faerlune

[faerlune]

⌗ romance tropes

✦. ── summary: drivers as typical romance tropes ✦. ── featuring: charles leclerc, alex albon, carlos sainz, ollie bearman, liam lawson, isack hadjar [part one here!] ✦. ── content/warnings: fem! reader, fluff, light angst (in charles’s), slightly suggestive (?) at the end of isack and liam’s 

𖦹 charles leclerc — second chances

Moving back to Monaco hadn’t been part of your life plan. After Charles broke your heart, after you ran off to the United States for university, after you got a job in the States, you never thought you would come back. But here you are, unpacking the last box in your apartment. 

It’s been raining the past couple of days so your apartment had been dark for most of the move but now, through the gaps between your curtains, you could see a sliver of sunlight. You walk over and open them up, closing your eyes and basking in the warmth. 

When you open them, you’re met with a gaze you haven’t seen in so long. Charles stands frozen in his dining room, a bowl and spoon in hand. You blink at him one, twice, then shut the curtains again. Of course, it’s just your luck that your ex-boyfriend lives in the apartment across the street. 

You don’t even look at the curtains for the next three days, forcing yourself to ignore the reality of the situation. You’re working on the last of the paperwork that will complete your job transfer when there is a knock at the door. You peer through the peephole and heave out a heavy sigh, opening up. Charles is in front of you, a wicker basket in hand filled with sweets and champagne. He offers a bashful smile and says, “Uh, welcome back!” 

He holds out the basket but you just ask, “How did you even get up here?”

“Oh, the front desk just… let me up…” Right, you roll your eyes internally, how could you forget the weight that the Leclerc family name carries in Monaco? Charles shifts from one foot to the other and adds, “My mom bought this for you when I told her about the window incident.”

You take it from him. “Tell her I said thanks.”

“I will.” Both of you stand there, rooted to the floor. Your eyes rove over his face. He’s a little taller, a lot broader, and grew out the facial hair he was always complaining to you that he couldn’t when you were younger. 

“You look good,” he says and you’re mad that he still makes you feel fond. That he’s always made you feel fond, a million miles away and even when you had other boyfriends. 

You drum your fingers on the underside of the woven material and you ask hesitantly, “Would you like to come in for some tea?” You don’t add that you have his favorite, the one he turned into your favorite. 

Charles perks up in the puppy-dog way of his and you step aside to let him in. You set the basket on the table and start to brew the tea, Charles hovering nearby and asking if he can do anything to help. You tell him there’s nothing to do and you sit at your dining room table, chatting quietly. It’s all too easy to fall into that familiar rhythm with him, one that makes you feel like you never left. Like you never let each other go. 

Charles tells you about his family, his fellow racers. He eagerly shows you pictures of his dog, Leo, the “light of his life,” as he put it. You don’t ask if he’s seeing anyone, even as the words claw at your throat, begging to be released. He asks questions about you, about what you’ve been up to, what it was like going to school and work in America. When the water boils and the tea steeps, you add a splash of milk and a pinch of sugar to Charles’s cup. When he takes a sip, he stares at you, eyes swirling with something tender, and breathes out softly, “You remember.”

“Yeah.” You sit down again, crossing your arms across your chest. It’s less about feeling defensive and more about protecting yourself and the heart that never fully healed. The gravity of the situation crashes down on you in a wave — the fact that you have Charles Leclerc, the only boy you ever loved, in your new apartment in the place you said you’d never return to is almost laughable. You would have laughed if your chest wasn’t so tight. 

Charles takes his leave when he finishes his tea. You two stand in the foyer and he says, “I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other, huh?” He motions in the direction of your window that faces into his apartment across the street.

“I guess we will.”

You settle into a half-awkward, half-comfortable silence as Charles slowly reaches for the doorknob. He’s turning it just as he blurts out, “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

The question knocks the wind out of you. Charles is watching you again with those big, kaleidoscopic eyes. “No,” you finally answer and you note the way his shoulders relax. 

He nods, mostly to himself, and then asks, “Would you like to come to dinner with me tomorrow?”

Your throat bobs. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Charles.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything,” he says. “I just… I’ve missed you.”

You gnaw on your lip. You have so many things you want to ask, so many things you want to say. But is it the right time? Will it ever be the right time? And yet, for all your questions and reservations, you can’t help but answer, “That sounds good.”

‎𖦹 alex albon — secret relationship

“Mate, just ask her out, for God’s sake,” George groans as he and Alex stand outside Williams’s motorhome. It’s the hundredth time he’s caught his friend sneaking a glance at you. According to Alex, you’re a marketing consultant to Williams, on-site at the paddock to get an in-person sense on fan purchasing trends.

“She doesn’t need me bothering her,” Alex insists as he watches you interview a couple with two young sons. He has to suppress a grin as he witnesses the way you put your interviewees at ease, warm and charming and so utterly you. 

“You’re bothering me with your…” — George makes a face — “Moony eyes.”

“Go away then if you’re so bothered, then,” Alex says, earning a huff and an eyeroll from his fellow Brit.

“He’s right, you know,” Carlos says, seemingly materializing from nowhere. “You need to act quick before someone else does.”

“Both of you need to mind your own business.”

“Say the guy who’s just staring at someone,” George retorts. But he and Carlos eventually lose interest, George returning to Mercedes while Carlos wanders over to Charles and Ollie at the Ferrari motorhome. 

You wrap up your interview, glancing around before catching his eye. He gestures with his head to follow him as he turns and heads into the motorhome, to his room. It’s only a few seconds before you join him, closing the door behind you. Alex’s hands find your hips and he pecks your lips. “Hi,” he says, smiling sweetly. 

“Hi.” You squeeze his shoulders, snickering, “Were they on your case again about asking me out?”

Alex chuckles, “Yeah, it’s getting annoying, really.”

“Sorry. Do you want us to tell them soon or…?”

“Nah, we can let them have their fun for a little longer,” he says. “Lewis’s treating everyone to dinner Tuesday. We’ll do our reveal there.”

“You’re devious, Albon,” you murmur, peering at him through your lashes. It makes Alex lean forward to press another kiss to your mouth. 

 Alex sits beside George with an empty seat on the other side, since he said he’s saving it for his plus-one. George, Carlos, and now Lando have been badgering him all weekend about who he’s bringing and if it’s you; Alex can’t wait to see their faces. 

You walk in, posture confident and dressed stylishly. Alex ignores his friends’ smug looks as you greet everyone, taking your seat beside him. Carlos grins. “So, you’ve finally done it, huh!”

Alex slings an arm around the back of your chair as you tilt your head in mock confusion. “What do you mean? We’re celebrating our six month anniversary next weekend.”

Alex savors Carlos’s eyes widening and Lando and George’s mouths dropping open almost comically as Carmen and Rebecca giggle. You lean into him, kiss his cheek, and open up the menu, asking him, “So, what looks good here, babe?” 

‎𖦹 carlos sainz — childhood friends to lovers

When you were little, your mother liked to tell your fairytales and myths. You grew up with a grand imagination of castles and knights and dragons. As you got older, you held onto the magic and whimsy that wove those stories together. One tale always stuck with you. It was the story of how humans were originally created with two faces, four arms, and two legs. Of how the gods grew frightened of their power and cleaved them apart, separating them — body and soul. Of how these fractured souls would wander the earth with the desire to reunite with their other half  — their soulmate. 

You didn’t have to wander far to find yours in the boy who grew up down the street from you with floppy dark hair and bright eyes and a loud laugh. Carlos Sainz was your other half for as long as you could remember. It wasn’t always romantic — you were best friends from the start. You’ve both had relationships. You’ve grown as people separately and together. But no matter what, you always found your way back to each other.

You were there to push a boy down to the ground when he knocked over Carlos’s block tower at age six. He was there when you won your first dance competition at ten-years-old. You were there when he clinched first place in his early karting days. He was there when your first boyfriend broke your heart, threatening to punch him in the face. You were there when Ferrari let him go, holding him and carding your fingers through his hair in melancholic silence.

And you’re both here, all these years later, at a beautiful villa overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean sea, standing across from each other with your wedding vows in hand. You’re both teary-eyed and sappy as you finish your speech, “Carlos, I am so beyond lucky that I never had to look far for my soulmate. Thank you for loving me through everything, even when we didn’t know what love was. I have spent my whole life with you and I can’t wait to spend my whole future with you as well.”

You two have barely exchanged rings and said “I do” before Carlos is dipping you down into a passionate kiss. It’s met with claps and hollers from friends and family, and you smile into it as you cling to him. Your Carlos, your best friend, your husband, your soulmate.

You’re the first one to pull away, Carlos’s lips chasing after yours. You giggle and press a hand to his chest. “Save something for the honeymoon!”

Carlos huffs, “Mi vida, we can never start too soon.” But you just laugh and shake your head, linking your fingers with his and tugging him down the aisle as everyone claps and cheers. 

You tell him, “We have the rest of our lives, sweetheart.”

He hums, “Yes, but I want my head start.”

“Later, when we’re in private.”

“Fine.” Carlos sighs dramatically, “I can’t believe I have to share you with everyone before I get you to myself.”

“Oh, please,” you laugh, bringing your entwined hands up to kiss the back of his. “You’ve had me to yourself our entire lives.”

‎𖦹 ollie bearman — love at first sight

Nothing is going Ollie’s way today. His alarm didn’t go off so he was late to the team meeting, he lost a pair of sunglasses that he really liked, and he realized that he’d left his keys at home in his hurry to leave, meaning he’d had to pay the fee to get the front desk to lend him the spare set. 

He’s walking down the street when a text comes in from Gabriel, asking if he was coming to hang out with him, Kimi, Liam, Isack, and Jack later. Quite honestly, Ollie wasn’t really feeling in the mood anymore. All he wanted was to have some respite from this, quite frankly, abysmal day.

He’s typing a reply to Gabriel when he turns a corner and runs straight into someone. There’s a yelp and a couple of thumps, and Ollie looks to see you, on the ground, surrounded by spilled iced coffees. “Oh my God,” Ollie gasps. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, shit. I’m so sorry.”

As apologies tumble out of his mouth, he watches you survey the damage, you’re pale pink button-up soaked with coffee. Ollie expects you to yell, to cry, to curse him out. But instead, you just laugh a little and shake your head. “No worries, I should’ve been looking too.”

Ollie relaxes a little and he reaches down, hand out stretched. You take it gratefully and he pulls you up. When you finally look up and face him, his heart stops. He doesn’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, coffee-stained and all. He opens his mouth and all that comes out is another apology, to which you just tell him it’s alright. You offer a comforting smile, the dimple in your left cheek deepening and Ollie thinks that he could die on the spot from how adorable it is.

You bend down to pick up the cups, Ollie rushing to help you. “Let me buy them again. It’s the least I can do,” he insists and you agree. As you walk together back down the street, he says, “I’m Ollie, by the way. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself sooner.”

You tell him your name and say, “It’s fine. I think we were more worried about some other things.” 

You make small talk, on the way. He learns that you work as a personal assistant to the editor-in-chief of one of the most famous global fashion magazines, and he blushes when you gasp in awe after he reveals he’s an F1 driver. He buys the coffees for you and helps you carry them to the lobby of your building. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your shirt,” he says. 

You wave him off. “My boss is nice and we have a lot of clothes in the office, so don’t worry.”

Neither of you move even after Ollie handed you the coffee tray. A little shyly, he says, “I don’t know if this is too forward, but I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t ask. Can I get your number?” He hastily adds, “It’s okay if you don’t want to though. I completely understand.”

You laugh, “Sure!” And you dictate your cellphone number to him as Ollie punches it into contacts. He sends you a text and is reassured by the soft ‘ding’ of a notification coming from your bag. He waits for you to scan in before leaving with a pounding heart and giddy smile.

‎𖦹 liam lawson & isack hadjar — love triangle

Liam doesn’t want to brag or anything, but he met you first. A new social media manager, your supervisor introduced you to Liam before Isack. Liam, though he’d never admit it, likes to think it’s fate. Isack disagrees; he thinks it’s just because Liam happened to be at the motorhome doing social media while Isack was doing a press interview. 

Neither of them have ever said the obvious thing out loud — that they both had massive crushes on you. Neither of them have made a move either, whether out of fear of rejection or respect for each other and their friendship, who knows. Still, when they do social media with you, there is a palpable competition that goes beyond racing and beyond friendly. They both stand straighter, both are more attentive, both but their entire chests into the skits and lip syncs. 

Isack mispronounced “squirrel” once and it made you laugh so hard that tears welled in your eyes. He swears it’s one of his proudest achievements. 

Liam had to do a pick-up line for a challenge; he said it with so much flirtatious energy and and maintained such strong direct eye contact that it flustered you and you had to redo his section of the short video. 

Right now, you’re filming a general knowledge trivia competition. Your supervisor was supposed to be the one on camera, quizzing them but she’s sick, so instead, you agree to do it. You sit between them, nudging Isack’s head back for the third time. “No peeking at the questions!”

“Yeah, mate, come on! No cheating,” Liam laughs as he shifts a little closer to you. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Isack, who narrows his eyes. 

“Okay, okay. Ask the next question,” Isack says. 

You shuffle the cards pointedly and lean back away from both of them. “What famous Greek warrior died from an arrow to the heel?”

Both men pause before Liam slowly moves to tap his bell. “Achilles?”

“Yep!” You flip to the next one. “What type of musical scale is in half-steps?”

Liam hits his bell faster this time and answers with much more confidence, “Chromatic.”

“Correct!”

“This is rigged!” Isack huffs, pouting just a little. Just enough to earn your sympathetic gaze. His eyes flicker over your shoulder to look at Liam, who meets his stare with one that clearly says Game on. 

You shuffle through some of the cards. “Which car manufacturer produces the Mustang?”

They both ring in at the same time, simultaneously shouting, “Ford!”

“I got it first!” Isack declares with Liam scoffing, “No way, dude, that point is mine!”

You interject, “Guys, we still have one last question…”

They both settle down immediately, attention completely focused on you. You grow shy under their stares as you say, “Alright, this is the tie breaking question… What is my typical breakfast order…?” You read the question again, muttering, “I don’t remember this being in the original draft. What kind of question is th—?”

They answer together again: “A croissant, two soft boiled eggs, strawberries, and a cup of cafe au lait.”

You blink, stunned, before regaining your composure. “That’s right. It’s a tie, then!”

Isack and Liam sigh, share a look, and Liam asks, “Okay, what’s our prize then?” There’s a certain look in both of their eyes that makes your face grow hot. 

You catch your cameraman trying to stifle a laugh. He only struggles more when you glare at him, shrugging. It seems the social media team has one hell of a sense of humor.

[faerlune]

The last time I seen my brother. The last time I seen the sun. Just for a few hours, we was free.

[faerlune]

hi!!! first of all — you’re so GORGEOUS and i’m in love with you and your work on here, second of all i was wondering if you’re interested in making fic ( with smau ) about isack hadjar and lawson!reader?

i think it would be very interested if the reader had a huge crush on isack but he wouldn’t get the hint but the reader is fully on flirting with him face to face

anyways like i said before you are SOOOOO PRETTY I CAN’T

oblivious — ih6

smau + written blurbs

isack hadjar x !lawson reader

being liam lawson’s little sister meant two things: everyone in the paddock knew who you were — and everyone knew you were hopelessly into his teammate, isack hadjar.

you wore his number, flirted constantly, and made it painfully obvious you liked him. the only problem? isack either didn’t get it… or didn’t believe someone like you could actually like him.

but the season was long, and you weren’t giving up that easily. sooner or later, he’d have to realize: you weren’t just being nice. you were in love with him.

fc : lily rowland

(a/n) : omg hey baby!! i started on this immediately because i had been waiting on another isack request. thank you so so much for being so kind!!! love you forever and ever💖💖 hope you love

—

ynlawson

liked by liamlawson30, alexandrasaintmleux, isackhadjar and 1,130,000 others.

ynlawson : pink dump bc it’s wednesday 💘

tagged : alexandrasaintmleux, liamlawson30 and rhode

—

view 183,000 other comments.

liamlawson30 : you were the one who probably pitched the pink car idea to the team🙄

↳ visacashapprb : she was…but we’ve never looked better 💁🏼‍♀️💘

liked by ynlawson

↳ ynlawson : true that. i was tired of wearing blue 🤧

↳ liamlawson30 : sorry it is so tiring to support your brother. you never seem to be too tired to support isack though 🤨

↳ ynlawson : nope. never too tired to be a part of the isack hadjar fan club

liked by isackhadjar

↳ username00 : oh she is down BAD

↳ liamlawson30 : you just noticed that? she has been DOWN.

↳ ynlawson : hey hey hey. go easy on me.

rhode : leo, alexandra and yn all in one picture 😭❤️‍🔥 we just melted. love you all!!!

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and ynlawson

lilymhe : pink is suddenly my favorite color 😻😻

liked by ynlawson

↳ ynlawson : miss you so much my darling🥰

alexandrasaintmleux : leo and i miss you sooo sooo much 🤍🤍brunch soon?

liked by ynlawson

↳ ynlawson : obviouslyyyyy😇 love my cutie pies

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

isackhadjar : the pink porsche is insane

liked by ynlawson

↳ ynlawson : currently in need of a passenger princess rn 🗣️

liked by isackhadjar

↳ olliebearman : bro. bro. bro. you better not fumble this, hadjar

↳ kimi.antonelli : you realize she’s talking about you, right?

↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : isack blink twice if you need help flirting back

↳ francolapinto : you miss 100% of the rides you don’t take amigooo

↳ liamlawson30 : can’t believe this is happening rn

↳ olliebearman : no offense but you’re just a background character rn

↳ ynlawson : this is cyberbullying ollie…and i love it 💋

↳ ynlawson : guys you scared the little frenchie off

↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : he isn’t scared. he’s just buffering. give him a minute.

↳ olliebearman : he’s probably practicing pickup lines in the mirror as we speak 💀

—

You showed up to the VCARB garage wearing a fitted white tank with his name and number printed boldly across the back, paired with sunglasses, low-rise jeans, and a smirk that said you knew exactly what kind of attention you were drawing. And it worked.

Everyone saw you. Engineers, media personnel, mechanics—and, most importantly, Isack Hadjar, who’d done a double take when he first saw you today. You’d winked at him, like it was nothing, and disappeared into the garage.

A few minutes later, you made your way down the narrow corridor toward the driver’s rooms, twisting a silver necklace between your fingers. Liam was busy with interviews, and there was only one person you wanted to see anyway. You didn’t knock. You never knocked.

Isack looked up from his phone as you slipped inside, eyes flicking briefly to the number on your shirt before he looked away just as quickly, like it might burn him.

“Hey,” you said, holding the necklace up. “Do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?” he asked warily, his voice already a little strained. He wasn’t sure if it was the shirt, the sunlight catching your collarbone, or the way your smile always curled with intention.

You stepped closer, holding the chain between two fingers. “Help me put this on?”

He stood, slower than usual like he was trying to mentally prepare himself. “Yeah, of course.”

You turned around, pulling your hair to the side. “The clasp’s tiny. My nails are useless.”

His fingers were gentle—surprisingly so. You felt the feather-light brush of them against your skin as he worked at the clasp. He smelled like his cologne and faint hints of sweat, which made sense. But something about it still made your stomach flip.

“Careful,” you murmured, teasing. “That’s my favorite necklace.”

“I’m being careful,” he replied softly. “You’d kill me if I broke it.”

“Mm, maybe.” You paused. “But I’d forgive you.”

He finished the clasp and let his hands fall. You turned around slowly, watching him—his cheeks slightly pink, his gaze flickering anywhere but your eyes.

“You’re good with your hands,” you said, voice light and playful.

Isack flushed immediately.

“I—uh—yeah, I guess,” he stammered. “You know… working with the car. And stuff. So. That helps.”

You tilted your head. “That’s not why I said it. But thanks for the visual.”

His mouth opened like he had a response, then closed again. He looked completely gone.

“I don’t get you sometimes,” he finally said, running a hand through his curls. “You walk in here, say stuff like that, wear my number like it’s no big deal, and I just… I don’t know if you’re serious.”

You blinked, then smiled—smaller this time. “Isack. I’ve been serious since the first time you let me steal your hoodie in Austria and pretended not to care.”

“I thought you were cold,” he mumbled.

“I was. But I also liked that it was yours.” You shrugged. “I figured you knew.”

He let out a soft laugh under his breath, like he didn’t quite believe this was happening. “I’m usually better at reading things. Just… not when it’s you.”

You nudged his arm. “Well. I’m not exactly subtle.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

You started walking backward toward the door, finger trailing along the strap of your bag. “Let me know when you want to go for a drive. The passenger seat’s still open.”

He just stared, smiling like an idiot. “Okay.”

“Okay,” you echoed, then paused. “Also, if Liam asks where I am—”

“I haven’t seen you,” Isack finished quickly.

You pointed at him with a grin. “See? You are good with your hands and your mouth.”

And then you disappeared down the hallway, leaving Isack flustered, breathless, and very, very in love.

—

third person pov

Isack was still standing in the middle of the driver’s room, frozen, fingers resting on the edge of the table like they could somehow ground him. His heart was still beating too fast. His cheeks were still warm. And the scent of her perfume was definitely still lingering in the air. He didn’t even hear the door open.

“Am I interrupting a post flirting crisis?”

Isack jumped slightly, turning just as Pierre Gasly strolled in, arms crossed and smirking like he’d been waiting outside the whole time.

“No,” Isack said quickly. “Yes. I mean—what are you doing here?”

Pierre shrugged casually. “I came to say hi. But then I saw Liam walking to media looking like someone stole his last brain cell, and I figured you might be the reason.”

Isack groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Can we not?”

“Oh no, we can,” Pierre said, taking a seat and making himself at home. “So. How long are you going to pretend she’s not in love with you?”

Isack looked up slowly. “She’s not—”

Pierre raised a finger. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me when she’s got your name printed across her back like she’s your biggest fan and just walked out of here like it’s a scene from a rom-com.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Isack muttered, sinking into the chair across from him.

Pierre just laughed. “Ask her out.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why? Because she’s Liam’s sister? He knows. Everyone knows. Liam’s just glad it’s you and not some idiot.”

“I just…” Isack trailed off, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “She’s… her. And I’m just… me.”

Pierre leaned forward, tone softening. “Yeah. And she wants you. You think she flirts like that with everyone? The girl would wear your face on a shirt if it wasn’t weird.”

Isack blinked. “It is kind of weird.”

“Exactly,” Pierre said with a grin. “And you still like it.”

Silence. Then finally—

“I’m thinking about it,” Isack said quietly. “Asking her out.”

Pierre clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Just do it before Ollie starts a bet behind your back.”

Isack raised an eyebrow. “…Starts?”

Pierre smiled innocently. “Oh. Babe. It’s already live.”

—

It was too early for the paddock to be buzzing yet—barely 7:00 a.m.—but the motorhomes were awake. Media crews were trickling in, engineers hunched over laptops, and the espresso machine in hospitality was already whirring to life like a sacred ritual.

You spotted Isack first. He was standing by the coffee bar, hoodie half-zipped, hair still a little messy from sleep. He looked comfortable, soft even. Not quite ready to race yet.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Morning, Hadjar,” you said, stepping up beside him and reaching for a cup.

He turned, offering a sleepy smile that turned quickly into something flustered when he realized it was you. “Oh. Hey.”

You gave him a once-over. “You always this cute before caffeine?”

His hand fumbled slightly on the coffee stirrer. “Uh—thanks? I think?”

You poured yourself a coffee like you hadn’t just made him stutter. “So,” you said casually, “if I wish you good luck now, does it count more than when I say it right before the race?”

Isack laughed softly under his breath. “I think that depends on how you say it.”

You leaned in slightly, voice low and warm. “Then good luck, Isack.”

He was definitely blushing now. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

You grinned over your cup. “Why would I? You’re fun when you blush.”

He looked away, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before lights out,” you teased. “I have a schedule to respect.”

There was a pause, a soft kind of quiet that lingered between sips of coffee and gentle glances. Then—

“Do you always make this much time to flirt?” he asked, still not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “Only with you.”

That made him look up. And this time, he didn’t look away so quickly.

—

The music was loud, the drinks were cold, and the lights strobed pink and purple across the club as post-race energy spilled into the night. You were sandwiched between Alexandra and Ollie, heels off, vodka soda in hand, laughing at some ridiculous story about Charles when it happened.

Your gaze flicked across the room instinctively—like it always did, always looking for him.

And there he was. Isack.

He was by the bar, hoodie long gone, white t-shirt clinging to him in the heat of the room. And right beside him? Some girl. Long legs, a low-cut dress, her hand grazing his arm like she belonged there. You stopped mid-laugh.

Ollie noticed instantly. “What?”

You didn’t answer.

He followed your gaze, and his jaw clenched. “Oh.”

Alexandra leaned around you, clocked it in two seconds flat, and handed you her drink. “I’ll fight her.”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “No. It’s fine. He’s allowed to talk to people. He’s single.”

“Yeah,” Ollie said, “but he’s not available. Big difference.”

You shook your head, forcing a smile that felt a little too tight. “I knew he wasn’t serious. It was just flirting. It’s fine.”

Ollie turned to Alexandra. “I’m gonna fix this.”

“Oh god,” you muttered. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing bad,” Ollie said, way too cheerfully. “I’m just gonna… remind him what he’s missing.”

—

ynlawson

liked by olliebearman, alexandrasaintmleux, liamlawson30 and 1,840,000 others.

ynlawson : me, ollie, alex and a vodka soda are a dangerous combo

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—

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liamlawson30 : i am confused

↳ ynlawson : what is new?

↳ liamlawson30 : will i ever get an explanation or do i need to start stalking the gossip pages?

↳ ynlawson : call me now 🙄 you’re lucky I love you

olliebearman : we were so well-behaved actually 😇

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↳ alexandrasaintmleux : don’t lie to the people. we almost got kicked out 🥴

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↳ olliebearman : what they don’t know won’t kill them!

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kimi.antonelli : uh oh uh oh she is a haas fan now. this never happens

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↳ ynlawson : id say im just more a fan of mr bearman and estie bestie

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gabrielbortoleto_ : isack i can see you in the likes stop lurking

↳ olliebearman : gabi😭

—

The sun was barely up when you and Ollie walked into the paddock, but the stunt was already underway.

You were dressed casually—just jeans, sunglasses, and a slightly-too-big Haas team jacket. Ollie’s number was embroidered on the sleeve. You wore it like it was yours.

And your fingers? Laced tightly with his.

People noticed.

That was the whole point.

Ollie, ever the committed co-conspirator, gave your hand a little squeeze as you stepped through the media entrance. “Remind me again—are we trying to make Isack mad, jealous, or panicked?”

“Whichever gets the fastest result,” you grinned.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Across the paddock, Isack was standing just outside the VCARB hospitality unit, helmet tucked under one arm, talking to an engineer. The second he looked up and saw you with Ollie—hands linked, wearing that jacket—his entire expression changed.

Eyes locked. Jaw clenched. Blink. Look away.

And then… he turned his back.

No wave. No hello. No smug little smile like he normally gave you. Just a sharp turn and a full-body retreat.

You stopped mid-step.

“Well,” Ollie muttered, “that worked.”

But before you could even process Isack’s reaction, Liam came storming out of the VCARB garage like a man on a mission.

“Oh no,” you mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Ollie grinned.

“Okay,” Liam said, stopping in front of the two of you with the intensity of a team principal mid-chaos. “What the hell is going on?”

“What?” you asked innocently.

“You’re holding hands. You’re wearing his jacket. Isack looks like someone stole his dog. I blinked and suddenly you’re in a fake relationship with your best friend?!”

“It’s not fake,” Ollie said sweetly.

Liam narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push me, Bearman.”

You sighed. “Okay. It’s a plan. Isack showed up to the club with another girl, and I was kind of… upset. So Ollie and I are making him jealous.”

Liam blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He looked between the two of you, then back toward where Isack had disappeared inside. “And how’s it going?”

“He looked like he wanted to launch himself into orbit,” Ollie offered helpfully.

Liam paused.

And then—grinned.

“Okay. I’m in.”

You and Ollie stared at him.

“Wait, what?”

“Isack’s been in love with you since, like, mid-2023. He just refuses to do anything about it. If this is what it takes to shake him out of his clueless little shell, I’ll personally buy you matching wedding bands.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No,” Liam said, pulling out his phone, “I’m posting a photo of you two holding hands. Let’s stir the pot.”

“Welcome to the team,” Ollie said, grinning like this was the best day of his life.

And just like that, Operation Jealous Hadjar had a new member—and the countdown to Isack’s breaking point had officially begun.

—

Later that afternoon, you were sitting in hospitality with Liam and Ollie, halfway through a croissant and laughing over Ollie’s dramatic reenactment of Isack’s face when he first saw you two walk in that morning.

“He blinked so hard,” Ollie said. “Like he was buffering. Physically.”

“He didn’t even nod at me,” Liam added. “Just looked at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.”

“I feel kind of bad,” you mumbled, sipping your iced coffee.

“No you don’t,” both boys said in unison.

Before you could respond, Alexandra strutted into the motorhome like she was arriving at fashion week instead of an F1 paddock. Her sunglasses were on, her hair was perfect, and her expression said she was here for business.

“You’re doing this wrong,” she said, not even bothering to say hello.

“Excuse me?” Liam blinked.

“Your plan. The jealousy thing. It’s good,” she admitted, sliding into the seat next to you. “But it’s not nearly public enough. It needs subtle drama. Elegance. Nuance. Soft-launch levels of manipulation.”

Ollie leaned forward like a student in a lecture. “Go on.”

“First,” Alexandra said, taking off her sunglasses. “You need more content. Instagram Stories. Blurry dinner pics. Something that looks like it’s a soft couple debut, but still leaves room for speculation.”

You nodded slowly. “Mysterious. Tempting.”

“Exactly. Second,” she added, “you need to show Isack you’re not heartbroken. You’re thriving. So we go out again. Tonight. Just the four of us. Somewhere trendy. Somewhere with cameras.”

“Won’t that push him away more?” you asked.

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, if he wanted to move on, he would have. He hasn’t. He’s spiraling. Let’s push.”

“She’s right,” Liam said, surprisingly serious. “He came into the garage, slammed his bottle of water on the counter, and then walked straight into a wall.”

Ollie coughed. “He also told me to tell you hi. And then immediately told me not to tell you that.”

You smiled down at your coffee cup. “He’s losing it.”

“And by tomorrow,” Alexandra said, “he’ll snap. Trust me.”

You looked at the three of them—Ollie, Alexandra, Liam. Your fake boyfriend, your brother, and your emotionally unhinged co-conspirator. The holy trinity of chaos.

“Alright,” you said. “Let’s finish this.”

Alexandra grinned. “Good girl.”

—

olliebearman and ynlawson have added to their stories!

seen by isackhadjar, liamlawson30, alexandrasaintmleux and others.

alexandrasaintmleux : ah yes this is what i like to see

liamlawson30 : this is grossing me out but it should work. he just threw his phone across the room

—

The music was loud—bass thumping through your chest, lights flashing pink and violet across the dark room. You were already on your second drink, heart light, limbs loose from dancing, but none of it compared to the look Isack gave you from across the club.

He hadn’t spoken to you since the paddock. Not once. Not a message. Not a glance. Not a word. Just silence. Until now. Now, he was watching you like he couldn’t not.

You were dancing with Ollie, close enough to feel his breath near your ear. Your arms were wrapped loosely around his shoulders, the two of you swaying to the beat in a way that looked far too intimate to anyone watching—which, of course, was the point.

Your jacket was off, tossed over a chair somewhere, leaving your dress on full display—black, silky, a little too short, a little too daring.

“Eyes on us again,” Ollie murmured in your ear.

You didn’t even need to look. You felt it. The heat of Isack’s gaze was unmistakable.

“Good,” you said, barely audible over the music.

“Want to dial it up?” Ollie asked, mischief tugging at his lips.

You turned your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the spot just beneath your ear. Then another, lower on your neck. Gentle, slow, feather-light—but absolutely visible to anyone watching. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. It was all part of the plan. And it worked.

Before the next beat of the song could drop, you felt a hand wrap firmly around your wrist. Isack.

He didn’t say anything—he just looked at Ollie once, jaw tight, and tugged you away from the crowd without waiting for permission. You followed. Breathless. Heart pounding.

He pulled you down a hallway, away from the music, past the bathrooms and into a private staff hallway dimly lit and quiet enough to feel everything you were both trying not to say.

When he finally stopped, he turned around slowly—his eyes wide, wild, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

You raised an eyebrow. “Dancing?”

He stepped closer.

“I asked you something.”

You didn’t flinch. “You’ve been ignoring me for days, Isack. What did you think was going to happen?”

His eyes searched yours. “You think that means I don’t care?”

“Doesn’t really feel like you do,” you said, tone soft but cutting. “You saw me at the garage. You saw the jacket. You saw us. And you looked away like I was no one.”

He shook his head. “I looked away because I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Isack exhaled sharply, pacing once like he was trying to hold it together—and failing.

“You flirt with me like it’s nothing,” he said, voice quiet but intense. “You wear my number, show up in my space, call me good with my hands and act like it doesn’t wreck me.”

“I—”

“No, listen,” he interrupted. “And then you show up with Ollie, holding his hand, wearing his jacket, and—” His jaw flexed. “And then I see him kiss your neck and I just… I snapped.”

You were silent for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why say something now?”

“Because,” he said, eyes locking on yours, “seeing you with someone else made it real. Made me realize that if I don’t say something, I’m going to lose you.”

He stepped closer. Barely a breath between you.

“I’ve liked you since before I even understood why,” he whispered. “But I didn’t think someone like you could ever feel the same.”

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you this whole time, Isack. Everyone else knew it. Except you.”

Silence.

Then, finally, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first—uncertain, like he still wasn’t sure this was real. But then your hands slid into his hair, and he sighed against your lips, and suddenly it was everything at once—slow, desperate, right.

He kissed you like he needed it. Like he’d been waiting months to.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless, you smiled.

“Still think I don’t mean it?”

He laughed, forehead pressed to yours. “No. But I think I’m going to make sure I never forget it again.”

The air outside the club was cooler, quieter. The muffled bass still pulsed behind you, but out here, it felt like the world had exhaled.

You and Isack stepped out hand in hand, your fingers still tangled like you were afraid letting go might undo everything that just happened in that hallway.

He was looking at you differently now—eyes soft, lips curved up in the most genuine, awestruck smile. You could tell he was still replaying it in his head. So were you.

And then—

“OH MY GOD THEY DID IT!”

Ollie’s voice shattered the peace as he came barreling toward you like a golden retriever off leash.

Alexandra was a step behind him, calm and collected in the way only a woman in heels and perfect winged eyeliner could be, but even she couldn’t suppress the smug little smile on her face.

Liam strolled out last, hands in his pockets, a satisfied smirk already locked and loaded.

“Finally,” he said, tossing his hands up like he’d just won a bet with the universe. “I was starting to think I’d have to stage a whole fake breakup.”

“We should’ve taken bets,” Alexandra said, slipping her arm around your shoulders. “I had tonight circled in red on my calendar since Monaco.”

Ollie stopped directly in front of Isack, arms crossed. “So? How was it? Do you feel alive? Has your skin cleared? Is your heart full?”

Isack laughed, cheeks still a little flushed. “You’re so annoying.”

Ollie beamed. “I only do it out of love.”

Liam stepped between you both, slapping a hand on Isack’s shoulder. “You hurt her, I ruin you and your career. But, you know. I’m happy for you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was actually kind of sweet until the death threat.”

“I meant that part especially.”

Isack squeezed your hand again and leaned in to murmur, “They’re insane.”

“I told you,” you whispered back. “They’re my chaos. But they’ve got good timing.”

The five of you started walking toward the waiting car—Isack’s hand still in yours, Liam mock-interviewing him about “how it feels to finally confess,” Ollie filming a selfie video like a reality show finale, and Alexandra casually applying lip gloss like she hadn’t just orchestrated your entire love life.

It was loud. Ridiculous. Perfect.

And for the first time in a long time, Isack didn’t want to run away from the noise.

Because he was walking out of the club with you.

—

isackhadjar

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isackhadjar : okay i finally admitted im madly in love with yn😇 can the internet return to normal now? 

tagged : ynlawson

—

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ynlawson : i’m going to be so unbearable about this. like chronically. love you pooks 

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isackhadjar : love you more🙄

olliebearman : we had to break your brain to get you there but I’m proud of you 

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ynlawson : you’re getting him in the divorce if he messes this up

francolapinto : “finally” is right. we were suffering out here.

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—

bonus scene 1/2 : first date with isack!

It was barely a week after the hard launch, but somehow everything already felt different. Not in a bad way. In the best way.

Because for the first time since all the teasing, flirting, and chaos, Isack Hadjar was yours. Officially. Out loud. No more games. No more plans.

And tonight? Tonight was your first date.

“You’re nervous,” you teased as he walked beside you down a quiet cobblestone street just outside the city, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“I’m not nervous,” he said, absolutely nervous.

You smiled. “It’s okay if you are. I kind of am too.”

He looked over at you, eyes soft, lips tugging up. “Why would you be nervous?”

“Because you’ve liked me forever, apparently,” you said playfully, bumping your shoulder into his, “and now I have to live up to all the mental fan fiction you’ve written in your head.”

He groaned, covering his face. “I knew telling you was a mistake.”

You laughed, grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers with his. “I think it’s adorable.”

He squeezed your hand. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You’re lucky I said yes.”

He stopped walking for a moment, pulling you gently toward him. “You didn’t say yes. You fake-dated Ollie and made me panic until I lost my mind.”

“And you loved it,” you said, looping your arms around his neck. “Admit it.”

“I loved you,” he murmured.

You blinked.

The words weren’t dramatic or showy—they were whispered into your hair like a quiet truth. Like he’d known it for a while and just hadn’t had the space to say it yet.

You pulled back slowly. “You’re really bad at first dates.”

“Why?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

“Because you say things like that and make it really hard for me not to kiss you on this random street.”

He smiled, leaning down. “Then don’t resist.”

You kissed him—slow, easy, like you had all the time in the world. Later, there’d be late-night pasta at a tucked-away little place he found, a walk along the river, shared dessert, and the moment you accidentally called him your boyfriend out loud and watched him absolutely melt.

But for now? Just the two of you. A quiet street. The feeling of falling into something real.

And Isack, looking at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because, to him, it didn’t.

—

bonus scene 2/2 : first paddock appearance together

You didn’t expect it to be a thing. Okay—maybe a small thing. A few teasing comments. A couple of knowing smirks. A selfie or two. But nothing huge. You were wrong.

Because the moment you and Isack stepped through the gates of the paddock, hand in hand, sunglasses on, sun shining down like the universe itself was endorsing this relationship… The entire grid lost their minds.

First came Ollie, already posted up outside the Haas motorhome, who spotted you both instantly and let out the loudest gasp humanly possible.

“THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS IN PUBLIC. IN PUBLIC!!”

Then Gabriel, popping his head out from behind an engineer: “Is this real?! Am I dreaming?! Did we win?!”

And then came Franco and Kimi, sprinting across the paddock like they were storming the gates of heaven. Kimi was holding a tiny checkered flag someone definitely stole from a grid kid.

Charles was clapping. Alex Albon started cheering. Lando pulled out his phone and went LIVE.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lando narrated dramatically, zooming in, “we are witnessing history.”

You squeezed Isack’s hand and leaned in with a grin. “Regrets?”

He was blushing—of course he was—but he shook his head, smiling so wide it actually made your chest ache.

“None.”

As if on cue, Alexandra appeared with Pierre, both already mid-applause.

“We knew before you did,” Alexandra sang, absolutely smug.

“Finally,” Pierre said with a dramatic bow. “It only took five hundred hours of sexual tension and a fake relationship with Ollie Bearman.”

“I’m right here,” Ollie called.

Lando wandered past with a smirk, coffee in hand. “So are we doing a wedding or an elopement? Just wondering for calendar reasons.”

And Liam, your dear brother, appeared beside Isack with a look of long-suffering amusement. “I hope you understand this means I get to give a full speech at every dinner now. I made this happen.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Isack muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Liam grinned.

The two of you made your way toward the VCARB garage, still hand in hand, still very much the center of attention—and, weirdly enough, you didn’t hate it. You kind of loved it.

Because this wasn’t just flirting anymore. Or teasing. Or almosts. This was real. And as Isack opened the door for you and let you step in first—still blushing, still grinning—you realized you were all in. And so was he.

—

[faerlune]

Guess what movie I just watched ╰(*´︶`*)╯

── NIGHT LIGHT ⟢

( SYNOPSIS ) ── after another one of reed’s infamous power outages, your boyfriend johnny comes with the solution to all your problems.

( WARNINGS ) ── no spoilers!! being scared of the dark. nothing else!

It had happened again.

Another one of Reed Richards’ late night experiments had blown the power grid, leaving your apartment in pitch black silence. Living just a few blocks from the Baxter Building had its perks, proximity to your superhero boyfriend being the main one, but moments like this made you question whether it was all worth it.

The bad part? Losing power twice a week, like clockwork, thanks to Reed tinkering with things the city’s infrastructure was clearly not built to handle. The worse part? You were still, to this day, hopelessly afraid of the dark. A childhood thing. Unresolved, unimportant. At least that’s what you always told yourself.

But the good part? Johnny always came.

The second the lights flickered out, he was already on his way, like muscle memory. Hovering outside your window, flames crackling gently across his body, casting warm light across your bedroom walls.

You were curled up in bed, flashlight wedged under the blankets like some makeshift bunker, when you heard a soft tap at the glass. That familiar quiet hum of fire accompanied it, comforting, warm, familiar.

You peeked your head out from under the comforter, already smiling. And there he was, floating a few feet from your window, his face illuminated by a soft amber glow, brows raised, that charmingly smug smile already in place.

You climbed out of bed and crossed the room, opening the window just enough for him to slip inside. He extinguished the flames across most of his body the second he landed, except for the steady flame burning on his right hand, casting gentle light across your room like a makeshift lantern.

“I heard someone was in desperate need of a hero,” he teased, his voice soft but playful. “Lucky for you, I happen to know one.”

You rolled your eyes as he stepped closer, his hand finding your hip like it always did when you needed grounding. He bent down and kissed your forehead, lingering for just a second longer than usual.

“I came as soon as the lights went out,” he said more gently now, his voice dropping to something quieter, more gentle.

You hummed softly, leaning into him without a word, because you didn’t need to say anything. Johnny already knew what came next.

The two of you made your way back to bed, you already dressed in your favorite pajamas while Johnny stripped down to his boxers, climbing in behind you. He settled in with the back of his head resting against your headboard, one scorching arm stretched out across the nightstand, casting a warm, amber light across the room.

With a quiet laugh, you climbed over him, nestling between his legs. Your hips rested comfortably against his and your head found its place on his bare chest, your arms curling around his waist. You nuzzled your nose against his skin, the heat of him grounding you.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in my nightstand,” you murmured against him with a sleepy smile.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I did all the shopping for your apartment, remember? Fireproof nightstand, babe.”

Your laugh was muffled against his chest, eyes already fluttering shut. And just like that, you drifted off in his arms, soft snores slipping from your lips, your face relaxed and peaceful against his warmth.

Johnny brought his free hand to your hair, gently brushing it back from your face. He watched you for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Only when he was sure you were completely asleep did he dim his glowing hand, sighing softly as he shifted to get comfortable beneath you.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your head. Both arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could anchor you to this exact moment. “’Night.”

It was always like this. He’d come over and stay up just long enough to see you safely asleep before turning off his ‘night light’. And every morning, without fail, you’d wake up in the same place, wrapped in the arms of the boy who swore your nightstand was fireproof… even if the scorch marks told a slightly different story.

( TAGS ) ── @jclolz22 @pittsick [to be added]

[faerlune]

I love love love what’s going on here !!!

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘𝓷𝓭𝓮𝔁

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

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈:

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒪𝓃𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓇

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝒾𝓋𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝒾𝓍

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐸𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝑒𝓃

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

[faerlune]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(3.3k)

Chapter Ten

Chapter Nine, Chapter Eight, Chapter Seven, Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t… warnings - suggestive content

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

The house lay quiet in the early morning light, its aged walls steeped in the memories of countless seasons, echoes of laughter and tension alike folded into the grain of the wood. Rory stood at the kitchen window, watching the mist curl lazily over the rolling hills that framed the estate. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and freshly brewed coffee — simple, yet grounding.

Inside, the muted clink of china and the low murmur of voices threaded through the rooms. Kimi’s family moved with practiced grace around the kitchen — his mother humming softly as she arranged pastries on a platter, his father meticulously setting the table, each gesture precise but warm.

Rory felt a strange weight settle over her chest — a mixture of anticipation and restraint — as she stepped into the room. The morning was supposed to be calm, a quiet pause before the relentless storm of the race weekend. But beneath the surface, everything was taut with unspoken things. She knew Kimi was not only facing the pressure of his home race, but also dealing with the shared lie between the two of them.

She caught Kimi’s eye from across the room, his figure framed in the soft amber light filtering through the curtains. His expression was unreadable, as always, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed a tension she knew too well.

Their eyes locked briefly, a silent conversation flickering in that glance — recognition, connection, a shared burden neither wanted to voice aloud.

The kitchen fell into a comfortable quiet as everyone settled around the table. Rory sat beside Kimi, her fingers curling loosely around her coffee cup. The warmth seeped into her palms, steadying her racing thoughts.

Ollie, sitting opposite, observed them with an intensity that made Rory’s skin prickle. His gaze was subtle but unyielding, a steady undercurrent of curiosity and suspicion. He wasn’t oblivious — not to the small moments she and Kimi tried to hide, the way their hands nearly brushed, the quick, furtive glances they exchanged.

Her smile was soft but tight as Ollie’s voice cut through the gentle clatter.

“You’ve been... different this weekend.”

Rory’s throat tightened. She met his gaze squarely. “I’m fine,” she said quietly, but the words felt hollow.

Ollie’s eyes lingered. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

She bit her lip, fighting the urge to confess everything — the restless nights, the stolen moments, the quiet hope she wasn’t ready to admit even to herself.

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

The morning sun cast a pale sheen over the paddock at Imola, gilding the canvas awnings and shimmering across the shallow puddles left by last night’s rain. The circuit was already awake, alive with the slow, methodical rhythm of race weekend preparations.

In the distance, engines coughed to life, mechanics moving like clockwork around the cars, radios crackling with clipped voices. Tyres stacked, checked, rolled away. Tools laid out with precision. The scent of petrol and warm asphalt clung to the air, thick and familiar.

It was the kind of morning that always made Rory feel a little bit breathless—on edge, like the paddock itself was holding its breath in anticipation. But today, that feeling had teeth. It gnawed at her ribs.

Because today wasn’t just qualifying. It was Imola.

The Antonellis’ home race. Kimi’s home race.

Rory found him near the back of the garage, standing half in shadow, half bathed in the dull gold light filtering through the open shutters. His race suit hung low around his waist, arms bare, the fireproofs clinging to his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to pull the sleeves up yet. His hands were braced against the workbench, head bowed as he watched the engineers pore over data, their voices a steady hum of analysis that he seemed entirely detached from.

But Rory knew better.

She’d spent enough hours in enough garages to know what this kind of silence meant. It wasn’t disinterest. It was a heavy weight. The kind that settled deep, dragging against the spine, pulling every thought into focus.

She didn’t call his name. Didn’t need to. She just approached quietly, her lanyard bouncing lightly against her ribs, her camera bag still slung over her shoulder.

When she reached him, she stood beside him without a word, her hands curling around the strap of her bag, knuckles pale. She felt the tension radiating off him in waves, coiled tight beneath his skin.

They stood like that for a while. Just breathing in the sounds of the garage around them—mechanics calling out tyre pressures, tyres thumping against the ground, the low whir of the wheel guns, the occasional burst of static over the team radios.

“Qualifying today,” Rory said eventually, her voice soft, careful. It wasn’t a reminder. He didn’t need one. It was just something to bridge the distance between them. Something to offer him a place to land.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

His voice was low, rougher than usual, like it had been scraped thin.

Rory pressed her shoulder lightly against his, just enough that he’d know she was there, that he didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

“You’ve handled worse,” she murmured, because he had. She’d seen him fight through impossible grids, through penalties and setbacks, through weekends that seemed written off before they even began.

But today was different.

Today was home.

And the home crowd didn’t forgive easily.

Kimi’s eyes flicked to hers, just briefly, and something in them softened, like he wanted to believe her. Like he wanted to set the weight down, even if only for a moment.

But then his expression shuttered again, drawn tight. His walls, always so quick to rise when the pressure sharpened.

“We’ll see,” he said, his voice like gravel.

Rory wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter if he qualified last or landed pole. That he was still the same to her. That she’d still find him in the crowd, still watch him with the same quiet ache blooming behind her ribs.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Not here.

Not with Ollie only a few steps away. Not with the Antonellis talking quietly near the hospitality suite.

They weren’t alone. They hadn’t been since they arrived.

So instead, she offered him a small, measured smile and stepped back, letting the space grow between them again.

She lifted her camera, framing a shot of the garage as the team gathered for final checks. The light caught in the curve of the halo, glinting off the wheel guns, flashing against the carbon fibre.

Kimi slipped his arms into his race suit and tugged the zip up in one clean motion, his body moving with the fluidity of muscle memory. When he fastened the HANS device around his shoulders, she caught the brief flicker of hesitation in his movements, the fraction of a second where his hands faltered before tightening the straps.

The pressure was different today. It pressed harder.

Rory adjusted the focus, catching a quiet shot of him securing his gloves, head dipped in concentration.

Her pulse thudded beneath her skin.

“Go in five,” one of the engineers called.

Kimi’s helmet was already in his hands. He spared her one last glance, just the barest flick of his gaze before the helmet came down over his head, the visor snapping shut with a finality that always made her stomach twist.

It was like he disappeared behind it.

And Rory couldn’t follow him there.

She tracked his movements through her lens as he made his way to the car, slipping into the cockpit with the ease of routine. The team swarmed around him, adjusting straps, tightening belts, checking brake temperatures.

She lowered her camera, the weight of it suddenly too much.

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P13.

She knew he wouldn’t be happy. 

Rory lingered at the edge of the pit wall, camera slack against her hip, watching him through the crush of bodies and equipment. She could feel him slipping behind the armour again—movements too controlled, face too carefully blank.

And she hated it.

When Kimi brushed past her without a word, she followed, weaving through the back corridors of the paddock until the noise thinned, until the sharp edges of the world dulled around them.

It wasn’t far—just behind the garage, tucked near a stack of spare tyres and transport crates where no one cared to look.

“Kimi.”

He didn’t stop. Just dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard enough that it sounded like it rattled in his chest.

She caught his arm, fingers curling tight around his wrist. “Wait.”

He stilled but didn’t turn.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” she said, softer now, but still with that edge, that heat rising just under her skin.

His jaw tensed, a muscle flickering in his cheek. “I’m not upset.”

“Kimi.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, finally yanking his arm free and rounding on her. His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed sharp. “I’m pissed off. I’m tired. But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Rory folded her arms across her chest, squaring her stance. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His mouth twisted, but not into a smile. “Pretend? I’m not pretending. I just—” He broke off, glancing back toward the garage, as if the walls could hear them.

“I just don’t get to have this. Not here. Not now.”

Her stomach tightened. She knew what he meant. They didn’t get this. Not comfort. Not softness. Not in front of the team, not in front of their families.

“Yeah,” she said, biting the word out before she could stop herself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t touch you in front of them. I can’t even—” She shook her head, the burn in her throat catching her off guard. “I can’t even tell you it’s okay without it being a risk.”

Kimi’s eyes flicked to hers, something fragile flickering behind them, but his frustration won out. “That’s the deal, Rory. You knew what this was.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and raw.

Kimi’s chest rose and fell, his breathing too measured now, like he was holding something in, something sharp and dangerous that he didn’t trust himself to say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, but it still carried that bite. “What do you want me to do? Kiss you in front of your brother? In front of my family? Pretend no one would notice?”

“I want you to let me be there for you,” she shot back, the words tumbling out before she could soften them. “I want to be able to tell you it’s not the end of the world without having to chase you behind the garage like some—”

“Like some what?” he challenged, stepping closer, his frustration sharp but not cold. Never cold with her.

“Like some secret,” she whispered, and this time she couldn’t stop the tremble in her voice. “Like I’m something you’re ashamed of.”

Kimi’s expression cracked, just a little, just enough to let something real slip through.

“You know you’re not,” he said, quieter now, but not gentler. Still frayed. Still coiled tight. “But if we’re not careful, we’ll lose this before we’ve even had the chance to figure out what it is.”

Rory hated that he was right. Hated that she’d known it all along.

His hand brushed hers—barely there, a ghost of a touch—but she latched onto it like it was something she could still hold onto.

And before she could push again, before she could ask him to give her more, he slipped back into the noise of the paddock, leaving her behind with the echo of the fight still caught in her chest.

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The house hummed with quiet energy, everyone settling in for the night, but Rory couldn’t sit still. She paced the hallway, the weight of the earlier argument still sitting in her chest, sharp and bitter.

She hadn’t expected him to knock on her door. Hadn’t expected to find him standing there, hair still damp from his post-qualifying shower, hoodie slung carelessly over his shoulders like he was just passing by. But his eyes told a different story—drawn, restless, frayed at the edges.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, but he didn’t move to leave.

“I know.”

And still, she let him in. Still, she let him back in, even though things between them were tangled, even though they hadn’t properly stitched the gap that cracked open behind the garage.

They didn’t talk about it now. Words would ruin this, whatever this was.

His hands found her waist, rough but wanting, pulling her in like he couldn’t help it, like he’d tried to stay away but had folded in the end. Her fingers laced into his hair, tugging him closer until his mouth crashed against hers, all tension and heat, no space left between them.

They stumbled into the narrow hallway outside her room, backs thudding softly against the wall. The house creaked around them, floorboards shifting beneath their feet, but neither of them cared. His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, desperate to memorize every part of her.

It was a kind of desperation she’d only ever seen from him in these moments—when the doors were closed, when no one was watching, when they didn’t have to carry the weight of who they were supposed to be.

His mouth dragged along the line of her jaw, teeth grazing her skin, his breath uneven. She clung to him like she could pull him closer, like she could fold them into each other if she just held on tightly enough.

“Kimi,” she whispered, the name catching on a sharp breath as his hands splayed across her back, pressing her to the wall.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, the words barely audible against her throat.

“Then don’t,” she breathed, threading her fingers through his hair, tipping his head back just enough to kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense.

It was clumsy in places, rushed in others, a quiet war between wanting and knowing better. They both knew better. But neither of them pulled away.

The wooden floor creaked again, this time from farther down the hall. Rory froze, her heart stuttering violently in her chest as she broke the kiss, pressing her palm flat against Kimi’s chest.

“Wait—” she mouthed, pulse thudding in her throat.

Footsteps, slow but steady, drawing closer.

Kimi’s breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against hers as his hands slid reluctantly from her waist.

They heard the faint clink of a glass being set down somewhere near the kitchen. A door creaked open. Then Ollie’s voice—low, tired, humming something under his breath as he crossed the hallway toward his room.

Rory’s grip on Kimi’s hoodie tightened, dragging him a step backward toward her door, but Kimi shook his head. Too risky. Too loud.

Instead, he tugged her gently by the wrist, pulling her a few paces down the hall toward the darker stretch that curved around to the back stairwell. They pressed themselves into the narrow alcove, half-hidden by the bend in the wall, hearts thundering, breath shallow.

Ollie’s footsteps paused just metres away. He sighed, muttered something about tomorrow’s early start, then kept walking, the floorboards groaning faintly under his weight until finally, mercifully, a door clicked shut.

Silence bled into the space between them, sharp and electric.

When Rory finally exhaled, Kimi’s hand slid from her wrist to her palm, lacing their fingers together. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow, like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“We’re idiots,” she whispered, her voice trembling on the edge of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agreed, leaning in to steal another kiss, this one softer, lingering, like an apology. “But you’re mine.”

Her chest caved a little at that. She could feel the pulse of something dangerous beneath the words—something she wanted, something she feared.

Before she could answer, he let her hand slip from his and disappeared down the back staircase, his steps light, practiced, like he’d been doing this his whole life.

And Rory stood alone in the dark, the ghost of his touch still warming her skin.

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The next morning, the paddock buzzed with a nervous kind of energy, the kind that always preceded a home race.

By the time the grid assembled, the stands were already a blur of flags and banners, a sea of colour and sound, the roar of the tifosi swelling like a tide.

Rory lingered behind the garage as the team made final adjustments. The radio crackled with clipped updates. Kimi’s voice filtered through, distant but steady, despite the nerves she knew must have been chewing at him from the inside out.

When the formation lap began, she moved to the back of the pit wall, her camera forgotten, her attention pinned entirely to the screen as the race unfolded.

Kimi’s start was clean. Nothing spectacular, but he held his position. Thirteenth. A brutal fight through the midfield, but she knew he could push forward.

The laps ticked by, each one stitched with tension. He picked off a car, then another. Patient, methodical. A slow climb, but a climb nonetheless.

Then, on lap 46, his voice cut through the radio again—tighter this time, laced with something sharp.

“Something’s wrong. Losing power.”

The pit wall scrambled, engineers leaning over the monitors, rapid-fire questions and commands snapping through the headsets.

The engineer’s voice crackled through, low and apologetic. “That’s it. We’re retiring the car.”

No outburst. No radio slam. Just silence.

Rory’s stomach twisted.

She found him later in his driver’s room, the door barely ajar. The lights were off, the only illumination coming from the slats in the blinds, cutting pale ribbons across the floor.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, helmet discarded on the table beside him. He was still in his race suit, gloves abandoned on the floor.

His hands were braced against his temples, head bowed, shoulders hunched. He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t speaking.

Rory stepped inside quietly, closing the door with a soft click behind her. She didn’t ask if she could be there. She just crossed the room, lowering herself to sit beside him.

They stayed like that for a while. No words. Just the quiet buzz of the paddock outside and the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing.

When she finally spoke, her voice was careful, steady. “I’m sorry.”

Kimi’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t lift his head.

“I know it’s not just about the race,” she said, watching the curve of his shoulders, the way his fingers dug into his hair like he was holding himself together by sheer force. “It’s everything. The home crowd. The pressure. The weight of all of it.”

His breath shuddered, just once, sharp and uneven.

“I just wanted to finish,” he said, voice rough. “Just wanted to give them something.”

“You don’t owe them anything,” she whispered, placing a hand on his back, her thumb tracing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.

“They came here for me.”

“They came here because they love you. They’ll still love you tomorrow.”

His head finally tipped toward her shoulder, resting there, just barely. Like he was giving in, just a little.

“You don’t have to hold it together right now,” she murmured. “You don’t have to be okay.”

When he turned his face against her skin, she felt the damp heat of his tears—quiet, controlled, but real.

Rory slid her arm around him, holding him close, her lips brushing the top of his hair as the storm settled between them, softer now, shared.

He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t need to. She stayed with him in that quiet room, anchoring him to the floor while the rest of the world spun on without them.

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Thanks for reading!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

tag list: @mywritersmind @chxseversion @widow-cevans @realfootageoftalik

[faerlune]

We Probably Shouldn't - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(3.9k)

Chapter Seven

Chapter Six, Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t…

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The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the distant hush of traffic down below. Rory sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open but untouched, the glow of the screen casting soft blue shadows against her skin. The adrenaline of the day had finally drained, leaving behind an ache in her shoulders and something else she didn’t have the energy to name.

There was a knock.

Not loud. Two sharp taps, then silence. Her heart beat once, hard. Then she stood, barefoot on the carpet, and padded across the room.

When she opened the door, Kimi stood there.

He looked like he hadn’t slept either—hair a little messy, hoodie half-zipped, still wearing the team sweatpants that bunched a little at his ankles.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered. She stepped aside. “Come in.”

He hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking past her shoulder like he was gauging the room, then walked in slowly. She shut the door behind him, pressing her hand to the cool wood for a second longer than necessary. When she turned around, Kimi was standing near the window, hands in his pockets, eyes on the skyline.

She didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the bed and sat down, legs tucked under her. Kimi followed after a second, sitting beside her, careful not to touch, not yet. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. Just waiting.

“You okay?” he asked eventually.

Rory exhaled. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Same.”

She nudged her laptop closed and reached for her camera, still resting on the bedside table. The strap coiled neatly around the lens like a sleeping snake.

“Wanna see all the shots?” she asked.

Kimi nodded, leaning forward. His arm brushed hers, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Rory flicked through the photos slowly, letting the screen show them frame by frame—the pit lane chaos, the blur of cars, Oscar’s grin behind his visor, the way the sun caught on chrome and fireproofs. Kimi was quiet as he looked, every so often letting out a soft sound, half-laugh, half-hum of appreciation.

She stopped on one of him.

Not him - his car, rounding one of the sharper turns. A blur of black.

“Wow,” he murmured. “I’ve wondered what I look like from outside of the car.”

“Alluring,” she whispered back.

Their eyes met.

Something settled between them in the quiet. Not heavy, but thick enough to notice. Kimi’s hand shifted on the duvet. Their knees brushed. Their shoulders bumped as they moved closer to one another, whether they noticed it or not.

“I-,” Kimi started.

Then—

A knock.

This time louder. More sure.

“Rory? You in?”

Ollie.

Rory’s eyes widened. Kimi stood in a second, silent, fast. He looked around like he was calculating.

“Bathroom,” she whispered, already moving.

Kimi didn’t argue. Slipped in and closed the door just as she opened the main one.

Ollie stood in the hall, laptop tucked under one arm, an energy drink in the other. He looked like he had just changed—hair still damp from a shower, shoulders tense.

“Hey,” Rory said, keeping her voice level.

“Figured you’d be up. I’ve got the travel stuff for tomorrow. Figured it’d be easier to go through now.”

“Sure,” she said, stepping back. “Come in.”

She kept her body angled slightly, subtly blocking the bathroom door. Kimi stayed quiet.

Ollie dropped onto the bed and flipped open his laptop. “Okay, so we are leaving for the airport at seven.”

Rory nodded, glancing—quickly—toward the door. “Right.”

Ollie rambled through times, layovers, hotel check-ins. Rory pretended to take notes on her phone, heart knocking at her ribs like it wanted out.

Fifteen minutes.

Then he stood, closed the laptop, stretched with a groan. “Alright. I’ll let you sleep.”

“Thanks,” Rory said, managing a smile.

He kissed her forehead absently. “Night, Ror.”

She locked the door after him, waited until the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, then turned.

The bathroom door opened.

Kimi stepped out slowly, blinking against the soft light. His hair was mussed where he’d run his hands through it. For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if the world outside the bathroom was still real.

Then his eyes found hers.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Yeah.” A pause. “Glad he didn’t need to use the bathroom.”

She laughed quietly. “That would’ve been hard to explain.”

He gave a faint smile, but didn’t move. Stayed where he was. The tension hadn’t broken with Ollie’s visit — if anything, it had thickened, crystallized. They both felt it. In the way her fingers curled against her palm. In the way his shoulders rose with a slower breath.

He took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t move.

“I thought he’d never leave,” he murmured.

Her lips quirked, nervous. “He usually doesn’t. Not when he’s in planner mode.”

Kimi nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Then he stopped in front of her — just close enough to feel the heat rising from her skin.

Neither of them said anything.

He reached up, gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers trailed after, down to the curve of her jaw. Light, almost not touching.

Her breath hitched.

“I should go,” he said.

But he didn’t move.

“Do you want to?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes searched hers.

“No.”

Silence.

Then his hand slid to the back of her neck. And finally, finally, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first — like they were still checking the temperature of it, testing whether it was safe. But then her hands found his chest, curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and everything sharpened.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it all night.

One hand anchored at her waist, pulling her in. The other cupped her cheek, tilting her just so. His lips were warm, sure. She answered without hesitation — leaning in, pressing close, letting herself feel all of it. The rush, the weight, the warmth.

She could taste the end of the night on his breath. Something sweet, maybe mint. His nose brushed hers. Her fingers curled tighter into his hoodie like she didn’t want to let him go.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Seconds, minutes — it didn’t matter. The kiss slowed eventually, turned soft again. But neither of them pulled away.

His forehead touched hers.

“Rory.”

Her name sounded different on his tongue now — lower, gentler. Like a secret.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, like he was still grounding himself.

“I’ve wanted to do that since Melbourne.”

Her heart flipped.

She let out a breathy laugh. “Took you long enough.”

His smile deepened — a little crooked, a little breathless — and he leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

The kiss picked up where it had left off, but it wasn’t soft anymore. It was warmer now, hungrier. Like something had finally broken open.

Her back found the edge of the dresser as he pressed closer, hands settling at her hips. One of hers slid up the line of his chest, fingertips tracing over the zipper on his hoodie, and the other curled around the back of his neck.

He made a soft sound against her lips — low, like it slipped out without meaning to.

She felt it in her stomach.

His mouth moved with more intention now, and hers answered instinctively. Every brush, every pull of his lips had weight behind it — like he’d been waiting too long and didn’t want to waste a second more. She kissed him like she meant it. Like she needed him to know.

And he did.

His hands tightened slightly at her waist, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of her tank—her skin flinched at the contact, not because it startled her, but because it lit her nerves on fire. The touch was careful. Testing. His fingertips were warm where they brushed her skin.

She didn’t stop him.

Instead, she pulled him even closer, the dresser pressing into her back now as he stepped between her legs. He moved one of his hands to her thigh and tapped lightly, signaling her to jump up. He wrapped his hands under her thighs and settled her onto the dresser. The kiss deepened again—slower but heavier—as if the two of them were falling into something and didn’t know how to climb back out.

Kimi pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads brushing.

His voice was low. “This okay?”

Rory nodded, heart in her throat. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again — slower this time, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth. His hand lifted, fingers sliding through her hair at the base of her neck, and she tilted her head for him instinctively, giving in. Her fingers slid under his hoodie, skimming over bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. He shivered a little, but didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that — caught between heartbeats, between breaths, neither of them willing to stop.

But eventually, the intensity began to soften. Not because it faded, but because it settled. Like they’d reached something unspoken and didn’t need to prove it anymore.

Kimi’s kisses grew gentler again, slow presses of his lips to hers. His hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone.

She pulled back just far enough to see his eyes.

They were dark now, but clear. Grounded.

“Still glad you stayed?” she whispered, voice rough.

He exhaled a laugh, nose brushing hers. “More than glad.”

She smiled. Her hands slid down to his sides, anchoring herself there.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Just paused there, breathing each other in.

Eventually, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“I should still go,” he said, even quieter now.

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep not wanting to.”

She swallowed. “Then don’t.”

He smiled again, but this time it was sadder. Tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep.

“If I don’t, I’m not gonna sleep at all. And neither will you, you have to be up early.” he murmured.

She didn’t argue.

He stepped back slowly, like it physically cost him to pull away. His hands lingered on her hips for a second longer before dropping.

She hopped off of the dresser. 

She watched him fix his jacket, fix his hair with one half-hearted rake of his fingers.

At the door, he turned back.

“Rory?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes met hers. They were softer than she’d ever seen them. “Don’t delete that photo.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He was moving before either of them realized. His hands were quick on her waist, his mouth on her -everywhere- her mouth, neck, her chest. She pulled him back up by his neck. Kissing him once more, slow and sure. 

He laughed before kissing her forehead, “Couldn't leave without one more.” 

He moved towards the door.

“See you in Bahrain," he asked.

"Of course."

He gave her one last look — full of something she couldn’t name — and then slipped out the door.

This time, she didn’t move right away. Just stood there, fingers pressed to her lips, heart slowly trying to find its way back into her chest.

Then she turned back to the bed, picked up the camera again.

And stared at the photo for a long, long time.

Her cheeks were still warm.

So was her smile.

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Rory woke up tangled in the sheets, blinking against the soft light leaking in through the curtains.

For a second, she didn’t move.

The room was quiet. Still. Her body felt heavy with sleep, but her mind—her mind was already reaching backwards.

To last night.

To him.

She let her eyes close again, just for a moment, letting the memory of Kimi fill the space behind her eyelids. His mouth. His hands. The way he’d looked at her like he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to leave.

She hadn’t dreamt it. She could still feel the echo of his kiss on her lips. The warmth of his touch lingered like a secret under her skin.

When she finally sat up, the hotel room felt a little colder without him in it.

She glanced toward the camera on the bedside table. The screen was still on — the photo was still there. The one of him, in the car, caught in a rare flurry of movement.

She didn’t let herself stare at it again.

Instead, she slid out of bed, pulled on a hoodie, and started to pack.

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Ollie was already in the lobby when she got there, fresh-faced and chipper in that annoying little-brother way that made her want to throw her coffee at him. He waved when he saw her, phone in one hand, suitcase handle in the other.

“You good?” he asked, like she wasn’t running twenty minutes late.

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Same. Travel day energy,” he said, completely misreading it. 

She nodded, too quickly. 

She felt something stuck in her throat, clumsy and dishonest. Nothing about her felt cool. She still felt warm all over, heat curling low in her belly every time she thought about how Kimi looked at her before he left.

They stepped out into the morning sun, the quiet hum of city traffic surrounding them as they waited for their car.

Ollie was talking about logistics — next stop, who they’d be meeting, what time the briefings were, where their parents would be meeting them. She caught about half of it, her mind still back in the quiet of her hotel room, Kimi’s voice in her ear, his breath catching against her skin.

The ride to the airport was smooth, uneventful. She sat by the window, phone in hand, thumb ghosting over her messages.

Nothing from him yet.

Not that she was expecting anything.

Not really.

Except she kind of was.

She opened her camera roll again, heart tapping out an unsteady beat as she scrolled past the paddock shots, the podium celebrations, and stopped — again — on a new photo. One she took while going through pictures on her bed.

Kimi, sitting on the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watching her with a softness that felt like it didn’t belong to the real world.

She stared at it for too long.

Beside her, Ollie leaned over. She moved quickly, switching the photo to one of a Haas pit stop. 

“That’s a nice one.”

Rory’s thumb darted up, closing the screen. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird,” he said.

She shot him a look. “You’re annoying.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Always.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

At the gate, she pulled her hoodie tighter around her shoulders, earphones in, letting the buzz of her playlist fade into the background.

She didn’t know what this was. What it meant. Whether last night was a moment or the start of something more. She wasn’t even sure if he’d want to talk about it again, or if they'd both silently agree to let it live in that single, quiet pocket of time.

But she knew how it had felt.

That wasn’t nothing.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. Once. Then again.

Kimi Antonelli Did you sleep?

Rory stared at the message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds longer than they needed to. Then:

Rory

Barely. You?

The reply came quicker than she expected.

Kimi Antonelli

Didn’t want to leave.

Something flipped in her chest. A quiet, impossible kind of warmth, like the words were stitched straight into her skin.

Rory

Then why did you?

There was a pause this time. She could almost picture him reading it, thumb paused above the screen, trying to find the right thing to say.

Kimi Antonelli

Didn’t want to make it harder. Though if I stayed, I wouldn’t leave at all.

Her breath caught. She pulled her knees up to her chest in the stiff plastic airport chair, the buzz of boarding announcements a distant hum in her ears.

Rory

You make it sound like that would’ve been a bad thing.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Kimi Antonelli It wouldn’t have been bad. Just dangerous.

That made her stomach twist. Not in a bad way. Just—too much, all at once.

She swallowed, thumb tracing the edge of her phone as if she could ground herself in the feeling.

Rory

Do you regret it?

This time, the pause was longer. A minute, maybe more.

Then:

Kimi Antonelli

No. Do you?

Rory

No.

She didn’t know what else to say, so she didn’t say anything. Just leaned back in her chair, letting that one word settle between them.

No.

She didn’t regret it at all.

Her screen dimmed. She tapped it again, just to keep the conversation alive.

A few seconds later, another message came through.

Kimi Antonelli

I keep thinking about the way you looked at me. After.

Rory smiled, pressing the side of her phone to her cheek.

Rory

Like what?

Kimi Antonelli Like you were trying to memorize my face.

She closed her eyes.

That’s exactly what she had been doing.

Rory

I was.

Her flight was boarding now. Ollie waved at her from the other side of the gate, already halfway down the ramp.

Kimi Antonelli Text me when you land.

Rory

Okay. Try not to forget about me before I do.

Kimi Antonelli

Rory. That’s not possible.

The words followed her as she stepped onto the plane. She found her seat, buckled in, and turned her phone on airplane mode with one last glance.

She stared out the window as the plane taxied, her heart still full of something she hadn’t quite named yet.

Not love. Not yet.

But it was something. Something big. Something that wasn’t going to go away easily.

And for now, that was enough.

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

Thanks for reading!!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

[faerlune]

We Probably Shouldn’t - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(3.4k)

Chapter Six

Chapter Five, Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t…

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

The lights around the paddock had dimmed, trading their earlier harsh brightness for something gentler — amber-toned floodlights casting long shadows across the pavement, distant trucks rumbling like the night was slowly swallowing the last scraps of noise.

Rory walked along the fence line behind the motorhomes, camera slung at her side, fingers flexing idly around the grip. The quiet here was different — not empty, but softened. Distant voices drifted from somewhere near the hospitality units, muffled by canvas and distance. Overhead, the sky was turning that bruised, velvet blue that came just before full dark.

She stopped near the far edge of the lot, toes scuffing the gravel, and looked up.

The Ferris wheel lit up the horizon beyond the circuit — a halo of red and white, slowly spinning in the distance. It looked like something from another world entirely, almost too dreamy to belong to the same place that had been vibrating with engine heat and radio static just hours ago.

Rory raised her camera to her eye. Adjusted her settings. Waited for the wheel to hit just the right angle.

Click.

The shutter broke the hush like a whisper.

She shifted her weight to get another angle — and her grip slipped.

Not badly. Just a clumsy fumble as the strap caught against her jacket sleeve. The camera jerked forward, heavy and off-balance, lens tilting toward the concrete.

It never hit.

A hand closed around the strap in midair — clean, efficient, like it had always known it was needed.

Rory startled, blinking as Kimi straightened up beside her, her camera now safely caught in one palm.

“Your fast,” she said lightly, offering a look.

Their fingers brushed again in the exchange — not dramatic, just brief and solid, like punctuation at the end of a familiar sentence.

“Kind of my job.”

She looked up at him, camera settling against her ribs again. He was backlit by the floodlights strung along the fence — face half in shadow, eyes reflecting gold, mouth set in that steady, unreadable line that never quite gave her enough.

So she raised the camera and took the shot.

Click.

He didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t duck his head or ask what she was doing. Just watched her through the lens like it was nothing.

“You’re getting bold,” he said, not quite teasing.

“Just curious,” she murmured. She checked the screen — not perfect, but something about the blur made it better. He was a little out of focus, all soft edges and warm light, like a memory caught before it had time to harden.

Kimi tilted his head. “Let me see it.”

She hesitated a second — just a beat — before angling the screen toward him.

He looked.

Didn’t say anything right away. Just studied the image for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in the way his brows pulled in ever so slightly.

“That one…” he said, voice quiet now. “You can keep.”

She blinked. “I wasn’t going to delete it.”

“I know,” he said simply. “But you keep them separate. The ones that you like. I saw the folders while you were editing on your laptop."

Rory froze.

It wasn’t accusatory. Wasn’t even a question.

It was just… true.

She did keep them separate. The real ones. Not for Instagram, not for the team folders or Ollie’s manager or the photo dumps she sometimes sent around after a race weekend. The personal ones lived somewhere else. A folder on her desktop with no label, just a string of numbers and letters only she understood.

Kimi was in more of them than she realized.

She wet her lips. “You don’t mind?”

He shook his head, slow and certain. “No.”

She waited. Wondered if that was it. If he’d nod once and walk off like he always did, like he hadn’t just quietly unspooled her heart with a five-word sentence.

But instead, he leaned against the fence beside her, hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie, gaze flicking out toward the spinning Ferris wheel in the distance.

Rory didn’t move.

They stood like that for a long while — side by side, not touching, not speaking — just breathing the same slow, cool air while the paddock behind them gradually fell asleep.

She didn’t take any more pictures.

She didn’t need to.

That one was enough.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

The sun was barely up when Rory stepped out into the paddock.

Suzuka looked different in the morning light — quieter, stripped back. The chaos hadn’t woken up yet. The air still smelled faintly like rubber and dew, the asphalt cool under her boots, shadows long and blue around the corners of the hospitality units.

Her breath puffed out in small clouds. Spring hadn’t quite made up its mind whether it was staying.

She pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and moved slowly toward the Mercedes motorhome, camera bag slung over her shoulder more from habit than intent. She wasn’t even sure she’d use it this morning. Her thoughts were too tangled.

She hadn’t slept well. Not in a bad way — not restless or anxious — just… full. Like her brain kept replaying tiny loops of last night, that half-second moment when their fingers had touched again, the way Kimi had looked at her photo like it wasn’t just a picture.

He said, “You can keep it.” And he meant it.

That was the part that kept catching in her chest.

She rounded the corner near the motorhome and stopped short.

Kimi was already there.

Sitting on the steps outside the entrance, hoodie zipped halfway up, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. His cap was tugged low over his brow again, but the morning light caught on his profile — all clean lines and calm stillness. Like someone had drawn him into the landscape with purpose.

He looked up as she approached.

Didn’t startle, didn’t straighten. Just took her in with that slow-burn gaze of his, like he had all the time in the world.

“Morning,” he said.

Rory felt something stupid and fluttery lodge behind her ribs.

“Hey,” she murmured, hugging the strap of her camera bag closer.

He nodded toward the steps. “You want to sit?”

She hesitated, then nodded, settling beside him with just enough space to be polite, but not so much it felt like she was pulling away.

The early silence stretched between them — soft, but not awkward. Like white space between verses.

“You always up this early?” she asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Only on days that matter.”

She glanced at him, brows arching. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Kimi smirked faintly into his coffee cup. “You want the honest answer?”

Rory grinned despite herself. “Obviously.”

He tilted his head. “Not nervous. Just… focused. There’s a difference.”

She nodded, watching the way his thumb tapped lightly against the paper cup — rhythmic, steady.

“Is this your version of pre-race meditation?” she teased.

He shrugged. “Better than being stuck inside with cameras in my face.”

She snorted. “Touché.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then — like it was nothing — Kimi said, “You didn’t post the photo. In your free practice dump."

Her heart lurched.

Rory turned her head slowly toward him. “You checked? You follow my camera account?”

“I do.”

She searched his face, but it gave her nothing. Just the same composed steadiness — except his eyes. His eyes were watching her a little too closely.

“I wasn’t going post it,” she said carefully. “It didn’t feel like something to share. Wanted to keep it for myself.”

Kimi nodded once, eyes dropping to his coffee again. “Good.”

Another beat.

Then, quietly: “I liked it.”

Rory’s throat felt tight.

She looked down at her lap, fidgeted with the zipper on her hoodie. “I don’t take many of people like that. When they’re not expecting it.”

“You should,” he said simply. “You catch things most people miss.”

The words landed like something important, something heavier than just a compliment.

Rory swallowed. “Thanks.”

They fell into silence again, but this time it buzzed with something closer to a charge.

Then Kimi turned his head toward her, that half-smile ghosting over his lips. “You always fumble your camera, or is that just when I’m around?”

She groaned, head tipping back. “God, don’t start.”

He laughed softly — barely a sound, but it warmed the space between them like sunlight.

Rory bumped her shoulder lightly against his. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m a racing driver,” he said, amused. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”

They sat like that for another few minutes — shoulder to shoulder, toes brushing the edge of shadow, everything slow and still and strangely intimate for a pre-qualifying morning.

Eventually, a call came from inside the motorhome — muffled but unmistakable. One of the engineers, probably.

Kimi sighed. Drained the last of his coffee and stood, stretching the stiffness from his legs.

He turned back toward her, pausing.

“Wish me luck?” he asked.

Rory stood too, brushing her hands off on her thighs. “You don’t need it.”

He looked at her for a moment — long, unreadable — then nodded once and stepped backward toward the door.

Just before disappearing inside, he added over his shoulder:

“Still wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

And then he was gone.

Rory stood frozen for a moment, heart thudding too hard.

Then, soft and to no one at all, she whispered, “Good luck, Kimi.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

The air still pulsed with the leftover adrenaline of qualifying — the paddock moving in quick, purposeful strides. But Kimi wasn’t. He stood near the garage barrier, half in shadow, suit peeled down to his waist, the arms knotted loose around his hips. His fireproof top clung to his frame, the fabric thin and sweat-dark at the collar.

He looked overheated and underwhelmed. Like a match that had flared and sputtered too fast.

Rory spotted him from a distance — all sharp lines and unreadable expression — and made her way over before she could talk herself out of it. The closer she got, the more she could see it: the twitch in his jaw, the tension coiled just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Kimi didn't look at her right away. Just took a sip of water, throat working, gaze locked somewhere in the middle distance.

“Had more in it,” he muttered. “Lost the rear into Spoon. Pushed too hard on entry.”

She didn’t need the telemetry to hear the frustration in his voice. It wasn’t loud, but it was tight. Controlled. The way you clench your fists in your pockets instead of punching something.

Rory stepped in beside him — not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. Close enough to know he noticed.

“Still strong,” she offered, voice low.

Kimi finally glanced her way, and something in his gaze lingered a little too long. “Strong isn’t fast.”

“You’ll be fast tomorrow,” she said, and meant it.

He didn’t reply. Not with words. But the corner of his mouth twitched, barely there. Like something inside him softened for a second.

Rory adjusted the strap of her camera, fingers moving out of habit more than purpose. But Kimi’s eyes tracked the motion — slow and deliberate.

“You’re gonna take another one, aren’t you?” he asked.

She paused. “Do you want me to?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes sweep over her slow enough that she felt it. Like he was weighing something.

Then: “Yeah. Go ahead.”

So she stepped back, raised her camera, and focused.

He didn’t pose. Didn’t look away either. Just stood there — flushed from the run, hair damp under his cap, chest rising and falling like the engine hadn’t quite cooled yet.

She took the photo.

It clicked between them like a lock sliding into place.

“You’ll keep that one too?” he asked, quieter this time.

Rory hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

Kimi shifted slightly, just enough that their arms brushed. Not by accident. Not this time.

Her breath caught.

Something shifted between them in the pause that followed. Not loud, but loud enough — the hum of tension threading tight in the silence. Their gazes met again and held.

Rory swallowed. “You make it hard not to.”

He raised a brow. “To what?”

“To leave you out of the ones I save.”

She could not believe she had just admitted that.

His smile wasn’t really a smile — it was more like a crack in the mask. Brief, crooked, and far too effective.

“You could just admit you like looking at me.”

“Don’t push it,” she said, but the words lacked heat. Her voice had gone soft again. Breathier than she meant it to.

He leaned a little closer, just enough that she felt it — the whisper of space collapsing between them. He leaned down close enough to whisper in her ear.

“I’m not pushing,” Kimi murmured. “Just noticing.”

And then, like nothing had happened at all, he took another sip of water and stepped back, turning his face toward the garage as someone called his name.

But before he left, he tipped his head toward her and said — voice lower, laced with something that might’ve been a promise:

“You’ll be around later?”

Rory nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

He gave a half-smile — one of the rare ones, the kind that hooked itself into the pit of her stomach — and then disappeared back into the crowd.

Rory stood there a little longer, heart thudding against her ribs, her camera warm against her side.

She scrolled back to the photo.

He wasn’t smiling in it. But god, he didn’t have to be.

It was all there anyway.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

Rory found him behind the garage, tucked out of view from the usual chaos. His gear off, changed into a pair of shorts - no shirt - towel around his shoulders, he had a water bottle in one hand, jaw tight, expression locked somewhere between exhausted and pissed off.

She hovered for half a second before stepping closer.

“P6,” she said softly, just to say something.

Kimi didn’t look at her. Just took a drink, slow and deliberate. His neck moved with the swallow, the hollow of his throat flexing. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. Bare.

“Yeah.”

Rory raised her brows. “You're not happy with that?"

That earned a glance, at least. Sharp and sidelong.

"I just know I can do more." He stated.

She leaned against the rail beside him, a careful distance. Still not quite immune to him.

“Do you always stand around shirtless when you're in a mood, or is this a special occasion?”

He glanced down at himself, then back at her — unbothered. “Hot.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

The heat between them wasn’t just from the sun anymore. It had shifted — slow and crawling. His eyes held to hers for a second too long. She looked away first.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“No, I’m—" She stopped herself. “Okay. Maybe.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them, taut and uncertain.

“You want me to leave?” she asked.

“No.” He didn’t even think about it.

She laughed under her breath — too aware of how her arms had started to fold across her chest, a subconscious brace.

“You’re grumpy.”

He gave a dry huff. “You’re nosy.”

“You like that I am.”

Kimi looked at her again — not the casual kind of look. This one felt heavier, like he was trying to decide something.

“I like that you show up, you come find me,” he said finally. “Even when I don’t ask.”

“I don’t need an invitation,” she said, a little sharper than she meant it.

“No,” he said, “but I’d give you one.”

That stopped her cold for a second. Not the words — the way he said them. Like he wasn’t teasing. Like he meant it.

And just as the silence turned into something almost too much to hold—

“Oi,” came a familiar voice from behind them. “You two hiding back here to talk about tire compounds or what?”

Ollie.

Rory stepped back quickly, as if burned. Kimi didn’t move. He just shifted his body slightly, not away from her — but enough to re-center.

Ollie jogged up, helmet still in hand, oblivious as ever. “Man, I’m starving. You guys coming out or what?”

“Eventually,” Rory said, too fast.

Kimi didn’t answer.

Ollie looked between them, confused for a blink. Then shrugged. “Cool. I’ll grab you something if you’re not out by then.”

“Yeah,” Rory said. “Thanks.”

Ollie clapped Kimi on the back and wandered off, whistling.

Silence slipped back between them, stretched thinner now.

Kimi didn’t look away. “He really doesn’t see it.”

“See what?” she asked quietly.

“That I’m not exactly being subtle.”

Her heart thumped once, too loud in her chest.

“I noticed,” she said.

He stepped closer then — not enough to touch, but enough that it made her pulse jump.

“Good,” he murmured.

And then, just like that, he pulled back — slow, deliberate, letting the moment settle, heavy in the air.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, voice low, eyes still lingering on her mouth like he was already thinking about it. "Back at the hotel?"

She didn’t trust herself to say anything. So she just nodded.

And watched him disappear into the garage without looking back.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧

Thanks for reading!!!

ʚ🧸ɞ˚ ʚ🧸ɞ˚

[faerlune]

We Probably Shouldn’t - Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli x Rory Bearman (OC)

(1.4k)

Chapter Five

Chapter Four, Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Kimi and Ollie’s sister start something they probably shouldn’t…

Inhaler Mention!!! Loved this song for this scene!!!

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚

The Suzuka paddock buzzed with its own rhythm — a little sharper, a little cleaner than the lazy hum of China two weeks ago.

The sky stretched wide and endless overhead, an almost aggressive blue, and the wind had that crisp snap to it that only early spring carried.

It wasn’t cold, exactly — but there was a bite hiding in the edges of the breeze, threading through the pit lane and tugging at loose sleeves and lanyards.

The kind of air that made you feel awake whether you wanted to be or not.

Rory tightened her jacket around herself and kept moving, letting the current of people and noise pull her deeper into the paddock’s spine.

Two weeks ago in Shanghai, everything had felt slower, heavier — the damp spring warmth soaking into her bones until the world itself seemed to move on a delay.

Here, it was sharper. Brighter. Like the whole place had been cranked up a few notches, tuned tighter.

It made her nerves hum a little harder under her skin, even as she tried to play it cool.

It was Media Day — the day everyone hated.

Photos, interviews, sponsor meet-and-greets. A day where everything was for show.

And Rory… was completely lost in it.

She had felt the need to be useful, if she was going to travel with Ollie for the season, she needed to contribute somehow. She had packed her camera and decided she would take a few shots here and there. Not for any outlets. Just for the different team admin. She wanted to help out where she could.

She wandered along the narrow service roads behind the garages, camera lanyard bouncing against her ribs with every step.

The wind tugged her hair loose from her braid; she didn’t bother fixing it.

Drivers in perfectly tailored team gear zipped around her, staff members barked into radios, and somewhere near the back fences, a group of teenage fans screamed as someone — maybe Charles, maybe Lando — waved at them.

It all blurred together — loud, sharp, endless.

The way a crowded beach sounds when you put your head underwater — everything distorted and overwhelming.

Rory kept moving.

She ducked past a stack of Pirelli tires, dodged two cameramen setting up a rig, and found herself tucked in a quieter corner behind the Ferrari motorhome.

It wasn’t exactly private — but it was less chaotic, which counted for something.

She leaned back against the sun-warmed wall, catching her breath. She wanted to go through some of the shots she had taken.

And then she saw him.

Kimi was sitting on a low concrete ledge, long legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other.

Headphones in, cap pulled low over his brow, head tipped back against the building like he was grabbing a second of peace before someone came to drag him back into the circus.

He looked…

God. He looked good.

Casual and untouchable in a way that made Rory’s stomach do that traitorous low flip she hated.

She should’ve kept walking.

She should’ve respected the bubble he’d carved out for himself.

But something reckless and stupid kept her feet planted.

Instead of leaving, she leaned silently against the wall a few feet down from him, arms loosely crossed over her stomach, pretending she wasn’t hyper-aware of every single shift of his breathing.

For a few minutes, they just sat like that — two satellites orbiting the same stretch of concrete, pretending not to notice each other.

The world moved on around them — footsteps slapping against the asphalt, engines whining in the distance, loudspeakers barking out driver schedules — but in that tiny pocket, it all felt muted.

Still.

Kimi cracked an eye open after a while, glancing over at her.

No surprise. No irritation.

Just that same steady way he always seemed to look at her — like he was cataloguing small details for no reason other than he wanted to remember them.

And then, without a word, he tugged one side of his headphones loose and held it out toward her.

Rory blinked at him.

It was such a stupidly small gesture.

So simple.

But it felt like the whole world tightened a little around the edges.

Kimi didn’t push it.

Just sat there, holding it loosely between two fingers, waiting.

Waiting to see if she’d step into that tiny private bubble he was offering.

Rory swallowed, feeling her pulse trip over itself.

And then, before she could chicken out, she shifted closer — enough to reach out and take the dangling earbud from him.

Their fingers brushed again, quick and electric.

Rory tucked the earbud in, feeling the warm ghost of his skin still buzzing against hers.

Inhaler’s My Honest Face poured into her ear — low and thrumming, a steady heartbeat of drums and fuzzy guitar.

For a while, they just sat there like that — sharing two halves of the same broken song, breathing the same thick, charged air.

Kimi’s knee bumped lightly against hers when he shifted, and Rory felt it like a lightning strike up her spine.

But neither of them moved away.

There was something weirdly holy about it — the simplicity of the moment.

No words.

No expectations.

Rory pulled out her camera, she felt bold enough to snap a pic of him. He gave her a soft smile.

As they listened to the music, she went through her photos with him, poking fun at Ollie and Esteban.

Just a single song, stretched between them like a wire strung too tight.

After, Rory let her head tilt back against the wall, closing her eyes for a second, letting the music vibrate through her chest.

The wind brushed over her face, carrying the clean, electric smell of rubber and asphalt.

She felt — bizarrely — calm.

Steady.

The way you only felt right before you did something incredibly reckless.

When the song ended, Kimi clicked something on his phone, queuing up another without asking.

This one was slower — a low, dreamy track with a lazy bassline and vocals that blurred at the edges like they were melting in the heat.

The kind of song that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

Rory cracked one eye open to look at him — and found Kimi already looking at her.

Their eyes met — a slow, heavy slide of connection — and neither of them looked away.

Not immediately.

Not until footsteps clattered too close nearby and someone barked Kimi’s name from across the paddock.

The sound shattered the moment, sharp and unwelcome.

Kimi sighed under his breath — a sound so soft Rory barely caught it — and pulled the remaining earbud from his ear.

He held his hand out wordlessly for the one she was wearing.

Rory hesitated for a second longer than she should have, heart stupid and slow in her chest, and then carefully plucked the bud free and dropped it into his palm.

His fingers brushed her hand again — brief but deliberate.

More deliberate than it needed to be.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low and a little rough at the edges, like the music had scratched something loose inside him too.

Rory just nodded, not trusting her voice to stay steady.

Kimi pushed himself up from the ledge with lazy grace, shoving the headphones back into his pocket.

He gave her one last look.

It wasn’t a smile exactly.

It was something smaller.

Something quieter.

Something that sank its teeth into her and didn’t let go.

Then he turned and wandered off toward the garages, hands tucked into his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

Rory leaned her head back against the wall again, heart pounding too hard against her ribs.

It was stupid.

It was a five-minute nothing moment.

But god, it had cracked something open inside her.

Rory stayed frozen in that little carved-out silence, the ghost of shared music still humming somewhere deep in her chest.

She smiled to herself, a little dazed — and finally pushed off the wall, letting the chaotic current sweep her back into the day.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚

My favorite chapter so far!!

💋ྀིྀི 💋ྀིྀི

[faerlune]

a little too much ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻ isack hadjar x reader

word  count.   7.5k ao3  tags.   alternate  universe:  no  f1,  extremely  tooth-rotting  fluff,  this  is  a  rom-com,  google  translated  french  (i  am  so  sorry),  google  translated  parisian  places  too,  the  hadjars  make  a  cameo,  reader  is  on  her  study  term  abroad,  reader  is  from  nyu,  part  one  of  a  mini-series  !!! author's  note.   i  am  on  holiday and  i  wrote  this  on  hours-long  train  rides  because  i  am  romanticizing  being  in  another  country  with  good  public  transport⸻  can  you  tell?  this  is  technically  an  au  of  an  au  (of  which  it  is  an  au  of  rookie  '25  if  you  squint  hard  enough),  and  is  1000%  dedicated  to  @tsunodaradio,  as  all  my  other  works  are⸻  only  you  know  all  the  deleted  scenes  in  between  tee  hee  !!  title  from  so  american  by  olivia  rodrigo.

you’ve made a terrible mistake.

not in coming to paris, no. not in taking the offer to study abroad for your entire junior year, not in choosing a charming parisian flat instead of the newer international dorms, and certainly not in deciding to immerse yourself in language and culture and the people like a character in your own indie coming-of-age film. no. your mistake is logistical.

no, your mistake is believing you could carry three suitcases and a duffel bag across the paris metro.

you are drenched in sweat, seeping into your bra and your jeans clinging to the backs of your knees. your hair is sticking to your forehead. your arms burn from hauling your bags up a flight and a half of stairs when one of the metro stations had a mysteriously out of service escalator. your shoes have started to give you blisters, and your phone is at 11%, which would be fine if the directions weren’t doing that thing where they swirl and recalibrate every time you so much as turned your head.

but. well. you’re here.

at the very least, you’re finally here.

the building looks exactly like the ones in the facebook marketplace ad— quaint and faded beige, vines growing along the side, tall, wooden double doors that look like they’ve been here since the revolution, maybe even earlier. there’s a small keypad by the door, which you press with your elbow because your hands are full, and then you're stepping into the little lobby, with its worn mosaic tile floors and an old-fashioned mail cabinet, and—

oh. there’s someone here.

not your landlady, who had texted you three hours ago apologizing that she couldn’t meet you to help you move in because of a last-minute work emergency but that her younger brother would be able to help you carry your bags up the stairs.

but the only person in the lobby is not a kid. he’s sitting on the bench by the stairwell, earbuds in, a reusable grocery bag by his feet, scrolling through his phone.

he looks about your age, maybe a little older, wearing a navy t-shirt and grey sweatpants that look unfairly good on him. his hair is dark with a hint of curls if you squint, cropped a little shorter than you usually like— which, honestly, you shouldn’t even be thinking about preference, because don’t you have bigger problems here?

you blink. maybe he lives here. maybe he’s just someone who likes lobbies.

you wait. and wait. and then wait some more. it’s been fifteen minutes and your back is aching and no one has come downstairs and your phone buzzes with another low battery warning.

so. you suck it up.

you clear your throat, dragging your suitcase toward him like it’s an unruly child. he glances up, pulling out one of his earbuds.

“hi,” you say, then wince. “i’m, uh, lost. sorry— bonjour. est-ce que tu…” and then you realize you don’t know how to say do you know anything about the hadjar apartment on the fourth floor in french. you flounder. “uh. do you know someone named— hadjar? i’m supposed to be moving in today? it’s on the fourth floor?”

he raises an eyebrow. a slow smile spreads across his face, and you immediately regret everything.

“ah,” he says, accent thick. “you are the american, yes?”

you blink. “yes?”

“isack. le frère.” he gestures to himself, then clarifies, switching to english. “my sister, she said you would arrive this afternoon.”

you are suddenly aware of your sweat. of your airport hair. of the fact that your makeup has entirely melted off. “oh,” you say. “hi. yeah. um. that’s me.”

he stands and easily takes two of your bags in one go like it’s nothing, which is ridiculous, because you know exactly how much you’ve packed (too much), and no one should look that composed doing physical labor. or that good.

“there is no lift,” he says, starting toward the stairs, “so we climb.”

“of course there’s no elevator,” you mutter, following him up the first flight, trying not to stare at how his t-shirt stretches across his back or how his biceps flex when he adjusts your suitcase.

“quoi?” he glances over his shoulder.

“nothing,” you say quickly. “i mean— rien. le rien?”

he laughs, amused. “you speak french?”

“i’m learning,” you say. “that’s the point of this year. immersion. total immersion.”

“ah.” he nods. “so i will speak to you only in français?”

“please don’t.”

another laugh. “okay. i help you practice,” he offers. “but not too fast. lentement. you understand lentement?”

“yes,” you lie through your teeth, your jetlagged brain is trying to figure out if that means slowly or gently or perhaps an insult.

by the time you reach the fourth floor, your calves are burning, your bags are stacked by the door, and all you want to do is take a nice, cold shower or sleep for sixteen hours straight— whichever comes first.

the thing about paris is that it never stops being beautiful, not even when it’s inconvenient.

you’re running late to class one morning, spilling coffee on your notes and dropping your scarf on the metro floor, and somehow the light still hits the buildings just right. gold on stone, sun cutting through balconies, a woman on a bike passes you wearing a scarf tied like a film star. a child tugs at his mother’s coat and points at a boulangerie window. it feels like the city is mocking you with how cinematic it insists on being.

but paris also smells like piss in certain corners (okay, almost all the corners). sometimes the rain sticks to your jeans and the heaters in your classroom barely work. your language class is filled with other exchange students who are either way too eager or impossibly bored. and on top of that, you have to battle your own brain every day just to say a grammatically correct sentence in a café without dissolving into a puddle. you are, as the kids say, being humbled.

and then there’s isack.

you see him at odd intervals, always unexpected but not unwelcome.

he shows up on a tuesday evening to fix the heater in the kitchen. his sister isn’t home, and jacques, your other flatmate, is holed up in his room writing his thesis, so it’s just you, sitting awkwardly on a stool while isack crouches under the cabinet with a wrench in his hand. the sleeves of his t-shirt are shoved up, exposing more of his biceps (seriously— the biceps should be illegal), and there’s a smear of something— dust? grease? time-stoppingly hot man residue?— across his cheekbone. you try not to look.

(you fail.)

“this old flat,” he mutters in french, then pauses, switching to english for you. “always something broken.”

you hum in agreement, wondering if it’s weird to offer him a drink. like, is that too formal? too flirty? would he even want something? is water boring? would wine be weird at 5 p.m.?

you go with tea. safe. neutral. an intellectually stimulating beverage, you would like to say.

“merci,” he says when you hand it to him, smiling faintly. “you’re not in class today?”

“language class only,” you reply. “and i already embarrassed myself enough for one day.”

his head tilts. “how?”

you shrug. “i tried to order a sandwich and accidentally told the server i was in love with her.”

he laughs, big and open, and it’s a sound that warms you better than the tea. “i am sure she was very flattered.”

you learn more about him in bits and pieces.

he studies physics at the university not far from yours. it’s where his father teaches—taught? you’re still unclear on the tense. sometimes he carries textbooks with titles you can’t even begin to translate, other times he shows up with a bruised knuckle and a gym bag slung over one shoulder.

“tu fais du sport?” you ask one day. you’re proud of yourself. full sentence. conjugated verb.

“mma,” he says, with a shrug like it’s no big deal. “mixed martial arts. i teach some classes. kids, mostly. plus i compete sometimes.”

“like... fights?” you blink. “in rings?”

he grins, sheepish but smug. “oui. but not big fights. just small ones. beginner circuits. c’est amusant.”

he brings up a box of groceries for his sister one weekend and stays for dinner. jacques cooks something with way too much garlic and not enough rosemary, and isack leans back in his chair, explaining the difference between thermal expansion and elastic deformation to jacques like it’s basic gossip.

he turns to you halfway through, notices your expression, and grins. “you want to understand,” he says, “but your face says no.”

you glare at him. “i’m trying. i got the word thermal.”

he chuckles, eyes warm. “then you are halfway to being a physicist.”

you try to ignore the way your stomach flips after he says that.

mathéo is what your mother would call good on paper.

you meet him at a language exchange mixer that your professor all but forced you to attend. it’s in a cramped, overpriced café in the 11th, all hipster lighting and mismatched chairs. you’re hovering near the back table with the sad bowl of madeleines when he slides into the empty seat next to you.

he’s beautiful in the way that’s hard to look at directly. sculpted cheekbones, a half-buttoned shirt, rings on his fingers that somehow don’t feel try-hard. from monaco, he says, like it’s more of a flex than a fact. you think he’s joking until he follows it up with, “so of course i prefer the côte d’azur to paris, but the culture here is... tolerable.”

you should roll your eyes, but you don’t. instead, you sip your watery espresso and find yourself answering when he asks what part of the u.s. you’re from. you tell him your french is a work in progress, that you’re trying. he corrects your pronunciation within the first five minutes.

mathéo kisses you a week later on the footbridge by the seine, right in front of the glittering eiffel tower. he texts you with perfect grammar. brings you to galleries you’ve never heard of. orders for you at restaurants without asking because “you will like this better.”

you don’t always. but you eat it anyway.

he takes you to a wine tasting in montmartre. to a cinema that only screens 1960s godard. he wears turtlenecks and cologne that costs more than your weekly grocery budget. he speaks french to you almost exclusively now— still a bit patronizing, still a bit sharp, but he smiles when you get it right.

he never walks you home.

says goodbye at metro stops with a brisk kiss and a quick, “à bientôt.” you tell yourself it’s a european thing. boundaries. independence. that you are learning not to expect too much.

you tell yourself that and you keep going anyway.

you see isack less now. it takes you a few weeks to realize that.

your class schedule is fuller, your weekends are spent in art museums or tucked into cafés with mathéo’s hand on your knee. when you do come home, it’s late, and the apartment is quiet, and you can’t remember the last time you heard the front door creak open under the weight of groceries or tools or delivery boxes.

once, you do catch him. you’re coming down the stairs in a rush, cardigan half-buttoned, and he’s at the bottom of the stairwell, hoodie slung over one shoulder, arms wrapped around a toolbox.

he looks up, and something flickers across his face. “salut,” he says, neutral. polite.

“hey,” you reply, breathless. “désolée. i’m late.”

he nods. shifts the weight of the box.

(his biceps are still absurd. you hate that you notice.)

“you are... busy these days.” he says after a beat, tone unreadable.

“yeah.” you say. “classes. and, um. mathéo.”

he nods again. slowly. “from monaco?”

“yeah.” you repeat, trying to smile. “he’s been helping me with my french.”

“ah.” he says. “you will be fluent in no time.”

you think he’s teasing. you think he’s not. you don’t get the chance to find out— your phone buzzes, and it’s mathéo, asking “where are you?”

“i have to go,” you say.

“of course.” isack responds.

you pass him on the stairs and for a second, his shoulder brushes yours— warm, solid, familiar. a memory of a version of you who used to linger in the kitchen, who used to watch him fix things, who used to laugh when he corrected your verbs because he never made you feel stupid for it.

you keep going. you don’t look back.

paris is still beautiful, but you’ve stopped noticing as much.

mathéo kisses you at cafés. he interrupts you when you speak to correct, and he always smells like expensive cologne. but you start to notice the chill between his warmth. how his hand never lingers past a photo. how his words are pretty but his presence isn’t grounding.

you’re learning a lot this term.

some lessons hurt more than others.

mathéo takes you to the opera.

not just any opera. carmen. at the palais garnier. you almost gasp when he mentions it over espresso, says it offhandedly like it’s just another tuesday plan, just another cultural institution to grace with his presence. he doesn’t offer to pay for your ticket, just sends you a link with the time and his seat number and a, “we’ll meet there?”

you buy the cheapest seat still close to his, which is still not cheap, and then spend the next ten minutes calculating how many instant ramen packs you’ll have to eat to offset it. twenty-three, if you’re strategic. twenty-eight, if you buy the shitty ones.

but the palais garnier is breathtaking.

it’s all red velvet and gold-leaf balconies and chandeliers that belong to another century, that are much, much older than you and everyone you know. you wear the nicest thing you packed: a black dress that still sort of smells like your mom’s laundry detergent, and swipe on a bit of red lipstick that makes you feel braver than you are.

mathéo looks like he belongs there. of course he does. his coat is long and elegant, and he compliments your dress in passing but spends most of intermission talking to an acquaintance he ran into in the lobby. you try to follow the opera, try to piece together what you remember of the story. you catch words here and there. amour. mort. liberté. you clap when the crowd applauds. you glance at mathéo during the final scene and he’s yawning.

he doesn’t walk you home.

not even a should i call you a cab? or text me when you get in. just a kiss on the cheek outside the metro station and a distracted, “à bientôt, chérie.” then he’s gone, melting into the crowd like a ghost.

so you walk home alone, heels clicking against cobblestones, the night crisp and unkind, and you try to tell yourself it’s fine. it’s very parisian. independent. cultured. sophisticated, even!

but when you finally get to the flat— knees sore, toes numb, mascara smudged just a little from how the wind was making you tear up a bit— there’s someone at the kitchen table.

isack.

he’s in sweats and a paint-stained shirt, sleeves shoved up, hands full of tangled wires and something that looks like a toaster but definitely isn’t. a tool kit is open beside him.

he looks up as you toe off your heels by the door. then blinks, pauses, and gives you a once-over that starts at your earrings and ends at your heels. he sets down the wire cutters.

“he didn’t even walk you home?” he asks, one brow raised, tone dry. “pfft. some date he is.”

you bristle, you crossing your arms, half to warm yourself, half to hold your pride together. “oh?” you shoot back, biting. “you think you can do better?”

“i’d walk you home,” he says. “if I wasn’t already here.”

you swallow.  “is that it?” you ask.

his head tilts again. “you want more?”

“i don’t know,” you say. “do you have more?”

he leans back in his chair. oh. so he knows he’s struck a nerve. “probably,” he says, then shrugs. “at least I’d make sure you got home in one piece. or— i don’t know— checked if you were cold.”

you huff, stepping into the kitchen light, the way your dress still sways around your knees making you feel too exposed. “you don’t even know what the night was like.”

“don’t need to,” he says, grabbing a cloth and wiping his hands. “you’re dressed like that, you smell like overpriced perfume, and your feet are screaming. not hard to guess.”

you throw your coat over a chair, lips pressed tight. “he’s helping me with my french.”

“great,” he says. “maybe one day he can teach you what désolé, I’m a prick sounds like.”

you glare. “you’re jealous.”

he doesn’t deny it.

just looks up at you again, quieter now. more careful. “no,” he says. “just think you deserve better.”

you’re silent after that, even as he cleans up his work, shoves all of it into a box that he kicks under the kitchen table.

he's halfway to the door when you say it.

“okay, fine,” you say, chin up even though your voice catches on the last word. “prove you can be a better date.”

his hand pauses on the doorknob.

you watch his back stiffen, watch the muscle in his jaw shift ever so slightly. for a second you think maybe he didn’t hear you, or maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t, the way mathéo always pretends not to notice when you get quiet or tired or just want someone to hold your hand instead of correcting your article usage.

but isack turns around slowly, like he’s giving you the chance to take it back.

(you don’t.)

he stares at you, now. “you’re serious?”

you shrug. “you’re the one who said you could do better.”

his mouth quirks— “and if I prove it,” he asks, “you stop seeing le prince de monaco?”

you narrow your eyes. “that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“wasn’t it?” he says, stepping closer now, voice softer. “how can I show you what you’re missing if you’ve still got him whispering conjugations in your ear?”

you hate that that image makes you laugh. hate it even more that you look up and he’s watching you like he’s memorizing the sound.

“okay,” you say, after a beat. “one date.”

his eyebrows lift, and you can practically see the gears turning.

“one chance,” you clarify. “that’s it. if you blow it—”

“i don’t blow anything,” he cuts in. his grin widens. “except maybe your mind.”

you groan, shove at his shoulder. “okay, never mind. i take it back.”

“too late,” he says, catching your wrist for half a second, fingers warm. “you challenged me. and I take those very seriously.”

you roll your eyes but your pulse betrays you. your hand’s still tingling even after he lets go.

“fine,” you say again. “wow me.”

“okay. i will.” he says, stepping backward toward the door again, this time with more purpose, like he’s already planning something. “dress warm. no heels. friday.”

“that’s tomorrow.”

“exactement,” he says, with a wink. “not wasting any more time.”

and then he’s gone, the door creaking slightly behind him.

you stand there in your opera dress, makeup smudged and feet near-blistered, and suddenly you’re smiling so hard it feels like a betrayal.

you thought he’d forego the walk up the four flights and just wait outside the building, but isack’s waiting outside the flat when you step out the door.

you’re in your practical sneakers, just like he told you, coat tied at the waist and fingers stuffed in your pockets, trying not to look too eager or too nervous or too anything, really, and failing spectacularly. but then you’re practically bumping into him, his hands behind his back in the most obviously i’m hiding something way imaginable, and suddenly your nerves rearrange themselves into something softer. warmer.

“hello,” he says, smiling like he knows something you don’t. 

“hey,” you say back, trying to play it cool.

he pulls his hands from behind his back and he’s holding tulips.

a small bunch of them. pale pink and white. wrapped in brown paper with a little fraying string tied around the stems. your heart does something humiliating in your chest.

“you remember,” you say before you can stop yourself, blinking at the flowers. “from the market.”

he shrugs, a little sheepish, but pleased. “you looked at them for a long time,” he says. “but you chose the baguette and cheese instead.”

“i was budgeting.” you try to protest.

“now you don’t have to.” he replies. “they’re yours.”

you take them, careful not to crush the stems. they smell faintly like earth and spring and a little like the bakery stall you’d been standing in front of when you first paused in front of them. you press them to your nose and pretend it’s not to hide your face.

“merci,” you say, and mean it more than you expect to.

he beams. “your accent is better.”

“don’t jinx it,” you mutter, smiling back.

he takes you across the city. walking, mostly. through the latin quarter and over bridges, down narrow streets and into small places you wouldn’t have noticed on your own.

you eat crepes from a street cart, sit on a bench and people-watch near the pantheon, duck into a bookshop where he reads the backs of old paperbacks out loud in french just to make you laugh. you sit in the sun for a bit with coffee between you, and when a breeze kicks up and your hair flies into your mouth, he reaches out and tucks it behind your ear so casually it makes you want to throw yourself in the seine.

the afternoon becomes early evening. and then it becomes golden. and then it becomes that sliver of time where the light is all honey and hush and the city slows down just a little.

you pass a vintage photo booth outside a tucked-away cinema near pigalle. it’s rickety and coin-operated and painted red with chipped corners. you stop walking.

“let’s do it,” you say, tugging at his sleeve.

“hm?” he asks, looking at the booth like it might eat him.

“photo booth. it’s tradition.”

“i don’t think it is,” he says, amused.

“well, i say it is.”

he humors you, ducks into the booth first and tries to sit on the single plastic stool while you try to squeeze your face into frame.

“you sit,” you say, gesturing to the little stool, already crouching down so you can fit into frame. “i’ll just—”

but before you can settle in, he huffs, hands going to your waist, and he pulls you (gently) into his lap.

“tu plaisantes,” you mutter, startled. you’re joking.

“non,” he says. “i am gentleman. i can’t let you crouch like a frog.”

“you’re unbelievable.” you say, grinning, despite yourself.

he smirks. “you’re very close to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing softly against your hair.

“well,” you say, swallowing, “you put me here.”

the first flash goes off while you’re both still laughing. your head tilted toward him, his arm around your waist, tulips in your lap. you’re both smiling widely.

and then the camera clicks again. two seconds. your heart’s beating in your throat.

fuck it, just do it.

you turn your head. you kiss him.

it’s a split-second decision and you think you’re going to fall over with how quickly your stomach flips inside out.

the second flash captures his shock. his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide, stunned and blinking at you like you’ve just rewritten the laws of physics and time and whatever language he knows best.

he blinks once. and then his hand shifts, the one at your waist tightening ever so slightly, and you don’t have time to overthink it, because he kisses you back.

the third flash happens somewhere in the middle of it. you feel it in your peripheral vision, but you don’t care, not when he’s tilting his head, not when his hand finds the back of your neck, not when he kisses you deeper.

you’re still sitting there, stunned and out of breath and dazed, when the booth begins to whir and the photos start printing.

you look down at them. three tiny squares. smile. kiss. kiss again.

he leans over your shoulder, breath warm on your cheek.

“i think you blinked there.” he says.

you laugh, flick the side of his head lightly, but you don’t make a sarcastic quip back.

he walks you home, just like he said he would.

no last-minute goodbyes at the metro, no quick peck at the station and a disappearing silhouette into the crowd. you walk in easy silence, his hand brushing yours, pinkies bumping like an accident you both let happen again and again until you just decide to hold.

and it’s so easy. it is so ridiculous, so insane, how easy it is, how natural it feels to have his fingers intertwined with yours, his hoodie sleeve brushing your wrist every time he swings your arms slightly between you, how he glances sideways at you when you’re not looking directly and then smirks when you catch him doing it.

the climb up the four flights of stairs should be exhausting. it usually is. but tonight it just feels like an extension of something inevitable, like it’s the end of a song that’s been playing quietly in the background for weeks.

when you get to your door, you linger.

he leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a little out of breath from the stairs, cheeks flushed pink.

“soooo–” you say.

“so,” he echoes.

“you walked me home.”

“i said i would.”

you fidget with your keys. “and the flowers. and the photo booth. and the crepes. and the—”

you don’t finish.

because he steps forward, takes your face in his hands and kisses you again.

and it’s not a half-second impulse this time.

his thumbs brush your cheekbones. your hands curl in his jacket. you’re pressed up against your own front door and you kind of never want to go inside again.

but eventually, eventually, you break apart.

barely.

he rests his forehead against yours. whispers, “bonne nuit.”

“bonne nuit.” you whisper back.

you slip inside. lean against the door once it closes, heart racing like it’s trying to memorize the shape of his mouth. you blink into the dark. grin. almost trip taking your shoes off.

your phone rings two minutes later.

his name flashes on the screen, and you answer with a breathless, “what?”

“i just wanted to check,” he says, voice just as breathless, like he ran down four flights of stairs (he did.)  “did i prove it?”

you laugh, biting your lip, face turning red like a schoolgirl with a crush. “you did okay.”

he groans. “ just okay?”

“fine,” you say, smiling into the dark. “you won.”

he hums, pleased. “good. because i already have ideas for the second date.”

you don’t sleep for hours. you don’t stop smiling, either.

dating isack is everything you thought dating in paris would be.

you don’t tell him that, of course. you don’t sit him down and confess that when your plane landed, you’d looked out the window and you’d half-wished, half-dared the universe for a romance that felt like it belonged in a paperback you’d pretend not to read on the metro.

but then he’s there. and he’s better than the fantasy.

dating mathéo was fine. technically. it was… textbook romance. a checklist of aesthetic accomplishments. he showed up late but dressed well, always with some intellectual take on something you hadn’t asked for. he took you to galleries and operas and even the occasional charity event. he was soft, sometimes, but distant always. warm in theory but never quite in practice. a curated boy.

isack is messier, louder. real. and still, somehow, he makes you feel like magic.

you didn’t know it could be like this— romantic in the exact way you’d quietly daydreamed about on the plane over, forehead pressed to the tiny oval window, heart fluttering at the thought of some impossible parisian boy. and then he turns out to be real. and fixes sinks. and helps carry his sister’s delivery boxes just so he has an excuse to see you.

he kisses you at crosswalks. he shows up at your door sweaty from the gym and kisses you before he even puts his bag down. he brings you pastries with ridiculous names you can’t pronounce and insists on watching you try. when you get something right— when you roll an r just so or put the stress on the correct syllable— he beams like you’ve finally solved world peace.

he brings you flowers once a week now. not always tulips— sometimes sunflowers, or peonies, or whatever’s in season and cheap at the small floral stand a block away. he never makes a big deal out of it. just shrugs and goes, “c’était joli. i thought of you.”

he texts you pictures of pigeons doing stupid things. he leaves you croissants when he knows you have an early class. he insists on walking you home, always, even if it means detouring across the city just to make sure you get upstairs okay.

sometimes he gets a little protective, like when the guy at the metro tried to flirt with you in broken english and isack started rattling off something in rapid-fire french you couldn’t quite follow but definitely understood as don’t even think about it.

he still speaks to you in french more often than not. he forgets, or maybe he doesn’t, maybe he does it on purpose, because he knows you’ll lean closer when he says something low and sweet. he murmurs things into your hair, against your throat, across your skin when his hands are on your hips and your legs are tangled in his sheets. he’ll say:

“t’es si belle, j’en peux plus.” (you’re so beautiful, i can’t take it.)

or sometimes—

“je pense à toi tout le temps.” (i think about you all the time.)

you keep it quiet, because there’s something indulgent about the way he touches your hair, when he thinks you’re too far gone to catch it, and mutters, “je vais te faire crier mon nom, hm, mon ange?”

you just blink at him, all wide-eyed, and go, “that’s a compliment, right?”

and he laughs. kisses your neck. “yes. very good one.”

because what he doesn’t know is that you’ve secretly been taking lessons. tutoring, twice a week, with a girl named elise from your language class who offered to help for free in exchange for editing her english essays. you don’t tell him. mostly because it’s fun, watching him talk like that, so loose and unfiltered, thinking it’s all floating over your head. 

what can you say? it’s the greatest lie you’ve ever told.

the invitation comes in the form of a question that isn't really a question, muttered into your hair while you're curled up next to him on the couch, one of his hands tangled lazily in the drawstring of your sweatshirt and the other holding a spoonful of yogurt he’s stealing from your cup.

“my parents want to meet you,” he says between bites, still in english.

you blink up at him, mouth already opening before your brain has caught up. “what, like— your parents parents?”

“mmhm,” he hums, unfazed, licking the spoon. “dinner, saturday night. at their place.”

“and you think that’s a good idea?”

he shrugs, smug. “i think they’ll like you.”

“why?”

he leans in, brushes the tip of his nose against yours. “because i like you.”

which. fine. shuts you up.

and then saturday comes, and you’re sitting in a taxi with your hands folded in your lap, wearing the blouse that makes you feel like you should be someone who’s good with parents, and your stomach is doing backflips.

he notices, of course. he always notices.

“do not worry, mon ange,” he says, sliding his fingers through yours, warm and easy. “i’ll translate for you. just smile. nod. eat.”

“you make it sound like a hostage situation.”

“no, no,” he laughs. “my father talks like he is interrogating, but it is just his face. i promise.”

he squeezes your hand once before you reach the building. and then it’s doors and stairs and greetings in rapid-fire french and the smell of something warm and savory that makes your eyes water in the best way. 

his sister’s already there, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping wine like this is her version of sport. his mother pulls you into a hug without hesitation, murmuring “bienvenue, ma chérie.”

you smile. you nod. you eat.

just like he said.

you let him translate through the appetizer. you laugh when he tosses in his own commentary, even when you know it’s not what was actually said.

“my mother is asking if you have recovered from your trauma of sharing a kitchen with my sister.” he murmurs into your ear. you snort. his mother had actually asked if you liked the vinaigrette.

the conversation moves fast, ricocheting between siblings and parents and overlapping stories. isack always turns to you after a few minutes and murmurs a summary in your ear, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like a secret. you rest your cheek on your hand, pretend you don’t understand everything already.

but you do, you’ve understood every word. and tonight, finally, you decide to let him know.

it happens after the second bottle of wine is opened, when the table is relaxed and his father’s talking about isack’s childhood judo tournaments. how serious he was, even then. how he once cried because he didn’t win first place, and how they couldn’t console him for hours.

“il était tellement dramatique,” his sister says, grinning.

“il l’est toujours,” you chime in, smoothly. he still is.

the table falls silent. isack turns to you so fast his chair actually creaks.

“what did you say?”

you smile, sweet. sip your wine.

“i said you’re still dramatic,” you reply, in french this time, smiling sweetly. “je t’ai compris depuis le début, isack.” (i’ve understood you from the start, isack.)

his jaw drops. his sister wheezes into her glass.

his father actually lets out a quiet “eh bien.”

isack opens his mouth, closes it. opens it again. “you—tu me regardais dans les yeux when i said all those things—”

“mmhm.”

“tu savais ce que je disais quand je disais que j’allais—”

“every word.” you interrupt, grinning so widely your eyes disappear just for a moment, nose scrunching.

he stares at you, flustered and entirely undone. “t’es cruelle,” he murmurs. you’re cruel.

“et toi, t’es prévisible,” you say back. (and you’re predictable.)

but later, much later, when the leftovers are packed and his parents are saying goodnight, when you both walk back to his flat with his hand low on your back and his voice still tinged with disbelief, he kisses you in the stairwell like he’s never going to stop.

and when he pulls back, breathless, looking at you like a man who’s finally caught up, he mutters, “you’re gonna pay for that.”

you grin, already unlocking his door (he had given you the spare key last week).

“j’espère bien.” i hope so.

(you do, pressed against his mattress, breathless, with a, please, please, please, just move— his hand on the small of your back as he murmurs, not until you say it correctly, mon ange. come on, now, you’re practically fluent.)

time, which once felt endless, stretched out like a lazy cat across cobblestone streets and café terraces and the golden haze of late parisian afternoons, has started to shrink.

you don’t notice it at first, not really. not when the days are still full of cafés and classes and isack’s hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair, a permanent fixture. not when he still picks you up after your thursday lecture, waiting at the corner with a croissant and his helmet in hand, offering you the back of his moped like it’s your seat and always has been.

but then someone in your class says it.

“only two weeks left, can you believe it?”

and suddenly everything starts feeling like the last time, even if it isn’t.

the last sunday market. the last language class. the last pain au chocolat from that bakery down the block with the flirty barista and the cracked tile counter. the last time you and isack sneak a bottle of wine onto the rooftop, his fingers tracing your knee under the stars while he tells you stories about when he was little— about scraped knees and judo competitions and cousins and holidays in algeria. you don’t say much those nights. just listen, memorize.

your return flight looms on the horizon, bright and blunt. back to your tiny studio in new york, which you’d subleased to a friend-of-a-friend’s cousin who last texted you two months ago to ask how to operate the vacuum. back to nyu, where you used to think everything happened, where you once believed your life was supposed to start.

isack doesn’t talk about it. neither do you. not really. not yet.

you think maybe he’s trying to give you the gift of pretending it isn’t happening. of pretending you’ve still got all the time in the world. like if he doesn’t say the words, the countdown can’t begin.

you start moving through the city like a girl trying to leave breadcrumbs. touching every surface. walking slower. letting your fingers trail along the stone railings and window frames. you take too many photos. of buildings. of shadows. of your own hands holding his. of him, blurry and laughing, with your tulips stuffed in his backpack, kissing away the chocolate on the corner of his mouth.

he keeps doing this thing— this impossibly cruel thing— where he’ll say something in french, low and loving, murmured against your ear in the half-dark of his bedroom or whispered into your shoulder as you drift off to sleep, and you know it’s because he forgets you understand him now. you think maybe that’s how he feels safe saying it.

but you do understand.

you understood last night when he tucked your hair behind your ear and said, “j’aimerais qu’on ait plus de temps.” (i wish we had more time.)

you just didn’t say anything back, not yet, not then, but it’s sitting in your chest now, heavy as a rock.

you wish you had more time, too.

the airport is too bright, even for seven in the morning.

not even romantic, movie-ending bright, it’s just fluorescent, clinical, indifferent. the kind of light that makes you look at yourself in the mirror and think oh my god, has that zit been there this whole time?; the kind of light that doesn’t care that your heart is splitting down the middle while a flight to jfk boards in gate 12b.

you’d packed the night before while isack sat cross-legged on your floor, folding your clothes the wrong way and slipping tiny things into your suitcase when you weren’t looking— a worn metro ticket, a single tulip petal pressed between pages of your old grammar notebook, the photostrip from the booth where you’d kissed him for the first time. proof, he’d said, that it happened.

you’d laughed then.

you’re not laughing now.

he’s still beside you. walking slowly through the terminal like the air’s heavier here. doesn’t say much, just holds your passport when you almost forget it at the check-in counter. adjusts your bag strap when it slips off your shoulder. stares at the departures board like he can will it to change, like if he tries hard enough, he can turn the status for flight AFR14 from check-in to cancelled.

you reach the security line and everything in your body starts to rebel. your stomach turns over. your fingers feel wrong. your throat tightens like your own voice might betray you.

since when were you this girl?

since when did you become the girl who falls in love abroad? who stands in an airport blinking back tears like a cliché in a rom-com, clutching her boarding pass and wishing she could live in a movie scene instead of a goodbye?

“tu dois y aller.” he says quietly. (you have to go.)

you nod. don’t trust your voice.

he hesitates. then takes your face in both hands, gently, like you might break if he’s not careful. “you know,” he murmurs, “je t’aime bien”—and then he corrects himself—“non. je t’aime. full stop.”

(not i like you. i love you. full stop.)

you laugh through your tears. “i know what that means.”

“i know,” he says, eyes wet. “i wanted to say it anyway.”

you kiss him. one last time. it’s messy and desperate and silent and slow. it tastes like salt and every unspoken thing between you.

then you step away, you walk through security. you don’t look back until you have to, until you’re past the barrier and can’t get to him anymore, until he’s just a shape through the glass.

epilogue.

it’s been three weeks since paris, three weeks since you stood in a security line clutching a boarding pass with shaking hands, since you left behind the city that has probably ruined romance for you in the most cliché way possible, since you kissed a boy goodbye and told yourself it was temporary, that it was just distance, just time, just… air.

and it is temporary, you think. probably. hopefully.

you still talk to isack, though. daily at first, then down to voice notes, then long, winding texts at odd hours thanks to the time difference. he sends you pictures of pigeons doing weird things on his balcony.

you send him blurry photos of bagels and street musicians and once, the Empire State Building glowing pink. he texts back a, “c’est pas aussi beau que toi” (not as beautiful as you) and you roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out of your skull but then you spend the rest of the day thinking about it anyway.

you’re trying sooooo hard to be normal. to reassemble the version of yourself that existed before paris. before tulips and photo booths and rooftop wine.

your studio apartment is smaller than you remembered.the friend of a friend’s cousin, the subletter, left behind three expired yogurts and a single sock that is absolutely not yours.

but it’s fine. you’re fine.

you fall back into rhythm: morning class prep for the summer, afternoon walks down the east side, pretending not to compare everything. you carry your groceries yourself, because you are strong, independent, and stupid enough to forget that your local bodega does not offer bags with handles.

you’re balancing three overstuffed tote bags on your left shoulder, your right arm gripping a sack of oranges that keeps slipping, and your phone is buzzing in your back pocket but you can’t answer because you’re currently reviewing every single decision that has led you to this point when—

— when you round the corner onto your block and stop.

because there’s someone sitting on the steps of your apartment building. his hoodie up, elbows resting on his knees, duffel bag at his feet.

your heart forgets how to function.

he looks up. sees you. stands. and then he smiles. “je suis perdu.” he says. i’m lost.

you drop the oranges.

they bounce across the sidewalk, roll into oncoming traffic. a cab runs over three of them. you don’t care. you’re already walking— no, running— up the few steps to him, blinking like he might vanish if you don’t grab him right now, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie like some kind of cliché because oh god, he’s really here.

“you’re— what— how— isack alexandre hadjar!”

“surprise,” he shrugs, smug now, like he didn’t just shatter the entire city around you.

“you’re in new york.”

“yes,” he says, beaming. “tu me manques trop.” (i missed you too much.)

you stare at him. “you flew across an ocean.”

“oui.” he pauses. “i also wanted a bagel. you make them look very… appetizing?”

you laugh. it comes out wet and cracked and completely unfiltered. “you’re insane.”

“yes,” he agrees. “but now i am insane here. with you.”

and then you’re kissing him.

because what else do you do when the boy who murmured i love you into your jaw in another timezone another lifetime ago, shows up at your door like a wish granted early?

what else do you do when the ache of being apart dissolves under the weight of here, of now, of you’re not a voice in my phone anymore— holy shit, you’re right in front of me.

you kiss him like you’ve been holding your breath since you left. like you’re finally coming up for air.

when you pull away, he brushes your hair from your face, grinning. “so,” he says, “will you help me not be lost anymore?”

you nod, still not fully believing in. “yeah,” you whisper. “i think we can figure it out.”

[faerlune]

next door nightmare ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

r/aita · @papayadays asked, “aita if i cook a lot of fish dishes because the guy (m25) living next door is constantly streaming and playing games loudly at odd hours?”

ꔮ starring: lando norris x neighbor!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, blood. set in monaco, rivals to lovers lite, max fewtrell (<3) makes an appearance!!!, open ending. ꔮ commentary box: my favorite type of reader are the petty ones. thank you, joyce, for letting me breathe life into this one 🐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You move to Monaco with a suitcase, three pairs of good shoes, and a bruised dream wrapped in bubble wrap. The apartment isn’t yours, technically. It’s your aunt’s. She split for Lisbon and left the keys in your inbox like a lifeline.

Temporary, you tell yourself. A pitstop. A soft landing before the real move to Berlin, or maybe Paris. Somewhere with bookstores that stay open past nine and train stations that hum with poetry. Not a place where every other person looks like a yacht catalog model and wears sunglasses indoors.

But it’s free, and you’re broke, so you unpack.

Your first day? An unmitigated disaster. You get lost on your morning walk and end up at the same roundabout three separate times, each one increasingly humiliating. Your French fails you at the grocery store, where you try to ask for almond milk and accidentally request a marriage license.

Then there’s the glass of water that explodes in your hand while you’re trying to rinse dishes. One shard grazes your thumb, and you watch the blood bloom with the kind of theatrical sadness that makes you laugh out loud in an empty kitchen.

By evening, you just want a single conversation that makes sense. You call your best friend. “You wouldn’t believe the day I—” you start, but the line goes fuzzy.

Then it cuts.

Then it returns just long enough for her to say, “You sound like a blender,” before it dies again.

You hold your phone in your lap, eyes burning. It’s stupid to cry about a call, about a thumb, about almond milk. But it’s never about just that, is it?

You crawl into bed, sheets unfamiliar and stiff with that just-washed hotel feeling, and you close your eyes.

Then, he speaks.

Through the wall.

A man. British, probably. He laughs, loud and unfiltered, and the laugh turns into commentary. “Alright, alright,” he hollers, “easy win, mate!”

There’s the mechanical click of a controller. The hum of speakers turned up too loud. And him. Always him. Saying something about headshots and revives and how someone named Max is the worst support player in Europe.

You press your pillow over your face.

He doesn’t stop.

He is holding court with a Twitch audience or a Discord server or, frankly, Satan himself, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for this level of volume past midnight.

You turn over. You try every sleeping position known to man. Your body is tired, but your brain is staging a mutiny.

Across the thin apartment wall, your neighbor whoops, “Oh my God, that was sick!”

You hate him.

You haven’t seen his face, don’t know his name, but you hate him with the precision of a sniper. You picture his setup. Ring light. Gaming chair. Probably eats cereal straight from the box. Probably thinks emotional intelligence is knowing when to mute himself.

You sit up, exhausted and vibrating with something that might be rage or might just be the weight of everything. Of being new. Of being rootless. Of being twenty-something and two train rides away from where you thought you’d be.

You think to yourself, My neighbor is public enemy number one.

Somewhere in the next room, as if summoned, he laughs again.

You fall asleep planning revenge in the shape of a mackerel.

You learned early that revenge doesn’t need to be grand or cruel. It doesn’t need fire. Or blood. Or police involvement. It just needs fish and patience.

Your neighbor—the one with the ungodly laugh and the microphone seemingly embedded into his windpipe—turns out to be exactly what you feared: a streamer of some sorts. Loud. Consistent. Trapped in the same five phrases over and over like a man who thinks enthusiasm counts as personality.

“Massive clutch, boys!” he yells one night.

You’re brushing your teeth. Your reflection doesn’t wince anymore. It just stares back, resigned.

You start to recognize his rhythms. He boots up around ten, peaks at one a.m., and winds down just shy of dawn. You hear every lezgooooo. Every backhanded insult disguised as banter. Every fake laugh with a delay so practiced it should be in the credits.

So you buy fish.

Mackerel, specifically. Local. Unapologetically pungent.

You get it from the little morning market down by the port, where the old woman with the sharp eyes and the sharper elbows doesn’t judge when you say, “Something that really lingers, please.”

She wraps your fish in yesterday’s sports pages and nods like she’s just knighted you.

You wait. Two nights. Three. And then, on the fourth, the opportunity arises.

He’s at it again.

You’re jolted awake by the sound of crashing digital glass and someone named Alex swearing vengeance over stolen loot. Your eye twitches. Your soul flinches.

You rise.

Barefoot. Silent. Vengeful.

You retrieve the fish from its solemn resting place in your fridge. You unwrap it slowly, ceremonially, like a priest with a grudge. You set the pan on the stove. Add oil. Wait for the sizzle.

Door? Just slightly ajar. You’re not a monster.

The smell hits quickly. The kind that coils through air vents and seeps into memory. Thick. Assertive. Biblical.

You hear him talking.

Then coughing.

Then—“Jesus, what’s that bloody smell?”

You can hear the tinny echo of his stream through the walls. A chorus of confused bros. “Mate, I think something died,” your neighbor complains. 

You flip the fish, slow and steady, and for the first time since you moved, you smile.

It is not graceful. It is not healed. But it is something.

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, sounding properly horrified, “I can’t focus. It’s like—like someone deep-fried a sea monster.”

You stifle a laugh.

Another beat.

And then—

“I just threw that round because I couldn’t stop gagging. What the fuck.”

You close your eyes. You breathe in deeply, the scent of your petty, fishy triumph. You feel, for the first time since arriving, like you might survive here.

In the quiet that follows his sudden log-off, you hear something almost tender: the sound of yourself exhaling.

The routine is nauseating and vicious. 

Midnight strikes, his headset clicks on, and your stove follows like a soldier obeying orders. You rotate your menu with a quiet, vengeful pride. Mackerel. Bluefish. Herring. The holy trinity of domestic warfare.

Your fridge smells like the Atlantic. You have Tupperware stacked with leftovers that no amount of lemon can redeem. Your clothes faintly reek of brine. Your hallway smells like Poseidon lost a bet.

You blow half your salary on scented oils and humidifiers. It doesn’t matter. 

When you hear his stream stutter, when his voice rises an octave mid-sentence, when he lets out a full-body cough on air—you feel something click into place. Not joy, exactly. But electricity, petty vindication. A pulse under your skin.

You’re alive. You’re here. You matter, at least to the man slowly losing his KD ratio to anchovy fumes.

And so are you really that surprised when the letters start? 

You find the first one in your mailbox, scrawled on a curling Post-It in handwriting so bad it looks forged by a raccoon.

Please stop cooking fish.

No greeting. No signature. Just a room number: 4B.

Your neighbor.

You laugh. Out loud. Alone.

You grab a pen, flip the Post-It, and write:

Please stop streaming like you’re commentating a demolition derby.

You slip it into his box with the kind of rigor that would make your childhood piano teacher weep. He responds two days later. New Post-It. Different color. Same aggressive penmanship.

You’re ruining my career. I had a sponsorship stream. I nearly vomited mid-Raid.

None of those words make sense or, frankly, matter to you. You write back:

You’re ruining my circadian rhythm. I nearly cried brushing my teeth.

The great war escalates. 

Buy a fan, you write once. Or a conscience.

Buy soundproofing, he shoots back. Or a soul.

This is harassment.

This is performance art.

No names. Just numbers. 4A. 4B. Scrawled like rival graffiti tags across increasingly creative stationery. Napkins. Magazine margins. Once, the back of a takeout menu.

You keep them all.

You don’t know why.

Maybe because his handwriting is getting better. Or maybe yours is getting worse. Maybe because his notes are still angry, but the barbs are getting softer. He adds a ‘please’ once. You add a smiley face, very small, like a glitch in the matrix.

It stops being war and starts being—something else.

You still cook. He still streams. The stakes have changed, though. It’s less about triumph now, and more about tension. A taut little thread stretched between your walls.

He says nothing, but one night you hear his laugh falter. Just once. Like he’s smiling at something off-mic. Probably this morning’s Post-It, where you proclaimed you would have him arrested for having the world’s most obnoxious giggle. 

You don’t know why your chest goes warm.

You open your fridge. There’s herring, wrapped in foil.

You leave it there. Just for tonight.

Three days later, you’re at the grocery store, waging war with the top shelf.

The cereal you want is just out of reach, wedged between some fancy muesli and a box that promises to change your digestive life forever. You rise on tiptoes. Stretch. Swear under your breath. Contemplate climbing the shelf and dying dramatically in aisle four.

“Need a hand?”

The voice is warm, accented, familiar in a way that makes your stomach tilt. You turn.

He’s tall. British. Hoodie up, sunglasses on like he’s either famous or afraid of fluorescent lighting. Curly hair peeks out at the edges. His smile is quick, polite, and somehow bashful.

You nod, startled. “Yeah, sorry. It’s always the stupid cereal.”

He grabs the box and hands it to you. Your fingers brush. You try not to make it a moment. “Thanks,” you say simply.

He just nods. A twitch of his lips, the shadow of something amused.

You think that’s it—a blink-and-miss-it kindness—but then he reappears in the produce section. Holding a single banana like it’s a business decision. Then again in frozen foods, squinting at ice cream like it might reveal a secret.

And again, finally, in line. In front of you. Holding his sad little haul: oat milk, bananas, a chocolate bar.

You place your basket behind his and say, “That’s a bachelor’s cart if I’ve ever seen one.”

He glances over his shoulder, guarded, but snorts when he sees it’s just you. “Guilty,” he chirps. “You, uh—planning a dinner party for all the pescetarians of Monaco?”

You glance at your cart. Fish. Fish. More fish. Lemons. You smile. “Just making enemies.”

He raises a brow, intrigued, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his gaze dips to the chocolates near the register. “These are rubbish, aren’t they?”

“They are,” you say, “but they’re cheap and I’m sentimental.”

He grins. Something slow and crooked. “Story of my life.”

You reach for a bar and toss it into your cart. Then, like it matters, like it might matter more than you want to admit, you offer your name. 

He freezes. Not in a dramatic way. Just a flicker. Barely noticeable. Social norms call for him to give his name back, but it looks like he’s about to make you work for it. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilted, almost cautious.

You squint. “Should I?”

He shrugs, trying to make it look casual. “Just… most people do. Eventually.”

You gesture at his hoodie and shades. “You’re going very hard on the international man of mystery look.”

That earns a laugh. Light, genuine, like it surprises him a little. He steps up, pays for his things. The cashier doesn’t blink, and you wonder if Monaco’s grocery clerks are trained to ignore famous people. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

He picks up his tote bag, turns halfway back toward you. “Nice to meet you,” he says, name still unspoken. 

His eyes flick down to your cart again. “Hope your neighbor likes fish,” he adds as a final jab, his lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace. 

Then he’s gone.

Out the door. Into sunlight.

You stand there with your cereal and your vengeance and a chocolate bar that suddenly feels a little more romantic than cheap. You try to forget about the romcom-ness of it all, which isn’t all that hard. 

Especially when your neighbor starts streaming again that night.

You hear it the second you roll over in bed and your cheek sticks to the pillow in that cursed way it does when you’re halfway between dreams and rage. The voice booms through the wall like clockwork, but this time, there’s a second one.

Lower. Calmer. With an accent you can’t quite place and the voice of someone who would absolutely win in a hostage negotiation. “Max, you’re such a tryhard,” your neighbor groans.

Max mumbles something in return. You can’t hear the words, but you can hear the smirk. They’re good together. The kind of good that only comes from years of knowing exactly how to get on each other’s nerves without ever actually bruising anything.

You throw the blanket off with the grace of a corpse rising from the dead.

You consider the herring. You even go as far as opening the fridge. But it doesn’t feel worth it. Not tonight. Not when the noise is less a scream and more a low, persistent thrum.

So instead, you grab a Post-It.

Your pen hovers for a second. You’re too tired to be clever, too annoyed to be poetic.

Some of us sleep. Just a thought. 

You shuffle to the hallway, drop the note to the floor, and slide it under 4B’s door. No drama. No ceremony. You’re tucking yourself back into bed when Max’s voice cuts through the wall. “Hey, Lan. You got mail.”

A pause. Some shuffling. Then a laugh. Unmistakably from the bane of your existence. 

Your neighbor again, amused: “It’s from 4A. This is basically a love letter.”

You roll your eyes so hard it might count as cardio.

“You two got a little thing going, huh?” Max huffs.

“It’s a game,” your neighbor says. “A little fishy cold war. Very romantic.”

There’s a clatter of something—a chair being kicked, maybe. And then your neighbor’s voice softens, like it always does when he’s trying not to seem like he’s trying. “Alright. I’ll keep it down,” he says. 

Not to Max. Not to the stream. To you. Probably.

He does.

The rest of the night is quieter. Not silent. Just gentle. Muffled laughter, low voices, the occasional rustle of something plastic.

But you can’t sleep. Not because it’s loud, but because you caught something else. Hey, Lan. 

A name.

Lan.

You say it once in your head. Just to try it. You’ve named your enemy now. Sort of.

You lie there, awake, holding the syllable in your mouth like it might mean more than it should.

Lan.

The name sticks.

It loops around your mind like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. You think about it brushing your teeth. Folding laundry. Stirring rice. It hums in the back of your head, louder than any of his streams. More persistent than his dumb laugh.

You wonder if that’s what Max calls him. If that’s what everyone calls him. If he signs hotel check-ins with it or introduces himself that way on streams or if he only ever lets certain people use it.

Whatever it is, you and Lan have now abandoned all pretense of civility. The mailbox game is over.

Now it’s Post-Its under the door, no shame, no waiting. You slide one under when his voice gets too loud. He returns fire when your fish leaks into the hallway. It’s not war anymore. It’s not not war. It’s something else.

A little dance. A game where neither of you know the rules, but you’re both still playing.

One afternoon, you’re juggling three paper bags and a box of laundry detergent in the apartment elevator. You’ve pressed your back to the wall, trying to breathe through the feeling that your arms might just abandon you, when the doors creak open. “Whoa,” someone says. “You need a hand?”

He’s all clean curls and clear eyes, baby-faced in a way that makes you think he’s either younger than he looks or has very good skin habits. His sweatshirt reads Quadrant in big letters across the chest. His duffel bag has the same logo.

He steps in before you can protest and grabs one of the bags from your arm.

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless. “You don’t live here, do you?”

“Nah,” he replies, grinning. “Just visiting a mate.”

You nod, adjusting the detergent. Small talk is pretty mandatory when the other person is helping you with your groceries.  “Nice,” you respond. “You from the UK?”

“Guilty,” he says. “I’m Max, by the way.”

Max. As in Max, you’re such a tryhard-Max. As in Max who said Hey, Lan with the comfort of a best friend. 

Your brain stutters. Trips. Goes cold and still. You flinch, almost visibly. You don’t offer your name.

He doesn’t notice, too busy glancing at the elevator numbers. You scramble for a lifeline, something to say that doesn’t immediately tie you to 4A. To the fish. To the Post-Its. To the sleepless nights spent writing anonymous venom and then rereading it like scripture.

“I—I actually forgot my keys,” you blurt out as the elevator doors slide open. “Think I’ll just run back to the lobby.”

You’re already halfway out the doors when Max turns, still holding your groceries. “Wait, do you want me to—”

But you wave him off, doing your best impression of someone not about to spiral. “Just leave it by the floor!” you yell back, making a run for it. 

You hide in the stairwell. You wait, then you peek. Max, although confused, does as you asked; he leaves your groceries on the floor by the elevator before walking down the hall.

Right to 4B.

You curse under your breath. You watch him enter with a spare key, and then you wait a full five minutes. You sprint, grab your groceries, and fumble with everything for a full minute. 

Door. Key. Lock. Twist.

Inside your apartment, you collapse against the door, heart pounding like you just committed an actual crime. You feel ridiculous.

You also feel something else. Something weirdly like grief.

For what, you don’t know. Maybe for coming close to the possibility of putting a face to the name. Monaco has been lonely in that I’m-just-passing-through way, and you’ve wondered if knowing your neighbor—actually knowing them, beyond the warfare—would ease that ache. You’ve yet to meet him. You’re not sure if you ever will. But you’ve met his best friend, and you try to let that be enough. 

Come Monday, you find that you’re not okay. 

You have a job interview tomorrow—real job, real stakes, real money that could pay for food that is not fish and therapy—and your brain has decided to stage a coup. Your apartment is a mess. You’ve gone over your answers a hundred times. You’re sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. Your blazer has a suspicious stain on the inside hem and you’ve just realized you might not know how to tie the scarf you planned to wear.

And next door, Lan is streaming again.

Loud. Oblivious. Laughing in that way he does when he’s not trying to be charming but kind of is.

You sit on your couch, holding a mug of tea that’s gone cold, feeling like a deflated mascot costume. No fish tonight. No energy for spite. You just want silence. You just want sleep. You want tomorrow to come and not completely ruin you.

So you do something you haven’t done before.

You knock at the wall.

Not hard. Just three fingers to the wall. Firm. Sharp.

A pause. Then Lan’s voice, slightly muffled but still infuriatingly warm: “Hang on, chat. Be right back.”

Shuffling. SIlence. 

Then, through the wall: “Hey, neighbor. You okay?”

It’s the first time he’s properly addressed you. He sounds close, like he’s pressed up right against the wall. You close your eyes and try to imagine how that looks like.

“I have a job interview tomorrow,” you say, voice thin and smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s important. I really need it. So if you could just… I dunno. Let me have this.”

There’s no way you could know, of course, that this is technically the first time Lan has heard you speak. How he’s frozen on his side of the wall, fingers curled over the plaster like he might be able to reach through it and reach you. How he’s realizing that you’re actually a very real person with very real feelings, not just some caricature he’s been exchanging threats with these past weeks. 

A beat. Two. You hear him shift. The faint creak of his chair. The hum of his mic.

Then: “Sorry, guys. Gonna call it early tonight. Something came up.”

You stare at the wall, stunned. Not used to getting what you want without some sort of conflict or fish stench. You wait five minutes, then ten. It really has gone quiet. Lan has called it a night, just because you asked. 

You lift your hand and tap twice. Thank you. 

There’s a pause.

Then two taps back. It sounds a lot like you’re welcome. 

The next day is a blur of sweat, strangers, lukewarm coffee, and a delayed bus ride that smells vaguely of onion. The interview went well. Surprisingly well. You said things like strategic alignment and collaborative dynamic and did not throw up on yourself.

You get home exhausted. Starving. Quietly proud. That’s when you see it.

A bouquet of supermarket flowers, taped crookedly to your door. They’re not fancy. A little wilted. The cellophane crackles in the breeze. But they’re trying, and there’s a Post-It stuck to them.

Hope it went well. 

Your stomach does something ridiculous.

You take the flowers inside and set them in a glass, because you don’t own a vase. You sit on the floor beside them, still in your interview shoes. You stare at the wall that separates you from him. 

The job offer comes on a Wednesday.

London. Real contract. Real benefits. A desk with your name on it and a swipe card that might actually open something important. More than that: an apartment lease that belongs solely to you. Your name on every dotted line. No inherited clutter. No temporary furniture. No fishy feuds with mystery men next door.

You should be thrilled. And you are, mostly. Enough to dance in the kitchen when the email lands. Enough to call your best friend and scream. Enough to finally let your shoulders drop for the first time in months.

But under that: something a little tight. A little strange.

You’ve done well not forming attachments in Monaco. That was the rule you gave yourself from the beginning. Keep it temporary. Keep it light. Don't grow roots in a place that was always meant to be a layover. A waiting room. A pitstop.

Except.

Well.

Your suitcase is zipped and locked. Your boxes are taped with Sharpie scrawls that say things like kitchen stuff and probably important. They’re already downstairs, waiting for the courier. Everything practical is done.

What’s left is not practical.

You’re in your hallway with one last Tupperware, this time not a weapon but a gesture. Sushi, handmade. No cooked fish. No smell. No passive-aggressive message in the form of mackerel oil. Just rice and seaweed and clumsy affection.

You knock.

At first, there’s nothing. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The door cracks open an inch. Lan peers out.

Or rather, the boy from the grocery store does. Hoodie up. Hair a little messy. That same unreadable look in his eyes.

Recognition hits you both like a comedic pratfall. “Oh my God,” he says, pulling the door open fully. “Grocery store girl.”

You stare. “You’re the hoodie guy?”

“And you’re the fish assassin.” He steps fully into the hallway, barefoot and blinking. “Are you stalking me?” 

“I live next door,” you deadpan.

A beat. Then it hits him, too. His jaw drops. “You—You’re 4A?”

“And you’re 4B,” you say, like it’s the final piece of some wildly stupid jigsaw puzzle.

You both laugh. The kind that spills out before you can decide whether to stop it. The kind that feels like relief.

There’s a silence, hanging there. A quiet that isn’t awkward. That sits between you like something gentle. You lift the Tupperware.

“I’m moving,” you say. “Thought I’d say goodbye with something less vengeful.”

His smile falters. Not dramatically. But enough. “Moving?”

You nod. “Job in London. New apartment. New walls. Probably thicker ones. No more passive-aggressive Post-Its.”

He takes the sushi, then hesitates. “So… this is it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll find a new nemesis to annoy.”

“I don’t want a new nemesis,” he says. “I want my fish-scented wall banshee.”

You snort. “Touching. Truly.”

He lifts the lid on the sushi, looking at it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. “Full disclosure,” he mutters. “I actually really fucking hate fish.”

“I figured,” you hum, fingers curling around each other so you don’t do something stupid. Like take back the Tupperware and say you’ll make him something better. “You still let me stink up your living space for three months.” 

“I didn’t let you,” he counters. “I endured you. With dignity.”

“Barely.”

“True,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

And just like that, your chest gets tight again. You both go quiet, standing there in the hallway that always smelled like leftover fish and mild annoyance. Except now it just smells like memory.

You step back, toward your door. “Well. See you around, 4B.”

“See you, 4A.”

You close your door. This is how the story should end. 

But five minutes later, there’s a muffled sound. That now-familiar slide of paper against wood. A Post-It, slipped under your door for the last time.

Call me when you get to London. I’m from around there, actually, so I know a thing or two. 

There’s a number written beneath it. Black ink. Neat. And, this time, signed with not 4B but with a name. 

Lando. You turn it over and over in your head, sifting through all the times you mentally called him Lan and wondered what it was short for. 

Lando. Your nightmare of a neighbor. Streamer, grocery store boy, and something else entirely. 

You hold his Post-It in your hand longer than necessary. After a long moment, you walk to the wall.

You knock twice.

A pause.

Then, soft but sure, two knocks back. ⛐

[faerlune]

everything but lovers ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

the person on the other side of your screen is not your friend nor your rival. he’s a third, evil thing: a lewis hamilton stan account dead set on making your life absolute fucking hell. 

ꔮ starring: hamilton stan account!isack hadjar x rosberg stan account!reader. ꔮ social media au. ꔮ includes: humor/crack, fluff, hint of romance. profanity. set somewhere in 2024-early 2025, twitter beef, manufactured hate on hamilton & rosberg (opinions i do not share!!! all for the plot!!!), rivals to lovers lite, google translated french. for tweets on the timeline, it's best read bottom -> top!!! ꔮ commentary box: this idea has been on my mind for literal months. let’s say it’s celebration for the consistent hadjoints so far!!! dedicating this to the lovely @spiderbeam, because her comments on my plot bunny compelled me to get this done 🤳 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[faerlune]

girl, so confusing ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

r/aita · anon asked, “aita (m20) for realizing my best friend is attractive and starting to panic over it?”

ꔮ starring: pepe marti isack hadjar x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. pre-f1 isack (ft. yuki who is still in vcarb), so much jealousy!!!, emotionally constipated isack, i <3 pepe marti, idiots in love. title from charli xcx’s girl, so confusing. ꔮ commentary box: this got way too out of hand for something that was meant to be short 🤕 unfortunately, this has some of my favorite tropes, and getting to use pepe as a plot device was a major bonus! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first thing Isack hears when he lands in Bologna is your voice, muffled through his noise-cancelling headphones and still somehow unmistakably you.

“You packed five hoodies and no toothpaste.”

He blinks at you, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other still clutching his phone like it might protect him from your judgment. You look back at him over your shoulder, expression flat, eyebrows raised, the living embodiment of exasperated affection.

“I brushed my teeth before we left,” he says, which is not a defense so much as a cry for help.

You make a noise—something between a laugh and a groan—and keep walking. He jogs to catch up, the terminal humming around you both as you weave toward baggage claim like a pair of over-caffeinated ducks.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw each other in Paris. Long enough for Isack to feel it. Long enough for him to pretend he didn’t. “You know,” he says, nudging you with his elbow, “it would’ve been nice if you said you missed me.”

“I missed you like I miss stubbing my toe.”

“So passionately. Got it.”

The banter is easy, old, familiar. A thread pulled through years of half-eaten birthday cakes and failed group projects and one disastrous ski trip where Isack sprained his ankle trying to impress you with a backflip. (He still blames you. You still have the video.)

Now you’re here in Faenza, Italy, where the houses are too pastel and the espresso is too strong, and Isack is very suddenly, very alarmingly, a Formula One driver.

The Airbnb is two floors and aggressively rustic. There’s a bowl of artificial lemons on the kitchen table and a wrought-iron bed frame in his room that looks like it belongs in an indie horror film.

“I call the bed that doesn’t squeak when you breathe,” you say, tossing your duffel onto the couch with the confidence of someone who knows how to win.

Isack drops his bags and flops down beside you, limbs long and graceless. The couch groans. “This is surreal,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, which features an oil painting of what might be two angels fist-bumping.

You hum in agreement, already digging into your bag for a charger or snacks or possibly toothpaste to share with your idiot friend.

“You’re about to drive for Racing Bulls,” you say, not looking at him. “Like, real F1. Lights out and away we go. That kind of thing.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Don’t say it like that. It makes me want to throw up.”

“You’re just scared because now you can’t blame the car.”

He lifts his head to glare at you. You grin. It’s wildly unfair, the way you can disarm him with nothing but a look. “You’re the worst,” he mutters.

“And yet, you invited me here.”

He did. He really, really did.

He invited you before the holidays were even over, texted you in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party he barely remembered attending. Come with me. Pre-season. Italy. Be my emotional support baguette.

You’d replied with a thumbs up and a heart. Then, you showed up at Gare de Lyon with a suitcase and a grin and a croissant. You made him hold while you re-tied your sneakers.

He still thinks about it. The casual ease of your closeness. The way your shoulder presses against his now, warm and solid, grounding. “You excited?” you ask, gentler now.

He doesn’t answer right away. He merely watches the ceiling angels continue their enigmatic bro handshake. “Yeah,” he says after a moment too long. “And nervous. And... I don't know. It feels big. Bigger than I thought.”

You glance over. Your eyes are the same eyes that bore into him in first grade, when he was a curly-haired transfer student who still got his tenses messed up. 

“Good,” you say simply. “It should. You’re doing something big.”

He swallows. Looks at you for a second longer than he probably should. Then, he bumps his shoulder against yours again. “So, no toothpaste, huh?” 

You shove him off the couch.

Come evening, Isack announces dinner plans with a flourish. “Pepe’s in town. We’re meeting him tonight. Restobar. Casual.”

You look up from your laptop, face pinched in a suspicious squint, like you’re trying to detect the catch buried between the lines. “Pepe Martí?”

“The one and only.”

“Didn’t he spray champagne in your eye at Monza?”

“It was celebratory assault. Ancient history.”

You close your laptop with a soft click, settling back on the couch with the air of someone who’s already decided they’re going, but wants to be convinced anyway. “Weird. I thought he hated you.”

“He doesn’t hate me,” Isack says exasperatedly. “He just has a very aggressive love language.”

You snort. “That explains the champagne.”

In truth, Isack isn’t sure why the idea of you meeting Pepe now makes his stomach feel like it’s full of bees. Not the nice, metaphorical kind either. The buzzing, mildly panicked kind. You’d hovered at the periphery of enough F2 paddocks that your faces had probably passed like ships in the hospitality night.

But for whatever reason—timing, chaos, a tendency for you to disappear right before post-qualifying debriefs—you’d never officially met. It feels strange, almost unnatural, that two of the people who occupy the most space in his life have somehow never shared more than a passing nod.

Tonight, that changes.

The restobar in Faenza is dimly lit and full of old wood and louder locals. It smells like grilled meat, overconfident cologne, and faint desperation from the waiter who’s been dodging a birthday serenade at the next table for fifteen minutes.

Pepe is already there when you arrive, perched at a high table, hair a little too neat to be unintentional, like he tried and wants you to know he did.

“Amore mio!” he shouts when he sees Isack, arms thrown wide like they haven’t spoken in decades. Then, catching sight of you, he shifts gears so fast he might get whiplash. “And you must be the best friend.”

He says the best friend like it should be capitalized and possibly italicized. Probably followed by an exclamation point and a bouquet of flowers.

You smile, warm and polite, slipping easily into the kind of charm that sneaks up on people. Isack can practically hear the cartoon birds chirping around Pepe’s head. It’s ridiculous. And predictable. And he kind of wants to kick a chair.

Dinner is loud. The food comes in mismatched plates, the wine flows faster than it should, and the three of you start stacking shared appetizers in the middle of the table like a Jenga tower made of breadsticks and calamari.

You fall into conversation with Pepe like you’ve known him for years. He pulls out every story from their F2 days with the performative glee of a man auditioning for a biopic. You laugh at his impersonation of their former engineer. You laugh harder when he describes Isack’s sprint race tantrum in Austria, which, for the record, was justified. The gravel trap was a menace.

“I swear, he kicked a trash can so hard it broke the sound barrier,” Pepe says.

“I was emotionally processing,” Isack grumbles into his water.

“He nearly got fined for conduct unbecoming of a teammate.”

“That trash can had it coming.”

It goes like that for most of the night. Pepe playing the charming fool. You, being effortlessly yourself. And Isack, somewhere in the middle, pretending he isn’t watching the way Pepe watches you. Pretending he doesn’t notice the way Pepe leans a little closer every time you speak, or how he suddenly finds reasons to touch your arm, or laugh at even your worst puns like they’re comedic gold. 

You excuse yourself after the second round of drinks, disappearing toward the comfort room with a casual squeeze of Isack’s shoulder. It lingers longer than it should. The moment you’re out of sight, Pepe leans in with the subtlety of a man who’s never been subtle a day in his life.

“So,” he says, dropping the grin just enough to seem earnest. “Your best friend.”

Isack sips his drink, slow. “What about her?” 

“Is she single?” 

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Why, you wanna ask her to prom?”

Pepe whines in protest. “Come on, man. I’m being serious. She seems chill as hell.” 

Isack lets that sink in. It sits weird. Like a pebble in his shoe. Not painful. Just—there. Just annoying enough to notice.

He looks toward the hallway, where you’re still gone, then back at Pepe, who’s watching him with the infuriating patience of someone who knows what he wants and has decided the universe should give it to him.

“Yeah,” Isack says finally. “She’s great.” 

“So you’ll help me out?”

Isack drums his fingers against the glass. It clinks like a ticking clock.

The answer should be easy. It is easy. You’re not his. He’s not yours. There’s no unspoken tension except for all the ones he doesn’t want to name. And still, there’s a part of him that wants to lie, to say you’re secretly married or halfway to a vow of celibacy.

Instead, he shrugs. “Sure,” he says with forced casualness. “I’ll help you.” 

Pepe beams. “I owe you one.” 

Isack smiles back, thin and crooked, and tells himself that the weird twist in his chest is just the lemonade. Just citrus. Just a passing sting.

You return, eyes bright, smile easy, sliding back into the conversation like you never left. Isack watches the way you light up when Pepe tosses out another joke, the way you nudge his knee under the table without thinking.

He tells himself he’s fine, and he really, really tries to believe it.

Isack finds you in the kitchen wearing his hoodie and making your third cup of espresso.

You’re squinting at your phone, barefoot, hair a mess, mumbling something about the Italian grocery app being designed by masochists. You look so at home in his borrowed clothes, in this little sunlit chaos of a kitchen, that for a second Isack forgets what he came in to say.

You glance up, breaking the spell. “You’re staring. Either say good morning or tell me if I bought the wrong kind of oats.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Good morning. Also, those oats are for horses.”

You scowl at the bag. “I knew it.”

He almost lets the moment hang there—warm, ordinary, the kind of domestic that sneaks up on you—but then he clears his throat. “I have to go to the garage today. Pre-season prep, fitting, simulator stuff.”

You nod, but there’s something in the curve of your mouth, the way your fingers still on the mug. Like you’re waiting. “Cool,” you say eventually, too casual. “Should I come?”

He pauses. Feels the answer bump against his teeth before he chooses a different one. “Actually… you’re going on a tour of the city.”

Your eyes widen with a hint of shock. “I am?” 

“Yeah,” he says, walking over to grab a banana he has no intention of eating. “Pepe’s taking you.”

There’s a beat. A flicker of surprise. Then something else. “I thought he was flying back to Sabadell this morning.”

Isack shrugs, peels the banana in one aggressive move. “His flight got delayed.”

He doesn’t say he knows it didn’t. Doesn’t say Pepe canceled it after dinner, sent him a text with a fire emoji and hope she likes biscotti. He probably should’ve told Pepe you don’t care too much for biscotti, but that’s his problem. 

You watch Isack for a second too long, like you might be doing mental math and realizing none of it quite adds up. Then, you sigh. “Fine. But if I end up on a scooter without a helmet, you’re going to pay for my hospital bills.” 

“Deal.”

You disappear to change. Isack eats half the banana before tossing the rest into the trash bin. It tastes like guilt and the aftertaste of something he hasn’t felt in years.

Half an hour later, you’re by the front door, tying your shoes. There’s a knock—sharp, eager. Pepe, standing outside in sunglasses and a jacket he clearly thinks makes him look like a local. He has the energy of a man about to star in a romcom montage.

“Ciao, mi vida,” he greets you.

Two languages in one go. Both you and Isack roll your eyes, but at least you’re smiling. “You ready to show me Faenza, or are we just going to loiter dramatically in piazzas?” you tease Pepe. 

“Both,” Pepe grins.

Isack lingers in the doorway, hand on the frame, watching as Pepe offers you his arm. You actually take it, laughing at something he says before you’re even out of earshot.

The door swings shut. The silence that follows is full of espresso steam and a terrible, gnawing question.

Isack wonders when exactly it started feeling like losing something he never had.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and focuses on what he does have: The Racing Bulls headquarters, which smells like rubber and ambition.

Isack walks in with his hands in his pockets, pretending he isn’t mildly intimidated by how many people already seem to know his name. Someone hands him a clipboard. Someone else gestures him into a fitting. There’s a brief but enthusiastic welcome meeting that involves espresso, four different PowerPoints, and Yuki Tsunoda casually hurling a stress ball at the wall.

“You’re the kid,” Yuki says, grinning.

“You’re not exactly ancient,” Isack shoots back.

“Yeah, but I have trauma. That ages you.”

They shake hands like boxers before a friendly match—no real heat, but both clocking each other’s moves. Yuki seems cool. Equal parts chaotic and competent. The engineers already seem in sync. Isack even gets a laugh out of one of the mechanics during seat fitting, which feels like winning something small but important.

The simulator is less forgiving. By hour three, his neck feels like it wants to secede from the rest of his body.

He gets through it. He takes notes. He lets the weird pressure sink in and settle somewhere behind his ribs. It’s real now, all of it. The team, the season, the expectation.

By the time he makes it back to the Airbnb, the sun is half-asleep and his shoulders are carrying the day like wet concrete. He kicks off his shoes, steps inside, and stops short.

You and Pepe are on the couch.

There’s a movie playing. Something old, black and white, probably subtitled. You’re tucked under a blanket, legs curled, face lit soft by the screen. Pepe’s sprawled beside you with a bowl of popcorn on his lap.

“Welcome back, rookie,” you call out to Isack without looking.

He mumbles something that might be a greeting, still caught off-guard.

“You hungry?” you ask, already standing. “We saved you some of the pasta. It’s in the fridge. I’ll heat it up.”

You disappear into the kitchen before he can answer. Pepe pats the cushion next to him, but Isack ignores it, lowering himself into the armchair instead. He sinks into the upholstery like it might help him process the entire day.

Pepe turns to him with the expression of a man who’s just been handed a glass of very good wine. “We had a good day,” he announces in a stage-whisper. 

“Did you.”

“Took her to the clock tower. And the bookshop with the cat that hates men,” Pepe rambles. “Then the two of us split a tiramisu. It was intimate.”

Isack snorts. “Sounds romantic.”

“It was. I could cry about it.” 

There’s a beat. Then: “Hey,” Pepe says, shifting slightly. “Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

Isack lifts a brow. “Is it about the man-hating cat?”

“No, it’s about your best friend.”

That lands heavier than it should. “What about her?” Isack asks, even though he already half-knows where this is going. 

Pepe eyes him, grin crooked. “How did you never fall for her? I mean, come on. She’s funny, and hot, and she clearly loves you in that ride-or-die, might-bury-a-body-for-you way.”

Isack opens his mouth. Closes it.

Because he has.

Not fallen, exactly. More like slipped, once or twice, when you were laughing too hard at one of his jokes or looking at him like he mattered more than his lap times ever could. It always passed. Or he shoved it down until it did.

Best friends. That’s the thing. That’s what you are. What you’ve always been.

He exhales, forces a laugh. “She’s my best friend,” he doubles down. “That’s it.” 

Pepe hums, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press. Maybe because you reappear, holding a plate of reheated pasta, steam curling upward. You hand it to Isack with a smile, then drop onto the couch again—but this time, you sit beside him. Not Pepe. 

Your knee brushes his. You don’t move away. Isack twirls the fork through the pasta and pretends it doesn’t mean anything.

Pepe watches the whole thing and doesn’t say a word.

The movie plays on, black and white shadows flickering across the walls like ghosts with good timing.

“Get dressed,” Isack proclaims. “We’re going to the beach.”

Your eyes light up instantly. “Like… for real? Not a metaphor? Not a training exercise disguised as leisure?”

“Sand. Water. Minimal cardio. I promise.”

You scramble to your feet with the glee of someone who’s just been told school’s canceled. “I’m wearing the obnoxious sunglasses.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he sighs, already reaching for the Gentle Monster knockoff that you purchased in a thrift shop. 

Isack manages to rent a car that smells like someone once smoked a cigarette out of spite in the glove compartment. You don’t seem to mind. You fiddle with the aux cord and commandeer the playlist before they hit the autostrada.

The drive to Ravenna is bright and warm, full of sun streaked windows and half-sung lyrics. You both argue over the best road trip snacks (he insists on plain chips, you bring chocolate despite the sun), and by the time you see the sea peeking through the trees, Isack is convinced the day might actually be perfect.

Which is, of course, the first mistake. He pulls into the beach car park and glances at you, ready to soak in your reaction.

“It looks beautiful,” you say, squinting toward the water. “Kind of makes me want to move to Italy.”

“You can crash in my closet,” he offers. “Great rent. Terrible Wi-Fi.”

You laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt. And then your gaze shifts. “Is that—?” 

It is. 

Pepe, with his shirt open, sandals tragically worn, holding a bouquet of flowers with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted a single choice he’s made. He spots you and waves like this is all very spontaneous.

You blink. “Huh. Small country.”

Isack’s already wincing. “Weird, right?” he fibs, as if he and Pepe hadn’t texted about this the night before. “Total coincidence.”

You glance sideways. “Really.”

“Italy is famously compact.”

You narrow your eyes, but Pepe is already closing the distance, holding out the bouquet like a contestant on a reality show. “For you,” he says, eyes soft. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with roses.”

You take them because you’re gracious, and good at hiding disappointment, and because you probably don’t want to look unkind in front of two men watching your every breath.

Isack watches your smile tighten. Not quite forced. Not quite thrilled.

You think roses are cliché. 

You once said it on a rainy walk in Montmartre, called them emotionally lazy flowers. You said peonies were better. Or wildflowers. Or anything that didn’t feel like it came from a Valentine’s Day display rack.

You still thank Pepe. Still hold the bouquet carefully. Isack looks away, throat tight.

The beach stretches out, endless and perfect. Sand like sifted sugar, water clear enough to tempt confession, and sunlight bouncing off the Adriatic with persistence that could qualify as flirtation.

You spread out the towels while Pepe enthusiastically stakes claim to a patch of shade with the same enthusiasm he brings to everything. Isack tosses the beach bag down with a grunt and sits, squinting out at the water like it might solve something.

Then, you start undressing.

It isn’t a performance. You’re only peeling off your cover-up and shaking out your hair with the casual grace of someone who has no idea they’re about to cause an emotional incident.

Isack forgets how to blink.

Pepe chokes slightly on his own tongue. “You look—” He stammers. “Wow. Like, illegal levels of beautiful.”

You laugh, polite and a little embarrassed, and Isack instinctively reaches for the armor he wears best. “Don’t let that bikini fool you,” he tells Pepe wryly. “She still owes me ten euros for losing rock-paper-scissors.”

The joke lands, sort of. Your expression flickers. A crack in the sunshine. You chuckle along with Pepe, but it doesn’t light your face the same way. Isack feels the moment curdle in his mouth.

“Pepe,” you say, turning smoothly. “Would you mind helping me with sunscreen? I can’t reach my back.”

Pepe perks up like a spaniel. “I live for this exact request.”

Isack stands before he can think better of it. “I’m going for a swim.”

You glance up at him, brows raised. “You haven’t put on sunscreen yet.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m allergic to public displays of lotion.”

You snort. Pepe laughs louder. Isack walks away.

The water is cold in the best way. A slap that feels like a reset. He dives under, lets the salt sting his eyes. It doesn’t help. All it does is remind him that you’re back on the shore, letting someone else touch the space between your shoulder blades.

He floats, arms out, staring at the sun through lowered lashes, and wonders why he thought today would end any other way.

The rest of the beach day unfolds like a montage directed by someone who hates subtlety.

Pepe is predictably unbearable. Doing handstands in the surf, trying to charm a waiter into giving you free granita, offering you his towel even though you’ve brought your own. You play along. You always play along.

There’s a moment where he convinces you to dance in the shallow tide and Isack watches from under his towel, sunglasses on, stomach doing the kind of slow roll he usually associates with track day nerves.

He joins in when he has to. Laughs when it’s expected. Still, there’s something dislodged in his chest the whole time. Like someone opened a cupboard in his ribcage and everything fell out at once.

The drive home is golden-hour quiet.

You’re in the passenger seat, legs curled under you, hair still a little damp from the sea. You hum occasionally to the radio, but it’s gentler now. Like the day has taken some of your noise with it.

Isack doesn’t mind the silence. He just minds what it might mean.

You’re halfway back to Faenza when you speak. “Any plans tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “Garage in the morning. Maybe grocery shopping. Why?”

You look out the window. Then back at him. “Pepe asked me out.”

There it is. The sentence drops like a wrench.

“Oh,” Isack says. “Cool.”

You nod a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just, like, a coffee. Not a big deal.”

He tightens his grip on the wheel. Loosens it. “Sounds good.”

Silence again. The kind that wants to ask something or be asked something. You lean your head back against the seat and say nothing else. Neither does Isack. 

When you pull into the Airbnb’s drive, the sky has gone syrupy with sunset. You reach for the door handle. “Thanks for today,” you say.

He nods. “Go on ahead. I’ll return the car.”

You hesitate. Like you might offer to stay. But then you leave. Isack watches until the door clicks shut behind you.

Then, he drops his forehead to the steering wheel and groans into the plastic. A long, aching sound.

The car beeps in protest.

He stays like that until there’s a rap on the window. He looks up to find a scowling policeman staring back at him. 

Isack apologizes in broken Italian, mutters something about returning the car. He straightens, pulls himself together. Drives off without another word.

The sound of the horn still rings in his ears, and so does your voice, soft and hopeful: Pepe asked me out.

Your date looms like a plot twist that everyone else saw coming. Isack is pretending to care about the race on his phone when you emerge from the bedroom holding two outfits in either hand.

“Pick,” you say, extending two hangers. 

Isack’s eyes narrow. 

On the left: the green sundress. The one you wore to Monaco last year. He remembers how it moved in the breeze, how it made your laugh sound louder, brighter. How he’d gotten annoyed at a passing fan who stared too long, and you’d called him dramatic.

On the right: the rust-red top and denim mom jeans. More casual, more subtle. The outfit you wore to that random film festival in Paris where you both sat through two and a half hours of subtitled existential horror and got crêpe after like nothing had happened. He remembers you licking powdered sugar off your thumb, asking him if yearning looked better in black and white. 

He still doesn’t know the answer. He does know what longing looks like in technicolor, though. It feels awfully a lot like this moment. 

He points to the red. “That one.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good. I was leaning that way.”

Of course you were. You disappear again. He stares at the spot you left like it owes him closure.

Minutes later, you step out, radiant in a way that feels both cinematic and inevitable. The shirt clings in the right places. The jeans sit perfectly. Your earrings glint. Isack pretends to be engrossed in folding a grocery bag.

He’s always known you were attractive. It was just a fact, like your love of overpriced coffee or your inexplicable ability to quote bad horror movies verbatim. But lately—and he doesn’t know when or how or why—it started feeling like a fact that might ruin his life.

You step up to him, easy and warm. “Wish me luck?”

He tries for nonchalance. “Try not to fall for his shirtless anecdotes.”

You laugh, and then, like it costs you nothing, press a kiss to his cheek. It lingers. Not on his skin, but somewhere behind his eyes.

And then you’re gone, out the door and into the arms of someone who thinks Thai food is a date night flex.

Because of course Pepe would pick the one cuisine you’ve always said tastes like betrayal. Because of course you’d go anyway.

And because, apparently, Isack has officially lost his goddamn mind.

Hours later, Isack hears the door open before he sees you. Keys fumbling, shoes lightly kicking the wall. You step inside with a sigh that belongs in a different movie. Something French and tragic with a cigarette dangling off the edge.

He doesn’t look up from his spot on the couch. “You’re back early.”

You toss your bag down with less grace than usual. “It’s midnight.”

“Early for Italians.”

You plop down beside him, exhaling like the night wrung you out. He doesn’t ask how it went, but you tell him anyway. “It was nice,” you say. “He took me to that place on Via Cavour. The one with the bamboo walls and the overly enthusiastic waiters.”

“You hate eager waiters,” Isack points out. 

You ignore him. “We had those noodle wraps that fall apart the second you look at them. And he talked about Barcelona for, like, an hour. Did you know he once almost bought a goat from a street vendor on a dare?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He brought it up in Hungary.”

You pull your knees up, arms wrapped around them, voice too cheerful.

“He was sweet, though. Paid for everything. Even hailed me a cab—after we walked the length of the harbor. God, my heels were not made for cobblestones.”

Isack glances down, frowns. “Your feet are blistered.”

“They’re battle scars.”

“They’re dumb.” Isack pushes the couch pillow off his lap. “Give me your feet.”

Your brows raise. “Kinky.” 

“Be normal for once, please. I have healing hands. Or at least Band-Aids.”

You hesitate, then you slowly stretch your legs across his lap. Your ankles are marked red, the pads of your toes faintly swollen. He reaches for the First-Aid kit on the living room coffee table, muttering French obscenities under his breath.

For a while, the room is quiet. Just music playing off his phone and the crinkle of wrappers. Then, you speak. Low. Like you almost didn’t mean to. “I thought this trip would be about us.”

He looks up. Your eyes are on the ceiling.

“I mean,” you continue, “I’ve seen Pepe more than I’ve seen you. And I came here for you. Not the Spanish court jester.”

The guilt is immediate and heavy. Isack presses a bandage onto your heel. Carefully. Like it’s the only thing he can still fix.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow’s yours. Just us. I swear.”

You finally look at him. Smile soft, tired. “Better be.”

He meets your gaze and thinks about how many things he hasn’t said. How many things he shouldn't. How tomorrow might break him anyway.

“I’ll make it perfect,” he promises, and he means it.

Isack wakes up the next day with mission energy. The kind he usually reserves for race day and the rare, sudden impulse to deep-clean his apartment at two in the morning. There’s a certainty in his chest, warm and weighted, like if he doesn’t get this right, something might shift out of place permanently.

Today is yours. No distractions. No Pepe. Just Isack and a plan that comes together like a jigsaw puzzle built from memory—each piece shaped by years of observation, of inside jokes and passing comments and the unspoken reverence of knowing someone better than you know yourself.

First: coffee. 

Not just any coffee. The tiny Faenza café you declared life-changing three summers ago, where the barista still calls you campionessa and overfilled your cup with a wink. You light up the second you step inside, greeting the staff like old friends. Isack watches you from behind his espresso, grinning quietly into the rim of his cup as you sip with dramatic flair and announce, “Still the best in Italy.”

Second: the museum. 

The one you dragged him to under the guise of ‘cultural enrichment’ but really because you wanted to see the weird medieval instruments that looked like cursed objects from a fantasy novel. You lead him straight to your favorites, offering commentary that is probably inaccurate. When you stop to take a selfie with a 14th-century lute, Isack photobombs. He tries not to preen when it goes live on your Instagram story. 

Lunch is picnic-style in a hidden courtyard garden you both stumbled into once when you were hopelessly lost and slightly hangry. He pulls out your favorite pastries from a paper bag like a magician revealing doves. You gasp at each one, acting as if he conjured them from thin air.

“How do you remember all this?” you ask, mouth full of cream cheese and suspicion.

He shrugs, feigning coolness. “I’m secretly sentimental. Don’t let Yuki in on it.”

“I knew it,” you whisper like it’s a state secret. “You’re all mush underneath, Hadjar.” 

The afternoon turns into a slow wander. You window-shop. He teases you for nearly buying a ceramic duck. You pause at a street artist sketching tourists and dare him to pose. He declines. You try again. He relents. The result is a caricature with an enormous forehead and dramatic brows that you both agree is a masterpiece.

By the third cobbled street, you’re limping. Maybe faking it, but Isack’s not about to deny you.

“Blisters,” you declare, stopping in your tracks and holding out your hands like you’re ready to pass away on the spot.

Isack knows where this is going. “You want me to carry you?” he sighs. 

“Yes,” you say without hesitation, eyes gleaming with mischief.

He groans, but turns around, crouching. “Get on.”

You leap onto his back with a delighted squeal, arms looping around his neck, cheek pressed against his shoulder blades.

“God,” he grunts, “you’re heavier than I remember.”

“You wound me. This is all emotional baggage.”

He snorts, trudging forward. People stare. He doesn’t care. If anything, he’s a little smug about it. You hum a tune near his ear, and he wishes, briefly, that the street would never end.

There’s gelato at sunset. You eat yours too fast and get a brain freeze. He steals a bite anyway. You chase him down the beach path with a sandal raised like a weapon. Somewhere in the chaos, the day becomes yours again—entirely and irrevocably.

The evening winds down in cinematic slow motion.

You’re curled up on the couch, sun-warm and half-wrapped in one of his old hoodies that hangs oversized on your frame. He flips through channels, but you're already half-asleep, eyes fluttering as your head finds his chest like it was always meant to rest there. One of your hands curls loosely near his ribcage. He doesn’t move.

“Best day ever,” you mumble, slurring slightly, barely audible.

Isack exhales. Lets the day settle into his bones like gravity. His heart stumbles in his chest.

He doesn’t answer.

He just closes his eyes and lets you rest against him, hoping, foolishly, that if he stays still enough, time might freeze right here. On the couch, with your hair brushing his collarbone, your breath slow against his shirt, and the knowledge that maybe, for once, he’s done something completely, unmistakably right.

Isack should’ve known the universe wouldn’t let him have one clean, uncomplicated day.

It starts well enough. The air between you is light, still golden from yesterday. You’re wearing the hoodie you stole from him again, and he’s not saying anything about it because he likes the way it looks on you.

You’re unusually chipper about going to Racing Bulls headquarters. You ask things like, “Will they make me wear a fireproof suit?” and “If I get in the simulator, will it unlock my F1 potential?”

“Only if you crash less than Yuki,” Isack says.

You grin like you have something to prove.

He parks and you walk in beside him, credentials already arranged. It feels weirdly normal—bringing you here. Like you belong in his world. Like you already do.

Then Pepe appears. Not just appears. Materializes. A recurring plotline in a show Isack didn’t subscribe to.

“Hey! What are the odds?” Pepe says, smiling too broadly.

“Suspiciously high,” Isack mutters.

“Campos stuff,” Pepe adds. “Quick meeting with the junior team. Thought I’d drop in on my favorite almost-teammate.”

Isack forces a tight smile. You’re smiling, too. “Small world,” you say.

“Tiny,” Isack deadpans.

The three of you trail through the main floor like some weird reality show cast. Isack leading, you flitting between curiosity and commentary, Pepe walking a little too close.

Yuki finds the three of you by the hospitality area, snacking like he owns the place. He greets Isack with a fist bump, eyes flicking toward Pepe, and then you. The older driver does a quick assessment.

“Ah,” Yuki says, nodding sagely. “You must be Isack’s girlfriend.” 

Isack freezes for half a second. He looks at you. Your expression is unreadable, but you don’t say anything. Neither does he. Pepe, however, laughs. Too loudly.

“No, no,” he says quickly, on your behalf. “They’re just friends. Best friends. Very platonic.”

The silence that follows is the kind that hums.

“Riiight,” Yuki drawls, eyes narrowing like he’s clocking something he won't bring up.

Before Isack can invent a distraction, one of the staff calls him and Yuki in for a strategy session. Yuki claps him on the back and whispers, just for Isack to hear, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the team you have feelings.”

“I don’t,” Isack says a little too fast.

Yuki just smirks.

You wave as they head off. Isack glances back once, and you’re already laughing at something Pepe said. His stomach twists.

“Don’t worry, Hadjar,” Pepe calls out to Isack, voice trailing behind as you part. “I’ll keep her entertained.”

Isack doesn’t answer. He only walks into the meeting room and tells himself it’s fine. That he trusts you. That it doesn’t matter. That none of this means anything.

He’s starting to realize how often he lies to himself.

By the time Isack gets out of the strategy meeting, the sky’s shifted colors and so has his mood. He checks his phone the second he’s free. Nothing.

No messages. No missed calls. No chaotic selfies in your text thread. Radio silence.

He frowns. Shoots you a quick text: All good? 

Then one to Pepe, which he regrets immediately: Where are you guys? 

No response. Not for ten minutes. Then twenty. Then thirty.

By the time your name lights up his screen with a cheery, Hey! Sorry, my phone was on Do Not Disturb. We went downtown! Dinner later?, he’s already halfway to deciding he’s not in the mood.

He types, Nah, I’m heading back. Tired, and doesn’t wait for a reply.

The Airbnb feels too quiet when he returns. Like it knows something he doesn't. Like it wants him to sit in it.

He tosses his keys into the bowl by the door harder than necessary. Pulls a cold bottle of water from the fridge and doesn't drink it. Paces the kitchen once. Twice.

By the time you walk in, soft laughter still clinging to your clothes like perfume, he’s not ready.

“Hey,” you greet, toeing your shoes off. “Dinner was nice. Pepe told the worst joke I've ever heard. You would've hated it.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going.”

You pause.

“Okay. You could’ve said that without the tone.”

“What tone?” he snaps. 

You narrow your eyes. “That tone. The one where you act like I’ve done something wrong without saying what it is.”

Isack exhales through his nose, but it sounds more like a sigh sharpened at the edges. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does. You’re acting like I left you stranded in a ditch.”

“You kind of did.”

You glower. “We were at the same building.”

“And then you disappeared.”

You cross your arms. “Isack. I texted you back the second I saw my phone.”

“Whatever,” he huffs. 

That does it. You pull back like he slapped you. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” you say, voice low and tight, “but figure it out. I don’t deserve to be your punching bag.” 

And just like that, you’re gone. Bedroom door clicking shut behind you with finality.

Isack stands in the living room, alone with his unspoken feelings and half-finished arguments. He sinks onto the couch and lets the silence stretch, taut and ugly. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and wonders how the hell he managed to mess up a day that hadn’t even started badly.

The apology never gets its moment.

Isack wakes up earlier than usual, heart already heavy with the weight of last night. He plays the conversation on loop in his head while brushing his teeth, scrubbing harder than necessary, like he can rinse the bitterness out of his mouth.

But when he steps into the living room, you’re gone.

Your shoes are missing from the doorway. Your favorite mug isn’t on the counter. The blanket you always drag onto the couch is neatly folded. The absence is clinical, as if you were never there to begin with.

He texts you. Hey. Can we talk?

Ten minutes later. I was a dick. I’m sorry.

An hour later, still nothing. Against his better judgement, Isack texts Pepe to ask whether he’s seen you. 

Pepe responds in under twenty seconds with a selfie of the two of you. You’re grinning, but it’s the kind of smile Isack recognizes too well—the polite, careful kind. The one you wear when you’re trying too hard not to feel too much. Behind you is a gaudy tourist spot Isack knows you once called ‘aggressively not my vibe.’

Isack doesn’t reply. He just closes the chat and holes up in his room like it’s a bunker. Laptop open, phone on silent. No appetite. No music. He scrolls through old photos with you and hates every one of them for being so easy.

Evening slips in like a whisper.

He hears the front door open, the rustle of your jacket being hung, the soft clink of your keys in the bowl. Pepe’s voice is low, by the door. “You alright?”

You pause for a beat too long. “Yeah.”

You don’t sound alright. Not to Isack. Not to anyone who knows what your voice sounds like when you mean it.

Pepe doesn’t know that, though. Just says, voice light and happy, “Good night, then. Text me if you need anything.”

The door closes with a click.

Isack hears your footsteps pad across the floor, soft and careful, like you’re trying not to wake something sleeping. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s whatever fragile thread is still left between you.

Your door shuts. Just like that, the apartment is divided. One wall. Two rooms. A silence loud enough to drown in.

Isack steps out of his bedroom for the first time that day. In the hallway, he stares at your door like it might blink first. It doesn’t, obviously. It remains closed, unmoving. A slab of wood and tension.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough to think, Maybe this is a bad idea—then knocks.

Once.

Twice.

Silence.

Still, he knows you’re awake. He can feel it. The kind of quiet that only exists when someone is deliberately holding their breath on the other side.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Nothing.

Then, finally, your voice. Muffled but close. “Isack, if you’re here to pick another fight, go away.”

“Not here to fight. Just to sit with you.” 

He sinks down, back against the wood, knees drawn up. He imagines you doing the same, mirrored on the other side. Like two halves of the same coin, split down the grain.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks, tentative.

You exhale. The sound is barely audible through the barrier.

“Pepe tried,” you say. “Took me to a place he thought I’d like. I didn’t.” A pause. “I pretended to.”

Isack swallows. “Why?”

“Because he was trying,” you say. “And because I didn’t want to admit the only thing I really wanted to do today was talk to you.”

His chest tightens.

You continue, softer now. “But if you want me to be with him, say it. If there’s something you’re not saying, say that too. Just... don’t lie, Isack. Not to me.”

He closes his eyes. His head thuds gently back against the door. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles.

“Start with the truth.”

“The truth is—” He sighs, voice low. “I want you to be happy.”

Another silence. This one is thicker.

“You make me happy,” you say after a moment.

He freezes, fingers curling into his jeans. The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. It’s weighty. Something shared. Something hovering between.

He leans his head back again and stays there. Neither of you moves. Neither of you opens the door.

The next morning, Isack is on a mission. Again. But this one doesn’t involve strategic plans or grand gestures. 

He clatters around the Airbnb kitchen like someone who’s watched a cooking video once and promptly blacked out halfway through. The eggs burn before they scramble. The toast is more smoke than bread. The coffee tastes vaguely like dish soap. But he’s trying, just like Pepe has been trying these past few days. 

You walk in, hair still sleep-mussed, wearing one of his old jerseys like it belongs to you. Which, at this point, it kind of does. He glances up from the pan, sheepish.

“I made breakfast,” he says.

You stare at the charred offerings, then back at him. “Did you anger a god recently?”

He snorts. “I thought effort counted for something.”

You laugh, stepping in. You hug him from behind, arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his back. “It does,” you say. “You’re still a culinary disaster, but it does.”

He leans into it. Just for a second. Just until his heart starts doing that thing again—skipping like it knows something his brain doesn’t.

You pull back and poke him in the ribs. “Now get out of my kitchen.”

He does as told, retreating to the side while you take over. Watching you move—barefoot, still half-dreaming, humming something under your breath—does something to him.

Not the usual something. Not the friend-something. Not even the maybe-they-look-nice-today something.

It’s a quiet click in his chest. A door swinging open he didn’t know existed.

Oh.

It doesn’t hit like a thunderclap. It settles like a truth that’s always been there.

He loves you. He’s pretty sure he always has.

He just didn’t recognize it under all the noise. There’s no noise here—in this rented apartment, with you in his shirt and his heart at your feet. 

You turn and catch him staring.

He panics and ends up flicking you on the forehead.

“Ow,” you whine, offended. “Rude.”

He shrugs, trying for casual. “You were looking smug.” 

“I was fixing your eggs.” 

“Judgmentally.” 

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. He flees toward his room like the coward he is.

Because if he stays, he might tell you what just occurred to him—and if he says it out loud, nothing will be the same again.

This time, you’re the one who invites Pepe. 

That alone should be enough for Isack to play it cool, to shove whatever very-not-best-friend feelings he’s developing back into the emotional locker he never quite learned how to use. But it isn’t.

Because now he’s watching you lean slightly toward Pepe while explaining something about the local architecture, and Pepe’s leaning in too, like a man who’s never heard of personal space, and Isack feels like his blood is simmering just under his skin.

“That’s a Corinthian column,” you say, gesturing upward. “You can tell from the acanthus leaves.”

“That sounds made up,” Pepe teases good-nautredly.

You scoff, delighted. “Argue with my art history minor. Go ahead. I dare you.”

Isack mutters under his breath. “She’s terrifying when she’s right. Which is always.”

You flash him a smile. “Exactly.”

The day unfolds like a postcard. Sunlight, earthware, overpriced gelato. You’re radiant and bright and completely unaware that Isack is hanging on to your every glance like a lifeline.

He stays close. Closer than usual.

At first, it’s subtle. His hand brushing yours when you cross the street. Standing just a beat too close while you admire something in a shop window. But then Pepe tries to buy you a bracelet from a market stall, and Isack somehow ends up between you two before it even gets clasped around your wrist.

“You don’t have to,” Isack says quickly, tone light but body angled in.

Pepe’s eyebrows draw together. “It’s just a gift. Relax.”

“She’s not a claw machine prize, mate,” Isack replies, sharper than he intends.

Your lips quirk into an amused grin. “Okay, weird metaphor. But noted.”

You never pull away from Isack.

You let his arm linger against yours when he steers you toward a quieter street. You don’t say anything when he finishes your gelato after yours melts. You don’t flinch when he gives you his jacket without asking.

“I was fine,” you say, adjusting the sleeves.

“You’re always cold,” he counters.

“Still bossy.”

"Still right."

Pepe, oblivious as ever, chatters on about something F2-related. Isack barely hears him. His focus is entirely on you—how you laugh at the wrong parts of Pepe’s story, how you glance at Isack like you’re checking in, like you’re waiting to see what he thinks of it all.

And maybe that’s what drives him most insane.

Isack knows he’s being possessive. Knows he’s being an awful friend to both you and Pepe.

He just can’t stop.

Not when it feels this easy. This natural. Like maybe the whole world tilted slightly and now the space beside you belongs to him, even if he has no idea what to do with it.

By the time night falls, the town square is glowing with string lights and low chatter, the kind of accidental magic that feels too well-timed to be anything but fate. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, the three of you wander into a festival unfolding in the plaza. Live music, paper lanterns, families milling about with gelato cups and plastic cups of wine. The air smells like fried dough and sea salt.

You gasp, delighted, before Isack can even react. “Oh my God. Look at that.” 

And then you’re gone, swept up by a pack of pre-teen girls who descend like fairies on a mission, dragging you toward a booth with wooden chairs and hair-braiding kits. 

“She’s not going to make it out alive,” Isack huffs, watching you laugh as tiny hands start weaving through your hair.

Pepe grins beside him. “They’ll probably give her glitter too. You know, war paint.”

The two boys stand there a moment, watching. Isack has his hands shoved in his pockets, body tilted just slightly in your direction like a compass that can’t help itself.

“So,” Pepe says, too casually. “Do you want her?”

Isack jerks like he’s been hit. “What?”

“You heard me.” Pepe doesn't look at him, just eyes you across the plaza. “Because I do. But I also don’t make a habit of stepping on my friends’ toes.”

Isack swallows. “She’s my best friend.”

"That’s not an answer."

Isack hates how quiet the world gets for a moment, even with the music playing. Like something in him is suddenly under review.

Pepe finally turns. His voice is gentler this time. “I like her. A lot,” he doubles down. “But I think you love her, and I think she knows.”

Isack shakes his head. “She—she’s just being nice.”

“She wears your clothes, dude. And she glows around you.”

Isack doesn't say anything. He can’t. He’s not sure what any of it means, only that he’s been dragging his feelings behind him like a broken wing and pretending he can still fly straight.

Pepe claps him on the shoulder. “Look, I’m not trying to start shit. But I figured it was time someone said it out loud.”

Before Isack can reply, you come bounding back across the plaza, hair intricately braided and laced with tiny ribbons, beaming like you’ve just been knighted. “Don’t laugh,” you warn. “They were very committed.”

“You look like a Disney heroine,” Pepe says brightly, already redirecting his shine back to you. “Come on, dance with me.”

“Right now?” 

He grabs your hand with a flourish and spins you toward the music before you can say no. As you disappear into the crowd, he throws a wink over his shoulder, aimed squarely at Isack.

Isack exhales, every breath sharp with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

He stays at the edge of the square, watching you dance under fairy lights with his not-quite-rival of a friend. Trying not to wonder how it would feel to be the one holding your hand. Trying—and failing—not to want more.

Isack watches you and Pepe dance under the fairy lights, arms loose, laughter unforced, your smile all sharp edges softened by the glow.

It doesn’t ache as much as he thought it would. Not now. Not after the conversation. Not knowing that Pepe will step aside if he has to. That this isn’t a contest. That maybe, it never really was.

It’s still there. The sting of want, the slow burn of it. Thankfully, it’s no longer a weight pressing on his chest. More like a steady thrum. A sort of certainty.

You look happy, dancing with your hair braided. And that means something. It means everything.

Eventually, the music winds down into a slower tempo, the kind that makes the crowd melt into scattered couples and soft footsteps on cobblestones. You and Pepe stop spinning, your arms still linked. You’re flushed from the dancing, braid a little frayed now, ribbons slipping loose.

“Okay,” you say, breathless, leaning on Isack for support. “I’m not saying he’s a bad dancer—but I’ve seen storks with more rhythm.”

“Hey,” Pepe protests, mock-affronted. “I was giving old-school charm.”

“You were giving liability,” you quip.

Isack smirks, but he doesn’t jump in yet. Not until the next song starts.

It’s not loud or flashy. It’s not one that fills the whole plaza with noise. It’s a soft, nostalgic tune, almost drowned by conversation and clinking glasses. But he recognizes it. He knows this one. Because it’s one of your favorites, even if it’s instrumental and unrecognizable to half of the festival attendees. 

You told him once, ages ago, back in a crappy hotel in Baku or maybe a quiet kitchen in Paris. You said it reminded you of summers and home and moments that felt a little like forever.

He doesn’t say anything. Just offers his hand.

You’re smiling, the corners of your eyes crinkling. Like you’re surprised Isack remembers. You slide your hand into his with a joke of, “Only if you don’t step on my feet.”

“Zero promises.”

He leads you into the plaza, away from Pepe, away from anyone who might have a say in this moment. The music hums around you, low and easy. You slot into place like you were made to fit there, arms winding around his neck, fingers brushing the back of his hair. You smell like lemons and cheap festival sweets.

The world shrinks. The rest of the plaza folds into something irrelevant. Isack just holds you, swaying slightly, like he might have done this before in a dream he barely remembers.

Isack sways with you in the center of the plaza, half-forgetting where they are, half-hoping the music never ends. There’s something impossibly golden about the whole moment—the way the plaza lights glow against the soft dusk, the scent of fried dough and melted sugar hanging in the air, the distant sounds of laughter folding into the slow pulse of the music.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of movement. Pepe, now dancing with someone else. A girl in a red sundress, twirling him around with the kind of giddy recklessness that suggests she might not know who he is, and wouldn’t care even if she did. She’s laughing openly and stepping on his feet, but Pepe is beaming like he just got handed a trophy.

Pepe grins over her shoulder and throws Isack a thumbs-up. It’s a little ridiculous. A little theatrical. Completely sincere. The kind of gesture only a friend with nothing to lose would make.

Isack lets out a soft breath. Something unknots in his chest. The guilt doesn’t disappear, not entirely, but it quiets, settles into something gentler. He presses his hand gently against your back, just above the dip of your waist. You fit too easily against him. Like the world makes more sense this way. Like maybe this is how it always should have been.

The music drapes over you, hushed and familiar. A soft, lilting tune with a melody that could belong to a lullaby or a heartbreak, depending on how you hold it.

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “So,” he breathes, “about Pepe.” 

You make a face, subtle but unmistakable. Your brows pinch together. “Isack.”

“What?”

“Not now.”

Your voice is firm. It hums through the fabric of his shirt where your forehead rests against his chest. “This moment is just for us. Don’t bring him into it.”

His heart does something inconvenient and thunderous. A traitor in his ribcage. “Okay,” he says plainly, agreeing because you asked him to. Because you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s enough to level him.

For a beat, neither of you move, suspended in something that doesn’t quite feel like real time. It’s weightless and quiet, like the moment before a race starts. No countdown. Just breath.

And then—

He leans in.

It’s not dramatic. Not practiced. Just the slow tilt of his head, the closing of space, the way his mouth finds yours like he’s been thinking about it longer than he wants to admit. He kisses you like a secret. Like he’s handing over something fragile and true.

You kiss him back.

Soft. Unrushed. Sure. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask a question because it already knows the answer.

Somewhere behind you, the lights blur and the music carries on, but Isack can’t hear a single note over the sound of his own heart breaking open. Not in pain. In relief. In disbelief. In something so sharp and sweet it almost feels like falling.

You stay close when you pull apart. Eyes still shut. Like the world might tilt if you look at it too directly.

Isack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Not yet.

Your hand lingers in his. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles like a promise you haven’t spoken out loud. His free arm stays curled around your waist, protective and still. He wishes he could stop time. Or at least pause it. Hold it right here, right now, when everything feels terrifyingly possible.

He exhales through his nose and rests his forehead lightly against yours.

The music keeps playing. And for once, Isack doesn’t feel like he’s racing against it.

You ditch the festival not long after. 

No real excuse, no polite goodbyes. Just a shared look, your fingers lacing through Isack’s like a decision, and then you’re gone. Ducking through the edge of the crowd and into a side street glowing amber with old lanterns. 

The only sound is the echo of your footsteps and the occasional bubble of laughter when you bump into each other, like your bodies are already pulling toward each other on instinct.

You don’t make it to the door before he kisses you.

Back against the wall of the Airbnb, a hand braced near your head. He kisses you like he hasn’t had oxygen all night, like the festival music still hasn’t left his ears, like you’re the only thing that’s ever quieted the noise in his head.

You break away long enough to say, breathless, “We ditched Pepe.”

“He’ll live,” Isack mutters, pressing his mouth to your jaw.

“You know he’s going to sulk.”

“He can file a complaint to Helmut for all I care.” 

You laugh against his mouth, then yank him inside by the collar.

It’s all limbs and laughter, hips bumping into furniture, mouths dragging over flushed skin, half-on half-off clothing, until you both land on the couch with the kind of graceless thud that only two idiots in love can make. You’re straddling him, his hair a mess from your fingers, his lips swollen and bitten.

“I always wanted you,” you say, hands on either side of his face. “Even when you were annoying. Especially when you were annoying.”

He huffs. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

You smile. Kiss him again. It slows for a moment. Softens.

His confession comes out in between kisses. “I hated how he didn’t know things,” he says against your mouth. “Like your favorite flowers, or that you hate jazz fusion, or that you get blisters from walking too long in heeled boots and pretend you're fine anyway.”

“Isack,” you groan mid-kiss. 

“What?”

“You sound like a possessive freak.”

“I’m not.” Beat. “Okay, maybe a little. But only because I actually know you.”

Your mouth twitches as you pull away briefly, just enough to look down at him. “And you think you know everything?”

“I do,” he exhales. 

Your eyes sparkle with something wicked. “Confident.” 

And then you bite him.

Just below the jaw, sharp enough to make him gasp, his hands tightening on your hips. You push him down until his back hits the cushions, climb over him like you own him. In a way, you always have.

“There are still things you can learn,” you say into the skin of his collarbone.

And Isack—future Formula One driver, alleged adult, hopeless romantic idiot—is absolutely wrecked by it. By you.

He nods dazedly. “Okay. Lesson one. Let’s go.”

Your laughter is low, warm, the kind of sound he wants to bottle and keep in his back pocket for race days.

For once, nothing else matters.

The bags are packed. The Airbnb is a mess again. Somehow, more of a mess than when you arrived—clothes draped over chairs, an empty wine bottle teetering dangerously on the edge of the table, two mismatched socks living completely separate lives across the floor. It’s chaotic in a strangely comforting way.

Isack doesn’t really care.

You’re fussing over your suitcase. Half-sitting on it, you’re trying to zip it up with a grimace and a very creative string of French-English hybrid curse words that include at least one new invention Isack’s never heard before. 

He’s leaned against the kitchen counter, chewing absently on a protein bar and watching you like you’re some kind of performance art installation. One with a questionable soundtrack and even worse spatial awareness.

“You know,” he says dryly, around a bite of chocolate peanut doom, “if you packed like a normal person, this wouldn’t be a three-act tragedy.”

You throw a sock at his head. Miss. By a wide margin. “Sorry I’m not genetically engineered for spatial logic like some people,” you snap. “Besides, half of this is yours.”

“Then why is it in your suitcase?”

“Because your suitcase is full of, and I quote, ‘emergency snacks, three pairs of the same shorts, and my emotional support hoodie.’”

“That hoodie is mine, for emphasis.”

“Not anymore.”

Isack scowls, not for the first time this morning. He’s tired, mildly sore, and still a little emotionally short-circuited from last night. Kissing you, touching you, and waking up with your foot somehow wedged under his thigh like it belonged there did something to his internal wiring. 

It made him softer. Braver. Also dumber.

He’s also absolutely not in the mood to fight over hoodie custody. Not when you keep doing shit like brushing your hand over his waist in passing or slipping your fingers through his when you think he won’t notice. He has noticed, and it’s been driving him a little bit mad.

There’s a new rhythm to your bickering now. Same tempo, new instruments. The kind of intimacy that wasn’t there before, or maybe always was but just never labeled.

You steal sips from his coffee without asking. He keeps brushing your hair behind your ear without thinking about it. Now, you kiss his cheek absentmindedly when passing by, like it’s just something that belongs in the air between you

He scratches the side of his neck absently. Winces.

You look up. “Problem?”

“You gave me a hickey. Two, actually,” he grumbles. “On the same side.”

Your grin is unapologetic. “I was proving a point.” 

“What point requires me to look like I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner?”

“The point that you’re mine,” you say, almost flippantly. But there’s something in the way you say it. A softness. A gravity. Like you’re saying it with your whole chest, even if you pretend not to.

His brain does a weird little reboot thing. He glares, which you ignore with all the grace of someone who has known him too long to be fazed.

“You’re cocky,” he accuses.

“I’ve always been cocky. You’re just soft now.”

He opens his mouth to argue but stops when you walk up to him, zip finally conquered, your eyes annoyingly fond. You press a hand flat to his chest and lean in until you’re close enough for your breath to warm his skin. His hands twitch at his sides like they want to touch. Hold. Keep.

“You going to miss me?”

“No,” he lies.

“Coward.”

“Menace.”

You smile. He kisses you. It’s too soft for the amount of fire it lights up in his chest.

Somewhere in the middle of a chaotic Airbnb and looming departures and matching hickeys, Isack thinks: he knows you’re here. You’re his. And whatever comes next, he wants to meet it with your fingers tangled in his.

He doesn’t want it to end. Not even a little bit. ⛐

[faerlune]

not sure if you write for nolan but if u do! could u write something about him taking reader to her first indycar race as his guest and telling her all about how it works but then he finds out that shes been to races before as just a fan of pato or someone else 🤭 i feel like it would be so silly if his gf used to be a fan of his teammate before they started dating!! (ps ur writing is SO good ur ollie x siegel reader had me kicking my feet and giggling alone in my room)

pato’s biggest fan — ns6

written blurbs

nolan siegel x reader

nolan siegel thinks he’s about to give you the experience of a lifetime: your very first indycar race, paddock pass and all. he has planned everything down to the second—garage tours, headset access, a front row seat to his world.

what he doesn’t know is that his world? you grew up in it. you are the daughter of a legendary indycar engineer, raised in the shadow of pit lanes and the smell of race fuel. you’ve been to more races than you can count, idolized drivers long before nolan ever put on a fire suit—and one of them just so happens to know you both very well.

you could correct him. you probably should.

but where’s the fun in that?

(a/n) : thank you so so much for all the love!! and for giving me one of my first nolan requests! hope you love it:) i had sm fun writing

—

—

You’re still half-asleep when you hear the knock at your door. A soft, rhythmic tap—not impatient, not hurried, just familiar. You already know who it is.

You groan into your pillow, stretching one leg out from under the covers and blindly grabbing your phone from the nightstand. Another knock, a little louder this time. And then a voice.

“YN? I come bearing gifts and carbs.”

You smile immediately. That voice always does something to your chest, even when you’re still foggy from sleep. Throwing the covers off, you shuffle to the door in fuzzy socks and Nolan’s oversized hoodie from the night he forgot it.

When you open the door, there he is. Nolan Siegel. All messy hair and morning smile, holding two coffee cups in one hand and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like your favorite pastries in the other.

“You,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “Are either the love of my life or the reason I’m still single in five years. Depends what’s in the bag.”

“Rude,” he grins, walking past you into the kitchen like he lives there. “That’s no way to talk to someone who drove across town for this.”

You follow him in, still bleary eyed. “That better be the almond croissant from that bakery with the French lady who scares you.”

“It is,” he says proudly, pulling it out with a dramatic flourish. “And I faced my fears for you, so if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek as a thank you, but he turns quickly and steals a proper kiss, one that makes your knees a little weak and the croissant significantly less interesting.

“Mmm. That’s what I really came for,” he murmurs against your lips, grinning.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, grabbing the bag before he can kiss you again and completely distract you from your breakfast.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says innocently, sitting on your couch and patting the spot beside him. “Now, come here. I have a plan.”

“A plan?” you ask, settling beside him and tucking your legs under you. “What kind of plan requires early morning pastries?”

“The best kind,” he says, looking far too proud of himself. “Okay. So. You know how the season’s really picking up now, right? And I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask you this…”

You raise an eyebrow, croissant halfway to your mouth. “Ask me what?”

He’s suddenly a little nervous. His knee bounces, and he avoids your eyes for a second before smiling sheepishly. “I wanna take you to your first IndyCar race.”

You blink. Slowly.

“My first…?”

“Race,” he finishes, clearly excited. “Like, properly. As my guest. VIP. In the paddock, with the team, everything. I’ll show you everything. The cars, the pit wall, the garage—you can wear a headset and listen in. It’ll be amazing.”

You pause, mid-bite. Your heart lurches a little.

He’s so excited. His eyes are shining, and he’s looking at you like he just offered you the moon. And you could tell him. You should tell him that your first IndyCar race was when you were eight, sitting on your dad’s shoulders in pit lane. That you’ve been to more races than he probably has. That you’ve rebuilt gearboxes with your father in the garage and snuck into strategy meetings before you could even drive a real car. But you don’t. Because the way Nolan is looking at you right now? You can’t take that from him. Not yet. So you smile.

“My first race?” you say, playing along. “Wow. What an honor. Will there be snacks?”

He laughs and pulls you into his side. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it. And I’ll explain everything—like, how strategy works, push-to-pass, fuel mapping. You’re gonna love it.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, trying not to laugh. “You think I’ll love it, huh?”

“I know you will,” he says confidently. “It’s like… my whole world. And I want to share that with you. Properly. I want you to see what I see. And maybe, I don’t know—fall in love with it a little too.”

Your heart squeezes.

You do love it. You always have. You just didn’t expect to fall for a driver the way you did for Nolan.

“You’re really sweet, you know that?” you whisper, tilting your head up to look at him.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and kisses your forehead. “Only for you.”

You hum. “Okay. Then take me to my ‘first’ IndyCar race.”

He grins. “It’s a date. Get ready to have your mind blown.”

You smile into your coffee cup, watching him dig into his own pastry like a golden retriever with a treat. He has no idea. And honestly? You can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.

—

The sun is streaming through the windshield as Nolan drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on your thigh. The windows are cracked open just enough to let the summer breeze swirl through the car, and the radio plays some soft indie playlist he made for you without telling you. You’re headed to the gym. Just a normal day. But Nolan?

He’s buzzing.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you with that lopsided smile that melts your insides, “I was thinking… maybe we watch some races this week before we go to the track. Get you up to speed on stuff.”

You bite back a grin. “Up to speed?”

“Pun not intended,” he lies.

You smirk, sipping your protein shake. “Okay, Professor Siegel. Teach me.”

Nolan clears his throat dramatically. “Alright. So—IndyCar 101. First of all, races aren’t just about who’s fastest. Strategy matters. Tire choice, fuel windows, cautions—all of that can flip the order.”

“Wow,” you say, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “You don’t say.”

“And there’s something called push-to-pass,” he continues, very seriously. “It’s a button on the steering wheel that gives you a temporary boost in horsepower for overtaking. You only get so many seconds per race, so you have to use it strategically.”

You nod, letting him talk, because he looks so proud of himself. You’ve seen that exact gleam in your dad’s eyes, that spark when someone gets to share what they love.

“And you can use it to defend, too,” you say casually, watching the trees blur past the window. “But not on starts or restarts. They disable it until the second lap, right?”

Silence.

You glance over.

Nolan’s eyes flick to you and back to the road, his brow furrowing just slightly. “Wait. How do you know that?”

You blink innocently. “I don’t know. Must’ve read it somewhere.”

“Huh.” He sounds vaguely suspicious, but you reach over and grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and that distracts him enough to let it go. He smiles again, relaxed. “Well… yeah. That’s exactly right. Look at you.”

“Maybe I’m just a fast learner,” you tease.

He grins. “God, I like you.”

“I hope so,” you laugh. “We’ve been dating for, like, months.”

“I mean, I like you more now. You’re hot and you’re absorbing my IndyCar wisdom like a sponge.”

“Oh, baby,” you deadpan, “say ‘fuel stint strategy’ again.”

He laughs so hard he misses a turn and has to loop back around the block. “Don’t mess with me,” he says, pointing a playful finger at you. “I’m trying to enrich your racing knowledge.”

You raise both hands in mock surrender, barely hiding the smile pulling at your lips. “I’m just here for the ride.”

“Okay, what’s next…” he hums, thinking aloud. “Oh! Pit stops. They’re like, refueling happens, tire changes, everything. Whole thing’s like seven seconds if it goes right. Maybe eight.”

“Unless your gunner fumbles the rear right,” you mutter under your breath without thinking.

Nolan’s head whips around.

“Wait. What?”

“What?” you echo sweetly.

“No, no, what did you just say?”

You grin. “Just, you know… speaking hypothetically.”

He narrows his eyes at you, slowing the car at a red light. “Are you… do you already know this stuff?”

You shrug, sipping your coffee again. “Some stuff. Here and there.”

“Huh,” he says again, more suspicious now. “Well… don’t go Googling everything. I want to be the one to teach you. It’s more fun that way.”

You reach over and pat his thigh. “I like watching you get excited. So don’t worry. I’m learning everything from you.”

He looks over, suspicious for a second longer… but then your hand slides up and under the hem of his T-shirt, your fingers grazing his warm skin, and he promptly forgets what he was talking about.

“Fine,” he says, flustered and grinning. “You win. But I swear if I find out you’ve been holding out on me…”

“What’ll you do?” you tease. “Give me extra homework?”

“No,” he says, leaning over at a stoplight to kiss your cheek. “I’ll just make sure to embarrass you all weekend.”

You laugh, head leaning against the window, heart warm and soft.

—

The air at the track hits you before anything else—warm, electric, heavy with engine fumes and energy. It’s the kind of atmosphere that would overwhelm most people. But not you. You grew up in this hum.

Still, it feels different today. Because you’re walking through the paddock holding Nolan Siegel’s hand, your fingers laced together like you’ve always belonged here—with him.

You’re dressed casually but cute—papaya orange crop top under a lightweight jacket, denim shorts, your favorite sneakers, and a baseball cap pulled low over your brow. Nolan’s number is stitched across the front in crisp white thread, and you swear he smiled for ten straight minutes when he saw you wearing it this morning.

“You ready?” he asks now, practically bouncing as he guides you through the maze of trailers and team personnel.

“Born ready,” you say with a smirk.

He doesn’t catch the double meaning.

“This is crazy,” he says, beaming as he flashes his pass at security and leads you toward the garage. “Having you here—like, here—with me? Feels surreal.”

You squeeze his hand. “Feels kind of like home.”

He looks at you, touched but not quite catching your words. “I’m gonna give you the full Nolan Siegel VIP experience.”

He pushes open the door to the Arrow McLaren garage, stepping aside so you can enter first.

The scent of fuel, rubber, and cooling metal hits you like a nostalgic wave. The lighting is sharp, the floor spotless, and the signature papaya cars sit poised and perfect like wild animals in wait. The familiar whir of electric tools, soft calls between engineers, tire blankets humming—every sound tugs at something in your chest.

But Nolan’s excitement is what holds your gaze.

“So this is where the magic happens,” he grins, tugging you inside. “Okay—don’t touch anything, or they’ll yell at me.”

You snort. “Noted.”

He leads you toward his car, pausing dramatically. “And this—this is my baby.”

You lean forward, hands behind your back like an innocent little tourist. “She’s beautiful.”

“Right? I mean, she’s temperamental as hell, but she loves me deep down.”

From behind the car, one of the older mechanics— a longtime McLaren veteran—walks past, double takes… and freezes.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters.

You shoot him a small smile and a tiny shake of your head. Not yet.

He chuckles under his breath and nods in quiet understanding before walking away. “Good to have you back, kid,” you hear him mumble.

Nolan, oblivious, gestures to the tire stacks. “Those are the primaries,” he says proudly. “Harder compound. Then we’ve got the alternates—they’re red walled, softer, faster, but wear out quicker. We only get a certain number per weekend, so it’s all about strategy.”

You grin. “Impressive. I’m learning so much.”

You’re not even being sarcastic. Watching Nolan talk about racing is like watching sunlight dance—bright, natural, effortless. He loves this. And you love him.

He leads you over to the pit wall stand, where a few engineers are already prepping data screens. One glances up and blinks like he’s seen a ghost. You wink.

Nolan plops into one of the fold-out chairs and pats the one beside him. “This is where the strategists and race engineers sit. That’ll be me one day if I stop being good behind the wheel,” he jokes. “Wanna try?”

You sit beside him, headset on, pretending like you don’t know exactly what half the toggles do. You’ve probably sat in a hundred chairs just like this.

But when Nolan turns to look at you, his expression softens. “You look really good in my number.”

You glance down at your cap. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the paddock.”

From behind you, a younger mechanic walks by carrying a laptop and stifles a laugh. “He has no idea,” he murmurs to a colleague.

You shoot him a playful glare and he zips his lips.

Nolan, still totally oblivious, nudges your knee with his. “Okay, what do you think so far? Pretty cool, right?”

You lean back in the chair, inhaling the scent of burnt rubber and heat haze, the soundtrack of impact wrenches and strategists whispering into mics.

You smile. “It’s perfect.”

Nolan beams. “Wanna see the transporter next? I’ll show you where we stash all the extra parts. And maybe steal you a hat or something.”

“Stealing from your own team?” you tease.

“For you? Anything.”

You follow him, hand in his, as the garage door opens to the paddock sunlight again. Behind you, the team watches you go—several of them already nudging each other knowingly.

And Nolan? He’s too busy falling in love with the way you laugh to notice a thing.

—

You and Nolan are mid way through his extremely detailed explanation of the transporter organization system—he’s showing you how every drawer is labeled, how the team uses color coded bins for parts—when one of the engineers passes by, eyebrows raised in recognition.

“Hey—LN!” he calls out casually, not even looking directly at you as he hurries toward one of the pit carts. “Can you give me a hand with this data cable? The system’s being temperamental again.”

Nolan freezes. You freeze, too. But only for a half second.

“Yeah, one sec,” you say smoothly, slipping past Nolan before he can open his mouth.

“Wait—” he starts, turning after you. “What did he call you?”

But you’re already crouched beside the cart, fingers deftly working through the mess of tangled cables, eyes scanning for the source of the connection dropout. You find it immediately—a loose sensor pin in one of the data ports. You pull a small multi-tool from your pocket, pop open the panel, and fix it in less than 30 seconds.

The engineer blinks. “Still got it,” he mutters, impressed. “Your dad would be proud.”

Nolan hears that one. He’s standing a few feet away, mouth slightly open, eyebrows knitting together in pure confusion.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he stammers. “What’s going on? Since when do you—how do you—what just happened?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because the door behind you swings open and someone shouts.

“NO. WAY.”

And then you’re tackled into a bear hug by a blur of papaya.

“Pato!” you squeal, laughing as your feet literally lift off the ground.

“Are you kidding me?! What the hell are you doing sneaking around the garage like a stranger?” Pato says, holding you at arm’s length before pulling you into another hug. “Look at you! Little LN, all grown up! I haven’t seen you in years!”

Nolan’s jaw is on the floor.

“Wait. You know her? You know her?”

Pato turns, still hugging you one-armed, and gives Nolan a wide-eyed, incredulous look. “You’re dating her and you don’t know who she is?”

Nolan looks back and forth between the two of you, completely lost. “I—I mean, yeah, I know her—she’s my girlfriend—but I didn’t know she… like… knows cables and you and—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

Pato just shakes his head in amused disbelief. “You seriously didn’t recognize the last name? Her dad built half the paddock. He’s the reason half of us didn’t die during our rookie years.”

You glance at Nolan, sheepish now, but still smiling.

“I… maybe forgot to mention it,” you say quietly.

“She grew up in the paddock,” Pato continues, dramatically waving his hand. “Used to be my shadow when we were both younger. Always watching, asking questions, stealing data sheets when her dad wasn’t looking—total menace.”

“I wasn’t a menace,” you say, swatting his arm.

“She had a custom mini fire suit when she was eight!” Pato cries. “With her name stitched on the belt and everything! You’ve probably seen pictures of her and just didn’t know.”

Nolan is blinking rapidly. “I am… not okay.”

Then Pato squints, finally noticing the hat on your head. “Is that—?” He leans closer and gasps. “You’re wearing his number?”

You try to hide your smile behind your hand.

Pato gives Nolan a theatrical glare. “Wow. I used to be her favorite. Her number one. But now…” He sighs dramatically. “Now she’s got Siegel Fever.”

You’re full-on laughing now, hiding your face in Nolan’s chest.

Nolan blinks at Pato, at you, then at the cable you just fixed like it was nothing. Then back at Pato.

“She used to be your biggest fan?” he asks, still half-stunned.

“Biggest,” Pato confirms, throwing an arm around your shoulders again. “She even cried once when I crashed. Sobbing. I have receipts.”

“Pato!” you groan

Nolan’s eyes widen. “Okay, now I really need to see those.”

Pato’s grin is pure chaos. “I’ll text ‘em.”

“Absolutely not,” you say.

“Too late,” Pato shrugs.

Nolan just looks at you, jaw slack, and then shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re telling me you let me explain push-to-pass like I was giving a TED Talk, and you already knew everything?”

You smile up at him, sweet and unbothered. “You looked really cute when you got excited.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Unbelievable.”

Pato’s already backing toward the pit wall, still laughing. “Good luck, man. She’s smarter than all of us combined. You’re in so deep.”

When he’s gone, Nolan turns to you, eyebrows high. “So… anything else you’ve been hiding? You’re not secretly a licensed engineer or something, are you?”

You shrug playfully. “Not officially.”

He groans again, but then grabs you by the waist and pulls you close.

“I should be mad at you,” he murmurs. “But honestly? I’ve never been more into you.”

You laugh into his chest. “I’ll take it.”

He kisses the top of your head, his hands still wrapped around your waist. “And for the record—I plan on being your number one now.”

“Even over Pato?” you tease.

“Especially over Pato,” he says.

—

The checkered flag waves, the grandstands erupt, and Nolan Siegel crosses the finish line in P3—his first ever podium in IndyCar. The radio crackles with celebration. “P3, Nolan! Amazing drive, mate. That’s a podium. That’s a podium! Let’s go!”

But Nolan barely hears it. Because the second he unstraps his belts and kills the engine, he’s out of the car—tearing off his gloves, his helmet, his balaclava—searching. Not for his team. Not for the cameras. For you.

You’re waiting by the pit wall, surrounded by orange-clad crew and media and chaos, but his eyes find you in an instant—like a magnet, like gravity itself. You don’t even have time to say anything before he’s in your space, breathless and grinning like a little kid.

“I did it,” he gasps, grabbing your waist, his eyes wide and shining and locked on yours. “I did it.”

“You did it,” you say, so proud it aches, your hands on his cheeks before you even realize it. “Nolan—third place! Podium! That was incredible!”

But he doesn’t wait.

He leans in and kisses you—deep and fast and full of adrenaline. His hands slide to your back, pulling you impossibly close. He’s still in his fire suit, drenched in sweat and champagne spray from the winners’ circle, and you don’t care at all.

The moment is loud—engines still cooling, team radios buzzing, Pato yelling from across the way: “HEY, GET A ROOM!”—but when he kisses you, it all disappears.

“I kept thinking about you the whole race,” he murmurs against your lips. “I knew you were watching. I knew you’d know exactly what I needed to do.”

You laugh softly, brushing his soaked hair away from his forehead. “You drove like a star.”

“I wanted to make you proud.”

“You already do,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, forehead pressed to yours, as the team pulls him away for photos and media.

But even as the flashes start, even as he’s lifted onto shoulders and handed a bottle of champagne—he keeps glancing back at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. Because to him? You are.

—

The hotel room is quiet.

The adrenaline has faded. The noise of the paddock and podium and celebration dinner have all settled into soft exhaustion. The only sound is the gentle hum of the air conditioning and Nolan’s breathing, slow and steady as he lies beside you in bed.

He’s showered and clean now, hair damp, skin warm from the heat of the day. One arm is tucked behind his head on the pillow; the other is stretched across the bed, his hand resting on your bare thigh beneath the covers.

You’re curled beside him in one of his shirts—oversized and soft.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice low and sleepy.

You turn your head on the pillow. “Yeah?”

He looks over at you, expression open and vulnerable in that way only post-race nights can bring. “Did you mean it earlier? That I made you proud?”

Your heart swells. “Of course I did.”

“You’ve seen this world longer than I have,” he says softly. “You know what a good driver looks like. What a great one looks like. So when you say you’re proud of me, it means more than you know.”

You shift closer, pressing your chest to his side, your hand drawing slow circles on his ribs.

“I meant it,” you say again. “You were smart. Calm. Aggressive when you needed to be. You picked your overtakes beautifully. Your tire management? Textbook. I watched every lap, and all I kept thinking was… that’s my driver.”

He exhales, like he’d been holding that breath since the finish line.

“I kept looking for you after the race,” he murmurs. “I didn’t even think—I just ran. All I wanted was to find you.”

“You did,” you whisper. “You always do.”

He shifts, rolling toward you fully, and cups your face with both hands. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, his eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the first time.

You blink, and then you’re smiling so wide your face aches. “I love you too.”

He kisses you—slow, unhurried, and full of meaning. It’s not frantic like after the race. It’s quiet and sure. It’s home.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his thumbs still brushing your cheeks.

“You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met,” he murmurs. “You grew up around racing, you understand everything, you still let me pretend I was teaching you things—”

You laugh. “You were adorable.”

“—and somehow you’re still here, still supporting me, even when you probably could’ve been running a strategy team by now.”

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t trade this. I wouldn’t trade you.”

He shifts again, pulling you fully on top of him, your legs tangled in the sheets. His arms wrap tightly around your waist as you settle against his chest.

“Can we stay like this forever?” he mumbles.

“Only if you promise to delete all the blackmail Pato sent you.”

He chuckles sleepily. “Deal.”

And that’s how you fall asleep—wrapped in his arms, his heart still racing beneath your ear. Tonight, you aren’t the engineer’s daughter, or the girl who knew too much. Tonight, you’re just his. And he’s never letting you go.

—

[faerlune]

i absolutely love your work!! i just finished reading your ollie x siegel!reader and you asked for more indy, so here i am👀

okay, reader is lando’s twin, they’re inseparable and they’re literally nothing without the other. reader is going through a breakup with a public figure (whether it’s a driver or an actor it’s up to you) bc he cheated and she’s obviously having a rough time (the other drivers and lando are her hype men) and lando goes to an indycar race (PR for mclaren or something) and he brings her along, to clear her head and do something different as siblings

there she meets pato, who is a little fanboy and hides his puppy in love behaviour behind humour, it’s hard at first because she’s hurting, but he helps her and it evolves from that, just a wholesome relationship with a healthy healing process (friendly reminder: your partner is not your therapist, reader did all that she had to do, pato is just a support)

thank you and i love your work sm!!! 🫶🏼

time heals all — po5

smau + blurbs

pato o’ward x !norris twin sister

the cheating wasn’t the worst part. it was the noise — headlines, whispers, sympathy from strangers. you felt like your heartbreak had been turned into a show.

but you had lando. your twin. your tether.

he didn’t ask — just packed your bag and his and said, “we’re going on a trip. you need time to breathe.”

you went for air. for escape. what you found instead was him — all charm, jokes, and quiet care. pato, who made you laugh before you remembered how.

you weren’t trying to move on.

but somehow, your heart did anyway.

and you healed in a way you never thought you would.

you felt— whole again.

fc : jazmynmakenna and other random pinterest gals

(a/n) : i fucking LOVED writing this sm. i have always had a thing for pato…like always. i saw him at a race once and he winked at me and i have not let it go since. BUT BUT what you said. healing is key. your partner cannot fix you and should not. they are there to support and love you through the process of FIXING YOURSELF. anyways. LOVE YALL SO MUCH. thank you for the support bb, hope you love. 

—

gossiproomx

7,800,007 likes.

gossiproomx : YN Norris and longtime boyfriend, Timothée Chalamet, were spotted outside a restaurant last night in what looked like a very heated argument 👀 This comes just days after rumors began circulating that he may have been unfaithful during his recent trip to LA. Sources say YN was seen wiping tears before he stormed off, leaving her alone in the street.

Minutes later, twin brother Lando Norris pulled up in his McLaren and helped her into the car. No statement has been made… yet.

Stay tuned. 💔

—

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username00 : i’m gonna pretend i didn’t read this because there’s no universe where he chooses anyone over HER. THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ENDGAME

username000 : men really just wake up and choose to be horrible to the best women alive 😭

username17 : she deserves the world and she’s gonna get it. healing arc loading 🧡

username8 : she was literally glowing last week 😭 now this??? i hate it here.

username50 : timothée chalamet you will never know peace again. never.

username55 : carlos sainz is somewhere plotting something horrible

username77 : i just KNOW the grid’s gc is popping off rn

username11 : lando didn’t even hesitate 😭 i love them sm my emotional support twins 🧡

—

flashback

Your hands are shaking. You don’t even realize it until your phone slips while you’re trying to unlock it, the screen splintering a little more where it’s already cracked. You blink hard, trying to breathe, trying to think, but your thoughts are as loud as the cameras still flashing from across the street.

He’s gone. He left. He walked away.

You step out of the spotlight, ducking around the corner into an alleyway between two buildings — quieter here, darker. You lean against the cold stone wall and finally let the tears fall. Your makeup’s ruined. You don’t care.

It’s instinct, really, when your fingers move to his name. Lando. It rings once.

“Hey, where are you?” he answers immediately — voice steady, like he already knows.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. A breath. A broken sob. You press the back of your hand to your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut.

“YN?” His voice sharpens, urgent now. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

You manage to whisper, “Can you come get me?”

He doesn’t ask where. He already knows.

“I’m five minutes away. Stay right there. Don’t move.”

The line goes dead.

And somehow, just that — just hearing him say it, hearing the certainty in his voice — is enough to make your knees go weak. You slide down the wall and curl your arms around yourself. Five minutes. That’s all. You don’t have to be strong anymore. Not tonight. You just have to wait for Lando. And he’s never let you down before.

You hear the car before you see it — the soft purr of the engine rounding the corner, the unmistakable hum of Lando’s McLaren. It cuts through the noise of your spiraling thoughts like a lifeline.

The headlights sweep over the alley, slow and searching. Then the car stops, and the door flies open before you can even stand. He’s out in an instant.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Lando says softly, crouching down in front of you like you’re glass. “I’ve got you.”

You’re crying again and you hate it, hate how weak you feel — but the second his arms wrap around you, you don’t hold back. You bury your face in his hoodie, clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. He holds you tighter.

“He just—he left,” you manage. “We were fighting and I—I asked if it was true and he didn’t even deny it, Lan. He just walked away.”

Lando goes still. You can feel the tension in his jaw where it’s pressed against your temple.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, “I will end him.”

You huff a laugh. “You can’t fight him.”

“Watch me,” he says. “I’ll use a golf club.”

You almost smile. Almost.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a tear off your cheek with his sleeve. “You’re coming home with me. We’re getting food. I’m putting on that stupid movie you always make me watch when you’re sad.”

You nod.

“And then,” he adds, helping you to your feet, “we are blocking his number, deleting every picture, and publicly unfollowing him so that I can finally stop pretending to be polite.”

You don’t answer — just slide into the passenger seat of his car, grateful for the familiar smell, the warmth, the way he drives like he is carrying something precious. You are. And he knows it.

—

The second you step into Lando’s apartment, it hits you — the stillness, the comfort, the fact that you’re finally away from it all. No cameras. No whispers. No heartbreak waiting to be reopened.

Just him. He gently helps you out of your shoes and tosses you one of his oversized hoodies without a word, and disappears into the kitchen.

You pull it over your head and curl up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, staring blankly at the muted TV screen. The world still feels too loud, even in silence.

A few minutes later, he drops down beside you with his phone in hand.

“Okay. I ordered that ridiculously DISGUSTING sushi you like. And those spicy noodles that destroy my stomach every time but you always steal off my plate anyway.”

You blink at him, touched in that small, aching way that only someone who really knows you can manage.

“Thanks, Lan,” you whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, kicking his feet up and grabbing the remote. “I rented that damn movie that’s gonna make both of us cry.”

You let out the tiniest laugh — just a puff of breath, but it’s enough to make his shoulders relax.

He opens his arms. “Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You tuck yourself into his side, your head against his chest, his arm around your back like a shield. You’ve done this a hundred times — after races, during long flights, on the floor of hotel rooms when the world felt like too much. But tonight it feels different. He doesn’t say anything else. He just lets you breathe.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says quietly, fingers absently tracing patterns along your arm. “Not tonight. Just be here. Be sad. Be nothing. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes sting again, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s not grief. It’s gratitude. It’s the soft, simple truth of being loved when you feel most unlovable. You nod against his chest. And for the first time all night, you finally feel a little bit safe again.

—

present day (a few weeks later)

yn_norris

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,705,000 others.

yn_norris : heartbreak but it’s…cutesy:)

tagged : lando and alexandrasaintmleux

—

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lilymhe : HOT GIRL SUMMMMAAA

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↳ alex_albon : don’t forget where you belong

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↳ yn_norris : me. she belongs with me.

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↳ alex_albon : fine 🥴 i can share

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alexandrasaintmleux : i love you forever and ever angel. leo and i are always happy to keep you company xx

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↳ yn_norris : my babies 🥰🥰

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charles_leclerc : Please tell me the Taco Bell was after the Dior.

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : yes i was very tired after spending all of lando’s money

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↳ lando : ALL my money was not an exaggeration. i have none left.

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↳ yn_norris : hush I bought you a quesadilla

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↳ lando : oh yes how dare i— a 6 dollar quesadilla is no match to the damn near 50k i dropped at dior

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↳ charles_leclerc : stop whining. she is worth it

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lando : love you always even if you spend all my money and get mild sauce on my sheets

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↳ yn_norris : it was an accident:( but i love you to the moon and back and could not of made it through this without you

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↳ username000 : these two kill me

ciscanorris1 : love you always sis❤️

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↳ yn_norris : love you more 💋💋

danielricciardo : Happy to report you’re still cooler than all of us even while heartbroken.

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↳ yn_norris : dannnnnnnnnnnyyyyyy i miss you

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↳ danielricciardo : Miss my favorite twins

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carlossainz55 : oh mi vida. he is lucky i haven’t showed up at his house yet. love you❤️❤️

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↳ yn_norris : love you even more chili💘💘

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lilyzneimer : my girl 🥹 hang in there, karma will get him.

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↳ yn_norris : i miss you so much 😭

liked by lilyzneimer

— It’s been a quiet few weeks.

Well — as quiet as things can be when your breakup practically trended on every platform for a week straight, and strangers suddenly think they know everything about your love life. But eventually the noise dulled. The heartbreak got quieter. You started breathing normally again. Smiling again.

You’re still sleeping in Lando’s bed, while he takes the couch. It’s become more of a home base than a temporary crash pad. The pillows smell like him and his apartment is full of distractions — mostly snacks and Mario Kart tournaments and spontaneous 3AM cereal runs.

He never asked when you were leaving. Never pushed. He just… let you be.

Right now, you’re curled up by the window, your legs tucked under you, phone pressed to your ear as your mum rambles on about some family friend’s new baby.

You hum along softly, eyes drifting to the soft Monaco sun pouring in through the curtains.

Then the front door opens with a loud click, and you hear keys hit the table followed by a very dramatic groan.

“—I think he just needs time to settle into the new routine,” your mum says, “…Sweetheart, are you listening?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, smiling despite yourself as you hear a familiar pair of trainers stomp their way across the living room.

“Tell her I said hi!” Lando calls.

“She says hi,” you repeat into the phone, then pause. “Wait—no, he does.”

“I brought you something,” Lando announces proudly, holding up a bouquet so massive it’s half-eclipsing his face. Pink and white flowers in a messy, overdone arrangement that’s totally his style — like he told someone “make it pretty” and didn’t ask questions.

Your chest warms.

“Mum, I’ll call you later,” you say, already getting up.

“Love you, darling,” she says, and the call ends with a soft click.

You set your phone aside and walk over to him. “What’s this?”

“A celebration,” he says, handing you the bouquet. “For surviving another race weekend without throwing your phone at the TV.”

You roll your eyes but grin anyway. “That was one time.”

“One time that I know of,” he says pointedly. “Also, there’s chocolate in the bag on the counter. I figured you’d want something to eat while I convince you to get on a plane with me.”

You blink. “What?”

He tosses himself dramatically onto the couch, legs splayed out like he’s been fighting for his life all day. “IndyCar. I’ve got to go for PR stuff next week. Couple media things, some sponsor bits. It’s lowkey. Chill. Less cameras, less drama.”

You raise a brow, sitting beside him with the flowers still in your lap. “And you want me to come because…?”

“Because,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently, “you need a change of scenery. And because you’re annoying when you’re bored. And because it’s me and you, yeah? You and me.”

You glance at him — at the way he’s pretending not to look too hopeful, at the softness behind his sarcasm, at the way he still knows exactly what you need before you do.

“Will there be Taco Bell?”

“Already scouted two locations.”

“And peace and quiet?”

“No promises.”

You snort. “Fine. But only if I get my own seat and you don’t make me do anything weird on camera.”

He beams. “Deal. You’re gonna love it. And maybe, y’know… it’ll help.”

You look down at the flowers again — messy, bright, alive. Maybe it will.

— sorry not sorry i needed !brother lando fluff before we moved on with the plot 

It hits you out of nowhere.

One second you’re staring at the ceiling, the soft hum of streetlights glowing faintly through the curtains. The next, you’re curled on your side, fists clenched in the sheets, trying to muffle the sound of your sobs with a pillow.

It’s not just the breakup — it’s everything. The noise. The headlines. The guilt, the grief, the humiliation. The ache of being left behind and the heavier ache of still loving someone who hurt you.

You try to be quiet. Lando’s asleep on the couch. He’s already done so much — the last thing you want is to wake him up because you’re spiraling at 3:17 in the morning.

But then you hear it—soft footsteps in the hallway. The door creaks open just enough for his voice to slip through, groggy and gentle.

“Hey… you okay?”

You can’t answer. You hear the floor creak again and then the bed dips beside you. He doesn’t ask another question — just pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders, one hand steady against your back like he’s holding the pieces of you in place.

You’re still crying, harder now, but you don’t have to hide it anymore.

“I hate him,” you whisper, voice cracked and broken.

“I know,” Lando murmurs, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I do too.”

You clutch at his shirt, shaking.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. “Not tonight. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He holds you through all of it — through the shaking, the guilt, the storm of it — until the sobs soften, until your breathing slows, until your fingers loosen against his chest. Until you remember that you’re not alone. Not even close.

— The sun is barely up when you board the plane. The world still feels blurry around the edges — dreamlike in that strange, sleep-deprived, travel-morning kind of way. You’ve got sunglasses pushed up into your hair, Lando’s hoodie still swallowing you whole, and a steaming cup of tea you barely remember making.

Lando’s already sprawled across his seat like he owns the jet, legs outstretched and playing something dumb on his phone at full volume.

You buckle yourself in across from him and he looks up, eyes squinting. “You okay?”

You nod, slow. “Tired. Sore. A little hollow.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully. “That’s better than numb.”

You hum in agreement, sipping your tea, watching the tarmac start to shift as the engines come to life.

The silence stretches comfortably. For once, he doesn’t fill it with jokes. You take a deep breath.

“I called someone,” you say quietly, fingers wrapped around the cup. “A therapist. I have my first session next week.”

Lando looks up immediately. Not shocked — just serious in that rare way he gets when something actually matters.

“You did?”

You nod, eyes on the sunrise outside the window. “Yeah. I just… I’ve been talking around everything for weeks. I think I need to actually deal with it now. Not just patch it over with expensive shopping sprees and fast food.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, so gently, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

You glance over. He’s not teasing. He’s not even smiling. He just means it. Your throat tightens, but this time, it’s not grief. It’s something softer.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

He stretches a foot across the aisle to nudge yours. “Still bringing you all the Dior and Taco Bell, though. Therapy and a little chaos. Best combo.”

You laugh, quiet and real, as the jet begins to move.

And for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re running away. You feel where you’re supposed to be. 

—

The IndyCar paddock is quieter than Formula 1’s, but in a good way — less press, fewer paparazzi, more sunshine and open air. There’s a calmness to it that instantly wraps around you like a weighted blanket, even with the roar of engines in the distance.

You tug at the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie — the one you stole again this morning — and trail behind him as he waves at people and makes his way toward McLaren’s area.

You haven’t even had time to think about what you’re doing here. Lando promised it would be lowkey, just a couple days of PR stuff for him and a change of scenery for you.

And honestly? It’s already working.

Then you round the corner — and almost crash straight into him.

He’s coming from the opposite direction, laughing at something someone said, dark curls a little messy under his cap, sunglasses half-slipped down his nose. He stops so fast you nearly bump into his chest.

“Oh—sorry!” you say, instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then.

“You’re real?”

You blink back at him. “…Sorry?”

“I just—uh—sorry,” he stammers, eyes wide. “You’re just—you’re YN Norris.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Should I be concerned that you said that like I’m a hallucination?”

Lando, already halfway past the both of you, groans. “Oh god. No. Not this.”

Pato grins sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve just… seen you online. Not in a weird way! In a—uh—normal fan kind of way. Big admirer. Of your… work. And your face.”

You raise a brow, amused. “My face?”

“Okay, that sounded better in my head.”

You’re trying not to laugh, and failing. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m really not,” he says, grinning. “I’m Pato, by the way.”

You already knew that — had heard the name a few times, seen a couple race clips. Lando had mentioned him briefly on the plane, mostly in the context of “he’s fast and loud, you’ll probably like him.”

You offer your hand, still smiling. “Nice to meet you, Pato.”

He takes it carefully, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he holds on too tight. Then immediately ruins the moment by blurting.

“Do you want a tour? Of the garage. Or the whole paddock. Or the state of Indiana. Whatever you’re into.”

You actually laugh this time, soft and surprised.

“Wow,” you say. “You always come on this strong?”

He grins. “Nope. Only when I meet beautiful women who could destroy me and I’d say thank you.”

Lando groans again from behind you. “I’m regretting everything about bringing you here.”

You glance back at your brother, then up at Pato. “I’d love a tour.”

Pato’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Really.”

He looks like he’s won a championship.

And as he starts walking beside you, launching into a dramatically exaggerated history of the garage, you feel something shift.

Not big. Not earth shattering. Just… light. Something good. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

—

The tour lasts longer than either of you realize. What starts as a “quick walk-around” turns into over an hour of Pato pointing out every detail of the garage — some important, some completely useless but delivered with so much dramatic flair that you’re cry-laughing at one point.

He does a full reenactment of the time he fell in the middle of the paddock. He trips over a cable in the present day while doing it. Then insists it was for effect.

You’re still wiping tears from your eyes when he leans against a workbench and breathes out, “I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much in my life.”

“Are you okay?” you tease, sipping from the bottle of water he sneakily grabbed for you mid-tour. “Do I need to get you electrolytes or something?”

“I’ll recover. Barely.” He pauses. “I mean—unless you wanted to personally nurse me back to health, which, you know—I’m open to.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. He watches you with that same look he’s had all afternoon — half starstruck, half trying to look like he’s not. And then—

“Oh my god, YN Norris?”

You both turn. A woman is walking toward you, long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing sunglasses and in head to toe Chanel. She’s already beaming like she’s known you forever.

“Elba,” Pato says, voice shooting up an octave. “Hi. Um. What are you—?”

“I came to see you but accidentally walked into the middle of you looking like a lovesick idiot,” she says sweetly.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“Hi, I’m Elba. His sister. Big fan,” she says, holding her hand out to you. “Not just of your grid fashion, which is iconic by the way—but also of how you’ve managed to completely scramble my brother’s brain in under thirty minutes.”

“Elba,” Pato groans. “Please.”

You shake her hand, cheeks warm but smiling. “Nice to meet you.”

“He never gets like this,” she continues, completely ignoring him. “He’s usually all jokes and energy, but I swear he’s been blinking like he forgot how words work since I walked up.”

“I have not,” Pato protests, even though… yeah, he kinda has.

Elba raises an eyebrow. “Sure, Romeo.”

You snort.

She grins and leans in a little, voice lowered. “Honestly, though? He could use someone to calm him down a bit. And, I mean… if that someone happens to be gorgeous and cooler than him, even better.”

“Elba,” Pato hisses, red now. “Stop talking.”

You can’t help but laugh. “This is the best part of the tour so far.”

“You hear that?” Elba says, giving her brother a smug look. “I’m the highlight.”

Pato just buries his face in his hands. “I’m never showing my face in this garage again.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, nudging him gently. “You’re doing fine. Just maybe… less talking next time.”

“Oh great,” he mumbles. “Now you think I’m a disaster.”

“I think,” you say, tilting your head at him, “you’re sweet.”

He freezes for a second, like he wasn’t ready for that.

Elba quietly melts in the background. “Okay, yeah, I’m officially obsessed with this.”

“I should go find Lando,” you say, glancing at your phone. “He’s probably starting to think I got kidnapped.”

“Or,” Pato says quickly, “he’s hoping you did so he can have a couple hours of peace.”

You smile. “Thanks for the tour. And the chaos.”

“Anytime,” he says. Then, a little softer, “Really. Anytime.”

You give Elba a little wave before walking off. “Bye, highlight of the tour!”

Pato turns to his sister once you’re out of earshot.

“Elba. I’m begging you.”

“You’re in love,” she sings, already texting someone. “Le estoy diciendo a mamá.”

—

You don’t tell Lando right away. Partly because you’re still processing it — the way Pato looked at you like you were something out of a dream, the way he kept cracking dumb jokes like it was the only thing holding his brain together. The way his sister saw everything and decided she was on board within five seconds.

But mostly… you just want to sit with it for a while. With the butterflies. With the quiet. It’s later that night, back at the hotel, when you’re curled up on the couch in Lando’s suite eating room service pasta straight from the container that you finally blurt, “So… your um..coworkers are rather nice.”

He doesn’t look up from the TV. “Which one?”

“Pato.”

That gets his attention. “Oh no.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, tossing the remote aside. “He definitely had a meltdown, didn’t he? You were the only person he asked about when told the team was coming.”

You narrow your eyes. “Lando.”

“He was very chill about it!” he insists, laughing. “Just, like, ‘Hey, is your sister coming? No reason. Totally normal. Not rehearsing a tour in the mirror or anything.’”

You laugh despite yourself. “He was sweet.”

Lando makes a hmm sound. “Sweet as in ‘I’ll text him back,’ or sweet as in ‘he’s harmless, let him down easy?’”

You glance down at your fork, twirling pasta absentmindedly. “I don’t know. I just… liked how I felt around him. For the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like everyone was watching me fall apart.”

Lando doesn’t tease you after that. He just nudges your foot with his. “Then maybe you should see how it goes.”

—

The paddock is warmer today, full of noise and excitement and bursts of color. You’re not wearing Lando’s hoodie for once — instead in something light and easy, sunglasses pushed into your hair, the lanyard around your neck catching the sun.

You’re sipping iced coffee in the hospitality area when a voice calls out, “YN!”

You turn and see Elba walking toward you, bright and beaming like you’re already old friends.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” she says, looping her arm through yours without hesitation. “Come on, I’m kidnapping you. You can meet some of the other drivers’ families and we can talk about how tragically single my brother is.”

You snort. “I don’t think he’s that—”

“Please,” she interrupts, “the man turned red when I said your name this morning. And then he dropped his protein bar. And then tripped over nothing.”

You’re wheezing with laughter as she leads you through the motorhome. “You are absolutely relentless.”

“I am simply a girl who believes in true love and publicly humiliating my brother,” Elba replies with a wink. “You’re the first crush he’s had in forever that’s actually cool. I’m doing god’s work.”

You’re mid-sip of coffee when two familiar voices interrupt behind you.

“…and I told you she’d be here,” Pato is saying.

Lando follows right behind, hands in his pockets, eyeing the two of you with dramatic suspicion. “What are you plotting?”

“Girl talk,” Elba replies innocently.

“Girl talk about what?” Pato asks, already looking at you like he half-knows the answer and is short-circuiting trying to stay cool.

“Just your tragic romantic history,” Elba chirps.

“Elba.”

“Pato.”

You’re smiling. You can’t help it. He’s in his suit already, cap slightly crooked, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” he breathes. Then, trying to cover, “You came back. Must’ve been the award-winning tour.”

“I came back for your sister.”

He grins, mock-wounded. “Ruthless.”

Lando groans. “You two are gross. Can we go  now before this becomes a horrible romance movie montage?”

Elba elbows him. “Let them flirt. You go stand in the sun and contemplate your emotional availability.”

“Wow,” Lando mutters. “Love my new sister in law.” 

Pato sidles up next to you as everyone starts walking, voice just low enough for only you to hear.

“I really am glad you came.”

You glance at him, heart fluttering.

“Me too.”

—

The paddock is buzzing— post race. It was a good race for him. Pato’s still half in his race suit, curls damp with sweat, smile soft and tired and real.

You spot him just outside the McLaren hospitality area, talking to an engineer, hands moving animatedly even though he looks like he should be collapsing onto the nearest bench. He turns, and then — like clockwork — his eyes find yours.

He lights up instantly. The kind of smile you feel in your chest. You walk over slowly, hands tucked in your back pockets, sun starting to dip low enough that everything’s turning gold.

“Not bad, O’Ward,” you say, stopping in front of him. “Fourth, right?”

“Should’ve been third,” he says, mock serious. “But I got distracted thinking about a certain girl watching me from the pit wall.”

You laugh, eyes rolling. “So it’s my fault you didn’t get a podium?”

“Absolutely,” he grins. “Take full responsibility, please.”

You shake your head, amused. “You’re a disaster.”

“And you still came back today,” he says, a little softer now. “Which is… kind of unfair, honestly. Now I’m even more obsessed.”

Your breath catches. It’s still new, still fragile, but it’s real. It’s there. You pull your phone out of your pocket, open the contacts screen, and hand it to him.

“I’m back in the States next month,” you say, casually — like your heart isn’t hammering. “For COTA.”

His eyes widen as he types. “Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod, taking your phone back. “So I figured I’d give you a little heads-up.”

He’s already smiling like a kid on Christmas. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with that information?”

You take a small step closer, eyes dancing.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe have a date planned?”

He freezes — and then slowly, slowly, a wide grin stretches across his face. “A date.”

“A good one,” you add, teasing. “I’m talking effort. Vibes. Maybe flowers.”

“Done,” he says immediately. “I’ll rent a llama if I have to.”

You snort. “Please don’t do that.”

“No promises.”

There’s a pause — just a moment, but it feels like everything narrows in on it. The sound of the team behind you fades, the golden light softens across his face, and you take another breath.

Then you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek — warm, brief, soft.

He actually malfunctions.

You pull back slowly, biting your smile.

“See you in Texas, O’Ward.”

He stares after you, hand on his cheek like it might burn through his skin.

“Yeah,” he says, to no one in particular. “See you there, trouble.”  —

yn_norris

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yn_norris : went to Indiana and met the love of my life and her brother 

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—

A few weeks isn’t enough to fix everything. But it’s enough to start.

You’ve been going to therapy twice a week — sometimes more when the heaviness creeps in too quietly to ignore. You’ve sat with the pain, stopped trying to outpace it. You’ve cried, talked, journaled, laughed at yourself for crying again, and slowly, slowly… the weight began to lift.

It’s strange how healing doesn’t feel like fireworks or clarity or some dramatic “I’m back” moment. Sometimes it just feels like waking up and realizing you didn’t immediately reach for your phone to check his name.

And in his place… it’s been Pato. FaceTimes. So many FaceTimes.

It started as a casual call the night after — just him rambling about tires and a weird sandwich he ordered. But then it became daily. Sometimes short, sometimes long. Sometimes you just sat in silence on opposite ends of the screen while he did laps on a simulator or you filled out paperwork. Once, he sang along badly to a Taylor Swift song playing in the background without realizing you were still on the line.

He’s never asked for more. Never pressed. Just showed up. Over and over. Smiling and ridiculous and sweet.

And now… you’re on the jet.

“You ready?” Lando asks beside you, setting his bag down with a dramatic sigh. “Texas is hot and chaotic, just like your type.”

You smack his arm, smiling.

Your phone buzzes.

Pato 🧡🏁 wants to FaceTime…

You don’t even hesitate. You answer it before the first ring ends.

His face fills the screen — hair messy, eyes sleepy, hoodie hood pulled halfway up like he just rolled out of bed.

“Well, well, well,” he grins. “Look who’s finally coming back to the USA.”

You laugh. “You say that like you’re the president .” 

“I should be,” he says proudly. “I’d make tacos free and mandatory.”

Lando leans over your shoulder. “Tell your boyfriend to behave.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you mutter.

Pato just smirks. “Yet.”

You feel your cheeks warm, but the smile is instant. Easy.

“We’re boarding now,” you say, settling into the seat. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“I’ll be the one holding a sign with your name on it,” he says. “In sparkly glitter. Maybe a cowboy hat.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning closer to the screen, “you missed me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll see you soon, Pato.”

He salutes you playfully. “Safe flight, mi reina.”

The call ends. You set your phone in your lap, heart fluttering. You’re not falling in love. Not yet. But you’re not hurting like you used to. And that — maybe — feels just as good.

—

You don’t even make it to baggage claim.

The second the plane doors open and you and Lando start walking through the terminal, you spot him—standing just past the security gate, a cowboy hat tipped low, holding a ridiculous sparkly poster that reads in all caps—

“WELCOME TO TEXAS, MI REINA!”

You nearly trip over your suitcase laughing.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

Lando slows beside you, deadpan. “I take back every nice thing I’ve said about him.”

Pato grins like the sun as he lowers the sign and jogs forward to meet you.

“You weren’t kidding about the glitter,” you say, dropping your bag and stepping right into his arms.

He hugs you tightly — tighter than you expected, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. He smells like cologne and something warm, like home.

“You’re here,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “In Texas. Willingly. This must be love.”

You snort, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Don’t push it, cowboy.”

Lando, behind you, dramatically clears his throat. “Okay, Mom and Dad, can we go now?”

But Pato’s already grabbing your hand and flashing a grin. “Actually, I’m stealing her.”

You blink. “You’re what?”

“She’s coming with me,” he says proudly. “I have plans. Big ones. Secret ones. Well, not that secret.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are they legal?”

“Mostly.”

Lando just waves a hand, already tired. “Fine. But if you make her cry, I will run you over.”

Pato salutes him. “Understood.”

—

The hotel is about ten minutes away — and you spend the entire drive laughing at Pato’s playlist (which includes at least four Shakira songs, one High School Musical track, and something unironically labeled Sexy Cowboy Vibes).

When you pull into the hotel parking lot, you notice the lights are already on in the room next door to his. And when he opens the door to yours—

“Elba?” he calls.

“Back here!”

You walk in to find an explosion of color in the suite. A full clothing rack by the window. Shoes lined up in rows. Makeup spread across the table. Elba, cross-legged on the bed, holding a curling iron like a weapon.

“I brought options,” she says, grinning. “You’re going on a date. A real one. With my idiot brother. And we are going all out.”

You glance at Pato. “Did you… plan this?”

He shrugs, bashful. “Maybe.”

Your heart squeezes a little.

Elba grabs your hand and pulls you down onto the bed. “Okay, do you want goddess energy, soft girl, or ‘I’m hot and I know it’?”

“Can I be all three?”

“Now that’s the energy,” she says, already flipping through outfits.

Pato hangs back at the doorway, watching you with that same soft look he’s had since the moment you landed — like you’re magic and he’s just lucky to be near you.

“Elba’s the best,” he says, smiling when your eyes meet.

You tilt your head. “I think you are.”

He blushes.

“Okay!” Elba says, holding up a silky top. “Try this. And sit down so I can do your makeup. I have a vision.”

You laugh, letting yourself sink into the moment — the warmth, the noise, the gentle buzz of happiness blooming in your chest.

For the first time in forever, you don’t feel broken or recovering or fragile.

You feel… excited.

You feel ready.

And you’re going on a date with a boy who planned your outfit and brought his sister to hype you up.

Yeah. This? This is everything.

—

You don’t know what you expected when Pato said he had plans.

A movie? Dinner at a restaurant? Something simple and lowkey?

What you didn’t expect was a private little outdoor picnic on a rooftop deck overlooking the Austin skyline — fairy lights strung above you, a speaker playing soft indie music, and tacos from not one but three different local spots.

“Okay, but seriously,” he says, unwrapping one, “this place swore their barbacoa would change your life. So if you don’t cry, I’m gonna be offended.”

You sit cross-legged across from him on a blanket, wearing the silky top Elba insisted on, your hair curled to perfection, makeup dewy and glowing.

You take a bite, chew thoughtfully… then shrug.

“It’s fine.”

He gasps. “Fine?! That’s rude. You just disrespected an entire lineage of Texas abuelas.”

You grin. “Then feed me another one. Win me back.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, handing you a different taco with faux seriousness. “But just so you know, this is my final offer. If you don’t love this one, I’m canceling the fireworks.”

You pause mid-bite. “…There are fireworks?”

He wiggles his brows. “Maybe.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You are. And it’s starting to sink in — just how easy this is. How effortless. You’re not thinking about what you look like. You’re not worrying about saying the wrong thing or being too much. You’re just you, and he’s just… completely enchanted.

“I’ve never dated someone like you,” you admit softly, watching the lights reflect in his eyes.

“Oh no,” he says, leaning forward dramatically. “Is this where you tell me I’m the funny friend again?”

You shake your head. “No. You’re not the funny friend. You’re… safe.”

That catches him off guard. He blinks, and for once, doesn’t deflect with humor.

“You make it really easy to be myself,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Even when I feel like I’m still figuring out who that is again.”

Pato’s smile drops into something soft and earnest. He reaches out, fingertips brushing your knee.

“I hope you know,” he says, “you’ve never seemed lost to me. You just… feel like someone who’s still growing. And that’s kind of my favorite kind of person.”

Your breath catches.

The air feels warmer now — not from the temperature, but from him.

He shifts onto his knees and holds up a final taco like a peace offering. “Okay. One more test. If this one doesn’t make you fall in love, I accept defeat.”

You take the bite. You let your eyes flutter closed dramatically.

And then — “Okay. That’s the one.”

Pato fist-pumps the air. “YES. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve done it!”

You’re still giggling when he flops beside you on the blanket, hands behind his head, staring up at the stars.

A comfortable silence settles between you.

“I know it’s early,” he says after a minute. “And I know you’ve been through a lot. But I just… I like you. Like, really like you.”

You turn your head toward him. “I really like you too.”

He looks over at you, smiling — slow and sure. And then — without overthinking it, without second-guessing — you lean in and kiss him. It’s soft at first. Gentle. Testing the waters.

But then he lifts a hand to your cheek, and your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly it’s real. Full of warmth and tension and all the things unsaid over weeks of FaceTimes and almosts.

When you finally pull away, he’s dazed and smiling.

“Okay,” he whispers. “So this is definitely better than tacos.”

You laugh, forehead resting against his.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork.”

You don’t argue. Because maybe you are. And maybe that’s exactly what you needed.

—

The last day of your trip sneaks up on you faster than you expect. It’s warm again — humid, golden, sticky in the air conditioning is a luxury kind of way. You’re in one of Pato’s hoodies, legs curled up on the couch in his hotel suite, scrolling through pictures from the last few days. Late night food runs, race day selfies, blurry dancing in your cowboy boots.

Pato’s sitting beside you, head tilted, fingers tapping nervously against his knee. You don’t notice until he clears his throat for the third time.

“What’s up?” you ask, nudging him lightly with your foot.

He hesitates. “Okay. So. I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Rude.”

You grin. “Go on.”

He sits up straighter. “What if… instead of going home tomorrow… you stayed a little longer?”

You blink.

“I don’t mean, like, forever,” he adds quickly. “But I’ve got another race next weekend. And then a back-to-back after that. And I was thinking maybe… you could come with me. Just for a bit. Travel with the team. See a few tracks. Hang out. Meet the rest of the family properly.”

He rubs the back of his neck, rambling now. “I know it’s a lot. And I know you’ve got your life and friends and things back home, but—God, I really like having you around. And I think you might like being around, too.”

You blink again, a little stunned. Because you do like it here. You like the way you feel when you wake up to one of his chaotic good morning texts. You like the quiet conversations over coffee. The constant laughter. The space he gives you to feel whatever you need to feel. And most of all, you like him.

Still, you take a slow breath and say, “That’s a really sweet offer, O’Ward.”

He lights up—until you raise a hand.

“However… there is one small condition.”

He narrows his eyes. “Please don’t say ‘you have to fight Lando in a Waffle House parking lot.’”

You smile innocently. “Okay, I won’t say it.”

He groans, flopping dramatically into the couch cushions. “I knew this would come back to Lando.”

You laugh and pull out your phone. “Just being a responsible twin. He gets veto power.”

“I’m literally faster than him,” Pato mutters.

You ignore him and FaceTime your brother.

Lando answers from the airport lounge, sunglasses on and hood up like he’s avoiding paparazzi.

“What?” he says, suspicious already. “Why do you look like that?”

You and Pato look at each other. You’re both grinning.

“Oh no,” Lando says, pointing at the screen. “I don’t like this.”

“Patito wants me to stay a little longer,” you say sweetly. “Go to a few more races. Maybe meet the rest of his family.”

Lando groans. “Are you kidding me?”

“She said she wouldn’t agree unless you gave your blessing,” Pato jumps in quickly. “So this is your moment. Say something nice about me.”

Lando looks like he’s in physical pain. “Ugh.”

You’re giggling now. “Come on. One tiny approval.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Lando sighs. “Fine. But only because he’s obsessed with you and you’ve been smiling more this week than you have in the last three months.”

Your heart flips a little.

Pato grins.

“Also,” Lando adds, “if you break her heart, I will destroy your car with a forklift.”

“Noted,” Pato says seriously. “Respectfully terrified.”

Lando ends the call with a dramatic “good luck, Romeo.”

You set the phone down and glance at Pato.

“Well?”

He’s beaming.

“You staying?”

You smile back. “Yeah. I’m staying.”

He leans in, all soft eyes and quiet joy.

And he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life for it — like you’re not just someone passing through, but someone worth keeping around.

—

yn_norris

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yn_norris :  they were right. everything is bigger in texas…get your mind out of the gutter…im talking about my love for pato!!!!! ❤️‍🔥💖💝💝💘💘💓

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elbaoward : god you are so perfect for him. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. 

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yn_norris : my beautiful sister in lawwwww😻

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patriciooward : but i love you so much mi amorrrr❤️❤️

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—

bonus scene! domestic patito🤧🤭

The house  smells like vanilla and the faintest hint of popcorn. The lights are dim. The TV is playing something low and familiar — reruns, probably, or one of those baking shows you always fall asleep to. There’s a faint hum of rain against the windows, soft and steady, the kind of sound that wraps around you like a blanket.

Pato slips his keys onto the hook by the door and shrugs off his jacket. It’s late — his flight was delayed, and the Uber driver wouldn’t stop talking— but he’s finally home.

And there you are. Curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, bare legs tangled in a blanket, Norbi snuggled against your side. Elba lets you dog-sit while Pato is away. She knows the house gets a little too quiet and it gives her an excuse to come over and see you 5 times a day.

And Pato stops in the doorway and just looks at you. Because there it is. Everything. The softest kind of love.

The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking. The kind that settles in slow and sure, like rain soaking into soil. The kind that doesn’t need fireworks or declarations — just a quiet room, a warm blanket, a girl he can’t stop loving, and a dog who now refuses to cuddle with anyone else.

He drops his bag without a word and pads over quietly. Norbi lifts his head just enough to huff in sleepy acknowledgement, then promptly nestles deeper into your side.

Pato kneels by the couch, hand brushing your knee. “Hey, corazón.”

You blink slowly awake, eyes still heavy with sleep. A sleepy smile spreads across your lips.

“You’re home,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses your forehead. “I missed you.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You sit up slowly, stretching your arms and groaning as your back pops. Pato immediately slides in next to you, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s instinct — like it’s muscle memory now.

You tuck your head into his chest and mumble, “You smell like airplane.”

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “You smell like popcorn.”

Norbi stretches between you and promptly flops onto Pato’s lap, demanding attention.

“I see how it is,” Pato mutters, rubbing behind his ears. “Three months ago, this dog didn’t even know your name. Now he’s cheating on me with you.”

You hum. “Can you blame him? I’m warm and emotionally available.”

Pato snorts and pulls you closer. “So am I.”

“Hmm. Jury’s out.”

He pinches your side, making you squeal and squirm, but before you can get away, he kisses you.

It’s slow and soft at first — the kind of kiss that’s more about home than heat. But then you melt into him, fingers sliding into his hair, and it deepens. Warmer. Fuller. Familiar in all the best ways.

You sigh against his lips. “You’re not allowed to leave for that long again.”

“I’ll tell Zak,” he murmurs. “Full-time boyfriend duties only from now on.”

You laugh into another kiss. Norbi huffs between you, somehow unimpressed.

“You know,” Pato says, voice softer now, “I think this is my favorite version of us.”

You glance up. “Us on a couch covered in dog fur?”

“Us in love,” he says simply. “No noise. No stress. Just you, me, and dogs who definitely love you more than they love me.”

You smile, burying your face into his chest again. And for the first time in a long time — maybe in forever — it feels like everything is exactly where it should be.

—

[faerlune]

♪ — 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗙 lewis hamilton x  fem! genz! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You never meant to fall for a man twice your age, but somehow, Lewis Hamilton makes thirty-something age gaps feel like background noise. In a world of fast cars and faster headlines, you become the softest scandal on the grid—his controversially young girlfriend (2.3k words)

( my master list | more of lewis hamilton ) ( requests )

You spot him across the room like a plot twist in a book you didn’t mean to start reading—one of those late-night, one-more-chapter choices that end with your sleep schedule in ruins and your heart a little dented.

He’s standing by the bar like he owns the concept of cool, leaning one elbow against the counter, glass in hand, dressed like he just got off a jet and into a Vogue spread. Chunky rings flash with every movement. A silver chain rests on his collarbone like it was born there. Sunglasses inside—normally a red flag—but on him? It’s working. Unreasonably well.

He doesn’t look real. He looks curated. Like someone who’s used to being watched. Someone who doesn’t have to try to be interesting, because the world already decided he is.

And the weird part? You don’t know who he is.

Which makes him fair game.

You down the last of your drink like a dare, swipe your thumb across your bottom lip in case there’s gloss out of place, and march toward him like the protagonist of your own little fever dream.

“Hey,” you say, voice dipped in confidence, grin hooked to one corner of your mouth. “Quick question. Are you this hot all the time, or is it just the lighting in here doing community service?”

He turns his head slowly, like he knows he’s about to be entertained. Looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses with those lazy, almost amused eyes. Then lowers them altogether, letting you see the full scope of his expression.

Blink. Slow blink. Smile.

Then—laughter.

A warm, surprised kind of laugh. Like you just opened a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in a while.

“You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilting, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” you chirp, popping the ‘p.’ “But judging by that look, you clearly think I should. Celebrity? Secret agent? CEO of Hot Men, Inc.?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he lifts his drink to his lips. It’s whiskey, neat. Of course it is. “I like you.”

“Obviously,” you reply, deadpan. “So, what’s your name, mysterious man with excellent bone structure and suspicious levels of swagger?”

“Lewis,” he says. It rolls off his tongue casual and smooth, like he’s said it a thousand times to people already impressed.

You repeat it slowly, like a sip of something expensive. “Lewis. You got a last name, or are you trying to stay mysterious on purpose?”

“I’m trying,” he says, smirk tucked behind his glass. “But now I’m curious. How old are you?”

You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “Why? You tryna check if I need parental permission to flirt with you?”

He laughs again, and it’s even better this time—less surprised, more like he’s starting to settle into the rhythm of you. “Just making sure I’m not getting arrested.”

“Relax, officer,” you reply, pressing a palm to your chest with mock innocence. “I’m twenty-four. Legal, unproblematic, and only occasionally unhinged.”

But his smile shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something cautious flashes behind those honey-brown eyes.

“Damn,” he mutters, not unkindly. “I’m too old for you.”

You arch a brow. “You can’t be that old.”

He gives you a small shrug. “I’m forty.”

There’s a beat.

A pause long enough to pour another drink in.

Your jaw drops. You step back, press a hand to your mouth in mock horror.

“Wowe,” you gasp. “You’re a fossil. How were the dinosaurs? Did you ride a pterodactyl to school?”

He throws his head back and cackles, catching the attention of the bartender and a couple people nearby. It’s not just amusement—it’s delight. You got him.

“Ruthless,” he grins at you.

You shrug, unapologetic. “What can I say? I like my men aged like wine and slightly traumatized.”

He raises his glass. “Well. You might be in luck.”

You clink your empty glass against his full one, eyes never leaving his.

Somewhere in the background, a bass-heavy track starts to play. But the real beat is in the space between you—charged and golden and humming with the promise of something very, very interesting.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in the paddock. Not wearing borrowed sunglasses and an oversized McLaren jacket that smells like someone else's boyfriend. Not sipping on a bottled water like you belong, casually trying not to gawk at multi-million-dollar cars or the people walking around like they own oxygen.

But you’re here.

A friend’s plus one, a last-minute invite when her PR-boyfriend flaked on escort duty. So you tagged along—because hello, free food, hot people, shiny cars, and maybe the chance to flirt with a driver or two. You figured worst-case scenario, you'd leave with a selfie and a new screensaver.

What you didn’t expect was to see him again.

Lewis.

Mysterious Lewis from the bar. GQ-cover Lewis. Ring-wearing, chain-glinting, forty-year-old fossil Lewis who made you laugh so hard you almost forgot your own name.

He’s walking through the paddock like he’s parting the sea. Everyone moves around him like he's made of something sacred—crew nodding, fans whispering, someone with a camera backing up just to get the shot. He looks… different today. Like he’s not just dressed cool, but armored in it. Like confidence stitched into a race suit.

Your jaw almost hits the gravel.

You don’t even think—your feet just move.

“Lewis!”

He turns.

Sunglasses again, of course. But when he spots you? That smile. Slow, warm, like he knew you'd show up eventually.

You grin, planting yourself right in front of him, toe to boot.

“Okay,” you say, breathless but smug, “you cannot turn me down this time. This is clearly fate.”

He laughs. It rumbles in his chest, head tilting like he’s trying to drink you in without making it obvious.

“You really didn’t Google me, huh?” he says.

You raise a brow. “Should I have? Wait, are you, like, a famous pit crew guy or something? The energy drinks guy?”

He just smiles. The kind of smile that hides a hundred secrets and a thousand wins.

“I gotta go,” he says, stepping closer for just a second. “But I’ll see you on the podium.”

You blink. “What podium?”

But he’s already walking away.

Helmet under one arm, swagger turned up to eleven, disappearing into one of the Mercedes garages like some kind of very sexy magician.

You look to your friend. “What podium?!”

Your friend is pale. “You don’t know who that is?”

“Should I???”

“That’s Lewis Hamilton.”

You snort. “No it’s not. His name is just Lewis. He didn’t even give me a last name.”

“BECAUSE HE’S LEWIS HAMILTON. SEVEN-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. THE GOAT. LITERAL SIR.”

You freeze. Fully buffer. Brain spinning like a car on slick tyres.

Cut to three hours later, and you’re in the Mercedes unit, watching on the big screen as the man you once called a fossil overtakes two cars and wins the freaking British Grand Prix like it’s casual.

The crowd explodes.

Your heart does too.

You're on your feet, half in disbelief, half in awe. You just watched a man drive like a myth, and all you can think is: he told me he was forty and I made a dinosaur joke.

And just as you start contemplating crawling into a hole forever, he finds you again.

Post-race glow. Hair half-flattened from the helmet. Fireproof suit half-unzipped to reveal that chain you remember from the bar. Sweat and champagne still clinging to his skin like stardust.

He looks at you with that same grin.

“Still think I’m someone’s manager?” he teases, voice low, eyes shining.

You gape at him. “You won. Like, you—won. Your name’s on the trophy. That podium. That—your home race??”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Must be fate. You show up, I win. Gotta say… you might just be my lucky charm.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I—I called you a fossil.”

He laughs. Full, delighted, Lewis-laugh. “And you humbled me before I got cocky. We make a great team.”

You bite back a grin, cheeks burning. “So… you celebrating tonight, or what?”

“Obviously,” he says. “You’re coming.”

it’s supposed to be a quick trip. A flash visit, blink-and-you-miss-it, in-and-out kind of thing. You’ve been swamped—deadlines, drama, flights rerouted like bad karma—but something in you ached to be there. For him. For Lewis.

So you made time. You chose time.

And now? Now you’re stuck in Austrian traffic, inching toward the Red Bull Ring in a car that’s doing more idling than moving, hair frizzing in the heat and hands white-knuckling your phone.

You press it to your ear. “I swear to god, if I miss your race because a literal cow is blocking the road—”

Lewis laughs on the other end, warm and fond. “A cow?”

“A cow, Lewis. Just standing there. Living her truth. Meanwhile, I’m two bad songs away from losing it.”

“You sound stressed, babe.”

“Gee, what gave it away?” you snap, then sigh. “Sorry. I just wanted to be there before lights out. Front row, proud girlfriend, full ensemble.”

His voice softens. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“Barely.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still my lucky charm. Even if you’re watching from the parking lot.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go win something, fossil.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He gets P2.

You watch the final laps on your phone screen, pressed against the parkinglot gates, heart in your throat and hands half-numb. The crowd erupts. Flags wave. You swear you can hear the champagne pop all the way from the parking lot.

And then—

There he is.

Striding out from the gates like he owns Austria, still in his suit, curls damp under his cap, smile already loaded like a secret.

“Hey,” he calls out, just loud enough for you to turn.

You do. And then you forget how to breathe.

Because Lewis Hamilton kisses you like the cameras aren’t watching. Like the whole world doesn’t know his name. Like you didn’t just call him a fossil two weeks ago and now you’re wearing his hoodie like a badge of honor.

You pull back, dazed and pink. “That was… public.”

“Could’ve made it more dramatic,” he teases. “Want a dip next time?”

“You’re so cocky for a man who came in second.”

He grins. “I’ll take second if it means I get to see that blush.”

You're about to fire back—something witty, something flirty—when someone from Mercedes runs up, breathless. “Lewis, mate. You need to come back to the unit. Now.”

He frowns. “Everything alright?”

The guy looks between the two of you, eyes wide. “George got disqualified.”

You both blink.

“What?” you say, at the same time Lewis mutters: “No way.”

“Track limits. Deleted laps. It just came through.”

Which means—

“You’re P1,” you whisper, eyes wide.

Lewis turns to you, slow and stunned. Brows raised. Smile blooming like he knew.

“Guess you really are my lucky charm,” he says, low and gleaming.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “I didn’t even see the race.”

“Didn’t have to,” he murmurs, already pulling you into his arms. “Just had to show up.”

Thursdays are usually soft-launches. Media day. Press conference drip. Everyone pretending they’re not sizing each other up, that they’re not itching for Sunday, that they’re not clocking every outfit and wink and subtle little flex.

But this Thursday?

You walk in and the whole paddock blinks.

Because Lewis Hamilton—Sir Lewis Hamilton—is already waiting by the entrance like a man on a mission. Like the sun rises wherever you land. And he’s dressed like a dream dipped in platinum, silver shirt half-buttoned, rings glinting, pants tailored within an inch of heaven.

But it’s the way he looks at you that melts reality a little.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs as you reach him.

You grin, a little breathless, fixing the collar of his shirt even though it’s perfect. “You’re overdressed.”

He eyes your outfit—slick and sharp, Prada shades and knee-high boots like you own the grid—and hums, “Nah. We’re matching.”

And you are. Silver and black, sleek and dangerous. A walking power couple with zero subtlety. Someone snaps a pic. Then another. Cameras start clicking like popcorn.

He slips his hand into yours. Casual, confident. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And then the tweets start.

You scroll a few of them while waiting outside hospitality, phone buzzing like a feral bee. You snort-laugh at the “get it grandpa” one. Lewis peeks over your shoulder and raises a brow.

“They’re obsessed with you,” you say, smirking.

“They’re obsessed with you,” he corrects, tugging you closer by the waist. “You okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him. “I mean, people think I’m either your niece or your mid-life crisis.”

He snorts. “You’re my win.”

Your smirk falters—just for a second—because god, he’s so earnest. So warm. Like a damn sunbeam with abs.

You recover quick, flicking your sunglasses down. “Damn right I am.”

He laughs loud, head tipping back. “There she is.”

All day, people stare.

Team members smile politely. Fans whisper behind phones. Media pretends not to mention it while asking if you're enjoying your "first F1 paddock experience" (you’ve been to three, thank you very much).

You pose for a few pics. Kiss Lewis on the cheek when he heads into the garage. Sip your overpriced iced coffee like nothing rattles you.

But every so often—when it’s quiet—you hear the whispers again. About the age gap. The headlines. The way you don’t look like you belong next to someone as legendary as him.

So when you catch your reflection in the hospitality glass—twenty-four and glowing but clearly young—you take a breath.

And then you smirk at yourself. Flip your hair. Take a selfie.

Caption it:

“idk i just think i’m a slay.”

And Lewis? He reposts it.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( im so writting a p2 for this when he moves to ferrari and the disqualifying in china )

[faerlune]

A masterpiece in the making ╰(*´︶`*)╯

my kink is karma | series masterlist

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — series word count: +113.8k

✎ — warnings: slow burn, angst, mentions of alcohol, use of strong language, use of [Y/N], cars crashing, english is not my first language, first fanfiction, multi media, SMAU, (let me know if any warnings are missing)

PT. 1 after the win, before we fall [ 4.2k ]

PT. 2 maybe you should say less [ 3.6k ]

PT. 3 it's always fucking Max [ 4.2k ]

PT. 4 there'll be a fine line [ 4.1k ]

PT. 5 fastest bricks on the grid [ 3.9k ]

PT. 6 from the dining table [ 4.0k ]

PT. 7 pastel-coded purgatory [ 3.9k ]

PT. 8 mistake, remember? [ 3.6k ]

PT. 9 papaya rules [ 5.4k ]

PT. 10 will they kiss or crash [ 3.9k ]

PT. 11 god save the queen [ 6.3k ]

PT. 12 margin for error [ 3.6k ]

PT. 13 second best [ 4.0k ]

PT. 14 hagelslag diplomacy [ 5.2k ]

PT. 15 una problema interna [ 6.4k ]

PT. 16 public enemy number one [ 5.2k ]

PT. 17 everything you ever wanted [ 5.1k ]

PT. 18 ten things i can't say out loud [ 6.3k ]

PT. 19 the distance between us is measured in laps [ 6.5k ]

PT. 20 from p6 with regret [ 5.0k ]

PT. 21 jackpot: heartbreak [ 6.9k ]

PT. 22 you too, race winner [ 5.6k ]

PT. 23 all's fair in love and formula 1 [ 5.9k ]

EPILOGUE [ 1.0k ]