pandorasf1addiction

[pandorasf1addiction]

can u tell the summer break is getting to me?

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

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"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

[pandorasf1addiction]

OMG THIS IS ADORABLEEEEEEEEEE

operation drs — OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all. tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni wc: 13.8k words :D a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas

Oscar could not let go of his phone. 

It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you. 

Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.

His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other. 

And he thought media day was tedious. 

He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile. 

He thinks it’s jealousy. 

The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever. 

Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.

This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.

You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it. 

They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.

You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation. 

He’s proud of you. 

No one can discount your credibility. Raised on stagecraft with enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats.

You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor. 

But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long. 

They’re literally in love. 

Just date already. 

There it was—a flicker of insecurity.

Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world. 

He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.

And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.

God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.

He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his. 

Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling! 

It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst. 

You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.

After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him. 

His phone dings. 

you you have NO idea what we did today. oscar Nothing dangerous, I hope you we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.  I named him Oscat :) Sent an image

It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.

oscar What an honor Any chance I could meet Oscat? you Tom said we should adopt it

The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.

oscar Do you want to? you even if I did we couldn’t  we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.

He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis. 

Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?” 

“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.

oscar Next time then :) Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world Don't you worry you 💔💔💔💔💔💔 gotta go now love you raceboy good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!

He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.

“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch. 

He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”

“Still keeping it under wraps?”

Oscar sighs. “Yep.”

“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.” 

“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.” 

Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”

“The problem is you have no rage.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy. 

“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”

Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”

Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.” 

“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!” 

He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler. 

“And you can do something about it, actually.”

His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.

“…What do you mean.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”

“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”

“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.” 

And Lando leaves it at that.

It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment. 

Until Entertainment Weekly. 

It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.

They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.

If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.

There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.

It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.

Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.

The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.

Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.

Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN

Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.

She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her… 

He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain. 

He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they? 

He does a quick Google search. 

Hollywood co-stars turned couples. 

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.

It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.

Fine. He is jealous. 

Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.

The nerve of this man. 

Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.

He hates imagining himself in the same frame.

Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit. 

He hates imagining himself at all.

Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up. 

you hi baby my handsome boy just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁  I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one

Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.

oscar Are you a ghost? you ??? oscar Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in

Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.

“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.

“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.

There’s a pause. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.” 

He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs. 

“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?” 

“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.

“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.” 

He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast. 

When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing. 

“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table. 

“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.” 

You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end. 

“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.” 

“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”

“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”

Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.

You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.” 

It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see. 

You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”

“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”

“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”

“Wow.”

“You sounded just like me.” 

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh. 

Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”

“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”

Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”

“Exactly.”

Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved. 

His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.

It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”

He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.

He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.

“I love you, softy. Just you.”

When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.

“I mean it. No acting here.”

All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck. 

Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.  

I love you. You were so sure. 

He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.

So you say it again. Firmer.

“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”

He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover. 

You take home all.

He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”

You scoff. “Sure you did.” 

“I swear.”

“Pffft.”

Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”

The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.” 

He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes. 

And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh. 

You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.” 

He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”

A message comes through a couple of minutes after.

come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇

This time, he really laughs.

He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace. 

By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.

you sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With  oscar You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄 you 😛 oscar Oh wow these shots came out well you right!! 🥹

Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.

Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household. 

He scrolls daringly. 

The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.

His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.

One comment makes his thumb pause

⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me

Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something. 

He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.

⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO ⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh ⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on ⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them  ⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend

He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.

It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment. 

“Ah shit.”

He immediately unlikes. 

Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough. 

Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…

Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.

There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁

Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool. 

He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.

But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim. 

Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.

user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?  ⇢ WHAT do you mean  ⇢ this is the comment he liked ⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol ⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?

Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.

He’s surprised it’s gotten this far. 

Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team. 

Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.

One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!

Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads formatted like crime scene dossiers.

It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.

To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.

You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”

All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.

Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.

“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs. 

He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”

He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.

You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side. 

“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ” 

He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”

“Ish.”

Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”

“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.” 

As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”

You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?” 

The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”

“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it. 

You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?” 

Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”

You hum in response. Distant. 

“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.” 

“Hm?”

“I said get out of your head, baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.” 

He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”

The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.

Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in. 

“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.

It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR. 

They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off. 

“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”

On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown. 

He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”

She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.” 

It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”

“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”

“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?” 

“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”

“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?” 

“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.” 

“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”

“Mate.” 

“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”

“Pardon?”

“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”

“We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”

“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”

Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”

“Operation Soft Launch?”

“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”

Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can. 

“Osc?”

“No. Can we go home now.” 

“Just one bloody name.”

Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”

Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.” 

“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”

“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.” 

Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”

Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.” 

His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.” 

“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.” 

The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.

OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan

Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP. The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.  I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any. Chrissy sent a file. 

Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.

Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.

And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.

Your call is out of the blue. 

Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are. 

He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”

“Hi. No, I’m okay.”

“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”

“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”  

Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.” 

“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”

“When do you leave for Miami?”

“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”  

He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”

You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.” 

He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster). 

“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”

“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.

He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”

“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”

Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled. 

His heart starts to pick up. 

He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver. 

He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app. 

He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie. 

His blood begins to hum. 

If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.

“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”

It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”

You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.” 

“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”

You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.” 

“Love you most.”

When the call ends, he laughs to himself.

He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.

He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.

Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.

He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.

It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.

The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.

His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.

Oscar peers through the peephole.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.

There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air. 

“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”

His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.

“Ack! Oscar, the food—”

“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. 

He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth. 

Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual. 

He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.

Too long. Too goddamn long.

“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie. 

Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.

You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.

A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless. 

He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter.  You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.

“Surprise,” you grin. 

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”

Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”

“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling. 

You kiss him again.

When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side. 

It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.

He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight. 

When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem. 

And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug. 

You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.

God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine. 

He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.

If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her. 

Alas, he was just Oscar. 

“You are not real,” he murmurs. 

“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket. 

You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.” 

Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”

He gently lowers you onto the bed. 

This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime. 

There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby. 

You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks. 

Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks. 

“Babe—” you gasp.

It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed. 

He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name. 

Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head. 

Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. 

He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.

Training can wait.

Operation DRS is divided into three phases.

“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.” 

It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better. 

Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it. 

Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites. 

But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day. 

The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave. 

He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.

You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”

“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”

“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.” 

“This is abandonment.”

“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”

He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected. 

You go still in his arms.

“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?” 

He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.

You twist around and cup his face in your hands. 

His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours. 

A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.

“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious. 

His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.” 

You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.

You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.

It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now. 

“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his. 

“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.

A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you. 

You were everything to him.

Warmth simmers in your bones.

“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”

A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”

You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.

Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.

In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.

He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake. 

Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling. 

You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.

user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware ⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho ⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars  ⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????   user: Tom liked!!!!!

Your phone pings. Several times.

Nellie (PR) PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase. 

Oscar Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you

Tom You are honestly so obvious

The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS. 

Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami. 

It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.

Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass? 

Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?

“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.

Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.

There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears. 

You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.” 

“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!” 

You pose with a wink.

Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz. 

Fast times with @ mclaren ! Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname 

You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷‍♀️

He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.” 

You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”

Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.

The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.

You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.

When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.

Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.

You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back. 

You’re already opening up your photo gallery.  

You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind. 

It becomes your new wallpaper. 

It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online. 

A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl? 

You put your phone aside, appeased. 

Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either. 

Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.

Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.

You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door. 

Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan. 

“Longest session of my life.” 

You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.

“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.

He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow. 

He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.

You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What?”

“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards. 

“Stop that.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.  

“Stop looking at me funny.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not a stress toy.”

“You are to me.”

“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration. 

Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips. 

The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.

“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”

Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?” 

“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.” 

His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”

You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow. 

Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly. 

PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.

You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case. 

You wish him luck on the sprint. 

Still, no direct interaction is advised. 

Soon. 

Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.

Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.

The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.” 

You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.

When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps. 

You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win. 

P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns. 

You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :) 

He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you. 

You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you. 

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week. 

“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”

“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.” 

On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.

Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.

Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.

user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…  user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest ⇢ Well now that’s pushing it user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage

He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.

In his shorts. Shirtless.

Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink. 

He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.” 

“Nap first. Talk later.” 

He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”

Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say. 

It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over. 

“And put a shirt on.” 

He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway. 

When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.

Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.

“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already. 

“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”

He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”

And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared. 

You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.

You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing. 

Ten minutes is up. 

“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”

When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.

“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.

“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave. 

“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.

“Only during Q3, if you get there.” 

Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.” 

The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.” 

Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.

By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation. 

It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole. 

When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision. 

You try not to pay attention. Try.  

He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.

The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.

Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks. 

The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence. 

He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world. 

He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup. 

Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it. 

P4 feels like a slap in the face.

The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2. 

But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place. 

No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.

The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.

And yet.

He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now. 

It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.

Still, there are eyes everywhere. 

Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole. 

He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach. 

It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away. 

It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.

Oscar pulls his gloves off. 

He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours. 

He doesn’t have to do more. 

The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough. 

When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him. 

Race day. Ground zero. 

Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥

It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things. 

“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself. 

The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle. 

Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general. 

Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids. 

You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all. 

The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’

Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable. 

You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations. 

At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested. 

You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin. 

You try not to dwell on it.

Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one. 

There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.

You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.

But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.

It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.

Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.

He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.

You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.

Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.

It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.

The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast. 

Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.

Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough. 

A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.

Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.

Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind. 

The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance. 

The checkered flag zooms by.

He wins.

🔍 Recent Searches   oscar yn dating oscar griddy oscar piastri miami oscar tom yn yn tom movie release date yn miami gp yn reaction

user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭 user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life user: this obvious wag treatment user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT  ⇢ you’re not alone dw ⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando ⇢ ?  ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ur sick user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️

Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands. 

“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.

“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Not a bad win, eh?” 

“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.” 

You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?” 

“It was Mark, actually.” 

Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards. 

George comes out. Then, Lando.

And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar. 

The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound. 

You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.

Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him. 

Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting. 

Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter. 

“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.

“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”

He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.” 

“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”

You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs. 

His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.

Something violent overcomes you. 

You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.

“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.

The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory. 

Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.

Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.

Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly. 

You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat. 

I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound. 

A stilted croak trickles out. 

Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”

When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest. 

Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”

Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Supersonic.”

He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.” 

Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.” 

Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life. 

“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.

“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”

“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”

“Huh!” You react out loud. 

“See you at 8?”

“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.” 

Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.

There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace. 

“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team. 

“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”

Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both. 

“This must be what birds feel like.” 

What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”

“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.” 

There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.

But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.” 

You freeze. Glitch. 

What in the world—

The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.

“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.” 

You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way. 

He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”

“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”

Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love. 

You are so in love. 

‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world. 

It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers. 

People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.

But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld. 

The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.

user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol user: her vibe is weird idk user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played  user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks ⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP user: yntom is So over user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.  ⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night user: what do they even have in common /gen ⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple

It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.

Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer

Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports

Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends? 

You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast. 

The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin. 

You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow. 

It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense. 

He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish. 

tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)

He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over. 

It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference. 

Tom Sent an image You're welcome Have you seen my post? 😝

It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back. 

You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.

You weigh the consequences.

You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.  

This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.

You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember. 

The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep. 

Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.

You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.

“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”

You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.” 

He makes a rough sound of assent.

You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.

The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium. 

The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid. 

You type out a caption. Pick out a song. 

Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel. 

You can’t—you can’t do this. 

It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of. 

You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial. 

Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.  

The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.

Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.

Playing safe never hurt anyone. 

yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?

You send it for checking and are given a green light.

Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands. 

Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.

When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend. 

“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot. 

You see the notification. 

oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

What? 

You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?” 

oscarpiastri liked your post. oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️ oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.

“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”

You swipe through his post.

oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend

His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé. 

The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.

But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.

You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is. 

A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you. 

It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change. 

Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.  

You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches. 

Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth  Kept it quiet long enough :) 

It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok. 

You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”

He kisses you flat on the lips. 

“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.” 

“Still a piece of shit-”

“Who you still love?”

“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”

He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”

It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.

“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.” 

Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”

“I’m internet savvy enough.”

“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.

He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you. 

Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.

“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?” 

He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.” 

You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”

“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”

You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf. 

Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”

“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.

“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”

The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”

He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “Try me.”

Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.   

The jealousy never really went away. 

Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.

tomblyth replies: 🤨 tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver yourname reposts: skill issue

Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ. 

Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now. 

Oscar Sent a link. “F1 driver” I have a name you know 🙁

Oscar Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever. How is it your co-star tells me before you do

Oscar Hey so Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :) Sneak. Round 2 this summer break? Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail

Oscar Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?  I got Tom a pass if he wants to come Missing you a little extra tonight

Oscar is on his phone.

He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.

But.

It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture. 

He finds peace in that.

He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet. 

His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.

The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.  

He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.

1 new message. You booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3 

Even then. 

They didn’t get to have you. No one did. 

Though by some miracle, you let him.

They loved you. But he had you. 

It’s something. 

Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for. 

(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.) 

It’s commitment, he realizes.

He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too. 

Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.

Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.

whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)

[pandorasf1addiction]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

WITH LOVE, VERSTAPPEN.

A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?

pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.

warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).

YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.

One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.

And then you met him.

He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.

The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—

Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.

───

You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.

His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.

You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.

A ring.

On his left hand.

Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.

Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.

And there it was. The same ring.

Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh fuck.

Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a marriage certificate.

You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.

You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.

You married him.

You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.

The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.

Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.

Max Verstappen.

And then your screen exploded with results.

Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.

“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”

“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”

“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”

You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.

There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.

And okay. You could admit it.

Your husband? He was hot.

Like, really hot.

Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.

“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.

Incoming call: my girl xx

You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.

“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”

You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”

You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”

Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me— and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”

“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”

You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

Then—two soft knocks.

“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.

You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.

Your husband.

Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.

You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.

There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.

You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”

You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.

You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.

Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.

“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.

He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”

You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”

“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.

Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.

You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”

Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”

Your brain stopped working.

You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”

Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.

Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.

It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.

And yet… it didn’t sound bad.

Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.

“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”

Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”

You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”

You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”

Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.

───

The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.

You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”

The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max — other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.

Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”

You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.

“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”

You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.

Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.

And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.

And because you couldn’t help yourself — because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet — you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.

“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression — not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.

“That’s what some people say, yeah.”

You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.

It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone — not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.

You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

But deep down — and you’d never admit it out loud — you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.

“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look — the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”

The way he said it — so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done — made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.

You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.

“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”

You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.

Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really — how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.

“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.

But that got a reaction.

Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”

You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”

Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.

“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias — the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”

Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.

“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.

You loved every second of it.

───

You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.

So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”

Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”

“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.

“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”

“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”

He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.

“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”

You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.

“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.

You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”

He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.

The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.

“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.

You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.

Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.

He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.

And in that moment, something shifted.

You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.

When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.

“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.

Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.

Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.

And then you saw it.

Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:

Max + Y/n, always and forever

Your heart did a little flip.

You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.

You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.

“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”

You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”

───

One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen — he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.

The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.

Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend — the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.

You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.

“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”

“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips — the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”

You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.

You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.

Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug — not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.

“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”

Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”

Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.

Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling — that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.

Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”

You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.

Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.

You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much — engines roaring, tires screeching — but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.

“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”

You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”

And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast — the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings — it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.

Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too — like it was automatic now.

Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry — Max is even worse.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”

Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?

Your heart did a little flip.

Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.

“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”

Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”

“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”

You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.

Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”

There was something in his tone — playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.

You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too — the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”

“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark — soft, warm, grounding.

You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?

“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.

Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face — confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”

Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it — not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.

You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.

The countdown lights began to flash in front of you — red, red, red — and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.

The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you — not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”

You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.

“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”

You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise — it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”

You barely had time to process anything — the speed, the noise, the curve ahead — before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.

“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”

Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”

You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter — because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.

The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won — with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.

Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.

You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.

Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them — like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.

Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping — slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.

Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”

You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.

───

People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do — besides win races and make your heart race — it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.

It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.

You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.

Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.

You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.

You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.

“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”

Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG — or whatever — shelf — and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.

“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.

Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”

You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”

He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.

“Oh.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”

Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”

You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”

That made him pause.

His eyes flicked to the mess around you — screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.

“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.

You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.

Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”

You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”

Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”

You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”

He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.

Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”

───

The whole evening had felt strange from the start.

You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.

And then there was you.

You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.

And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.

You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.

And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.

You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.

Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”

You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.

Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.

“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.

“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”

You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”

You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“

He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”

You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.

A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”

“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.

─── FEW MONTHS LATER

You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.

Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.

And then—ding-dong.

You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.

You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.

Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.

You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.

You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.

“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.

The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”

Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”

You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.

You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:

Max.

You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.

As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.

Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.

I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗

taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx

[pandorasf1addiction]

Uhm👀🫣

Oh yeah

[pandorasf1addiction]

"pre any teammate eating" is taking me out osnfojsgn

This video is fucking sending me. 17yr old Max, pre any teammate eating, voice cracking, lisping like a motherfucker, who has no idea he's gonna be a four time world champion someday- next to 20yr old Carlos Sainz Jr. with a full beard. Not a single mic between them. Whole thing shot on an android and edited in windows moviemaker. The way it's literally titled "back to school." Just take me out back.

[pandorasf1addiction]

My love🥹🥹

some drivers talking about max ❤️‍🩹

alex: “max is probably the most misunderstood driver on the grid.matbe because he doesn't like to do this kinda of stuff which i don't blame him for"

isack: “if i ever need any requests or any advice, he’s here and he’s very open.”

gabi: “maybe he doesn’t show this to the cameras so people don’t see how great of a person he is, how good of a heart he has for young people and how much he’s willing to help.”

[pandorasf1addiction]

AHHH STOP THIS WAY TOO CUTE

Piastri And His Logistics Crush

Oscar Piastri x Reader | Fluff

SULI: GUESS WHOS BACK FROM HER LITTLE BREAK next fic I post will be tronab🙏🫦 omg suli writing sweet reader?! Sorry if it's awkward I felt awkward writing it, nice readers seem pick me to me omg — actually hate this but I have to give you something

SUMMARRY: Oscar Piastri seems very interested with a random girl from logistics

WORD COUNT: 3,638

WARNINGS: none!

Oscar’s cap was already damp, the brim heavy with water, and his rain jacket stuck slightly to the sleeves of his hoodie as he stepped away from the media pen. His comms handler—Ben or maybe Josh, he couldn’t keep up anymore—was trailing behind him, reading off something from his phone.

“They’ve pushed the debrief to after lunch, and Lando’s got some new setup feedback—he said it’s too stiff on entry but better through Spoon. Oh, and there’s a short sponsor shoot after. Just a five-minute thing…”

Oscar nodded, only half-listening. The rain had been falling all morning—light at first, now turning the entire Suzuka paddock into a slick, grey haze. Everything felt hushed beneath it. Umbrellas flitted past, bright logos printed on nylon. Engineers jogged across the gravel with equipment cases, shouting over the sound of tires sloshing through puddles.

The whole world felt hurried.

Except one thing.

He slowed, squinting ahead.

There—just outside the McLaren hospitality tent, pressed close to the wall like she was part of it—stood a girl. She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just holding a clipboard above her head, trying and failing to shield herself from the rain.

It wasn’t working. Her jacket was soaked through, darkened and clinging to her arms. Damp strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. She wasn’t shivering exactly, but she looked cold. Quiet. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for her—and Oscar hadn’t been.

But now he couldn’t stop.

He had seen her before, in passing. Always tucked behind a screen, a clipboard, a lanyard with three laminated passes clipped to it. She was one of the logistics girls—paddock operations or scheduling, something like that. Always moving fast, always quiet, never stopping to chat like some others did.

He realized the comms handler was still talking.

“—you can grab lunch after that, I’ll make sure catering keeps something—”

“I’ll be right back,” Oscar said abruptly, and turned without explaining.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled his team jacket from around his shoulders, the warm interior already cooling in his hands, and started across the gravel toward her.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was trying to read something, squinting at her clipboard as if she could will the paper to stay dry. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, like she wanted to move but didn’t know where to go.

Oscar stopped just in front of her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened just slightly—nothing dramatic, but surprised. She hadn’t expected to be spoken to. Maybe hadn’t expected to be seen.

“Come inside,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You’re going to catch something out here.”

She blinked once. “I’m fine,” she replied quickly. Her voice was soft, like someone who didn’t speak up often. “I’m just—finishing something.”

“You’re soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, almost stubbornly.

He hesitated, then held out the jacket.

“Here. Just… take it. You can give it back whenever.”

She looked at it like he’d handed her something strange. Her fingers didn’t move. She just stared.

“It’s clean,” he added awkwardly. “I mean—it’s not sweaty or anything. I just grabbed it a minute ago.”

She didn’t reach for it.

Thunder cracked, far off in the distance, and just as she glanced toward the sound, the clipboard slipped from her hands. It slapped into the wet gravel, pages bending and streaking with mud.

“Shit,” she muttered, dropping to grab it.

Oscar didn’t think—just crouched beside her, tucking the jacket over her shoulders as she lifted the soggy clipboard and shook it off in frustration. She froze the second the fabric touched her. He lingered just long enough to make sure it was secure, then stepped back, giving her space.

The sleeves swallowed her hands. The jacket hung awkwardly off her frame, almost comically oversized, the orange stripes on the collar peeking up near her ears.

She didn’t say thank you. Not right away.

Instead, she adjusted the collar slowly, staring at the ground like she couldn’t quite make sense of what just happened. Rain still fell around them, soft but steady. Somewhere behind them, a mechanic shouted something in Italian.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I thought you looked cold,” he said quietly, unsure why he felt the need to fill the silence.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were clear, dark, a little guarded—but not unfriendly.

“I’ll return this,” she murmured, touching the collar of the jacket lightly.

“I hope you don’t,” he said before thinking, then faltered. “I mean—you can. Just… no rush.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Not full, not wide—just there for a breath of a second.

Then she nodded, gave him the softest little thank-you that he barely caught, and disappeared inside the tent.

Oscar stayed in the rain for a moment longer, jacketless, hands in his pockets, watching the spot where she’d stood like the silence she left behind had weight.

He didn’t know her name.

But now he needed to.

...

It was Sunday evening when she finally found him.

The paddock had thinned out — media crews packing up cables, garages half-empty, the air thick with post-race adrenaline and exhaustion. The sun was dipping low behind the Suzuka skyline, casting golden light across the gravel. Everyone moved slower now. The rush was over. Flights were being checked into. Vans were being loaded.

Oscar was leaning against the low fencing outside McLaren’s hospitality tent, his phone in one hand, the other tucked loosely into the pocket of his hoodie. He was laughing at something a team member had just said, easy and warm, that end-of-weekend looseness in his shoulders.

She almost turned around.

But then he looked up. Like he felt her there.

His eyes found hers almost instantly.

She stopped mid-step, jacket folded carefully in her arms — not lazily stuffed, but square and neat, like she’d taken the time to smooth it just right. There was something awkward in the way she held it, though. Like she’d been holding it too long.

He stepped away from the fence, expression softening. “Hey.”

“I—” she started, then paused, eyes flicking past him like she was checking if anyone else was watching. “I’ve been… trying to give this back since Friday.”

She held out the jacket.

He didn’t take it.

“Could’ve kept it,” he said, tilting his head just slightly.

Her grip didn’t loosen. “I didn’t want to keep it.”

“Didn’t want to?” he echoed, teasing, one brow raised.

Her face warmed instantly. She lowered her gaze to the folded fabric in her hands. “I meant— I was going to return it sooner, I just… you were busy. After qualifying, after the race, today especially…”

“Yeah. It’s been a bit mad.” He glanced at the jacket, then back at her. “You stayed dry, though?”

She nodded. “It helped. A lot.”

He gave a small smile, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m glad.”

For a second, neither of them said anything.

The breeze pulled softly at the ends of her sleeves, the hem of her shirt. His hoodie rustled against the wind, the remnants of race day trailing off into something quieter.

She cleared her throat, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you. Properly.”

“You already did,” he said. “I heard it.”

“Yeah, i guess you're right."

Oscar’s head tilted again, just barely. There was something thoughtful in his expression now. Like he was trying to memorize how she looked in that moment — the way her voice dipped, the way she fidgeted with the sleeve of the jacket she still hadn’t let go of.

“Can I ask something?” he said gently.

She glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why were you out in the rain like that in the first place?”

There was a beat.

Then she gave the tiniest, half-embarrassed shrug. “I didn’t want to miss a delivery. I was supposed to sign off on some updated logistics forms for Ferrari. It was time-sensitive.”

Oscar blinked. “You stayed outside in a thunderstorm… for Ferrari?”

“I take my job seriously,” she replied, almost defensively — then added under her breath, “Even if they never said thank you.”

His smile widened, honest and amused.

She glanced down again, finally extending the jacket fully.

He reached for it, but instead of pulling it away, his fingers brushed hers — deliberately, lightly, like he was testing something.

She didn’t move.

“…You sure you don’t want to keep it?” he asked, voice quiet.

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.

And then, without answering, she gently let go of the jacket.

But she was still smiling.

...

The next time he saw her, she was alone.

It was Saturday, late afternoon. Most of the garages had gone quiet — the kind of hush that settles over the paddock when everything’s temporarily under control. The sun was finally out, warming the pavement and making the air feel thick and slow.

Oscar had wandered from the debrief, one hand curled around a half-empty bottle of water, half-tuned out of his surroundings. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows. He didn’t know exactly where he was going — just away from the fluorescent lights and the tension and the lingering buzz of mechanics still swapping theories.

That’s when he saw her.

She was sitting on a low concrete bench near the back of the McLaren garage, tucked just far enough away that most people wouldn’t notice her. A small paper bento box rested on her lap. She was eating with wooden chopsticks, carefully picking at rice and vegetables while reading something off her phone with an expression of focus that was almost… endearing.

Her jacket was off today. Hair tied messily back. The same soft quietness as before, but somehow more at ease in the sun.

Oscar didn’t think. He just stopped walking.

And then, cautiously, stepped toward her.

“Hey,” he said, slower this time. Not startling — just a gentle greeting.

She looked up, eyes blinking once in recognition. “Oh.”

He smiled. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated, then shifted slightly to the side — not exactly an invitation, but not a no either. He took that as a yes.

He dropped onto the bench beside her, not too close, not too far. Close enough to smell the soy sauce from her bento. Close enough to hear the faint little crunch when she bit into a piece of tempura.

“You always eat here?” he asked, looking ahead instead of at her.

She shrugged. “It’s quiet. Nobody bothers me.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t like being bothered?”

Another bite. She chewed slowly. Then: “Depends on who’s doing the bothering.”

Oscar laughed, caught off guard. “Fair.”

Silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The breeze carried the hum of distant voices, tires being stacked, the occasional crackle of a team radio. A bird landed near the tire barrier. She flicked a grain of rice off her chopsticks toward it.

“What’s in that?” he asked, nodding to the bento.

“Vegetarian,” she said. “Not by choice. They ran out of everything else.”

He made a face. “Tragic.”

She looked sideways at him, dry as anything. “I can offer you one lonely carrot stick and half a dumpling.”

“Tempting.”

“You’re not getting the dumpling,” she deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled again, shaking his head. She wasn’t chatty, but she had timing. That quiet kind of funny — the kind you didn’t expect until it hit you sideways.

“I don’t think I caught your name last time,” he said after a moment.

She looked up again, finally meeting his gaze properly. A pause, then:

“Yn. Logistics.” She gestured vaguely toward the garage. “I do the boring parts so you lot can play with fast cars.”

He grinned. “Well, you’re very good at it. Even Ferrari got their papers on time.”

She huffed — almost a laugh — and returned to her lunch. “Barely.”

He didn’t leave right away. He stayed while she finished eating, talking here and there, mostly just sharing quiet space. It wasn’t anything big. Just enough.

Later, when she stood up to throw away the empty bento box, she glanced back at him and said, “You don’t need to be nice, you know.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I’m not being nice. I’m being curious.”

She raised a brow, half-skeptical.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I… like talking to you.”

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she nodded, barely, like she hadn’t expected that answer—but maybe didn’t mind it.

Then she was gone.

Oscar sat back on the bench and looked at the empty spot beside him.

And smiled.

She didn’t look back after she walked away from the bench.

Didn’t let herself.

Not even a quick glance. Not even a little over-the-shoulder peek to see if he was still sitting there. (Even though she knew he was. She could feel it. That light weight of attention that lingered in the air, warm like sunlight.)

Instead, she tossed the bento box into the bin, tucked her hands into the sleeves of her crew jacket, and kept walking until she was behind the nearest tent.

Then she exhaled.

Her heart was beating too fast. Ridiculously fast. Like she’d just sprinted through pit lane, not sat still for twenty minutes making dry little jokes about carrots and soy sauce.

What the hell was he doing?

She wasn’t stupid. She’d worked enough seasons to know how drivers were. Polite in passing. Some flirty. Some dismissive. Most didn’t even look up when you handed them a clipboard. They were in their own world. Tightly wound routines, PR-trained smiles, and eyes that were always somewhere else.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t like that. Not exactly. He was quiet too — but in a steady, watchful kind of way. Thoughtful. Grounded. And apparently, for some godforsaken reason… interested in her?

That thought alone made her stop walking again.

She frowned, staring at her boots for a second.

It had been easy to brush off the jacket thing. People did nice things sometimes. Especially if there were cameras nearby (there weren’t). Especially if it was raining (it was). And especially if they didn’t expect to see you again afterward (he definitely hadn’t, right?).

Except now he had seen her again.

And asked to sit with her.

And laughed at her dumb comments.

And told her, I like talking to you.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him — how could you not? He was calm, kind, absurdly good at what he did, and had a smile like it could make bad days fall apart at the edges. But still, it didn’t make sense.

Her fingers curled inside her sleeves, pressing into her palms.

It wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t be. She didn’t even know him. She just…

She liked the way he looked at her. Like she wasn’t invisible.

And maybe the scariest part?

She was starting to want him to look at her again.

...

It started small.

Little things.

On Sunday morning, she was checking inventory near the back of the McLaren hospitality tent — sleeves rolled up, hair already a mess from rushing around — when she looked up to find Oscar standing just outside the flap.

He wasn’t wearing his race suit yet. Hoodie again, cap pulled low. Hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t doing anything in particular.

“Oh,” she said, startled.

“Hey,” he said easily, like they bumped into each other like this all the time.

She blinked. “…Do you need something?”

“Just checking if breakfast is still open,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the garage entrance.

“It is,” she said. “The buffet’s still running.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t move.

She raised a brow. “You’re… waiting for someone?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Just killing time.”

And then he asked how her morning was. Just like that. Like it was normal. Like he always did that.

She answered — stiffly, carefully — because part of her was still convinced she was imagining this. But he kept going. Tossed her a soft joke about the weather. Commented on the energy drinks someone had stacked like an unstable tower behind her. She found herself smiling, before she even realized it.

He left after a few minutes, walking toward the buffet like that was his original plan all along.

But fifteen minutes later, when she passed through the side corridor between the garage and media tent, she found him again — leaning against the wall, sipping coffee.

“Twice in one morning,” he said, like it was some cosmic coincidence.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for the media run,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “They’re running behind.”

She didn’t believe him. Not really. But she didn’t call him out, either.

Instead, she just shook her head and walked past.

He followed, casually.

It kept happening.

During setup in Hungary, he appeared beside her while she was bent over a laptop near the freight containers. “Need a hand?” he asked, like he had any idea what she was doing.

In Belgium, he held the door open for her even though she was a good twenty steps away. “Timed it perfectly,” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes but said thank you anyway.

In Zandvoort, he brought her a croissant.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it over. Just pressed the paper napkin into her palm with a quiet “thought you might’ve missed breakfast,” then turned to leave like it was nothing.

It was never pushy. Never loud. Always just enough.

Little breadcrumbs.

And she followed them, even if she pretended not to.

One day, while walking past the driver’s lounge, she heard someone — one of the mechanics, maybe — murmur under their breath, “Piastri’s little logistics crush again?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.

But her ears burned for an hour.

It happened in Monza.

She’d been helping one of the hospitality interns unload supply boxes behind the garage when she saw him coming. Oscar, hands in his pockets, walking casually like always — except this time she didn’t pretend not to notice.

She straightened. Waited.

And when he got close enough, she said it plainly.

“Why do you keep finding me?”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. But it stopped him in his tracks.

Oscar blinked, just once, like he hadn’t expected the question — or maybe like he had, and just didn’t know when it would finally come.

For a moment, all the usual ease dropped from his face. No teasing. No polite smile. Just the softest trace of honesty behind his eyes.

“Because I want to.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Why?”

He shrugged slowly, hands still deep in his hoodie pockets. “Because you’re… interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, gently. Like it wasn’t up for debate. “You say weird things sometimes. And you’re quiet, but not in the way that makes things awkward. You just… notice everything.”

She stared at him.

“You don’t try to be liked,” he added. “And I think that’s rare around here.”

The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear out of habit, still holding his gaze. She wasn’t used to this. Attention like this — soft, specific, undeserved. Or maybe just unfamiliar.

“I thought you were just being polite,” she said eventually.

“I don’t talk to people I’m not interested in.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“You barely know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that.”

Silence.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She looked away, then back, her voice quieter now. “It’s… a little hard to believe.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m not the girl you’re supposed to notice.”

That made him smile — not teasing, not sarcastic. Just gentle.

“I don’t really care what I’m supposed to do.”

She didn’t say anything.

He stepped just a little closer, not invading, not pushing. “Can I walk with you?”

Her lips twitched, a breath caught in her chest. Then, after a long pause:

“…Sure.”

And just like that, they fell into step — not as logistics girl and driver, not as opposites in different worlds — but as something new. Something slow. Something real.

Oscar walked beside her in comfortable silence for a few steps. She glanced at him once, unsure if he was just being polite again — if maybe she’d misunderstood everything, if maybe this was nothing.

But then he spoke.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “Are you free after everything today?”

She blinked. “Why?”

He smiled, but there was something more serious underneath. “There’s a place in town. Nothing fancy, just coffee. I thought maybe…” He paused, then finally looked at her, steady. “I’d like to take you.”

She stopped walking, surprised — not because she didn’t want to say yes, but because it felt so deliberate. So clear. Like he wasn’t hiding behind jokes or polite small talk anymore.

“You mean like a—”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like that.”

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She tried not to overthink it, but the silence stretched a little too long.

“I mean—only if you want to,” Oscar added quickly. “No pressure.”

“I do,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. Then, quieter: “I want to.”

He gave a small, honest smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. “Okay. After press, I’ll find you.”

“You always do.”

His smile widened just slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

And then they kept walking — her heartbeat unsteady, his hands still in his hoodie pockets — something unspoken hanging between them, charged and careful and impossibly soft.

[pandorasf1addiction]

[pandorasf1addiction]

July @f1gc with @vetteltothemetal!!

[pandorasf1addiction]

saw someone on here do this for george so im doing one for his boyfriend too

[pandorasf1addiction]

Let’s do motor racing Toto chop chop

[pandorasf1addiction]

it's so funny when any one channel or steaming platform claims to be "the home of sport". none of you are the home of sport. you know what really is the home of sport? seedy piracy websites that have every stream you could ever imagine

[pandorasf1addiction]

[pandorasf1addiction]

Just testing out new brushes with this one.

[pandorasf1addiction]

the best thing about that video of alex doing the boat dance in front of horner’s sacked graphic is that alex is 100% going to see it

[pandorasf1addiction]

ill cry

Nico not realising they had to bring their helmets in with them and Lando doing it for him aw

[pandorasf1addiction]

how do i explain to my family that i'm crying over a 37 year old German man finally achieving his dreams