He stepped inside as his footsteps echoed softly against the floor, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” You mumbled, “I lost track of time”

Luke glanced at your screen, “You’ve been working on that all night?”

 “Someone has to.”

There was a pause. Something shifted in the air, it barely a breeze but enough to unsettle the dust.

“You okay?” He asked carefully.

You let out a bitter laugh, “Are you seriously asking me that now?”

His brows furrowed, and he stepped closer to you, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. You stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape, “I mean don’t act like you care when you’ve barely said two words to me in days. Just say what you want to say and go.”

Luke looked stunned, like you’d slapped him.

“I-” He started, but you were already lowly shaking your head.

“I’m tired, Luke. I’m tired of trying to figure out what version of you I’m going to get every time I see you and I’m tired of pretending like I don’t notice you pulling away.”

His expression faltered, “I’m not- I’m just focused right now. With the tournament and the pressure and-”

You laughed again, but it came out shaky and broken, “No, it’s fine. I get it. You have hockey. You have everything. I’m just the girl behind the spreadsheet who makes your life easier and then vanishes when you don’t need her.”

“That’s not fair.”

You looked up, eyes glassy, “Isn’t it?”

And then, without warning, the tears came. You’d been holding them back for hours, maybe days, and now they blurred your vision and burned down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Y/N” Luke said suddenly, voice cracking in the process. Luke didn’t try to explain himself again. He just stood there, frozen for a moment, then quietly set his stick against the wall and crossed the room. You felt his presence beside you before you saw him, and then gently,  he wrapped his arms around you.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat but then your body gave in, softening against his chest as your hands clutched the fabric of his hoodie. You didn’t sob. You didn’t collapse. You just stood there, trembling quietly while he held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, and it felt too late and not enough and somehow still everything.

After a while, you felt him shift.

“It’s late,” he said, still soft. “Let me walk you home.”

You hesitated, but then nodded.

He didn’t try to talk on the walk back, just kept his steps steady beside yours, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket, glancing at you every now and then like he was making sure you hadn’t changed your mind.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The locker room buzzed with pregame energy, the thuds of tape rolls hitting the floor, the music playing off of one of his teammate’s speakers, the echo of chirps bouncing off the walls. Familiar chaos.

But Luke barely heard any of it.

He sat at his locker stall, lacing his skates with more focus than usual, jaw tight, muscles already coiled from the morning. His hands moved methodically, over-under, tug, loop, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

More specifically, with you.

He’d seen the way your hair fell slightly into your face as you worked on your laptop the night before, the soft glow of your screen casting delicate shadows across your cheeks. You’d looked tired but determined. 

“You gonna stare a hole through the floor, Hughesy?”

Luke blinked, pulled from his spiral by Ethan’s voice. The guy was leaning casually against the stall next to his, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Luke looked up from his skates, “What?”

Mark plopped down on the other side, grinning, “You’re acting like you’re about to propose. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Luke mumbled.

Ethan gave a low whistle, “You know she’s here, right? Upstairs. Putting together final media edits before puck drop.”

Mark wiggled his eyebrows, “Ohh, is that why you’ve got that dreamy little look on your face?”

“I don’t have a look on my face,” Luke muttered, yanking a little harder on his skate laces than necessary.

“You totally do,” Ethan said, nudging him. “It's the ‘I’m trying not to smile because I might give myself away’ look. Classic move.”

Luke sighed, “You guys are insufferable.”

Mark leaned in closer to the curly headed hockey player, “We’re just saying it’s nice to see you two spending good quality time together in the arena”

“She deserves better than that,” Luke told them before he could stop himself.

Both Ethan and Mark exchanged a glance, a quick flicker of surprise and something else. Ethan’s expression softened, 

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said in weeks,” Ethan chuckled, “But for real, man. Don’t pull her into your storm unless you’re gonna be the one to give her calm too. She’s been through enough.”

Luke met his eyes and nodded, “I know, I’m trying.”

Mark clapped a hand on his shoulder, “Then try harder. 'Cause if you screw it up again, Ethan and I have already agreed to run you into the boards. During practice, accidentally.”

“‘Accidentally,’” Ethan repeated with a grin.

Luke rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah alright.”

From the hallway beyond the locker room, he heard your laugh just faintly, carried on the air like a thread pulling him forward.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The energy in the arena was a living, breathing thing. It surged in waves, pulsed through the crowd like an electric current. You could feel it, even sitting in the media box, the blaring music, the chatter of excited fans, the scrape of skates on the ice, it all blurred into a constant roar.

But amid the noise, there was a moment of perfect, ringing clarity, it came when the puck dropped and everything snapped into place.

You glanced down at the ice, your fingers still tapping away at your laptop, but your attention fully absorbed by the game. The Michigan Wolverines were skating fast, tight, focused, the kind of play that made your heart race in time with every stride. You were typing out updates without really thinking, eyes flitting back and forth between the rink and your screen.

You didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly.

One swift pass. The sound of blades cutting ice, the swift snap of a stick, and the puck was heading toward the net with such force you could hear the wind whistling past it. The goalie was out of position, his eyes locked on a different angle, and you knew that this was it.

The puck hit the back of the net with a sharp, satisfying thunk. The crowd exploded into noise and then you saw him.

Luke.

You’d been watching him all game, but this was different. This was something else entirely. He was skating toward the corner, arms raised in victory, his mouth open in a shout of celebration. His face was flushed with exertion, his eyes gleaming with the kind of pride that could only come from the buildup of hard work and focus.

But then he looked at you and it wasn’t some offhand glance or a passing acknowledgment.

His gaze found yours from across the rink, as if the rest of the world had fallen away, as if there was only you and him in that entire moment. The noise, the celebration, the flashing cameras, it all faded into the background. His expression softened, just the slightest bit. His lips curled into that small, hesitant smile that made something warm unfurl inside your chest. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t arrogant. It was just… Luke.

The smile wasn’t for the crowd. It wasn’t even for the game.

It was for you and it melted something in you.

You couldn’t stop the smile that grew across your face, the one that started in your chest and spread through your limbs, the one that mirrored his without even thinking. For a second, it was just you and him, standing on the edge of something delicate and raw, something neither of you had been ready for until now.

The smile that passed between you both said more than a thousand words could. It was a silent agreement. An understanding. Something unspoken but clear.

And just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Luke turned back to his teammates, joining the celebration, the roar of the crowd crashing back into your senses like a wave breaking against the shore. The noise was overwhelming again, fans chanting, clapping, the buzz of excitement reverberating in the rafters.

But you didn’t turn away.

Even as the game continued, and even as Luke disappeared into the cluster of his teammates, you could still feel that moment between you both lingering like the aftertaste of something sweet.

You had to look down at your hands to steady yourself, fingers trembling slightly as you typed out the next update, but your thoughts were far from the game. They were with him and with that smile.

It was a small thing. A fraction of a second, but it meant everything.

The game moved on, as games do. Goals were scored, hits were delivered, and the clock continued ticking toward the final buzzer. But no matter what happened, no matter how many times the puck crossed the line or how loud the crowd cheered, you couldn’t shake the weight of that smile.

The final whistle blew, signaling the end of the game. The players were already heading off the ice, their faces flushed with adrenaline and victory. But Luke didn’t leave with the rest of them. He stopped just at the edge of the tunnel, looking back over his shoulder, as if searching for something in the crowd.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew he was looking for you.

And, somehow, in that moment, you realized you were looking for him too.

The media room buzzed with its usual energy after the game. Reporters crowded in, shouting questions at the players, capturing every moment, every word that might matter. The players, flushed with victory, moved through the room with that familiar mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. They were still riding the high of the win, but the overwhelming noise of the media was enough to dull the edge of excitement.

You sat at your desk in the corner of the room, hunched over your laptop, fingers moving quickly as you typed out the post-game details. The rink lights were still shining into your vision, the feeling of the crowd’s roar still ringing in your ears, but here, in the quiet corner of the media room, the world felt distant. For a moment, you could breathe.

There was a shift in the air. The room was full of voices, but you could feel his presence through the noise. You looked up to find Luke standing at the edge of the room, still in his full gear, sweat glistening on his brow, his jersey clinging to his chest. His eyes scanned the room, but the moment they landed on you, they softened.

You didn’t expect him to approach you, not tonight at least. The high of the game, the energy that had been building between you both, was still there but you’d expected him to be swept up in the aftermath, caught up in the celebrations, like every other player.

But he wasn’t. He was here, standing still, like he was waiting for something.

Waiting for you.

He pushed through the crowd with a natural grace, his broad shoulders brushing past the reporters, his movements easy but purposeful. And then, he was standing in front of your desk, slightly out of breath, his eyes on yours in a way that made everything around you feel still.

“Hey,” He said, his voice soft but thick with emotion that wasn’t just adrenaline

“Hey,” You replied, blinking as you tore your eyes away from his, trying to focus on your laptop. Your fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, unsure of what to type, unsure of what to say but nothing came out.

There was a quiet beat. You could hear the buzz of conversations behind you, but in the space between the two of you, it felt like everything had gone silent.

Luke shifted slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the chaos of the room. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he seemed to hesitate.

"Great game," You told him as you broke the silence. It was all you could manage. It felt awkward, out of place, but it was all you had at the moment.

Luke gave a tight smile, but his eyes betrayed something more. There was a weight behind them, something deeper than just the game, "Yeah," he replied, his voice quieter now, "It felt good. But  I’ve got to admit, it felt better when I saw you smiling."

Your heart stuttered at the words. You glanced up at him, trying to gauge whether he was teasing you again, but there was no hint of sarcasm, no playful edge. Just the raw sincerity in his eyes.

"You saw that?" You asked, almost breathless.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on yours, "I’ve been seeing a lot of things lately."

The air between you shifted again, something unspoken passing between you like an electric pulse. The words you couldn’t say, the things you’d been dancing around for weeks, felt almost too close now. It was as if the game had peeled away a layer, making it impossible to ignore anymore.

Before you could say anything else, one of the reporters called out to Luke, breaking the tension in the room. Luke turned briefly, acknowledging the noise before glancing back at you.

"I’ll let you get back to work," He said, "But I just wanted to say thanks. For being here. For everything."

You opened your mouth, not sure what to say. You weren’t sure if you should say anything at all. But before you could form the words, he was already moving toward the door. Just as he reached the doorway, he turned back. His expression was a little more serious now, a little more vulnerable than you had ever seen him.

"Hey," he called softly, and you looked up, meeting his gaze again, "I meant it, about the smile."

You nodded, something tightening in your chest as his words lingered between you.

"I’ll see you after," He added with a small smirk on his features, before disappearing into the hallway, leaving the chaos of the media room behind.

You sat there for a moment, the hum of voices, the clatter of equipment, and the soft scrape of shoes on the floor all feeling distant. You stared at your screen, but your mind was elsewhere with Luke, with that smile, with the unspoken words that hung between you.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The excitement of the quarterfinal win was still lingering in the air, thick with the scent of victory and the hum of celebration. The locker room was filled with shouts, high-fives, and the victorious clinking of water bottles against one another, but you weren’t really paying attention to the noise. You were standing to the side with your camera bag slung over your shoulder, trying to make sense of the blur of emotions from the game.

You were drained, but in a good way. The tension, the stress of the past few weeks, had all melted away after the final buzzer. And it wasn’t just the win itself. It was the way everyone had worked together, the effort, the adrenaline.

But what kept you there, sitting on the bench, wasn’t the excitement of the team. It was Luke.

He’d scored that crucial goal in the third period, the one that solidified the lead and kept the game in their favour. You could still hear the roar of the crowd when it happened, the way his eyes immediately sought out the stands with his eyes looking for you. 

The locker room was starting to clear out now, with the guys starting to head to the showers and preparing for the post-game celebration. You reached over to grab your things, your hands still a little shaky from the excitement.

Just as you turned to leave the room, you felt a presence behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to see Luke standing there, his damp curls falling over his forehead, a slight crooked smile on his lips. His jersey was soaked with sweat, but he still looked so effortlessly cool, like the victory was just a part of his routine.

"Hey," He greeted you softly, "You’re not leaving already, are you?"

You shrugged, the familiar comfort of his voice making your heart flutter a little, "I’ve got some stuff to finish up with the media team. You know how it is. But it looks like you guys are having your moment."

Luke chuckled, rubbing his jaw with his hand, "Yeah, it’s chaotic in there but you’re not the type to get caught up in that, are you?"

You smiled at him, feeling a warmth spread through you at how he seemed to understand you so well, "Not really. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person."

Luke nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at you, "Well, I noticed that today with how you were right there the whole game, capturing everything, even when I didn’t expect it. It’s like you’re always one step ahead of the rest of us."

You raised an eyebrow, not sure if he was teasing or being sincere, "Really? You’re not just saying that because you scored?"

He shook his head, the smile on his lips deepening, "No, I mean it. You capture the moments that people miss. And I’ve seen it in the locker room too, how you’re always making sure everything’s running smoothly. You don’t get enough credit for it."

You felt your cheeks warm as they flushed a light shade of pink, the genuine praise catching you off guard, "Thanks, Luke, that means a lot."

He took a step closer, and for a moment, the buzz of the locker room seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and him, standing there in the quiet after the storm of the game. Luke ran a hand through his curls, his smile turning sheepish for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure how to act in the softer moment between you two.

"You know," He said slowly, "I’ve been thinking about how we don’t get many moments like this. All the chaos, the games, the practices, and it’s easy to get caught up in it. But after today, I realized I don’t want to just be another face on the team. I want to be someone you can count on. Someone who’s there for you."

"You are someone I can count on," You told him, "You’ve been there for me a lot recently."

"I know I was a pain in the ass," Luke added, "I didn’t make things easy between us."

There was a long silence before Luke looked back over at you, his blue eyes steady, “I don’t know what it is, but you’re real with me. I don’t have to pretend and I don’t want to mess that up."

A small smile tugged at your lips, "You don’t have to try so hard. Just be you."

Luke grinned, stepping a little closer to you. He was inches away now, the air between you charged with something soft, something both of you had been trying to ignore for far too long.

"That’s what I’m trying to do," he said, his voice quiet.

The moment hung there, delicate and fragile. Then, without warning, Luke reached out, offering you a fist bump, his playful side creeping back into his voice.

"To the win," He said as his grin returned.

You laughed, the tension finally breaking. You bumped his fist with yours, the laughter easy and comforting between you.

 "To the win," You repeated.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The Frozen Four semifinal game was underway, and the intensity of it all gripped the arena like a vice. The Michigan Wolverines were up against a fierce opponent, both teams hungry for victory, and the air was thick with anticipation. Fans in maize and blue filled the stands, chanting, cheering, and holding their breath with every second of play.

You were seated near the glass, the smell of fresh ice and the sound of skates cutting across the rink blending with the loud noise from the crowd. As much as you tried to focus on the game, your attention kept shifting to the players, Luke in particular. You could see the tension in his movements, the fire in his eyes. It was clear that he was giving everything he had, but you could also see the toll it was taking on him. The pressure of this game weighed heavily on his shoulders.

The game moved fast. There were hits, fast breaks, and thrilling shots on goal. Luke was everywhere dodging his opponents, pushing the puck up the ice with precision. You could hear the heavy breathing from the players as the game wore on, every moment stretched thin by the stakes.

The tension was unbearable as the final minutes of the third period ticked down. The score was tied 3-3. The whole arena was on edge, holding their breath with every shift. Fans jumped to their feet as Michigan pushed for one last offensive drive, hoping for a miracle to break the tie. And then, as if the game had a mind of its own, disaster struck.

A last-ditch effort by the opposing team ended with a quick goal and then Michigan was trailing 4-3, with only seconds left on the clock. The crowd gasped, disbelief washing over them. You could feel the collective sinking of hearts, the weight of reality crashing down.

Luke didn’t even flinch. His eyes were locked on the ice, his jaw clenched but you could see it, he was devastated. The final buzzer rang, and the arena exploded into an unsettling mix of cheers and groans. Michigan had lost in the semifinals of the Frozen Four, and the weight of that finality was immediate. The stands slowly emptied out, the cheers of the opposing fans echoing louder as the Wolverines stood there, crushed, trying to comprehend the game that had just slipped away from them.

You stayed in your seat for a moment, letting the sound of the crowd wash over you, trying to hold onto something familiar. There was no denying the sting. You felt the loss in the pit of your stomach, but your thoughts quickly turned to Luke. You’d seen how much he had poured into this game with his effort, the focus, the pride in every play, and you knew this loss was hitting him harder than anyone else.

As the players began to file into the locker room, you stood up slowly from where you were seated. Ethan was already looking at you, his brow furrowed in concern. He was trying to hold it together, but his frustration was evident. You could see him glancing toward the locker room, his eyes darting to Luke, who had already disappeared inside.

“Let’s go talk to him,” Ethan said, "He’ll need someone."

You nodded, but as you walked together, you could feel Ethan’s unease. He was trying to be brave for both of you, but you knew he was hurting, too. You could see the subtle tension in his posture as he approached the locker room and when the door swung open, the cold, sterile air of the space hit you — the smell of sweat and ice mingling with the stench of defeat.

You saw Luke right away, slumped in his locker stall, his face twisted in a mix of anger and disbelief. His usual relaxed self was gone but replaced by something else, something you didn’t recognize. He didn’t even acknowledge you at first, his attention fixed on the floor. The space around him was tense, and even Ethan seemed unsure of how to approach him.

You stood there for a moment, unsure whether to speak or not. The silence was thick, suffocating, but Ethan broke it with a heavy sigh.

"Hey, man," he started, his voice trying to stay calm, "We’ll get ‘em next year. It’s not the end of the world."

Luke didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel the shift in the air with the heaviness in the way Luke pulled away from the words. His jaw clenched, and when he finally spoke, his voice was strained, biting.

“Yeah, whatever,” Luke mumbled, not looking up from the floor, "Next year, great. I just don't know why I bother anymore."

You felt the sting of his words even though they weren’t directed at you. His frustration wasn’t aimed at Ethan, not at first, but there was an obvious sense of anger in his tone, like he was trying to push everyone away. Ethan glanced at you, his eyes softening, but he knew better than to push further. Instead, he turned to you, his gaze asking for a sign.

You walked over to Luke, your steps slower, more cautious than usual. The air between you two was tense, but you had been through too much together to leave him alone now. You tried to meet his gaze, but Luke wouldn’t look up.

“You did your best,” You told him quietly with your tone full of the comfort you wanted to give him, even if he didn’t want it right now, “You all did.”

He scoffed, his shoulders tensing as he finally looked up at you. His eyes, usually so full of fire, were dull now, clouded with frustration. He shook his head, the words coming out rough, “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to put everything into something, only for it to slip away at the last second," His voice cracked slightly before he quickly masked it with more bitterness.

You could feel his pain, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. It wasn’t just the loss; it was everything else he was dealing with like the expectations, the pressure, the constant feeling like he had to prove something to everyone. But you didn’t back down, instead you nodded and tried again to comfort him

“Maybe not,” You hummed, “but I know what it’s like to have everything riding on something, to try your hardest and still feel like it’s never enough, but you can’t keep beating yourself up. This isn’t all on you.”

He looked at you, his eyes flickering between anger and something softer, something that made your heart ache. But before he could respond, Ethan stepped forward, his voice much lighter.

“Come on, Hughesy,” Ethan’s hand clapped onto Luke’s shoulder, “We still have next year, right? We’ll get ‘em then”

Luke didn’t even smile, he didn’t meet Ethan’s eye. His gaze was stuck somewhere far off, locked on nothing in particular. The air was thick with the weight of his frustration, but he wasn’t ready to let anyone in.

You gave Luke one last look before turning to Ethan, “I’ll be outside, okay?” You told him as you kept your voice gentle. 

Ethan nodded and gave you a look that said it all, he was worried about you too. He was always protective, but this time, he was just as vulnerable as you were. As you walked out of the locker room, the sound of Luke’s heavy silence lingered in your ears. It seemed as though Ethan opted to follow you, his arm wrapping around your shoulder in a comforting gesture. He squeezed you once, then sighed deeply.

“He’s taking it harder than I thought,” Ethan murmured, almost to himself.

You nodded, “I know, but I think he just needs some space. He’s not used to this feeling.”

“Yeah,” Ethan agreed quietly, “But just be careful, okay? I know you two have been getting closer, but he’s got a lot going on right now. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You stopped walking, glancing up at Ethan, "I won't get hurt. I just want to be there for him, you know?" You gave a soft sigh as you rubbed your eyes, "But I’ll be careful."

"Alright, I trust you. Just don’t let him shut you out completely, okay?"

You nodded and headed toward the exit, the cool night air outside a sharp contrast to the warmth of the locker room. Despite the sting of Michigan’s loss, you couldn’t help but feel like this moment, this shift between you and Luke, was something significant.

The rest of the night would unfold in its own way, but for now, you knew you’d be there for him. Even if he wasn’t quite ready to let you in yet.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You were hunched over your laptop, the glow of your laptop screen casting a soft light against your tired face. These late hours were taking their toll on you with your eyes burning from exhaustion, shoulders stiff from too many long nights spent in front of the screen. But you were almost done, and there was one more media release to finish before you could head home for the night.

The door to the media room creaked open, and you didn’t need to look up to know it was Luke. But tonight, the usual warmth in his approach had been replaced by a quiet and cold, almost detached energy. He didn’t say anything at first, but the silence that hung between you two was deafening.

Ethan was keeping you company but was currently grabbing both of you something to eat from a cafeteria in a residence building, and you thought that maybe you could escape the awkwardness that had been lingering between you and Luke for the past few days. You finally looked up from your work, meeting his eyes. You didn’t know what to expect anymore and you were growing tired of this push and pull relationship that you and Luke had going on for the past month or so.

“What?” You asked him

Luke’s lips curled into a smirk, “You still here, huh? Thought you had better things to do than sticking around this place.”

You frowned, feeling the sting of his words, “I have work to do, Luke, you know that I’m not here for fun.”

He scoffed, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, sure. Work. Like we need your media expertise around here. You could be doing something more... important, don’t you think?”

The words cut through you like a blade. You knew Luke had his moments of teasing and joking around to keep things lighthearted. But this wasn’t his playful teasing, it felt like he was deliberately trying to hurt you.

“Excuse me?” You shot back, “I’ve been working with your team for months now, Luke. I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah, your job,” He repeated putting air quotes around the word like it was a joke, “I didn’t realize media work was so important when you’ve got a bunch of guys on the ice doing all the hard stuff. But hey, what do I know?”

You clenched your jaw, trying not to let his words affect you, but the weight of them was unbearable. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could get a word out, Ethan walked back into the room with two white take out containers in his hands and a look of confusion crossing his face as he took in the tension between you two.

“What’s going on in here?” Ethan asked, eyeing Luke, who had now turned his back to you, clearly ignoring the situation.

Luke shrugged, still keeping his distance, “Nothing, just telling her the truth of her position. Media work’s not as important as she thinks.”

Ethan’s gaze flickered between you and Luke, his brow furrowing, “If you’re going to talk out of your ass like that, at least turn around so I can hear you better,” 

Luke’s eyes narrowed, “What’s your problem, Edwards?”

“My problem?” Ethan stepped forward, his voice becoming more firm, “My problem is you being a jackass when she’s just trying to do her job, and you being an even bigger one when you’re talking down to her like that. I’ve had enough of your shit, Hughes.”

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. You hadn’t expected Ethan to step in, but part of you was grateful. It didn’t make the sting of Luke’s words disappear, but at least someone was standing up for you. Luke shifted uncomfortably but didn’t back down, “She doesn’t need you to protect her, man.”

“I’m not protecting her. I’m telling you to stop being a dick,” Ethan snapped.

But Luke didn’t seem to care. He just scoffed again as he said something just under his breath, and walked out of the room without looking back. You stood there, staring at the door long after he had left, the coldness in the room making it hard to breathe.

Ethan stood beside you, his expression softening, “You okay?”

You nodded, though it wasn’t entirely true, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t let him get to you. You don’t deserve that.”

“I know,” You mumbled, but the weight of Luke’s words still hung in the air, “I just don’t understand what’s going on with him and I’m so sick of this back and forth we’ve been having. Like we’re fine for one week but the next he hates me again”

Ethan let out a long and tired sigh as he placed the food onto the table for both of you, “I don’t know either, but you don’t have to take it. You’re doing an amazing job here, don’t let him make you question that.”

You smiled weakly at him, appreciating his kindness, “Thanks, Eddy”

He gave you a quick embrace before motioning towards the food, he reopened his laptop to continue the movie he was watching as he ate. You sat back down at your desk, trying to focus on the work in front of you, but all you could think about was Luke. His coldness. His sharp words. It hurt more than you cared to admit.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The phone buzzed in Luke’s pocket, and for a moment, he thought about ignoring it. He had just finished a grueling practice, the kind that left his legs burning and his head buzzing with exhaustion. But something in the pit of his stomach told him this call was different. Something was going to change. He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen, the name Tom Fitzgerald flashing in bold letters. He was the general manager for the Devils, meaning this call could be the opportunity Luke had been waiting for, but never truly expected to happen.

“Hey, Tom,” Luke answered, his voice tight as he tried to control the sudden surge of adrenaline in his veins.

“Luke, listen. We’ve been watching you closely, and we think it’s time. We want you to play next Wednesday”

The words hit Luke like a freight train. His pulse quickened, and he had to grip onto the nearest bench to steady himself, “Wait… what?” He asked as the disbelief made his voice crack.

“We’re calling you up, Hughes. You’re going to join the team. It’s official. You leave in two days, I’ll have Jack send you your flight tickets. We’re excited to see you, kid”

Luke’s mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had always known this day would come and he had always dreamt of it. But now that it was here, it felt like his world had just shifted beneath his feet. The weight of the moment hit him like a ton of bricks, and for a second, everything else faded into the background. He had worked for this. Had put in the hours, the sweat, the pain. Every early morning and late night, every sacrifice. It had led him to this moment. The New Jersey Devils. The NHL.

But then his thoughts drifted as they always did these days to you.

The sudden warmth he felt for you was buried beneath layers of confusion. He had been shutting you out, pushing you away, and now here he was, about to leave without even telling you. The thought made him feel selfish. Maybe it wasn’t just about the career move or maybe it was more than that.

“Alright, thanks, Tom,” Luke breathed out, his mind whirling with thoughts he wasn’t ready to confront, “I’ll get the details from you and I’ll tell my coach and team here”

The conversation ended, and Luke stared at the phone in his hand for a moment, the weight of his decision sinking in. This was it. His future was set. But it was a future he’d be leaving behind everything and everyone for, including you.

Later that day, Luke stood in front of his teammates, the weight of the moment settling heavier with every passing second. His coach was there, standing at the front of the locker room, a rare expression of solemnity on his face. The team had just finished another intense training session, but now, the room was full of hushed murmurs. Everyone could sense something big was about to happen.

Luke stood tall, feeling the eyes of every single player on him, their curiosity evident in their faces. They all knew something was off, they knew he’d been distant lately, snapping at them for reasons they couldn’t quite figure out. But this was something different.

“Alright, guys,” Luke began, his voice steady, but a slight tremor betrayed the emotions brewing inside of him, “I’ve got some news, big news.”

The room went still.

“I’ve been called up,” He continued, letting the words hang in the air as a small smile crept onto his face, “I’m heading to New Jersey to play for the Devils the day after tomorrow.”

A collective gasp echoed through the room. The weight of the announcement hit the team like a wave. There were slaps on his back, congratulations, but Luke felt strangely detached from it all. 

Mark grinned as he slapped him on the shoulder. “Look at you, man. Going pro. Gonna leave us in the dust.”

Luke forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, the excitement of the moment felt distant.

Ethan, always the emotional one, stepped forward with a grin for his friend, “That’s awesome, Hughes. You’ve earned it, I’m really proud of you.”

Luke nodded absently, trying to hide the storm swirling inside of him. He had expected this moment and had rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times. But none of those scenarios had prepared him for how empty it would feel.

“Thanks, man,” Luke nodded.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You sat in the seat in front of your desk, staring down at the scattered papers in front of you, but not really seeing them. You were supposed to be working, supposed to be focusing on the media notes for the team, but every time you tried to concentrate, your mind would inevitably drift back to Luke. His sudden departure felt like a punch in the stomach.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was gone, but rather it was the way he left. No goodbyes, no explanations. You had barely heard from him since the day he told everyone he was leaving for New Jersey and even then, it was brief. The Luke you had once known as the one who could light up a room with his sarcastic humor or annoy the hell out of you with his attitude felt like a memory now.

The door creaked, and Ethan stepped in, his presence immediately filling the empty space in the room. His smile was soft, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You could see the concern in his gaze as he took a seat next to you.

“Hey,” Ethan told you gently, nudging your shoulder, “You doing okay?”

You nodded, but the tightness in your chest told a different story, “I’m fine.”

Ethan didn’t believe you for a second, and you knew it. He had been there for you through it, with the games, the late nights, the times you had gotten frustrated with Luke and even the moments you had found yourself falling for him. But now, after Luke was gone, things felt different. It was like the silence was suffocating you both.

Ethan let out a breath, running a hand through his hair, his eyes still fixed on you, “You don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay to not be okay.”

You glanced at him, forcing a small smile, “I know. It’s just… it feels like everything’s changed.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Ethan said as he sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “It’s not easy. For any of us. I mean, I know you two had your… issues, but he’s gone now and that’s gotta hurt.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening at the mention of Luke. You had thought that with time, you’d be able to move on, to get over the emotional rollercoaster that had been your relationship with him. But instead, his absence felt like a gaping hole in the team, in your life, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that things would never be the same.

“I don’t know why it hurts this much,” You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, “It’s like he was never really there, but I still feel this emptiness now that he’s gone.”

Ethan’s gaze softened, and he leaned in slightly, “It’s because he mattered. Even when he was a jerk, you cared about him and that doesn’t just go away overnight. Hell, it doesn’t go away at all. But I’m here for you, okay? I always will be. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You took a shaky breath as you nodded, “I just don’t understand him, Ethan. One minute he’s pulling me in, and the next he’s pushing me away. I thought we were getting somewhere, but then…” You trailed off, your voice cracking slightly, “And now he’s gone, and I feel like I’ve lost something I didn’t even know I needed.”

Ethan’s eyes flickered with something that resembled a mixture of sympathy and concern. He placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm, but not overbearing.

“You didn’t lose anything,” Ethan said softly, “You gained something. You gained a lesson. You learned how to not let someone else’s bullshit affect you. You learned that you’re strong enough to survive even when things don’t go the way you want them to.”

You met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes giving you a sense of comfort you hadn’t realized you needed, “But I still care and I don’t know how to stop.”

Ethan’s smile was small but genuine, “It’s not about stopping. It’s about moving forward, one step at a time. You’ll get there, I promise.”

You let out a breath, leaning back against the bench and closing your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of everything start to lift, “Thanks, Ethan. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ethan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he sat leaned against the wall next to you, the two of you staring at the rink in silence, the occasional sound of skates scraping against the ice breaking the stillness. It was comforting, in a way. There was no need for words, just the presence of someone who understood.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

Life with the New Jersey Devils was everything Luke had dreamed of. The adrenaline of skating out onto the ice, the roar of the crowd, the pressure of each game, it was the stuff he had worked for since he was a kid, and now it was his reality. His brother, Jack, was right beside him, and it felt like everything was falling into place.

The mornings were filled with drills and team strategy, followed by afternoons spent lifting weights and studying film. It was a routine that Luke had grown to love, each day a reminder of how far he’d come. Playing with Jack was something he had always fantasized about, and now that it was happening, he found himself enjoying every moment. There was an unspoken understanding between them, like a shorthand that allowed them to communicate without words, a bond that made everything on the ice feel effortless.

But for all the things he loved about this life, there were moments when the noise of it all quieted down, and the emptiness of his decisions crept in.

It was late one evening after a team dinner when he found himself alone in the locker room, sitting on a bench, his skates still on as he stared at his reflection in the locker room mirror. The hum of the arena was faint in the background, and the sound of his teammates talking and laughing in the distance seemed so far away. He felt restless, like there was something missing.

The chaos of the NHL, the intensity of the games, the pressure, it was all exhilarating but something inside him was unsettled. He ran his hand over his face, eyes drifting to the messages on his phone, his thumb hovering over a number that used to feel like second nature.

Your number.

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind. Getting drafted, making the roster, joining the team, all of it had happened so fast. He hadn’t allowed himself the time to slow down and think about anything beyond hockey. The reality of playing professionally, of having this spotlight on him, had consumed him. But in these quiet moments, the weight of his own decisions was heavier than ever.

He had been cold. He had pushed you away when you needed someone, when you had been there for him more than anyone else had. He had told himself it was for your own good, that you deserved someone who could give you more than he could, but deep down, he knew the truth. It wasn’t about that. It was about him. He had been afraid. Afraid of letting someone get too close. Afraid of needing someone who wasn’t a part of his world, afraid of the vulnerability it brought.

And now, here he was. The NHL was everything he had wanted and everything he had worked for, but a part of him missed you. He missed how easy it had been to talk to you, to laugh with you, and to be around someone who saw him for more than just the player. He missed the way you would text him about the little things, like how your day went, how classes were going, how you were looking forward to the next time they’d hang out in the media room.

He missed your laugh and the way you made him feel like he was seen, like he wasn’t just the hockey player everyone expected him to be.

It was strange, this feeling. He had never been one to question his decisions. He had always been focused on what was in front of him, never looking back. But now, as he sat in the locker room, it was hard to ignore the tug of regret.

Jack’s voice broke through his thoughts as he walked in, tossing his bag into his locker, “You good, man?”

Luke looked up, forcing a smile, “Yeah, just tired. Long day.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, he knew his little brother better than anyone, “You sure? I mean, you’ve been a little off lately. You’ve been kinda quiet.”

Luke leaned back against the locker, his eyes flicking back to his phone for a moment before he put it down, “I don’t know, dude. Just thinking.”

“About what?” Jack asked with more curiosity evident in his tone, “You’ve been killing it out there, Luke. First season and you’re already making an impact. I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but you’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Luke let out a sigh, running a hand through his curls, “I know I do, it’s just… I don’t know, Jack. There’s this feeling I can’t shake, like something’s missing.”

Jack tilted his head, “Missing? What are you talking about?”

Luke hesitated, his thoughts drifting back to you, “I don’t know, man. I thought I had it all figured out. I pushed some things aside...people aside, actually. But sometimes, it feels like I might have made a mistake.”

Jack’s face softened, understanding the weight of his brother’s words, “You’re talking about her, aren’t you?”

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

“Don’t play dumb, Luke,” Jack said, his tone gentle but firm, “You’ve been acting off ever since you got here. You’ve been so focused on the game, I get it. But you don’t have to shut out everyone else, especially not her. You made a decision, I know, but you also know that sometimes the hardest thing to do is admit when you’re wrong.”

Luke’s jaw clenched, “I didn’t want to drag her into this. I didn’t want to risk messing things up because of my career. She deserved better than me, especially with what I’ve got going on right now.”

Jack shook his head, “I get that you’re trying to protect her, but Luke, sometimes you can’t protect people from how you feel. You’ve got to decide, do you want to keep running from this, or are you going to do something about it?”

Luke didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, contemplating his brother’s words. The silence between them was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts and feelings.

“Maybe you’re right,” Luke finally said, his voice hushed, “I don’t know what to do, but I can’t stop thinking about her, Jack. I think I might have messed things up too much.”

Jack gave him a knowing look, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder, “It’s never too late to make things right, Luke. But you’ve got to decide if you want to fix it or if you’re going to let it go.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The late night breeze brushed against you when you stepped outside the arena that night, the air causing your hair to blow around your head. The sky was dark, and the world around you was quiet and you were tired of pretending you were fine, tired of trying to move on from something that had never really ended.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be waiting outside of Yost, but there he was.

Luke stood just outside the parking lot, hands shoved into the pockets of his joggers, his head down like he didn’t quite know if he had the right to be there. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your heart slammed against your chest,

“What are you doing here?” You asked with your voice barely audible

He stepped forward slowly, “I needed to see you.”

You swallowed hard, “You left.”

“I know,” His voice was thick, his eyes filled with desperation, “And I regret it every single day. I thought I was doing the right thing by choosing the career, staying focused, keeping you from the mess I was becoming, but all I did was hurt you and God, I hate that I did that.”

You stood still, breath caught, as he spoke like you couldn’t quite tell if you reached the level of exhaustion where you started hallucinating.

“I’ve had everything I ever dreamed of handed to me in Jersey but none of it feels right.,” He sighed as his eyes locked on yours, “Because I don’t get to share it with you. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like more than just the youngest Hughes brother. You saw me. You made me feel grounded and real, like I had a place to land after all the chaos and I tried so hard to forget that and to move on, but I can’t.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, “Baby, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

A tremor rippled through you as your heart skipped a few beats and your cheeks reddened.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even remember when it started. I was scared. I thought if I let you in, I’d lose focus, I’d mess it all up, but losing you… that’s the only thing I got wrong and I can’t stand not having you in my life.” Luke confessed with his voice dropping a bit as his throat tightened

Your voice was shaky, “You broke my heart.”

“I know. And I swear to you, if you give me even the smallest chance, I will spend every day proving that I’m worth trying again for.”

You were crying now, but it didn’t feel like the pain you’d carried for the past weeks, it felt like release, like everything you’d bottled up was finally being let out. You stepped toward him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, “You’re such an idiot.”

He let out a broken laugh, chest shaking, “Yeah. I am.”

And then you kissed him.

Not gently. Not cautiously. It was a collision of longing, of anger, of all the unsaid things finally being spoken in the way you knew best. His hands cupped your cheeks, your fingers twisted in the collar of his sweatshirt, and the breeze swirled around you as if the universe was finally giving its blessing.

When the kiss broke, your foreheads rested against each other, his breath warm against your skin.

“I love you too,” You whispered.

His lips curled into a smile, soft and a little stunned, “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you more.”

[cosmichughes]

See You at the Finish

Lando x reader request “If you could, could you possibly write a Lando x best friend!reader. she’s also a driver (you can choose which team) and gets into a pretty bad crash.”

A/N: Please request - my inbox is open again and as always please consider donating to my sick cat's vet fund - we are currently waiting a surgical opinion for the wound under her arm that hasn't healed.

@callsign-swan @ice-man-goes-bwoah @vroomvroomcircuit

This was often how you spent your pre-race, the banter, the laughing. Just like you’d done since you karted every Sunday morning together. But this wasn’t just another karting race, the stakes were bigger and the cars you drove were far more dangerous. Under all the bickering and joking, you both gave each other the same look before you hugged and parted ways to your separate garages. Be safe. Drive safe. Come back in one piece. 

“See you at the finish line Norris,” you yelled over your shoulder, “I’ll be sure to save you some champagne.” 

“In your dreams,” he yelled back. 

*** 

The garage was filled with the usual pre-race chaos, tires being warmed, engineers getting last minute data and you talking to your race engineer as he helped you with your gloves and helmet. 

“Remember, the race isn’t won in the first lap. Keep it on track today, stay in the points,” he told you. 

“Alright, alright,” you replied, “as long as I finish ahead of Norris, the day will be good.” 

Your engineer said your name in a warning tone but you just giggled, sliding the helmet over your head and grabbing another engineer's arm as they helped you climb into the cockpit. 

*** 

The race was going well. You’d managed a few good overtakes, kept within DRS and were keeping up a good pace. It happened on lap 38. 

Lando was in the front, fighting Charles for position when the yellow flag flashed across his steering wheel. His engineer came over his earpiece, “red flag Lando. Red flag.” 

“Who?” he asked. 

Lando’s blood ran cold as his engineer said your name. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he got the order to return to the pit. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt sick. 

“Are they okay?” 

“We’re not sure.” 

Lando was out of his car before he’d even been fully pulled into the garage. He caught sight of the carnage on the screen. Your car was crumpled against a barrier, smoking and Marshals were already surrounding it with extinguishers in hand. The medical team showed up quickly, not quick enough in his mind but they were helping you out of the car. He exhaled shakily as the crowd cheered and you gave them a small wave. He could tell you were hurt though, the way you were leaning on the medics as they ushered you towards the medical car told him you hadn’t fully escaped injury. 

Lando wanted nothing more than to run to the medical centre to be with you. To make sure you were okay with his own two eyes, but there was still a race to finish whether you’d be a part of it or not, duty called. 

He was barely holding it together by the time the race ended. P3 didn’t matter, the points towards the drivers and constructors championship didn’t matter. He mumbled through interviews, disinterested and focussed only on getting to his best friend. 

He’d asked his engineer for updates and even his team principal but they had no information for him yet. Finally his phone screen lit up. 

A picture of you, in a cut up fireproofs and a goofy smile on your face. “Concussion, broken ribs but no internal bleeding. Yay!” 

He shook his head. He got the information he needed about where they’d taken you and as soon as he was done with debriefing he was climbing in his car and speeding towards the hospital. 

Despite your reassurance and the proof of life, he still drove in silence. No music and no talking. Just the sound of the engine roaring as he sped his way through the streets to find you. He couldn’t get the image of your car out of his mind or the thought that he could have lost you today. 

*** 

He froze in the doorway for a moment. You were surrounded by motors and IV’s and looked so small but you were alive. It took you a few moments to realise you weren’t alone anymore as you sleepily opened your eyes and met his. You held your hand out to him making a grabby hand motion. 

“You look like shit,” you whispered. 

He exhaled, part choked sob and part laugh. He crossed the room in three quick strides before he was crouching at the side of the bed. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, not even bothering to hide his panic. 

“Did I win?” 

Lando rolled his eyes, “how much morphine have they given you?” 

“Mmm,” you paused in thought, “dunno. A lot. Feel good.” 

Lando sighed, his eyes watery, “your car was in pieces. Thought I’d lost you when I saw the wreck on screen.” 

You blinked sleepily, “‘m okay.” 

“You’re not,” he bit back a little more harshly than he’d intended to. “You’ve got a concussion and broken ribs. That’s not okay.” 

“Coulda been worse. Coulda died.” 

“Not funny,” Lando replied. 

“Not joking.” 

He let out a sigh as he sat back into the chair next to your bed. He didn’t say anything, just watched you breathe, watched you drift in and out of sleep to reassure himself you were okay. 

“I don’t know what I would have done if today was worse than it was,” he admitted quietly. 

You slid your hand across the bedsheet and reached for his. 

“I’m still here,” you reassured. 

He nodded, his jaw clenching tightly. “Don’t do it again.” 

“Don’t plan on it Norris.” 

Your hand stayed in his until you drifted off and even after you had, Lando kept tight hold of you. Afraid that if he let go he’d lose you.

[cosmichughes]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[cosmichughes]

foodie || platonic grid

☆ summary: f1 it girl runs popular influencer account but no one knows until a certain netflix series reveals her secret

☆ pairing: driver!reader x platonic grid

☆ fc & warnings: none

☆ requested: yes!! thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

formulafoodie has made a post 📍Essentia Ristorante

liked by ynuser, lando, yukitsunoda0511, lance_stroll, georgerussell63, and 1,345,294 others

formulafoodie: ciao dall'italia! having the best time here in italy as always. lucky me got to enjoy some of the best pasta in the whole world (don’t tell my trainer) at Essentia! feeling spoiled! [hello from italy!]

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user1: on god that looks delicious

user2: can’t tell ur trainer if we have no clue which one of you this is

user4: my bets are still on yuki! he’s the grid foodie through and through

user6: idk i don’t really get yuki vibes from these posts. i feel like it’s gotta be y/n, alex or carlos

user2: oh i could see it being y/n/n. she has posted some stories that do look very similar to the places formulafoodie has been

lando: @ whoever runs this account - where was my invite?! [liked by ynuser & charlesleclerc]

user6: well user2, looks like we can rule out lando

user3: wake up babe! fav influencer just posted

f1: yum! 😋

user4: bookmarked this restaurant as if i’ll ever go to italy

ynuser has made a post

liked by lewishamilton, charlesleclerc, carlossainz55, lando, astonmartinf1, lance_stroll and 897,375 others

ynuser: monza! grazie for the point! wasn’t an easy one but at least italy always spoils me. oh and congrats charlesleclerc 🤍

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user3: felt your aura from 5 scrolls away

lance_stroll: points points points

ynuser: points 🗣️

user12: we love y/n points in this house

charlesleclerc: merci y/n/n ❤️

ynuser: well deserved my friend 🥰

astonmartinf1: monza! thanks for being good to our girl

user6: hmmm a certain influencer also said they felt spoiled in italy… coincidence? 🤨

alexandrasaintmleux: y/n amore mio [y/n my love]

ynuser: alex 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

user33: forever gagged by how beautiful and talented you are

formulafoodie has made a post 📍Willow Restaurant

liked by f1, alex_albon, pierregasly, yukitsunoda0511, oscarpiastri, ynuser and 1,973,356 others

formulafoodie: singapore!! the food here absolutely never disappoints. thanks for having me willow

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user2: quick f1gossip did you catch any of the drivers at willow???

f1gossip: we got no reports of any drivers spotted at willow! y/n, lance, and esteban were spotted out for drinks not too far from this restaurant though!

f1: looks delicious!

user4: def not lando with all that shrimp

lando: you got that right

user4: LANDOBSJV

netflix: delectable

user3: netflix what are you doing here

formulafoodie: it certainly was 😉

user6: wait wait wait this has to mean something. formulafoodie never responds to comments

oscarpiastri: great! now i know where to grab dinner

user8: omg the last slide 🤤

user22: another fire post mr tsunoda

formulafoodie has made a post 📍 la barbecue

liked by danielriccardo, ynuser, estebanocon, iamrebeccad, oscarpiastri, netflix, astonmartinf1

formulafoodie: everything is in fact bigger (and better) in texas. labarbecuetexas you made the best bbq i’ve ever been blessed to eat!! thank you for having me 😩🤍

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user4: my mouth is watering

lando: again here asking where my invite was???

user14: omg omg i’m going here for dinner tonight

danielriccardo: knew you’d love it 💙 [liked by formulafoodie]

user6: WAIT DANNY KNOWS WHO RUNS THIS ACCOUNT?!

netflix: 🤤 us looking at these photos [liked by formulafoodie]

f1gossip: for those wondering - closest driver sightings to this restaurant was y/n, pierre and yuki out at a cowboy hat shop which reportedly has the same sign as the second slide 👀

user6: omgomgomgomg

user21: it’s yuki confirmed

user31: no wayyyyyy

user12: gonna have to get myself to an authentic bbq place asap

user19: whenever i need a recommendation for where to eat i come to this page

ynuser has made a post

liked by astonmartinf1, lance_stroll, estebanocon, francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, lewishamilton and 1,023,459 others

ynuser: in another life, i rode horses instead of driving cars. thanks for the love, the points and the barbecue austin! 🤍🏎️

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danielriccardo: 💙

ynuser: 🤍

user13: i almost started barking

lhughes_06: any chance you want to come to a hockey game while you’re in the us?

jackhughes: have i not taught you nothing?! [liked by ynuser]

_quinnhughes: this was the best line you’ve got luke? [liked by ynuser]

ynuser: i could be persuaded 🤭 though when am i going to see one of you three at a race?

user43: i have no one to talk about this with

user55: HI [louder than everyone else]

iamrebeccad: gorgeous 🥰

ynuser: love you honey 😘

user98: she’s beauty, she’s grace, she’s the fastest girl in the race

user83: consistently proud of you for dragging that tractor into the points

formulafoodie has made a post 📍Broadway

liked by pierregasly, maxverstappen1, maxfewtrell, lance_stroll, georgerussell63, carlossainz55, and 1,234,425 others

formulafoodie: abu dhabi!!! thank you for the wonderful food and to broadwayuae for having me.

as the season comes to a close, i wanted to say thank you for spending yet another season with me! stay tuned for my regular programming of my favorite recipes starting next week 🥰

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user4: already looking forward to your off season content!!! love love love your recipes that you feed us with during the winter 🫶🏻

user7: no thank YOU for taking us along with you this season

f1: see you soon formulafoodie

netflix: what race had the best food this season?

formulafoodie: hmm… good question!! everyone make sure to tune into the newest driver to survive episodes to find out 😉

user6: OMG THEYRE SOING A REVEAL ON DTS

user12: i will only be accepting gold plated coffee only from now on

user8: thank you for a great season 🫶🏻

user19: we love you formulafoodie!

netflix has made a post

liked by ynuser, astonmartinf1, lando, pierregasly, yukitsunoda0511, yourbff, georgerussell63, and 987,245 others

netflix: drive to survive’s first episode is out now! we sat down with y/n y/l/n, the grids resident it girl and foodie, as she navigates the pressures of being the only female formula 1 driver and her quest to bring aston martin to its glory.

[tagged: ynuser, formulafoodie, astonmartinf1]

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user6: NO WAY FORMULAFOODIE IS Y/N?!

astonmartinf1: how lucky we are to have y/n 🤍

user20: “in my rookie season i really found that i needed an outlet and i wanted to express myself outside of the confines of driving. so i turned to my next passion which is cooking and in doing so i started this amazing community and i wouldn’t trade it for the world.” DONT LOOK AT ME IM DEF CRYING

user18: my shayla 😭😩

user19: we gotta protect y/n and formulafoodie at all costs

user14: only watching the episode to hear my queen speak 🗣️

lando: so this is how i find out ynuser??? do you hate me??

ynuser: stop it you muppet. i love you and you know it

lando: but you never took me to dinner?

ynuser: bc you’re shit at keeping secrets my dear

maxfewtrell: she’s right mate you can’t keep your mouth shut

lando: SLANDER

lance_stroll: so this is why you always bring the best local desserts to our hospitality ynuser

ynuser: you got me 🤭

user13: netflix new how to hook me right in for this season with giving me y/n first

formulafoodie has made a post 📍home

liked by lance_stroll, maxverstappen1, charlesleclerc, lando, alex_albon and 1,298,475 others

formulafoodie: back home and finally able to cook!! feeding my favorite muppet lando today (he wouldn’t stop asking)!! i am so beyond grateful for this community and for all of you. here’s to a new chapter together 🤍

oh and be sure to check out my bolognese recipe on my website!!

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user4: the first face reveal post 😭

user12: RUNNING TO GO MAKE THIS RECIPE

lando: F I N A L L Y!!!!! thank you for the pasta my friend

lance_stroll: and you’re going to cook for me when?

estebanocon: can i make reservations at maison de y/n?

charlesleclerc: no no have alex and i over first!

ynuser: i’ll hold a grid dinner soon don’t worry 🫶🏻

user12: cutie patootie

user4: looking forward to all your new content y/n/n

astonmartinf1: enjoy 🍝

user18: this looks so good 😋

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading!!! likes, feedback and reblogs appreciated 🫶🏻

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform