rb2242

[rb2242]

I am OBSESSED with your writing 🥹 Could you please do a scenario in which Y/n is feeling insecure and completely shuts down and avoids her f1 boyfriend please, up to you if it’s a text au or regular writing❤️

WHEN YOUR INSECURITIES MAKE YOU HIDE

( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ let’s talk )

★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ★ : genre :: HURT/COMFORT

©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated!

[rb2242]

if i know nothing else (i know you) ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

the five times oscar doesn’t know, and the one time that he does.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. best friends to lovers, oscar is oblivious, feelings realization. title from caroline pennell’s patient. commissioned!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Oscar Jack Piastri is a prideful man. 

Not in the dramatic, chest-pounding, call-me-king kind of way. More in the quiet, curled-lip, I’ll-figure-it-out-myself-so-help-me kind of way. It’s there in the subtle arch of his eyebrow when someone offers unsolicited advice. The way he white-knuckles the wheel after a bad quali and says, with maddening calm, “It’s fine. We’ll look at the data.” It’s how he pretends he didn’t just get dunked on in Mario Kart, even as the controller lies half-buried in the sofa cushions from how hard he rage-quit.

You’ve known it since you were kids. 

Since he tried to assemble an IKEA desk by himself and ended up with three screws left and a drawer that opened sideways. Since he limped through a maths test in Year 9 because he didn’t want to ask for help, even from you. Since he started in F3 and refused to let anyone but you cut his hair, because trusting someone else with scissors was, apparently, a moral failing.

It’s part of the reason you adore him. Not that you’d say that out loud. God, no. That would imply “feelings,” and you are far too emotionally constipated for that.

Today, pride looks like this: Oscar lying half-on, half-under you on his couch in Melbourne, wearing trackies and a hoodie that might be yours.

His hair is sleep-mussed and he has that lazy, post-nap gravity to him, like he’s still fighting to stay tethered to consciousness. He’s scrolling through his phone, brow furrowed. You’re sprawled over him like a cat in a sunbeam, chewing on a lolly snake and watching his brain do slow, buggy loops.

“Okay,”  says finally, in the tone of someone trying to solve world hunger using only kitchen tongs and a roll of duct tape. “What does ‘he’s just like me fr’ mean?”

The question is so sincere. Like a child asking why the sky is blue, or Oscar asking why his croquet shot went directly into a flowerbed. Again. “Use it in a sentence,” you say, already grinning.

He tilts his head. “I saw a video of a guy trying to parallel park for five minutes and then giving up and getting bubble tea instead. The caption said ‘he’s just like me fr’.”

“Ah,” you say, shifting just enough to press your chin to his chest. “It’s basically a tragic self-own. Like—you recognize yourself in someone’s absolute failure and instead of confronting it, you embrace it. Spiritually. The ‘fr’ means ‘for real’.”

He squints. “So it’s not a compliment.”

“Nope. It’s more like a confession.”

He processes this with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. You watch the gears turn. You’re a little in love with how hard he tries to understand things he doesn’t immediately get. It’s not just pride anymore. It’s earnestness. Determination. That stupid, wonderful brain of his that always wants to know.

You hide your fondness in a stretch, flinging an arm dramatically over his stomach. “Don’t worry, mate. You’re terminally normal. You’ll never be meme-worthy.”

“I’ll show you meme-worthy,” he grumbles, just as the front door opens.

Mae appears like a sitcom entrance: handbag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses still on indoors, no-nonsense expression already locked and loaded. She glances at the two of you—your legs tangled with Oscar’s, your hand casually resting just under the hem of his hoodie—and doesn’t even blink.

“You two are disgusting,” she says, but it has no heat.

“Hey, Mae,” you offer, waving a gummy worm at her.

Oscar, sitting up with the sudden rigidity of a man about to Deliver, looks at his sister with full dramatic weight and says, with way too much pride: “You’re just like me. For real.”

You nearly choke on your lolly. Mae makes a noise like a dying cat and walks away.

Oscar is smiling like he’s just executed the perfect overtake. He’s acting proud of his meme usage, as if hasn’t just embarrassed both of you irreparably.

You just smile, head dropping to his shoulder. Because yes, he is ridiculous. Yes, he’s a menace to communication and nuance and roses. 

But he’s also yours. Even if he doesn’t quite know what that means yet.

The thing about being out with Oscar—not that you’re with him, not in any official sense, not in a way that would show up on a grid walk interview or a team principal’s spreadsheet—is that people notice him.

You’re not bitter about it. Truly. It’s just a fact. 

The same way gravity is a fact. Or the way he refuses to use coasters, or how his laugh sounds different when it’s for you. It’s a background truth of the universe: Oscar attracts attention, and you try not to mind when some of it sticks to you by proximity.

You’re halfway down a laneway in Fitzroy, coffee in hand, watching him fail to decide between a bacon roll or a croissant, when the first girl approaches. She’s all bright lipstick and even brighter eyes, clearly starstruck. You step back instinctively to give them space. You’re used to this.

Another one comes. And another.

They’re mostly polite. Mostly. But there’s a pattern. A lot of twirling hair and lingering hands and “you’re even hotter in person” declarations. 

Oscar, being Oscar, is gracious to a fault. Smiles that small smile. Says thank you and means it. Asks for names, signs napkins, poses for a photo with someone’s dog. One girl holds out her phone a little too long. Another touches his arm and doesn’t let go quite fast enough.

It’s not his fault. He doesn’t see the way you keep getting jostled further from his side, doesn’t catch the slight stagger in your step as someone’s elbow knocks into your shoulder. You know that. You know he doesn’t mean to let you fade to the edge of the frame. 

Still. It stings a little. Citrus in a paper cut.

You try to distract yourself. Sip your drink. Check your phone. Count the cracks in the pavement. Tell yourself you’re being stupid, because this is his life, and you chose to be in it. The ache behind your ribs refuses to go away.

When the last girl finally thanks him with a wink and disappears down the street, Oscar turns back around, frowning slightly. “Hey, where—oh. There you are.”

You offer a too-bright grin, sipping your lukewarm flat white. “Don’t mind me. I’m just your emotional support water bottle. Portable. Durable. Slightly scuffed.”

He winces, subtle but immediate. “Shit,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to—they just kind of appeared.”

You shrug. You’ve mastered the art of casual by now. “You’re a public figure, mate. Comes with the territory. That, and an overwhelming number of lip gloss sales.”

“Don’t,” he says, stepping in close, voice low. “Don’t do the thing where you make jokes so I don’t see your face.”

You freeze. Then glance up at him, eyebrows raised. “Bit arrogant to assume you know my face that well.”

“I do,” he says, plain and simple like it’s the truth. 

And damn him for that. It is the truth. How Oscar can take one look at your expression and clock within seconds whether you were mad, sad, or hungry. How he’s memorized the cadences of your voice and why each one matters. 

He exhales, one hand curling around your wrist. It’s not tight at all, but it’s not like you’re going anywhere, either. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I didn’t notice. I should’ve.”

You try to shrug it off again. He doesn’t let you. 

“Let me fix it,” he says.

“Oscar—”

“Nope. You’re not stopping me. Today’s about us. Just us. Promise.”

You should know better than to challenge a man with something to prove.

Which is how, twenty minutes later, you’re inside a weirdly ornate vintage bookstore that smells like dust and regret, with Oscar wearing a flat cap and fake reading glasses like he’s auditioning for a BBC period drama. The hat keeps sliding to one side. The glasses are slightly crooked.

“Do I look anonymous yet?” he asks, peering over the top of Wuthering Heights like a suspicious librarian.

You snort. “You look like you lost a bet to a retired Shakespearean actor.”

“Perfect.”

He drags you through obscure thrift shops, secondhand record stores, a pottery painting cafe where he insists on decorating a ceramic frog in McLaren papaya. You name it Nigel. He gives it a racing stripe. Then, he adds googly eyes and says Nigel needs a sense of humor.

In between, he keeps you close. Every time someone glances too long, he shifts so he’s between you and their line of sight. He pays in cash. Orders under a fake name at a food truck. (“You don’t look like a Barry,” you tell him. “Barry has mysterious depths,” he insists.) He attempts an Australian accent that is, in fact, his actual voice.

It’s ridiculous. It’s inefficient. It’s perfect.

Somewhere between a badly tuned jazz band in a park and the moment he buys you a bag of fairy floss just because you said the smell reminded you of childhood, the knot in your chest loosens. You watch him smear pink sugar on his cheek and fail to notice. You watch him pretend not to pose dramatically beside a bronze statue. He tells a child you’re an international spy. You tell the child he’s your getaway driver.

Oscar bumps your shoulder as you make the trek back home. “Better?”

You look at him. At the effort. At the utterly stupid glasses still perched on his nose. At the way he’s been trying, really trying, to turn the volume down on the world and just listen to you.

“Better,” you concede, and his smile breaks. Victorious in his own little way. 

He still doesn’t know, but he is getting closer.

The race goes to shit somewhere around Lap 36.

It’s not immediate. It’s a slow, painful unraveling—a thread catching on a nail and pulling, little by little, until the whole sleeve is hanging off. You try to will it back together from your spot in the McLaren garage, headset awkwardly clamped over your ears, but no amount of silent wishing can stitch a broken stint back into place.

Oscar starts P3. Fast. Sharp. Clinical in the first few corners. You watch him carve through the apexes like it’s a physics demonstration, eyes laser-focused, hands steady. For a moment, you let yourself believe this might be one of those races. The kind that ends in champagne and sweaty hugs and someone shoving a mic in his face while he downplays his brilliance.

But then, but then. 

A lockup. Minor, but enough. The kind of slide that catches your breath in your throat and makes every camera angle feel too wide, too revealing.

Then: a pit stop. An interminable, cursed pit stop. You think you see a mechanic fumble a wheel gun, but the replay cuts away too fast to be sure.

Then: tyre degradation. Radio chatter that turns from calm to clipped. 

Then: traffic. A Williams that won’t move. A Haas doing Haas things.

He finishes P10.

You wince. Visibly. Enough that one of the engineers offers you a glance that’s half-sympathetic, half-amused. The kind reserved for small children and people who don’t understand tyre strategy.

Oscar disappears into the debrief room before you can reach him. Probably for the best. You hover by the espresso machine as if it’s a lighthouse and you’re not sure if you’re a ship or a shipwreck. There’s a biscuit in your hand you don’t remember taking.

You’re debating whether you should stay or vanish into the nearest catering tent when you hear it—

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t know?”

Muffled, but distinct. Oscar’s voice, raw and livid, slams through the debrief room walls like a crash. Heads swivel. A few engineers look away politely. You try not to flinch.

Another voice, steadier, says something you can’t catch. The door opens moments later. Oscar strides out like a storm in a race suit, all barely-contained fury and magnetic dismay. 

He sees you.

The air around him changes.

He walks straight over, plants two hands on your shoulders, and begins to steer. Not roughly, but with an urgency that brooks no protest. His grip is warm. Grounding. Before you can ask anything, he’s tugging you away through the maze of crates and cords, past two confused comms staff, around the back of the hospitality unit, and into the shadowy space between a wall and a fleet of unused golf carts.

There’s no one here. 

He stops, turns you around, and pulls you into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your arms fold around his middle automatically, cheek pressing into fireproof fabric.

You feel him exhale against your temple, rough and shaky.

“That bad, huh?” you murmur, voice muffled.

He laughs, if you can call it that. A breathy, bitter thing. “I just—fuck. I hate losing. But more than that, I hate losing in front of you.”

Your heart lurches sideways. “Me?”

He nods, jaw working. “You’re not even at every race. I wanted—God, I don’t know. I wanted to make it count. To give you a reason to want to keep coming. Not… whatever that was.”

He gestures vaguely back toward the track. You’re not sure if he means the car, the race, or himself.

You shift back just enough to see his face. He’s still irritatingly beautiful even with helmet hair and frustration lining his mouth, but he looks wrecked. Cracked down the middle. Like he’s trying not to say more than he should.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing along the faint stubble he’ll complain about shaving later. The pink of his fading helmet marks. 

“Oscar. You finished in the points,” you say delicately. “You didn’t crash into a wall, or a steward, or a rogue goose. That’s already better than half the grid.”

He huffs, but it’s closer to an actual chuckle now.

You go on, “Also, I’m always proud of you. Even when you wear those criminal sunglasses.”

“They’re performance-optimized.”

“They’re a hate crime.”

He laughs. Properly this time. It vibrates through his chest and into yours.

You let yourself smile. “You make it better,” he says, after a beat. Softer now.

Your fingers toy idly with the back of his race suit, dragging a slow line along the seam. “What are friends for?” you mumble, acting like your voice didn’t catch on the word friends.

He tilts his forehead against yours. For a second, you swear he might say something else. Something heavier. Instead: “Next time you show up,” he says, “remind me to win for real, yeah?”

Your lips curve upward. “Only if you bring Nigel the Frog for luck.”

He groans. “Nigel’s cursed.”

“Nigel’s our emotional support amphibian. Put some respect on his name.”

He laughs again, head tipping back against the wall.

The race is still a mess. The championship points still sting. Oscar has yet to find out what went wrong with his day, but this—this is right. 

You’re halfway through curling your lashes when your phone starts vibrating violently on the bathroom counter. Oscar. FaceTime.

You consider letting it ring out—your left eye looks fantastic and you don’t trust yourself not to stab the right in the middle of a distracted conversation—but something in your chest tugs. So you swipe.

His face fills the screen, weirdly close to the camera. Hair messy, shirt wrinkled, face flushed like he’s just come in from the cold or maybe from pacing. You raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“Hey,” you say smoothly. “You look like a Victorian ghost who’s just learned about front-facing cameras.”

“Thanks,” he deadpans. Then squints. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

His eyes narrow further, like he's trying to CSI-enhance the background. “Is that—are you doing your makeup?”

“No,” you say immediately, only to remember you literally have a curling wand in your free hand. Sighing, you amend, “Okay, yes.”

A beat.

“For who.”

“Is that… relevant?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Oscar.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares. Like he’s buffering.

You sigh again, softer this time. “It’s a date.”

His mouth twitches. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or confused or some third thing that hasn’t been invented yet. “A date,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “Like. Romantic.”

“Yes, Oscar. Not like a court summons.”

“Right. Cool. Good.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s nodding so hard it looks like he might dislodge his head from his neck. “You should, uh, go. Don’t wanna be late.”

You smile, lopsided. “Thanks. I’ll text you later?”

“If you want.”

“Alright,” you say. “Love you in case I die.”

“Love you in case I die,” he says back.

You hang up and stare at your reflection. Something’s off. Not just the eyeliner, which you now have to redo. 

You ignore it. Try to.

The date is fine. The guy is fine. He’s nice enough, maybe a little too eager, laughs at the right places, pays the bill without being weird about it. He talks about travel, about his startup, about his dog. He asks you about your job and seems to actually listen.

You should be into it.

You are not into it.

You smile. You nod. You even make a joke that earns a laugh that echoes a little too long in the Italian restaurant he chose for you. But your brain is full of someone else’s voice, echoing—A date? Like, romantic?—and the way Oscar had looked at you like the idea had drop-kicked him into a different timeline.

It doesn’t help that you keep comparing. The guy’s hands are too fidgety. His laugh doesn’t come easy. He’s handsome, technically, but there’s no comfort in it. No gravity. No magnetic pull that rearranges your whole axis.

You go home alone. Wash your face. Sit on your bed in your oversized tee and stare at the ceiling like it might blink first. Your phone’s already in your hand before you realize what you’re doing. Thumb hovering. Heart thudding with something equal parts shame and need.

You tap FaceTime. He answers on the first ring.

“That was fast,” you say, trying for light. “Were you waiting by the phone like a 1950s housewife?”

“I just had a feeling,” he says defensively. 

You snort. “That it wouldn’t go well? Or that I’d call you anyway?”

“Both.”

You tip your head, studying him. He’s in bed, hair damp like he’s just showered, the collar of his shirt askew. One side of his mouth lifts. “So,” he goes on, careful. “No second date?”

“No encore.”

Oscar exhales like he’d been holding it for three hours straight. You can’t help it. “Were you jealous?” you tease.

He looks genuinely baffled for a moment. The same gobsmacked expression when he encountered a question he didn’t have the answer to. For a beat, he’s just staring. 

“I didn’t know I could be,” he confesses, equal parts confused and shamed.

You go quiet. So does he.

The silence stretches. Like you’ve both realized you’ve crossed into something new and are pretending it still looks like the old thing.

You tuck your legs under you, eyes still on the screen. “For what it’s worth,” you say, voice soft now, “he wasn’t you.”

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s like he just found his voice. Like he realized he had to say something because the only other option would be to face the truth. “Good,” he rasps, half-joking. Half-serious. You can’t quite tell. “I should be the only man in your life.”

You laugh. It’s tired and warm and a bit of an acquiescence. As if you’re saying, You are, you idiot.

You’re both on the way to a dinner—Lando’s birthday, something loud and half-organized—and Oscar, ever the tactical genius, decides now is the perfect time to get lost.

“It’s not my fault the Maps app thinks we’ve teleported into the river,” he says, peering at his phone like it’s personally betrayed him.

You are decidedly unimpressed. “You’ve lived in Monaco for two years,” you say flatly. “Is this performance art?”

“You love my sense of direction.”

“I love how confidently wrong you are. There’s a difference.”

Still, neither of you seem too bothered. The drizzle isn’t cold, and Oscar looks irritatingly good in the weather. Hood half-up, damp curls curling more at his nape, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. You, on the other hand, are starting to feel the distinct squelch of regret in your socks.

When you finally find the restaurant—on the opposite end of the street, where Oscar insisted it couldn’t possibly be—you’re both damp and fifteen minutes late. Lando, bless his chaos-loving heart, greets you with a cheer and a shot. Oscar disappears into the mess of people, pulled into conversation. You let yourself drift toward the edge of the room, pretending not to scan for him every few minutes.

He finds you later. Two drinks in. Slight flush on his cheeks. He’s smiling, the easy, fond kind, like you’re something he’s been looking forward to all night.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Your fanclub was very excited to see you.”

He rolls his eyes. “They think I’m funnier than I am.”

“To be fair, that’s most people’s mistake with you.”

He laughs, nudges your shoulder. And then he stays. 

You talk. Not about anything big—just small, stupid things. Whether Lando’s haircut is intentional or the result of some kind of traumatic bet. Whether Oscar could ever actually survive off his own cooking. He tries to insist he makes a decent carbonara, and you laugh so hard a bit of wine nearly shoots out your nose.

He brushes his fingers over your wrist when you calm down. Brief, barely there. You feel it for longer than it lasts. He keeps an arm on the back of your chair, glares at a waiter who flirts in broken English, insists he can walk you to the bathroom when your legs wobble.

Hours later, the crowd’s thinned out. The two of you sit on the curb outside the restaurant, heels in your hand, Oscar poking a hole in a takeaway box with a fork.

“You ever think,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “that the best part of a night isn’t the part everyone posts about?”

“Wow,” you exhale. “Deep. Did you steal that off a mindfulness app?”

“No. Maybe. Shut up and answer.”

You hum. “Yes, I do think that.”

Oscar turns to look at you, all soft around the edges. “It’s like that with you. All the time. The good bits.”

Something in you flinches. Not in a bad way. Just startled. You want to say something clever, something that’ll keep it light. But your brain slows, lets the silence stretch. It feels tender.

“You’re the best part of my night, too,” you manage. 

He nods. Doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then: “You’ve always been there.”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you for now. Past your shoulder, staring at a point only he can see. “Even when I didn’t get it. You were just... there,” he says with a solemness that could only come after one too many tequila shots. “Like gravity.”

You swallow, suddenly feeling far too sober for this conversation. “Oscar.”

He looks at you, eyes sharp but unreadable. “What?”

You want to say something stupid. Like, Do you get it now? Like, I’ve always been here for a reason.

Instead, you smile, and it tilts into dangerous, fond territory. “Nothing. Just—you have soy sauce on your chin.”

He wipes it, sheepish. You laugh, and it breaks and mends something inside you. He watches you, half-confused and wholly fond.

“You know,” you say, bumping his knee with yours, “I don’t stick around for people who make me feel invisible.”

His brow creases. “Do I make you feel invisible?”

“No, no,” you say quickly, before you dip into honesty. “But sometimes I think you don’t see the whole picture.”

Oscar processes that in silence. After a minute, he nods slowly. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”

You believe him. You don’t say it, but you do.

He finishes the last of his food and sets the container aside. The drizzle’s long stopped, but his hair’s still damp, curling at the ends. “I’m gonna get it someday, right?” he asks.

“What?”

“All of it. What you mean. What I didn’t know before.”

You press your shoulder to his. “Yeah,” you say, hopeful that this rained-out sidewalk will grant you the gift of prophecy. “Eventually.”

You stick around, just like always. So does he.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Oscar Jack Piastri is a prideful man.

Not the shout-it-from-the-rooftops kind, or the rub-it-in-your-face kind. No, Oscar’s pride is quieter than that. Tucked into the arch of his chin, the cadence of a dry quip, the way he takes losing personally even when there’s no one to blame. 

It’s in how he holds onto things. Memories. Mistakes. Names of people who doubt him. He folds them neatly and files them away like ammunition, waiting for the moment to prove them wrong without ever needing to say it aloud.

And yet. There’s you.

You, who has chipped at his pride more times than he can count. Who knows where he’s ticklish (behind his knee), where he hides his sweets (second shelf, mislabeled as quinoa), and how to tell when his good mood is just a well-ironed version of stress. You, who make it look so easy to stay when he is not easy to stay for. You, who has become the exception to every rule he swore he’d never break.

He doesn’t remember when it started, this slow erosion. Maybe Monaco, when you let him drag you through rain and half-baked directions. Maybe it was earlier. Every time you handed him a glass of water after a race without saying a word. Every text. Every god-awful joke you refused to let die. Every ordinary day you stayed. Undeterred, unbothered, unwavering.

He thinks about how he used to need control—of his schedule, of his performance, of his emotions. How he used to keep people at arm’s length with a smile and an impeccable boundary. How you showed up with that laugh of yours and a complete disregard for all of that. And how he let you.

It happens on a Sunday. Just a regular one. 

He’s home from sim, half-tired and mostly restless. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced dangerously on your thigh. There’s something playing on TV. He doesn’t know what; he hasn’t looked up in a while. The world is small and slow and peaceful in a way he never expected to crave.

He’s scrolling idly through his phone, thumb flicking more out of habit than intention, until he glances up.

There it is.

The way the light hits your hair, soft and low, catching gold in the strands like it was placed there deliberately. The way your brow furrows at your screen, lips pursed slightly in concentration like you're solving a minor world crisis. There’s a mug by your knee—probably long cold—and your socked foot presses absently into the couch cushion like you’re anchoring yourself. The little tilt of your head, the rise and fall of your breathing, the curve of your spine against the throw pillow he forgot he hated.

There’s nothing extraordinary about it. You’re just there.

Still, something in him pulls taut, like a string he didn’t know was wound.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Sets his phone down slowly, like it might bite him. “Hey,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You glance up, brow still furrowed. “Yeah?”

He swallows. Hears his own heartbeat somewhere between his teeth. He wants to be clever about it. He wants to make a joke. He wants to hide, just a little, behind something wry and distant.

He doesn’t. He’s sure he has the strangest look on his face when he says, “You’re my best friend.”

It’s supposed to be a given. Another one of those cardinal truths. Solid and irretrievable, spoken like breathing. Oscar has said it a dozen times before, all in different variations. 

It’s different this time. He can’t quite explain it, but it is. And you can tell. You’re staring at him, watching him come undone. You can hear it in the silence, can see it with the lights out—what he really, really means. And so that’s probably why your response is simple, weighted. 

“I know.”

You say it like a secret you’ve been keeping warm in your pocket.You reach out and squeeze his ankle, casual, like you’re passing him the salt. Like you’re steadying him in gravity. 

Oscar just looks at you, breath caught somewhere inconvenient, as he waits for the sting of pride to follow. The self-consciousness. The shrinking.

None of it comes.

Instead, he feels fuller. Brighter. Sharper. Like something inside him has clicked into place without fanfare. A puzzle piece fitting without resistance. A finish line crossed he hadn’t realized he was running toward.

He rests his hand over yours. 

To love is to know.

And knowing you—this fully, this freely—is the one thing he’s always been proudest of. ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.

necessary disclaimer: the final scene is inspired by taylor swift’s you are in love.

[rb2242]

IN FAIR VERONA

summary: pretending not to be hopelessly in love with your boyfriend to preserve your respective cabins' rivalry at camp is an amusing task, especially when the kids try and bring you two together. but after a long day, there's only one person you want to fall asleep with. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTEMENT: « battered and wrecked─ i come to you first. »

... F1 MASTERLIST | AA23 MASTERLIST

pairing: camp counselor!alex albon x camp counselor!gf!reader wordcount: 4.7K content: alternate universe - summer camp, established relationship, preteen meddling, fluff galore, 2019 rookies cameos, use of y/n. note: requested here! i've been wanting to write a summer camp au for a while and this was the perfect opportunity (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i hope you'll like my take on the quote! also let's ignore the blatant inacurracies for the sake of the plot.

TWO HOUSEHOLDS (CABINS), alike in dignity (not if we consider the S’Mores War of 2009), in fair Verona, where we lay our scene. Fair Verona, of course, being a mosquito-riddled patch of lakeside forest, and the creaky wooden bridge barely evoking Italy unless you squinted. Still, if Shakespeare’s spirit had a hand in your current predicament, you’d hardly believe it. If anything, this had Machiavelli’s fingerprints all over it.

You and Alex established one rule when you worked at camp during the summer: never let the kids find out you’re dating. The rivalry between your cabins, even though no one could pinpoint when it started, was too legendary to be ruined by a love story. Especially one that began at the very same camp, years ago.

And right now, as you lock eyes with Alexander Albon, your boyfriend and current mortal enemy, across the field separating you from his safely tucked cabin, you both know you are about to hit the pinnacle of that rule.

The water fight was a staple of camp. George and Lando always got dragged in, willingly or otherwise, but the real game? It was between you and Alex. The rules were simple: soak the enemy, protect your own, first one to dunk the cabin counselor wins. Officially, it was something about helping the new and younger kids find their footing through teamwork while still entertaining the more seasoned campers. But truth be told, it was also the one day the counselors got to pelt each other in the name of history. The funniest part of camp, in your humble opinion, along with the mischievous pattern of inducting the next generation to it.

So here you were. Your breath echoed in your ears. The ice-cold water balloon in your hand was sticky with condensation. Isabel, a girl of yours with brown braids, tugged at the hem of your shirt with laser focus.

Across from you, Alex’s casual smirk falters. You watch, almost in slow-motion, as the carefree light in his eyes gives way to shock. Then surprise. Only to give way to utter betrayal.

“STRIKE!” you shout.

As if possessed by a shared blood-thirsty instinct, your campers erupt. They leap from the bushes, howling like wolves, water balloons flying in all directions. Plastic buckets slosh. Towels fly. And you make a beeline for the tallest brown-haired man in the clearing as he stares at you in disbelief.

“GET THE WATER GUNS, NOW!” Alex yells to his side, breaking into a sprint. 

But it was too late, you were already airborne. 

Nothing was fair in love and war.

The sun poured like syrup across the sky and gleamed off the lake in sharp, glimmering shards. The air was thick with the saccharine perfume of overused citronella and the waxy, familiar scent of cheap sunscreen. All around you, summer reigned loud and chaotic. The grass beneath your feet was slick from balloon shrapnel and lakewater, patchy with mud and wild laughter. Campers screamed in ecstatic delight, darting across the field with war cries, their joy echoing off the pine trees.

It was a beautiful soundtrack for your relentless chase after Alex, unarmed and undefended, yet entirely too smug about his chances. It came as no surprise to the children that you zeroed in on him: they were the first seaters to your feud, which is one of the reasons you held the masquerade up. It came as no surprise to Alex either, because he knew exactly just how much fun you had with it.

You watched the way he darted ahead, making his way through the mass of his campers cheering him on and his giggle echoing through them, only to slow just slightly. He was letting you keep up enough to keep your silly little game going, and you followed like a moth in the center of a flame.

The bridge at the edge of the lake swayed underfoot as he bounded onto it, wood creaking in his wake. You followed, hot on his heels, heart pounding as an euphoric chuckle slipped from your lips.

“Getting tired of running, Albono?” you called after him. “Didn’t take you for a coward!”

A bunch of “ooooohs” could be heard from behind you.

Alex glanced back with that infuriatingly charming grin of his. “I’m just giving you a fair chance baby!”

Your breath hitched. At the familiar nickname, and the fact it was just loud enough for you to hear, but also at the devilish sparkle in his eyes you’d grown to love. At the fact that this is what summer with Alex had always felt like, ever since you kissed for the first time at this very same bridge: dizzy and golden.

By the time you reached the end of it, he was waiting. Hair messy from humidity, freckles saturated by the sun, crooked smile that you wished to kiss into oblivion, and to drown in cold water. He stood cornered, but not defeated.

You raised your water balloon, rubber icy against your palm, and stepped toward him. The tiniest movement, almost playful. “I should soak you right now and end your reign of terror, Albon.”

Alex tilted his head, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before flicking back up. “Do it. I dare you.”

The bridge betrayed you before you could.

A slick patch of water on an unstable plank, and there you were: your foot slid out from beneath you, and before gravity could consider taking its prize—your dignity—, Alex’s hands were on you.

His hands, strong and rugged, wrapped in a firm grip around your waist, pulling you in out of the sheer force of habit. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, and your free hand found the solid line of his shoulders to steady yourself.

His face was centimeters from yours, damp hair curling slightly at the edges, and you’d hate how maddingly handsome he was if you didn’t wake up to it every morning outside of camp.

“You’re alright?” he asked, all smiles and sharp intakes of air. “Didn’t expect you to fall for me so soon into the summer, my God. Here I was, thinking you were a fighter.”

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics. “I am a fighter, and I will be alright, Alex. Once I drop this over your head.”

As soon as you slowly, dangerously, approached your weapon to his face, the sound around you sharpened to an uncanny silence. 

You whipped your head back.

Every single one of the campers, yours and Alex’s, was staring. Their dozen faces, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, waiting to see what will happen next. Isabel and Michael, along with Camille, Wyatt, and Mateo, were whispering animatedly, eyes fixated on both of you.

You and Alex looked at each other. Back at the kids. Back to you.

“Don’t you blow our cover,” you whispered, stabbing a finger in his chest.

Alex grinned, and you saw the making of a plan you’d regret in all of two seconds in his irises. “Me? I would never.”

Without hesitation, he tightened his grip around your waist. It’s only when he took a step back that you understood what he was going to do.

“Oh my God,” you gasped. “Alex, no. Alex— Alex, no, no. No, ALEX—”

But by the time you were able to slither yourself out of his grasp, your beloved (note the irony) boyfriend threw himself backwards off the bridge, inevitably taking you with him.

The lake swallowed you whole. A flash of blue sky, a heavy splash of water, and your scream lost in a burst of clear, sunlit bubbles, into silence.

Water wrapped around you like silk, hair fanning in slow motion and fabric blooming around your limbs. For one suspended second beneath the surface, it was just the two of you in a shared, weightless hush. Alex caught your eye, bubbles escaping his lovesick smile and rays of sunlight catching the soft brown of his eyes, and you held up your middle finger in a gentle salute of betrayal.

He tried to blow you a kiss in response— only to choke on lake water.

You kicked upward, laughing even before you broke the surface, and exploded in the air with a gasp. Alex surfaced beside you, sputtering and coughing. He wiped water from his face, blinking through his soaked lashes the way a golden retriever would shake himself trying to get dry.

“You’re so stupid,” you wheezed, choking on your own laughter. “I swear—”

“I just wanted to show my love for you,” he said, gasping dramatically between coughs. “And this is how I’m treated? A middle finger? Long-term relationship, by the way.”

“Wanna talk about treatment?” You flicked water at him. “You just threw me into a lake.”

He floated closer, just enough for your feet to bump as you were keeping yourselves afloat. “Hey, I threw myself in it too. Don’t forget my self-sacrifice.”

You smiled at him, reaching to brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “Wow, you’re such a romantic.”

Before Alex could respond with something, whether it be a confession or a kiss, a head popped over the side of the bridge.

“SO…” Camille’s halo of blonde curls dripped water from above, followed by a majority of the other campers cramming beside her, peering over the railing like the world’s smallest search party. You and Alex swam away from each other as quickly as you could without it looking suspicious. “Who won?”

“You both got dunked,” Isabel added with a disappointed shrug. “Technically, that’s a draw.”

“A draw?!” you exclaim, faux-offended. “We can’t possibly let that be. Guess we’ll have to kick Albon’s cabin’s ass another way.”

The kids from your cabin erupted in cheers as the ones from Alex’s groaned. No matter what conclusion you came to, you’re sure it wouldn’t be the last you heard of this year’s water fight.

You could see it in the mischievous smile your boyfriend offered you.

After that, the afternoon unfolded the way it usually did, long and soaked by the sun. The war-wounds of the water fight dried slowly in sunlit splotches across your clothes, and the field shimmered with post-battle peace, laughter trailing from every corner like campfire smoke. After bigger activities like these, campers usually had the rest of the day to indulge in whatever their heart desired.

At a picnic table splattered in neon, Lando presided over the tie-dye station like a benevolent fairy, with glitter smudged across his cheek and at least three children tangled in rubber bands. You hadn’t planned on joining, but Mateo, with his impossibly wide eyes and pleading grin, had successfully dragged you down beside him.

And, what a coincidence, Alex was sitting directly across from you.

The sharp scent of dye hung in the air as you twisted your shirt into a spiral, fingers deft and practiced. “Okay,” you said after a few beats of silence, watching Alex fumble with a knot of rubber bands and blotch his entire palm blue, “have you ever made one of these before?”

He glanced up with a half-grin, sheepish. “Once,” he replied, nudging your knee under the table with his own. “And I got paint all over my shorts.”

You swallowed back a smile for the sake of the five campers surrounding you, who were trying not to be too obvious in their eavesdropping. Still, the memory snuck up on you and your poor, fluttering heart: last year’s camp, with everyone else asleep and the two of you laughing like children in the mess hall.

“Hmm… was that the same summer I put shaving cream on your pillow?” you asked, eyes wide with mock innocence. Mateo snorted. Glitter dust stuck to the tip of his nose.

“You mean every summer?” Alex retorted. “You’re becoming alarmingly predictable with your pranks.”

“Maybe you’re just alarmingly easy to prank.”

“Or maybe you’re due for new material,” Alex teased. You stuck your tongue out at him, and he mirrored the gesture with a childish grin until you both dissolved into laughter.

For some reason, Mateo high-fived Lando.

Small instances of the sorts became recurrent during the last part of the day. As the lake glittered in soft ripples, the paddle shed echoed with the scraping of oars and the squeak of life jackets. You had found yourself roped into supervising canoe pairings, and Wyatt insisted the numbers were “uneven” after looking at George’s carefully organized clipboard. He also maintained that “Alex should, like, just ride with you. I’ll sit out, it’s more efficient.” You found yourself floating together in knowing silence five minutes later.

By the time the sun had finished dragging its golden brush across the sky, the horizon glowed in streaks of tangerine and rose, and shadows stretched long across the messy grounds. The mess hall buzzed with voices and clattering silverware, chatter echoing beneath the wooden rafters, the smell of charcoal chicken lingering in the warm air.

Once again, you had been placed by total accident across from Alex. And while you were chatting with George, Lando chiming in now and then, no part of the conversation could distract you from the way Alex looked in the soft evening light. Skin golden and cheeks flushed from the day’s exertion, his lashes caught the last glimmer of luminescence as if the sunset had chosen to rest here for a moment.

If the others noticed you stealing greedy glances, they said nothing. But you could’ve spent the entire meal indulging in this type of sightseeing. Well, if it weren’t for Camille.

“Y/N,” she began sweetly. “I was talking with Isabel, and—”

Isabel, already halfway through a mouthful of potato salad, didn’t even wait. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You choked. On what, you weren’t sure.

Across the table, Alex froze. His fork was suspended halfway between plate and mouth, head tilted just slightly in anticipation. You could feel George tense beside you, vibrating with the physical effort of holding in laughter.

“Uh…” Quick. Something, anything to cover you. “No?” you fumbled, and your voice cracked. “Not right now, no.” 

Your boyfriend-not-boyfriend’s eyebrows rose a dramatic ascent toward the heavens. He leaned back, gave the most exaggerated and theatrical nod known to mankind, and turned back to his chicken. George snorted into his glass. You wanted the earth to open beneath your seat and swallow you whole.

“That’s great!” Camille chirped. “I mean, it’s not great. I mean… good news, I guess?”

Isabel elbowed her in the ribs, hurriedly whispering something in her ear. While you would have loved to decipher what the two of them were scheming about, Alex decided to speak first.

“Y’know,” his words were muffled by his mouthful of food, “it doesn't surprise me that you don’t have a boyfriend. Must be that wonderful personality of yours.”

Your foot found his shin under the table with surgical precision. He let out an affronted yelp. George almost spat out his water with a wheeze. The girls had taken Michael onto their gossip. The last rays of sunlight spilled across the floorboards in a golden hush, the mess hall glowing amber with the softness of the ending day.

Your cabin door creaked open.

The moon now hung heavy and bright over the lake, casting silver ribbons over the sleeping camp. The air had gone still, only rhythmed by the quiet chirps of the crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl echoing through the trees.

“Alex,” you murmured in the dark of your room. 

It wasn’t a question. You turned your head just enough to see him slipping inside—ike he always did ever since he had blown his fifteenth candle—barefoot and freshly showered. His hair curled softly at his temples, and his hoodie clung to him slightly from the humid air outside. His cabin was at the complete opposite of yours, and yet he still insisted on being the one walking all the way to sleep by your side. Never once had he let you return the favor.

Alex looked devastatingly lovely in the unspeaking dark: sleepy and flushed, his half-lidded eyes seeking your figure in the shadows.

He didn’t say a word as he padded over, dropped onto your bed with a groan, and immediately buried his face in your side. A contented sigh slipped out of him, and his arms gently wrapped around your waist, his legs tangling with yours almost out of reflex.

“It really was a long day, huh?” you whispered, smiling as you carded your fingers through his wet hair.

“It really was. And then you told a table full of preteens you didn’t have a boyfriend,” he mumbled, voice muffled in your shirt. Well, technically, ‘his’ shirt that you ‘borrowed’ to sleep in. “I’ve known betrayal in this camp. But this…”

You laughed, the sound coming out hoarse. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, yes, I’m very in love with the rival cabin’s counselor? Yes, the one we’re fighting with every week, that one!’”

“I would’ve accepted, ‘I’m very in love with my non-descript boyfriend who’s somewhere in the world. Very handsome fellow.” He looked up at you with a sleep-riddled gaze, hell bent on faking his offense.

You rolled your eyes with nothing but affection. “You’re so needy.” 

He grinned, mischievous, rising just enough to nuzzle against your chest. His hair was nowhere near dry, and the cold water soaked through your shirt in a matter of seconds.

“Alex!” you groaned between giggles, trying to shove him off. “You’re dripping—!”

He shook his head against you with stubborn purpose, sending droplets everywhere.

“Alex—!”

“No,” he said firmly. “This is your punishment. You didn’t claim me at the table, now you suffer.”

You burst into a laugh, dizzy with tiredness, arms instinctively wrapping around him. “I hate you.”

“Nah, you don’t,” Alex whispered. Slowly, he pressed a kiss right beneath your collarbone, and your breath caught in the sudden tightening of your throat. “You just like to pretend you do.”

His lips rose. One brush against the sensitive spot of your neck, one on the corner of your mouth, a small peck to your cheek, one to your forehead until, finally, he dropped a soft and careful kiss to your lips. One that you all too happily gave back.

A quiet fell between you as Alex settled back against your chest. The warm kind of silence, which could only be grasped at the end of a summer day, when your limbs felt like stone and cotton all at once, and that didn’t need words to be shared and understood.

“I love this place,” you muttered eventually, barely louder than the breeze coming out of the small gap of the window. “There’s a shitton of mosquitoes, true, and the mud around the lake gets kinda disgusting, but… It’s home. I love it.”

Alex nodded against your chest. “It’s where I found you, so I don’t think it can be anything less than home.”

You kissed his hair as agreement, fingers still lazily combing through the slowly drying strands. “Kids were acting weird all day, though.”

“Suspiciously weird,” he murmured. “Wyatt tried to sit me next to you, like, four times. Mateo even winked at me during the tie-dye thing. Or he tried, I don’t know.”

You snorted.

“D’you think our cover was blown?” Alex asks, words slurred. You weren’t quite sure if he was aware that you were having a conversation.

You shrugged, and the sudden movement got a whine out of him. “I don’t think so. We’re pretty discreet.” That made him chuckle. “Hey! We are! So if we end up, I don’t know, fake-married in the woods, it probably won’t be because we weren’t lowkey enough.”

Alex hummed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your chest this time. “I wouldn’t mind being real-married to you in the woods.”

You stared at your ring finger, nestled in the dark of his hair. Painfully bare. One summer, he’d twisted a small crown from the pink-tinged daisies you adored and slid it onto your finger. He told you he’d replace it for one of gold as soon as he could manage. You kept it until it wilted, long after the petals browned.

Now, lying beside him with no one but the moonlight for witness, you couldn’t help the impatient thrum in your chest.

“Hey,” Alex whispers, fingers squeezing your waist to get your attention. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He raised his head to look at you, a thread of worry swirling in his irises as if your silence was the worst thing the night could bring. Your chest tightened in that aching, beautiful way love always brought. Your fingers found his face, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheeks as you pulled him closer until there was no space left between you. You kissed him then— slow and sleepy, smiling into it, and he answered in kind.

“Nothing,” you murmured against his mouth. Alex leaned into you, chasing even more as the kiss broke. “Just thinking how there’s no one else I’d rather come home to. Especially after a day like this.”

The smile he gave you was nothing short of euphoric, characterized by the drowsy vertigo only fatigue could bring to someone. Not something that had any place in the waking world.

“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked with how tired he was, or maybe it was just the reality of the confession getting to him. He buried his face back in your chest, curling further into you. “God, I love you so much.”

“You’ll never believe it, Alex, but me too.”

You fell asleep in that same position: limbs tangled together beneath worn cotton sheets, flickering string lights swaying gently overhead. His breath matched the rise and fall of your chest. His weight, his warmth… he was everywhere, and yet it didn’t feel like enough.

The world fell away. All that remained was the quiet rhythms of your hearts, beating in tandem.

Your cabin door creaked open once again, making you stir by force of habit. The world was still cloaked in the hush that came before dawn. The opening let in the cool air, laced with dew and the faint scent of pine. Maybe Alex had come to wake you, you thought, still deep in the haze of dreams. Maybe you’d missed the counselors’ breakfast, and he had come with the usual plastic-y pastry.

The weight above you shifted.

That’s when you realized that Alex was lying with you in bed. Whoever just entered your cabin was not your boyfriend.

“Y/N?”

The voice sliced clean through the heavy silence.

You jolted upright, a performance deserving of a horror movie protagonist. Your heart rose in your throat, and your lungs halfway through the scream of a lifetime.

“We need help. Michael threw up in the… boys’… room…”

Alex, startled by your sudden motion and still intertwined with every inch of you, groaned and rolled along with your body, blinking blearily into the semi-darkness. The hoodie he’d fallen asleep in was long abandoned somewhere on the floor due to overwhelming heat, his sleep-warm skin pressed against your side as he tried to make sense of the noise.

Your gaze whipped to the door. 

In the dim gray of the barely-there morning, backlit by the tiniest sliver of pinking sky, stood Camille. Wide-eyed and frozen. Door handle still in hand.

Alex’s arm was still slung possessively across your stomach. His hair was sleep-ruffled. Still shirtless and looking guilty of whatever crime he felt like he had committed. 

No one moved. Not you. Not Alex. Not Camille.

That is, until she took one giant breath, the one someone who had just witnessed a divine intervention would. And bolted.

“IT WORKED!” she screamed as she sprinted away from the cabin, her voice growing fainter and yet more dramatic by the meter. “OUR PLAN WORKED! THEY’RE DATING, OH MY GODDD!”

From a nearby cabin—yours, undoubtedly—more shrieks erupted at the local town crier’s announcement. Someone (Isabel?) wailed, “WE’RE GENIUSES!”, while you clearly heard Mateo holler, “I TOLD YOU THE TIE-DYE WOULD DO IT!”

You slowly turned to Alex. He pushed himself up on one of his elbows, brows furrowed in nothing but deep incomprehension.

“... Do… Do they think they matchmade us?” he asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

His eyes were still unfocused, his cheek marked faintly from where it had from where it had been pressed against your chest.

You let your face collapse into your pillow with a groan of despair.

“This is the least of my problems right now,” you mumbled into the cotton. “I have vomit to clean up. It’s like five in the morning.”

Alex let out a small, sympathetic wince. “Godspeed, baby.”

And after you peeled yourself from beneath him and gathered the necessary equipment from the disinfecting mission you were setting yourself on, you passed by an all too smug George Russell, coffee in hand, waiting next to your campers’ cabin— who seemed to be all chatting way too excitedly considering the time and situation.

“Don’t say a word,” you grumbled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughed, handing you the cup. “Though, congrats on the… soft launch? Is that what it is? Careful, there’s already marriage talk in there.”

You briefly considered throwing the hot liquid in his face.

Turns out, your campers and Alex’s did believe they were responsible for your grand romantic awakening. Their elaborate matchmaking maneuvering, which you had been blissfully unaware of, had, in their minds, orchestrated the very moment Alex wandered into your cabin the night Michael threw up and Camille caught you wrapped together. The idea that you’d been together beforehand was not even dignified by a thought.

That, at least, comforted you in the idea that you and Alex had been discreet enough. Maybe a little too good at hiding it because, according to wise, sunburnt Wyatt, who was clutching his granola bar as you were cleaning up the bunk beside his, “you guys were, like Romeo and Juliet. Without the dying and all that.”

Couldn’t argue with that.

You had never pictured a summer wedding. Spring had always felt more fitting. But then again, spring had never come with Isabel barging into your cabin, wielding your two damp tie-dye shirts and declaring that it was time to ‘reunite the rival cabins. ’ Which was also maybe a wedding. She asked you to please go with it. Somehow, you didn’t say no.

The ceremony, if it could be called one, was brief. Just long enough for a few jokes and a catastrophic speech from Lando, who had declared himself officiant and best man. The vow exchange had been deplorable, yet you still managed to shed a tear when Alex slipped a delicate daisy chain onto your finger. Another promise worth nursing, already wilting at the blush-colored edges. It was perfect.

By the time it ended, campers were already lining toward the lake by George’s vow of a paddle race. The great reunification had lasted for about ten minutes, as you could tell from the jabs your cabin and Alex’s were throwing at each other as they ran to the bridge.

“Well, can’t say our relationship ruined their camp experience. We did all that for nothing,” Alex commented, hand slipping around your waist. You unsuccessfully tried to swallow back your chuckle.

You looked down at the daisy ring, then at the man who made it. Sunlight in his hair, blue dye still staining the tip of his fingers, and laughter still carved in the curve of his mouth.

A summer wedding did feel right, after all.

Summer cradled your beginnings. It gave you stolen glances and cool water splashes drying into permanence. It was summer that let you fall in love in the first place.

And at least now, you didn’t have to pretend you weren’t hopelessly enamoured by Alex. That you didn’t wake up to find him twisted and tangled around you every morning. That you didn’t kiss him, still drowsy, right before the day fully began.

Now, you could fall asleep beside him every summer night after the long and tiring days, just like the one behind you. And the one ahead.

And the one after that.

LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, translate or post my work somewhere else without permission.

[rb2242]

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

[rb2242]

F1 au

[rb2242]

: ̗̀➛ but he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

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This Superman is such a sweetie. He’s kind to the robots. He makes his girlfriend breakfast for dinner. He pretends he doesn’t care what social media thinks of him but gets genuinely upset over juvenile name calling. He tortured a despot with a cactus but the spines “weren’t that big.” He tries to capture the giant monster alive. He loves people and does his best to help them and he’s not an idiot he knows people are complicated, but he’s genuinely heartbroken when they turn on him. The idea of him having a harem is utterly ridiculous. He loses it over a pain-in-the-ass dog. He makes fun of the despot for pissing his pants. He wept at seeing an innocent man murdered. His open devastation over Mali’s murder is part of what brings Metamorpho to take the risk of helping him. He saves that weird baby. He saves a squirrel. He not only would not fuck his clone, he killed him. He makes that shithead Lex cry. His flirting with Lois is so swagless and unsubtle that her boss immediately clocks that they’re together. He loves his parents. He’s good all the way down, not because he was born that way but because he chooses to be.

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silent echoes

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: in which everyone pulls away including lando

warnings: suicide, cussing, death, angst (read at your own risk)

a/n: you're not alone <3

it didn’t happen all at once. it never does.

it starts with little things. unanswered messages. eyes that flicker past you in a room like you’re not really there. voices that used to say your name like it meant something, now barely even whispering it.

and then suddenly… you’re alone. not in a dramatic way. no big fights. no screaming. just distance. quiet, growing distance.

your family stops calling first. your mom used to check in every morning, even if it was just a quick “how did you sleep?” now her phone is always “on the other line.” always “will call you back.”

but she never does.

your sister had her baby last month. you weren’t invited to the hospital. you found out on facebook. she’d blocked you from her stories, but someone else posted a photo and tagged her.

you stared at the screen until your eyes burned.

when you asked her about it, her reply was short, cold, like she didn’t even recognize the sound of your name anymore.

“we didn’t think you’d want to come. you’ve been… distant.”

you wanted to scream. to tell her no, you’ve all just started walking away from me, but your voice caught in your throat. and you just said “okay.” because what else could you do?

your friends followed. slowly, then all at once.

first it was one friend forgetting to invite you to a party. then another bailing on dinner without a word. then the group chat went quiet. or maybe it didn’t—it just stopped lighting up for you.

you asked jess once if something was wrong.

she looked at you like it was obvious.

“i don’t know, y/n. being around you is… heavy. you bring the mood down.”

your chest felt like it collapsed in on itself. you didn’t even cry. you just nodded, said sorry, and left. even though she’d just carved a hole in your heart and walked away like it didn’t matter.

then there was lando.

your last light. your last safe place.

he used to hold you like the world couldn’t touch you. used to send goodnight texts from across the world, voice notes after races, sleepy photos with messy hair and soft smiles.

you loved him so much it hurt.

but even he started to go quiet.

he stopped replying as fast. stopped asking how your day was. he’d say he was tired. that the season was crazy. that you’d talk “soon.” but soon kept slipping further and further away.

you told yourself it was just stress. that he still loved you. that you weren’t losing him like you lost everything else.

but you were wrong.

you saw her in his photos first. blurry at the edges at first—someone cropped out of a frame. then slowly, more clearly. hand in hand. laughing. her in his hoodie.

not you. her.

your heart didn’t just break—it dissolved.

you showed up to his hotel before the spanish grand prix. you waited by the elevator for him, hands shaking, heart somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

he looked surprised to see you.

not happy.

just… surprised.

“y/n. what are you doing here?”

you tried to smile, but your lips didn’t move right.

“i needed to see you.”

he sighed. like he already knew what you were going to say. like it was a weight he didn’t want to carry.

“i didn’t mean for you to find out like this.” “so it’s true?” you whispered.

he didn’t answer.

and that was your answer.

you felt something break inside. not a crack. a collapse. the kind of heartbreak you don’t come back from. the kind that settles into your bones.

“what did i do wrong, lando?” “you didn’t… do anything,” he said, eyes flickering away. “you just started feeling like someone else. like being around you… wasn’t easy anymore.”

you wanted to scream. to beg. to make him look at you. remember you. remember who you used to be.

but you didn’t.

you just nodded. and walked away.

because you knew.

people don’t stay when you start to feel like a shadow.

now it’s quiet all the time.

no texts. no calls. no plans. the silence used to scare you. now it’s all you know. it’s comforting, in a sick kind of way. at least it doesn’t lie.

your phone lights up sometimes, but it’s never them. it’s bills. spam. promotions. not your mom. not jess. not lando.

never lando.

you see him sometimes. on your screen. smiling. winning. living. she’s still there. still by his side. you aren’t.

no one comes back. no one reaches out. and the worst part is—no one even notices you’re gone.

maybe you never really mattered. maybe you were just noise in other people’s lives, and when you went quiet, they just… moved on.

the world didn’t stop.

it never does.

but you did.

it’s not loud.

that’s the thing no one tells you.

when everything falls apart—when your body gives up before your heart does—it’s not loud. it’s just quiet. achingly quiet. like the moment right after a song ends and the world forgets to breathe.

you sit on the floor of your apartment. knees pulled to your chest. the only light is from your phone screen, still and dim on the carpet beside you. no missed calls. no unread messages.

no one is coming.

not your family. not jess. not lando.

you used to believe in second chances. in people coming back. in love strong enough to wait for you.

but now you believe in silence.

you press your cheek to your knee. your eyes are dry. the tears ran out days ago, or maybe weeks. time has stopped keeping track of you. like it, too, decided you weren’t worth remembering.

you wonder if they’d even notice. if tomorrow came and you didn’t.

would your mom check in? would jess say your name in passing and stop mid-sentence, realizing something was missing? would lando pause during breakfast, spoon halfway to his mouth, feeling a tug in his chest he couldn't explain?

would it matter?

you used to want to be held. now you just want to disappear.

your chest feels hollow. like your heart packed its bags and left without saying goodbye.

you lie down slowly. the floor is cold. comforting, in a way. it doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t look at you with pity. it just holds your body like you still weigh something. like you still exist.

maybe this is enough.

not dying. just… stopping. just not fighting the heaviness anymore. letting it wash over you. letting it have you.

you close your eyes.

and for the first time in days, the noise in your head is gone.

no thoughts. no voices. just stillness.

you don’t know if you’ll get up.

you don’t know if you want to.

he finds out on a thursday.

a fucking thursday.

it’s quiet. nothing unusual. he's in his room, scrolling through his phone, the tv playing something he isn’t watching in the background. there’s a race coming up. he’s supposed to be hydrating, stretching, doing press.

instead, he’s scrolling. distracted. tired. disconnected.

and then he sees your face.

someone reposted a photo of you. he doesn’t even register the caption at first. just stares at your face. it’s one of those old ones—taken before things got messy. before everything changed. you’re laughing, eyes soft, mouth slightly open. he remembers the exact moment it was taken. you were teasing him about how bad he was at cooking pasta.

and then the caption.

“rest easy, y/n. you were too kind for this world.”

he blinks.

refreshes the app.

more posts. more photos. more goodbyes.

and then the words hit him all at once.

you're gone.

no warning. no call. no soft nudge. just this sharp, brutal truth delivered through a phone screen, surrounded by emojis and sad comments.

he thinks—no, hopes—that maybe it's a mistake. people spread bullshit online all the time, right?

but then his phone buzzes.

his mom. carlos. someone from your hometown.

every message is some version of the same impossible thing:

“i’m so sorry about y/n.” “i just heard.” “are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t speak. he just… breaks.

he leaves the hotel without telling anyone.

no destination. no phone. just his hoodie and the sound of your voice playing in his head like a loop that won’t stop.

he should’ve messaged you. should’ve picked up. should’ve noticed.

but he didn’t.

and now you’re gone.

he gets back to his apartment that night. it feels wrong being there, like the walls know what he did. or didn’t do. he sits on the floor. back against the door. knees pulled to his chest.

he finally opens your messages.

there’s one he never read. it’s been sitting there for weeks. his thumb hovers over it like it might burn him.

“hey. i don’t know if this matters anymore. i just wanted to say i miss you.”

that’s all.

short. soft. like you were trying not to take up too much space. even in the end, you were still being careful with him.

he covers his mouth and lets out the kind of sound that doesn’t even sound human. he curls in on himself and cries. ugly, violent sobs that tear out of him like punishment.

he doesn’t remember how long he stays like that. hours. maybe more.

at some point, he whispers your name out loud. just once. like if he says it gently enough, maybe you’ll come back.

you don’t.

he doesn’t race that weekend. they say it’s “personal reasons.” no one presses.

he doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. his phone stays off.

he keeps thinking about the last time he saw you. how you smiled at him like you still believed he’d come back. how your voice trembled when you asked if things were okay.

“you just feel… different,” he’d said.

and god, he wishes he could take it back.

you weren’t different. he was.

he was distant. cold. exhausted from his own life, and too selfish to make space for yours.

you were falling apart right in front of him, and he looked the other way.

a week later, he goes to your funeral. hood up. sunglasses on. back row.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t introduce himself. someone passes him a folded program with your photo on it. he folds it tighter in his palm until the paper creases down the middle of your face.

people cry. people talk about how sweet you were. how kind. how “no one saw this coming.”

he did.

he saw it coming. and he let it happen.

after that, nothing feels real.

he doesn’t post. doesn’t smile. doesn’t talk about you—not because he forgot, but because saying your name out loud feels like swallowing glass.

every room feels colder now. every laugh he hears sounds fake. he stops listening to the playlist you made him. starts avoiding the city you used to love. starts wearing the hoodie you left behind like it might bring you closer.

it doesn’t.

he scrolls back through old photos sometimes, fingers hovering over your face. he watches videos of you where you’re laughing and vibrant and full of life, and he hates himself for not seeing how dim your light had gotten near the end.

he dreams about you. sometimes you’re alive. sometimes you’re not. either way, he wakes up crying.

he writes you a message once.

he types it in his notes app, knowing it’s useless. knowing it’s not enough. but needing to say something.

“i should’ve shown up. i should’ve answered. i should’ve said i loved you when i had the chance. i didn’t forget you. i just thought you’d always be there. i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

he never deletes it. just rereads it on nights he can’t breathe.

which is most of them now.

they tell him grief gets easier.

but what no one says is that guilt doesn’t.

and missing you? that’s forever.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , lmk if you want to be added!

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I’ll die happy now :)))))

SAY HORNER, I HEAR YOU WERE SACKED

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White Mercedes | Series Masterlist

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — 18+ Content, BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, detailed drug-addiction/past-usage, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Please heed the warnings and take care of yourselves xxx This one is a bit intense (a lot) at times, but it's going to make their happy ending so much sweeter.

CHAPTER ONE

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Three Of Us | Chapter One (1/3)

Lando Norris x Original Female Character x Oscar Piastri

Summary — Margot has single-handedly run Marjorie’s Bakeshop, a Monaco institution, ever since her grandmother’s passing. It’s by chance that a tiny blue Fiat Jolly breaks down on the curb right in-front of her door.

Warnings — Established!Landoscar, polyamory negotiations, eventual throuple, slow(ish) burn, vandalism, OFC has atypical OCD.

Notes — This is going to be a short little series with only 3 chapters that will be around 15k words each! I hope you fall in love with Margot the same way that Lando and Oscar do.

 

Marjorie’s Bakehouse opened at seven. Always had. Even before it was hers.

Margot unlocked the side door with the same key she’d used since she was eleven — a brass one, worn soft at the edges, ribboned to a piece of faded blue grosgrain. She let herself in without turning on the lights. The early streaks of sunlight were enough. Monaco mornings were reliable like that, and Margot liked the quiet before the streets came to life. 

The café smelled like cinnamon and dust. Not bad dust. The kind that settled overnight and never felt dirty — just familiar. She set her bag down on the back counter, slid her phone into the little nook carved into the cabinet (her grandmother had once hidden a cigarette tin there, full of francs and peppermint chews), and pulled her apron from the hook. Tied it twice. Always twice.

There were rituals.

Wipe the bar. Polish the steam wand. Cups, handles right, aligned to the edge. A cloth for her hands and a cloth for everything else.

She checked the display fridge though she already knew what was in it. Three tarts left from yesterday, a row of bottled citron presse, the clinking loneliness of too much space. She noted it. Tomorrow, she’d bake more. Just two. Two sold best.

At 6:49, she started up the espresso machine. It hummed to life like it always did — steady, reliable, expensive as hell — and she wiped it down once.

Then again.

And then, again.

Not because it was dirty. Not even because it needed it.

Because she hadn’t not done that in six years.

The world settled after that.

She refilled the sugar jars. They were still full, barely touched yesterday, but she did it anyway. The scoop nestled into glass like a soft exhale, and she let her mind go quiet while her hands worked.

Outside, the street was starting to stir. A Vespa zipped past. The old man who walked his spaniel at the same time every morning paused outside Marjorie’s, like he always did. He didn’t drink coffee, not anymore. But he liked to check that she was still here. Still hers. Still open.

She offered him a little wave through the window. He lifted his cap.

There was peace in this. Structure.

But also… that feeling. The one she never spoke aloud, not even to herself. Like the days kept turning but she wasn’t quite in them. Like she was waiting for something but didn’t know what it was. Or where it would come from.

Sometimes she wondered if her grandmother ever felt that too.

At 6:59, she unlocked the front doors.

At 7:00, exactly, she flipped the sign.

And Marjorie’s was open for business.

—

It was after the morning rush but before the tourists rolled in, the sweet spot of the day. The clink of cups had settled into a rhythm. The door opened less often. The music had shifted from jazz to something soft and French and barely there.

Margot stood behind the bar, wiping down the counter she’d already wiped twice since nine. She wasn’t thinking about it. It just happened. Like breathing.

She glanced at the clock, then at the door.

Right on time.

It swung open with a chime, and Charles Leclerc stepped inside, sunglasses perched too high on his nose, a black hoodie pulled over hair that probably cost more to style than her rent. Alex followed, her linen jumpsuit cinched just-so, gold hoops, no makeup but still glowing. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a Vogue spread. 

“Bonjour,” Margot greeted, already turning toward the machine. “Flat white?”

“For both,” Alex answered, leaning over the counter. “You read my mind.”

“You come at the same time every Wednesday that you are in town. It’s really not that impressive.”

Charles grinned faintly. He never said much in here. Not rudely — just quiet. He’d nod, take his drink, sit in the window. Sometimes he scrolled his phone. Sometimes he just stared out at the street. Margot never asked what he thought about. She figured he liked that he could be anonymous here. People recognized him, of course. But nobody made a fuss. Marjorie’s wasn’t the place for that.

Alex, though — Alex talked.

“You’ll love this new lip stain that I found,” she said now, digging her phone from her bag. “It’s the exact red that doesn’t make you look like you’re trying too hard to pull off an actual red lip, you know?”

Margot did know. She wasn’t wearing lipstick today, but she had an impressive vintage vanity in her apartment with an entire compartment dedicated to her lipstick collection. 

“What brand?” she asked, tipping milk into the steaming jug.

Alex turned her screen. “Rhode. Look. This one. You’d wear this.”

It was a muted terracotta red. Not too blue, not too orange. A Margot color, but warmer than she usually reached for.

“I might try it,” Margot said, quietly, which in her language meant I like it a lot.

Charles chuckled under his breath. “My Alex has converted another one.”

“She has good taste,” Margot said simply, and handed him his flat white. He took it with a nod, slipped toward the window seat.

Alex lingered.

“You doing anything for the gala this weekend?” She asked, chin propped on one palm, voice conspiratorial.

“No,” Margot answered, because she wasn’t. She never did. That wasn’t the kind of crowd that Marjorie’s catered, therefore Margot had no business being there either. 

“You should come. I’m serious. You’d look amazing in something vintage. I know a girl — she could loan you something perfect.”

Margot smiled, soft and small. “I just don’t think that galas are my thing.”

Alex opened her mouth to argue, but then just sipped her coffee instead. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you change your mind…”

Margot didn’t say she wouldn’t. She didn’t say she would either.

The couple left twenty minutes later, the way they always did — Alex with a paper bag of financiers she swore were the only things she could bare to eat after cardio barre, Charles with a half-finished coffee and a little nod as he passed the counter.

And just like that, the café was still again.

Margot glanced at the sugar jars. Still full.

Still.

She refilled them anyway.

—

The front lights were off. The chairs were stacked. The espresso machine had already been cleaned — once properly, twice out of habit. The door was locked, the sign turned. Closed.

Margot was in the back, perched on a stool with a clipboard balanced on her knee and her pen half-dried from being uncapped too long. Inventory was the only part of the job she didn’t mind doing twice. Numbers made sense. Items matched lists. There was no guesswork.

Cinnamon, low.

Vanilla syrup, full.

Oat milk, not enough. 

She’d have to call Julien in the morning.

She scratched notes, glanced at the shelf again, then froze when she heard it: a knock.

Then another. Quick, insistent.

She blinked. Looked at the clock on the wall. 8:41.

Another knock. This one louder.

Margot set the clipboard down, tucked the pen behind her ear, and wiped her hands on her apron out of habit. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was in this mode. Alone, sorting, focused. She didn’t like knocks on the glass when the lights were clearly off. When the sign — the sign — said closed.

Still, she walked to the front.

Unhooked the door to the café floor.

Stepped out into the dim.

Another knock — and then the chime of her own voice in her head, already annoyed: People are so—

But she stopped.

And stared.

Outside, in the rain that had crept in while she’d been counting brown sugar packets, stood Lando Norris.

Not smiling. Not posing. Not the version she’d seen online or in those massive race-weekend ads along the port.

Just a guy.

Drenched.

Hair flat to his forehead, jacket clinging to him, a phone in one hand and a miserable expression on his face. And behind him — parked half on the curb, half off — was a bright blue Fiat Jolly, one of those absurd little things people with too much charm and not enough practicality seemed to love around here.

The engine was steaming. Not subtly. Like a teapot left on the stove for too long.

She didn’t unlock the door right away.

He gestured toward the café, mouthing something. She raised her eyebrows. He tried again. Then gave up and just… stood there. Looking wet and quite pathetic.

With a sigh, Margot turned the bolt and cracked the door.

“We’re closed.”

“I know.” He blinked rain out of his lashes. “Sorry. I wouldn’t— I just— my car kind of exploded and I—”

She looked past him. Smoke puffed again from under the hood.

She looked back.

“I don’t know anything about cars, so you’ll probably need to call a mechanic.” She sighed. “But I can make coffee.” 

He exhaled, his eyes lighting up. “Really? Thank you. Thank you so much — I’m freezing my balls— I mean—“

She almost smiled. Almost. But instead, she huffed, opened the door a little wider, and stepped back.

“You have to stand on the mat. You’re dripping.”

He stepped in without hesitation, brushing his shoes off before crossing the threshold like it mattered. Which, in here — it did.

Margot locked the door behind him. Adjusted the sign, just in case.

Then flicked the light on behind the coffee bar and moved like she hadn’t just let someone uniquely famous into her tiny, quiet, sacred space.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to the stool closest to the heater. “I’ll make you something warm to drink.”

He sat. No questions. No sass. Just wet and tired and quiet as he stared down at his phone and his eyebrows drew together miserably.

Margot reached across the counter and turned on the espresso machine.

—

The café hummed low with the sound of steam and the pitter of rain against the windows. Margot moved with clean lines, practiced hands, a rhythm no one saw but her.

Lando stayed where she told him to sit, elbows on his knees, watching her with something half-curious. 

She slid a cup across the table.

It was wide, heavy, with one of the good saucers — the kind she didn’t usually pull out after hours. But she hadn’t thought about it until just now, and now it was too late to change it. 

He didn’t move.

She frowned. “Try it, then.”

He blinked up at her like she’d pulled him from some far-off thought. His thumb was still hovering over his phone screen. “Oh. What is it?”

“An oat milk latte with honey and orange bitters.”

He made a face. “That sounds like something a teenage girl would order from Starbucks.”

She stared at him. And then she turned and walked away.

Back through the swinging door, into the stockroom, where the air was dry and shelves were labeled and she could pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.

She should’ve just stayed in the back. She should’ve ignored the knock.

Of course it was him. Of course he said something like that. Of course she was the idiot who gave him shelter, a stool, her good cup.

She was halfway through a passive-aggressive restack of the lid shelf when she heard it — the door creaking, the footsteps.

She turned fast, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be in here. You’re dirty.”

He paused in the doorway, soaked t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sheepish expression doing nothing for her patience.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his hands like that made him harmless. “For the—what I said. I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I’ve just had a really, really shit night, and that car—”

“You love it. Yeah. Got it.” She turned back to the shelf. Slammed a lid container a little harder than she meant to. “I love that coffee I gave you,” she snapped. “You don’t see me insulting that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

Silence. Except for the drip-drip of his hair.

“It’s good,” he said, quietly. “The coffee. It’s really good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She didn’t turn around.

“I just—sometimes I don’t think before I say stuff. And people usually… laugh. Or don’t care. Or whatever. But I can tell you do, so I’m sorry.”

She still didn’t turn, but her shoulders stopped tightening.

He stepped in. Not too close. Just enough to fill the space with his presence — half-tall and wet and awkward.

“I was being a miserable git. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “You should be.”

That startled a laugh out of him.

Soft. A little tired. Not smug.

Just real.

“I’ll go,” he said, finally. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

She turned then. Just enough to see him leaning in the doorframe, damp and apologetic.

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t finish the coffee.”

He blinked. “I thought you wanted me to—”

She cut him off with a small shrug. “It’s good coffee. You don’t waste good things just because you’re in a bad mood.”

He smiled.

Not a full smile — not the big-crowd grin. Just a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just been told off by someone who meant it.

He stepped backward out of the stockroom. “I’ll drink it before I leave.”

“Stand on the mat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then he was gone again, and Margot let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She adjusted the lids. Wiped her hands. Counted them. Twice.

And when she came out five minutes later, his cup was empty, placed neatly in the center of the saucer.

Handle turned to the right.

Exactly how she’d served it to him.

—

—

Margot didn’t do screens in bed. That was a hard boundary. No phones, no tablets, no blue light stealing precious sleep hormones. Her grandmother had sworn it rotted the mind — “Rest is for letting the day settle, darling, not for poking at other people’s nonsense.”

But the armchair by the window didn’t count.

The blanket over her legs was thick and a little scratchy. Her tea had gone cold two sips ago. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the nighttime air, warm and salt-slicked from the coast. The phone sat in her lap, screen glowing faintly against her fingertips, open to the bakery’s Instagram.

She never posted selfies. Never showed her face. She didn’t do reels or “get ready with me” voiceovers or flash sale countdowns.

Marjorie’s wasn’t that kind of page.

It was latte art in her best antique cups. Floral menus on handwritten cardstock. Crumbs on marble. Cake under soft morning light. A photo of the fig tart from that morning — sliced, missing a piece.

She was halfway through writing the caption when she saw the notifications pinned to the top of the screen.

@charles_leclerc liked your post.

@landonorris liked your post.

@alexandrasaintmleux tagged you in their story.

She blinked.

The first didn’t surprise her. Charles always liked her posts. Alex always posted on her story. They were regulars. Plus, Alex had a particular talent for styling her flat whites beside her sunglasses and pastry plate like it was an editorial spread.

But Lando?

Her eyes lingered on his name. She exhaled slowly, jaw tight. Bit the inside of her cheek.

Maybe he’d liked it while sitting in the shop last night. Waiting for whoever had come to pick him up. Killing time. Scrolling without thought.

He hadn’t said goodbye before he left. Not that he should have.

Not that she cared.

Still. She tapped on the post. The fig tart.

The comments on the post weren’t wild. Nothing out of the ordinary. But they were picking up — steadily, quietly. Like the murmur of a room just starting to fill.

The girls who worked in the boutiques along Rue Caroline, typing in all caps about the cinnamon rolls.

The older women who came in on Thursdays for tea and lemon slices, tagging their daughters.

A couple of yacht crew, arguing about what was the best sandwich on the menu.

It wasn’t fame. It was just buzz. Familiar names in unfamiliar places. Little hearts blinking from people who didn’t normally look twice.

She let the smile come, quiet and unbothered.

Then she reached for her lip balm — the one Alex had insisted she try, the one with the faint citrus scent — and uncapped it absentmindedly as she read through one last comment. 

Someone said the honey oat latte changed their life. It was me. I said that.

Margot snorted into the quiet.

She leaned forward, thumb poised over the screen, and edited the caption of a new post. A photo of the front window display. 

Tarte à la figue. Just one left. First come, first serve. See you tomorrow morning x

She posted it.

Set the phone face down on the table beside her.

Didn’t look again.

And when she turned out the light and crawled into bed — sheets crisp, lavender spray still clinging to the air — she lay still for longer than usual.

Her thoughts didn’t spiral. Didn’t loop.

They just… lingered.

—

The bell above the door gave its usual high-pitched jingle, a little too cheery for the hour. Margot didn’t look up. She was elbow-deep in a pastry box tower that refused to fold right, the flaky scent of butter and sugar curling in the warm morning air.

“Tell me you have an almond croissant,” Alex’s voice floated over, smooth and thick with sleep, like satin tangled in silk sheets.

Margot smirked, eyes still on the stubborn box. “Good morning to you, too.”

Alex dropped her oversized sunglasses onto the nearest table with a soft clatter, yawned in technicolor—a slow stretch of jaw and breath that filled the small space between them—and made her way behind the counter as if she owned the place. Margot tolerated exactly two people crossing that line. Alex was one of them.

She hoisted herself up onto the worn counter beside the till, one heel off, legs tucked under her like a cat settling in for a long afternoon nap. The faint scent of her floral perfume mixed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee and pastry, creating a quiet cocoon.

“Charles is in Maranello,” she announced, pulling an almond croissant off the tray with the tongs like it was her divine right, biting into it with deliberate satisfaction. “Sim training, video stuff, some sponsor dinner. I think.”

Margot finally looked up, arching an eyebrow. “You’re a very supportive girlfriend.”

Alex’s mouth was full, but she managed a cheeky grin. “I’m supportive of me needing a big cup of coffee.”

“Your usual?” Margot asked, turning toward the espresso machine, hands sliding into their familiar dance — grind, tamp, steam, pour. The hiss of milk frothing was oddly soothing, a static hum beneath their easy conversation.

“You know it,” Alex said, stretching lazily against the counter, eyes half-closed. “I needed to get away from my own thoughts this morning.”

Margot slid the finished cup across the counter. The warmth of the porcelain radiated through the quiet, and Alex caught it with both hands, groaning softly in appreciation. “God, I love you.”

“Flatterer,” Margot teased, a soft smile tugging at her lips. 

—

The afternoon rush had long thinned, and the last of the lemon tarts sat under the glass dome like forgotten treasure. Margot had just turned the chairs up on the tables, the soft clatter echoing off the tiled walls, when the bell over the door jingled again.

She paused, brow furrowing. The Closed sign was already up.

He stepped inside like he was halfway to leaving already — tall-ish, hoodie unzipped, hands tucked in his pockets like he was prepared for this to go badly. His face was calm in the way that made you look twice: just handsome at first, then suddenly familiar.

She knew that face.

Oscar Piastri.

She’d seen it on screens. Posters. On Instagram.

And now he was in Marjorie’s, standing in the scent of cinnamon and lemony mop bucket steam, with the late sun slanting over his shoulder.

“I know you’re closed,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I’m not here for coffee or food.”

Margot straightened, letting the cloth drop to the counter. She didn’t say anything yet — just waited.

Oscar shifted. “I just came to check if anything was… messed up. Last night. Lando told me what happened. Sort of. And I offered to come by in case he—left something. Or, you know, broke anything. Or offended you. He does that sometimes. By accident, you know? He doesn’t mean to.”

Margot blinked, then leaned her hip into the counter. “You’re here… doing damage control?”

Oscar gave her a dry, self-deprecating smile. “Basically. Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not unkindly. “You’re Lando’s… teammate?”

He nodded. Cringed visibly . “Right. This is probably weird, isn’t it?” 

“I mean,” she made a face, “a bit, yeah.”

Oscar looked faintly uncomfortable. “Right. That’s fair.” He glanced around — the pastry case already cleaned, chairs up on tables, soft jazz playing low over the speakers. It wasn’t exactly neutral territory. “I didn’t bring flowers,” he said finally. “Thought that might be too much.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “You considered flowers?”

A faint flush touched his ears. “It came up.”

She squinted. “Right.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway. Just wanted to say thanks. For not turning him away. He can be…” He trailed off. Then gave a half-smile. “A lot, sometimes.”

Margot exhaled, slow. “Well. I’ve weathered worse.”

“I believe that,” he said, sincere. He shifted again. “He didn’t leave anything behind, did he?” 

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Oscar nodded and turned to open the door, but paused. “He liked the coffee, by the way. He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

Margot smiled, soft and brief. “He has terrible manners.”

Oscar chuckled, already stepping out. “Yeah. He’s working on it.”

And then he was gone — leaving only the fading jingle of the doorbell, and Margot staring at the closed door.

—

Marjorie’s was dark, the chairs still up on tables, the light through the front windows soft and forgiving. Margot’s trainers squeaked faintly against the tile as she crossed to the door, double-checked the lock even though she knew she’d turned it, then turned away again.

Closed Mondays. Always had been.

Her grandmother used to call them “reclamation days.”

“You can’t pour from an empty pot, darling. Even porcelain cracks if it’s left full for too long.”

Margot tied her hair back with the soft green scrunchie Alex had given her, then pressed play on the voicemail Alex had sent an hour ago. 

“Bring your long mat. We’re doing core work today and I’m not suffering alone.”

—

Rue du Portier Pilates Studio

Alex was already barefoot and stretching when Margot arrived, her tank top barely hanging onto one shoulder. The room smelled like citrus cleaner and eucalyptus oil, sunlight spilling in through the big paneled windows.

“You’re late,” Alex said cheerfully, not looking up from her hamstring stretch. “Which means you get the reformer next to Madame Death Core.”

Margot groaned, slipping off her shoes. “I hate her. She never even breaks a sweat.”

“She doesn’t blink,” Alex muttered. “She has got to be a robot. A cyborg carved out of Lululemon and Alo.”

Still, the class was good — breath and burn, the kind that distracted Margot just enough from her own thoughts. She didn’t think about Lando. Or Oscar. Just breathed in, curled up, pressed her heels down.

After class, Alex handed her a bottle of water and a protein bar. “Don’t pretend you’re not the kind of person who forgets to eat when you’re not working,” she said. “You got therapy later?”

Margot sighed. “Yeah.”

Alex pulled her into a one-armed hug, warm and brief. “You’re doing amazing.”

Margot didn’t say anything. But her throat tightened just a little.

—

Margot sat on the couch in the small room with its dusty pink walls and woven throw pillows. She liked this space. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was contained. Symmetrical. Safe.

Her therapist, Camille, sat across from her with that patient stillness Margot sometimes found both comforting and unbearable.

“Do you want to start today,” Camille asked, “or shall I?”

Margot took a moment. Picked at a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. “I’ve had a weird week.”

Camille nodded. Waited.

“Someone broke down outside the shop. In the rain. I let him in.” A beat.

Camille tilted her head. “And how did that feel?”

Margot stared at her hands. “I don’t know. Weird. It put me off schedule. Made me uncomfortable but… didn’t, at the same time.”  She hesitated. “And now I don’t know if I’m… just thinking too much about it.” 

Camille made a small note. “What part of your interaction made you felt weird?”

Margot exhaled slowly, trying to pick through the threads. “He was rained on. He was dirty. He left the coffee cup exactly how I handed it to him.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“I don’t know.” 

—

After the hour was done, Margot didn’t go straight home.

She walked the harbor instead, shoes quiet on the stones, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The yachts bobbed like white ghosts in the late light. Someone laughed nearby — rich, unbothered.

She clutched her phone in her hand and let herself breathe.

Because sometimes, rest wasn’t about understanding.

Sometimes, it was just about letting the day settle.

Like Grandma Marjorie used to say.

—

Marjorie’s was back in rhythm twelve hours later.

It was the kind of morning Margot liked best — cool sun through the windows, music low and old-fashioned, the smell of fresh bread still clinging to the walls. She moved on autopilot, fingers deft and quick: almond croissants arranged in a crescent, cherry clafoutis set to cool behind the case.

Then the bell above the door gave a too-familiar jingle.

She didn’t look up right away — pulled the espresso shot, steamed the milk, breathed in cinnamon and control. But then she heard it. Him. 

“Margot!”

Charles. Always cheerful. Always smooth. Always kind.

And behind him— “This is the girl that Lando and Oscar will not shut up about?”

Margot looked up. Paused.

Max Verstappen was leaning one elbow on the counter, sunglasses still on. He was squinting at the pastry display. 

Charles looked pained. “Mon dieu, Max, shut up.”

Max just smirked.

Margot, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She calmly placed two plates on the counter, each with a slice of quiche, and slid them forward.

“Charles, hi,” she said. “And… friend.”

Max pushed up his sunglasses. “Max. Sorry. I’m not usually rude.”

“Don’t lie,” Charles muttered.

“I mean I’m not usually rude in front of the people who are in charge of my food.” Max looked back at her. “So you’re the Margot.” He smiled. 

She blinked. “I didn’t realize there were so many others.”

That made Charles huff a laugh, and Max grin. 

“Lando said you made him a fancy coffee and then kicked him out.”

Margot didn’t even blink. “I let him in, actually. He kicked himself out.”

Max looked delighted. “That’s great. Did Oscar really come here the next day and start grovelling for him?” 

Charles groaned. “Please stop talking.”

Margot just folded a napkin and set it beside the plates. “You’re both sitting outside.”

“But it’s windy,” Max protested.

She smiled — the kind that didn’t budge. “That wasn’t a question. You smell like a sweaty gym.”

Charles looked like he was holding back a laugh as he grabbed the plates. “Merci, Margot.”

She gave him a nod, then turned her back on both of them, sliding another tray into the oven with a little more force than necessary.

As the bell jingled again behind them, she exhaled. Long. Slow.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant that Lando and Oscar were talking about her — enough for Max Verstappen to have noticed.

She didn’t want to know what they said. Whether it was flattering or funny. Whether it was a passing mention or something stickier, something that lived in the back of their minds the way they were starting to live in the back of hers.

Margot turned back to the counter, wiped at a perfectly clean surface. The cloth moved in smooth, practiced motions — circles, not swipes. Right hand, then left. Repeat. Order in chaos. Familiar ground.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that her name — quiet, ordinary, not meant to echo — was being passed around in rooms she would never walk into. In conversations between people whose lives had nothing to do with hers.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that Oscar had come by. That Lando had told him. That someone, somewhere, had bothered to mention the baker who ran a sleepy little café with flaky pastry and too many rules about where dirty shoes could and couldn’t go.

She didn’t want to think about any of it.

So she folded the cloth, lined it up with the edge of the sink. Took a breath. Held it.

Then she turned back to the espresso machine, and let herself be busy again.

—

It happened just after midnight.

Margot had stayed late, not because she needed to — inventory was already done, the espresso machine already cleaned — but because the shop was the only place that made sense when her mind wouldn’t slow down. The playlist was low, jazz humming through the speakers. The air smelled like sugar and lemon zest.

She was sitting on the floor behind the counter, back against the cupboards, checking invoices on her tablet — when the glass shattered.

A single, sharp sound — crack — followed by a scatter of tiny splinters and the solid thud of something hitting the far wall.

Margot froze.

Heart in her throat, eyes wide, lungs too slow to remember how to breathe.

Another crash — smaller this time. A smear of paint across the lower half of the window. Black. Ugly. Letters scrawled too quickly to read.

She didn’t move. Didn’t think. Just felt — that sharp, paralyzing flood of panic that came when her mind was no longer following the rules she’d made for it.

And then, somehow, she was moving. Legs stiff, breath shallow, voice robotic as she called the police. Gave her name. The address. Told them no, she wasn’t hurt, but someone had thrown something through her storefront window.

They said someone would be there soon.

She said thank you. Then hung up.

And that’s when her hands started to shake.

⸻

She didn’t want to call Alex. She almost didn’t.

But the silence was worse. The shattered glass staring at her like a dare. The paint running like blood down the clean, beloved window.

So she pressed the button. One ring. Two.

Alex answered on the third, voice sleep-slurred and worried. “Margot?”

“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered. “I just— I didn’t know who else—”

“Whoa, hey,” Alex said immediately, awake now. “What’s going on?”

Margot swallowed. “Someone threw something through the window. At the shop. I— I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No. Just nervous. I—” Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked.

“Okay,” Alex said gently. “Breathe. You called the police?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay. I’m not in Monaco — I’m in Barcelona with Charles. I would come straight there, but—”

Margot closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I just— I’m fine, Alex, I swear—”

“Stop.” Alex’s voice was firm now. “You are not going to apologise for not wanting to be alone right now.” 

Margot bit her lip.

“I’ll text Lando and Oscar,” Alex said. “Charles says they’re staying only five minutes away.”

Margot felt her eyes get big. “No, Alex, really, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” she said, with the same tone she used when demanding extra whipped cream on her mocha. “They’ll just come and check on you. And you’ll let them, okay?”

Margot didn’t answer.

Alex softened. “Mar, it’s okay to be freaked out about this.”

The lump in Margot’s throat made it impossible to speak. She just nodded, even though Alex couldn’t see it.

And then she sat on the floor, staring at the spray-painted window.

And waited.

—

The police hadn’t arrived yet.

The paint on the glass had dried in uneven drips. The rock that had shattered the window — round, heavy, maybe pulled from a garden — sat where it had landed, beside the fridge. Margot hadn’t moved it.

She sat on the bench behind the counter, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Trying not to let her eyes dart back to the window every few seconds. Trying not to flinch every time a car passed outside.

The bell jingled.

And for the first time in her life, the sound made her flinch.

“Sorry,” someone said quickly — low, urgent. “Sorry, it’s just us.”

Margot looked up.

Lando came in first. Hoodie, damp curls, jaw tense. Oscar behind him, equally casual, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes sweeping the shop like he didn’t quite know where to land.

“Oh,” Margot said. It was the only thing her mouth remembered how to do.

Lando gave her a nervous smile — or tried to. “Hey. You okay?”

She nodded. Or at least moved her head.

Oscar stepped further in, slower. “The door was unlocked. We figured…”

“Alex told me,” she said. “I mean— she said you were coming.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the window, then the paint, then the rock. He winced. “Jesus.”

Oscar said nothing. His jaw clenched once, then released.

“Police haven’t come yet,” she said. “I didn’t want to touch anything.”

“Smart,” Oscar said quietly.

The three of them stood in silence, the kind that buzzed just under the skin. Margot could feel her heartbeat in her teeth. Lando kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Oscar didn’t move at all.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, even though she didn’t really want them to leave. “It’s fine now. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Lando said, too quickly. Then winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No,” she said, voice hollow. “It’s okay. You’re right.”

Oscar finally stepped closer, glanced behind the counter. “Do you want us to sit with you?”

The way he asked — soft, no pressure, like he was offering a blanket and not a presence — made something in her chest go warm and sore at the same time.

“I guess,” she said.

And that was how it happened.

The three of them — strangers, almost — sitting behind the counter on the floor, backs against cupboards and knees nearly touching, surrounded by the fading scent of sugar and smoke and cold adrenaline.

Lando kept talking, quietly. Dumb stuff. The weather. A story about his apartment’s broken heater. He didn’t seem to care that she barely responded.

Oscar didn’t say much at all. Just sat beside her, steady and quiet, like a fixed point in the storm.

—

Margot stood in the middle of the café. 

She didn’t know where to put her hands.

The floor was still dusted with glass, despite Lando’s efforts to sweep. The scent of spray paint lingered sharp and chemical beneath the usual vanilla and espresso. The front window was a gaping wound now, covered in plywood Oscar had somehow found in the alley next to the shops — uneven, roughly nailed in, too temporary. Wrong.

The light felt different.

Everything did.

She stared at the smudged corner of the glass case where the scones usually went and felt a slow, crawling sensation under her skin.

“It’s just for the night,” Oscar said gently from behind her.

She didn’t answer. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, tugging. Tight, then tighter.

“Margot?”

“I need—” Her voice came out small, clipped. “It’s all wrong.”

Lando looked up from where he was stacking chairs onto tables. “The window, yeah?”

“Everything.”

They both watched her carefully now.

She hated that.

“I just— I need to clean,” she said, moving suddenly, almost too fast. “I can’t— I can’t leave it like this.”

Oscar stepped toward her, slow. “We cleaned up most of it.”

“Not the right way,” she snapped — not at him, not exactly, but at the air, at the mess, at the fact that her entire world felt untouched by her usual rituals. “Not how I do it.”

Lando looked like he wanted to say something funny. Light. But thought better of it. Stayed quiet instead.

Margot moved behind the counter like her body wasn’t fully connected to her brain — automatic, disconnected. She reached for the cleaning bucket, pulled it from the shelf under the sink, then crouched down and grabbed the scrubbing brush with too-tight fingers.

Then she dropped to her knees. Hard. Didn’t wince. Didn’t blink.

She started scrubbing at the floor where the paint had bled into the grout — short, frantic strokes, her jaw locked so tight her temples ached.

Her whole body hummed like a live wire.

The sponge squeaked, caught on the uneven tile, left a cloudy smear behind.

It wasn’t lifting. It should lift. The chemical smell wasn’t strong enough, the water was too warm now, the brush too soft. Everything was wrong.

Oscar crouched nearby, close enough to be present but not so close he’d crowd her. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“You don’t have to do it all tonight. It won’t get any worse overnight, and you can call someone to help you—”

Her hands didn’t stop moving as she cut him off. “I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, too fast. Her voice cracked on right.

A silence stretched, awkward and full of breath that didn’t know where to settle.

Lando was pacing in slow, uneven loops near the door — sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor she hadn’t mopped yet. He kept running a hand through his hair, shifting weight from foot to foot like the room was too tight on his skin.

“Okay…” he said, then paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I mean—what do we do? To help, I mean.”

Margot stopped scrubbing.

Just for a second.

She looked up. The brush dangled loosely in her hand, dripping pinkish water onto the tiles.

Oscar knelt across from her, patient and calm in a way that didn’t feel fake. Lando looked like a man accidentally locked in a porcelain shop with a bull—desperate to help, no idea how.

“I have a system,” she said, quietly. Not looking at them. Just the floor.

Lando blinked. “Okay.”

She swallowed. It was hard, like her throat wasn’t built for words tonight.

“It’s stupid, but—”

“Not stupid,” Oscar said, voice low and sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

She blinked fast. Bit the inside of her cheek.

“I clean the display case first. Always.” Her fingers moved to tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear, even though it wasn’t in her face. “Windex first, then polish. I do the floor under it after. Then the espresso machine handles — there’s a toothbrush in the drawer for those. Then the tables. Clockwise. I—” She shook her head. “I have to go clockwise. I’ve tried the other way. It… doesn’t work.”

She didn’t say how sometimes she had to start over completely if she broke the order. Or how her hands would itch for hours if she didn’t.

“Last is the fridge,” she finished, voice quieter now. “I always finish with the fridge.”

Lando scratched his head again. “Right. Okay. Case first.”

He looked around like the case might tell him what to do.

Oscar was already moving toward the cupboard beneath the sink. “Do you want the glass cleaner with the blue label or the green one?”

Margot’s eyes darted up. “Blue. The green one streaks.”

Oscar nodded and handed it to Lando. 

“Which cloth?” Lando asked.

She pointed to the pile folded neatly in a drawer. “Top one. They’ve all been steam-hygeined.”

He didn’t ask why that mattered.

Didn’t joke.

Just took it.

Oscar knelt back beside her, a different brush in hand. “This one okay?”

She nodded.

And the three of them got to work.

Lando grumbled when he accidentally sprayed himself in the eye with the white vinegar solution. Oscar silently switched to a fresh cloth halfway through without being asked. And Margot — scrubbed and rinsed and wiped until her arms ached, but her mind slowed.

They cleaned until the only thing left to fix was the window. And as much as she wished they could tackle that too — she’d have to wait for the window repair company to come in the morning. 

_

Margot had never been in the passenger seat of a McLaren.

To be fair, she still hadn’t — Lando’s road car was a slick, low-slung Land Rover with leather that still smelled new. It felt too nice for someone with glass dust on her shoes. Too warm, too enclosed, too personal.

Still, she didn’t argue when they insisted on driving her home.

Didn’t push when Oscar took the wheel like it was routine. Didn’t ask why Lando slid into the passenger seat of his own car instead of the drivers.

She just sat. Buckled in. Stared out the window while the soft hum of Monaco’s late-night lull passed by in quiet blurs.

It was only ten minutes, maybe less. But it was enough.

Enough to see it.

The way Oscar drove like he knew the car and the roads like the back of his hand. The way Lando rested his palm across the back of Oscar’s seat like it lived there. He probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. It wasn’t performative. It was just… there.

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.

At a stop light, Oscar reached forward to adjust the music — and Lando’s hand caught his wrist, gently, like it wasn’t the first time he’d done that exact thing.

“No Coldplay,” Lando muttered, more yawn than protest.

Oscar didn’t roll his eyes, but Margot felt the eye roll somehow. The corners of his mouth twitched and he didn’t change the song.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud. But it was intimate in the way that quiet things often are.

They didn’t even notice they were doing it.

And maybe that’s what made it hit her all at once — not the touch, or the glances, or the silence filled with ease — but the unconsciousness of it. Like their closeness had muscle memory.

She’d known, kind of. Alex had mentioned it. 

The way Oscar showed up to grovel on Lando’s behalf, the way they’d shown up tonight without even hesitating — together.

But now she knew.

And not in a gossip way. Not in a tabloid headline way.

In the way that made her feel like she’d stumbled into a room that didn’t quite have a door for her yet.

She wrapped her arms around herself tighter.

Outside, the roads got narrower. Her building loomed.

Oscar pulled up to the curb, headlights casting a pale arc across the stone facade.

“Do you want us to walk you up?” Lando asked from the back, voice soft.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Oscar didn’t argue.

But his eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. Just a second. Steady.

“Lock the door behind you,” he said.

She gave a small nod.

“Text me when you’re in,” Lando added. Then, after a beat, “I mean, text Alex. She’ll text us.”

Us. 

Margot smiled, faint and tired. “Got it.”

She opened the door. Paused with one foot on the pavement.

“Thanks,” she said. It wasn’t just about the ride home. 

“Anytime,” Oscar said.

Lando gave a small grin, head tilted against the window.

She shut the door gently. Didn’t look back.

But as she climbed the stairs to her flat, fingers still trembling slightly, she found herself thinking not about the window, not about the plywood or the paint or the wrongness of her floors—

—but about the way Oscar had let Lando change the song.

And the way Lando had reached for him like he didn’t need to think about it. 

[rb2242]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a menace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. You asked,” you reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rb2242]

this one’s for you, babe! ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, tooth-rotting fluff. established relationship, piastri siblings cameo!!!, oscar is a loser (affectionately). ꔮ commentary box: there’s something i have to be writing instead of this, but i’ve opted to procrastinate productively. there’s already like a dozen tweets about this, but. we ball. enjoy this little drabble of our favorite loser/loverboy 🍊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Babe, this one’s for you.”

That’s the line. The cursed prelude. The verbal equivalent of knocking over a salt shaker and refusing to throw it over your shoulder.

You’re leaning against a barricade by the paddock, sunglasses on, arms crossed, fully braced for the impending disaster. There’s a camera crew lingering nearby. A branded football sits in front of Oscar, who’s doing that thing with his shoulders—a little roll, a tiny shake—like he thinks swagger is a warm-up. Lando stands off to the side, already giggling.

He knows how this ends. You know how this ends.

Oscar takes a step back, eyes the goal. And then, with all the self-assured grace of a golden retriever at a chess match, he kicks.

The ball soars. High. Too high. It clears the goal entirely and smacks the side of a hospitality tent with a sound that echoes.

Lando folds instantly, bent double with laughter. “That one’s for who, mate?”

Oscar stares after the ball, hands on hips. The very picture of a man trying to style out failure with dignity. Which is impressive, considering he just overshot the net by what could only be measured in bus lengths.

You raise a single eyebrow over your shades. “I feel so honored,” you call out. 

He points a finger at you, mock-stern. “That was a warm-up.”

“Sure it was.”

Here’s the thing: this isn’t new.

You’ve seen this movie. It has sequels. A whole franchise.

There was the time he tried to serve in beach volleyball, yelled the same cursed phrase, and launched the ball directly into a stranger’s mojito. The time he attempted a trick shot in pool, declared it was for you, and managed to ricochet the cue ball off three sides of the table and straight into his own shin.

There’s the karaoke incident, too. “This one’s for you, babe,” he had said, confidently selecting a power ballad two octaves above his range. He made it three lines in before his voice cracked like a haunted door and he started laughing too hard to finish. You still have the video. He lives in fear of it.

Oscar jogs over now, slightly pink-faced but trying to act like he isn’t two teasing comments away from sulking. Lando’s still wheezing behind him.

“I slipped,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“On what?” you tease. “Delusion?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it’s all for show. You know the truth. He could hit the perfect shot—textbook form, stunning execution—and it still wouldn’t mean as much as making you laugh. He’d trip over his own ego just to see you smile. He’s not actually trying to impress you. He’s trying to entertain you.

And he is.

Tragically. Consistently. Impressively.

He hooks a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you close enough for a forehead bump. “Next one’s going in,” he promises. 

“I believe in you,” you say, even though you absolutely do not.

But that’s not the point. The point is that he tries. That he grins like he’s invincible until physics tells him otherwise. That he turns every botched attempt into another inside joke, another story to retell when the season ends and the world slows down.

“Hey,” he huffs, nose brushing yours. “Still proud of me?”

You pretend to think, just to make him squirm. Then you kiss his cheek and whisper, “Always.”

He lights up like he scored anyway. Lando, unhelpfully, shouts, “Maybe dedicate the next one to your mechanic, see if that changes your luck!”

Oscar flips him off without looking. You laugh. He grins wider.

You already know what he’ll say before he turns back toward the ball, legs braced, ridiculous confidence intact. “This one’s for you, babe.” 

He misses a second time. 

You should’ve known the chaos wouldn’t end with one rogue football.

Then again, you’re dating Oscar Piastri. Chaos is less of an occasional guest and more of a live-in roommate who drinks all the oat milk and never refills the Brita.

The transition is seamless: one minute, you’re dodging Lando’s post-barbecue puns. The next, you’re in a sunny backyard in Melbourne, surrounded by rose bushes, folding chairs, and three women who share Oscar’s nose, his eyebrows, and his absolute inability to do anything halfway.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae are a trio straight out of an Austen novel if Austen novels included mimosas and a group chat titled oz’s life choices (questionable). You’re holding a cup of lemonade that someone handed you out of politeness and mild fear, while Oscar stands several feet away, lining up what appears to be a croquet shot. He does it with the solemnity of a man about to launch a rocket into orbit.

He glances over his shoulder. Winks. “For you, babe.”

Hattie audibly groans. Edie buries her face in her hands. Mae mutters, “Christ, he said the line.”

You barely have time to brace.

The mallet swings. The ball sails.

Directly into a flowerbed.

“Incredible,” Hattie declares, clapping once like it’s a Broadway flop. “Is he aiming for symbolic failure now?”

Mae yells, “Mum’s gonna kill you! Those were her prize roses!”

Oscar lifts both hands in a grand shrug, as if to say, Was it me? Can we ever truly know anything?

You want to laugh—you almost do—but there’s a strange thrum under your ribs. A quiet beat of doubt, soft and silly but persistent.

What if it's you?

You don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. Every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. Like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

You’re still stewing in that thought when Hattie plops down beside you, stealing half your lemonade without asking. “Hey,” she says, tone gentler now.

You pull on a smile. “Hey.”

She gestures vaguely toward Oscar, who’s currently inspecting the croquet ball as if it might have been tampered with. “You’re spiraling, aren’t you?” she accuses. 

A laugh almost escapes you. Damn the Piastris and their perceptiveness. “A little,” you admit. 

Edie joins, draping her arm over the back of your chair. “You’re not the curse, love. Oscar’s just been dramatic since birth. The man got kicked out of ballet at age six for excessive flair.”

“He curtsied after every jump,” Mae chimes in, emerging from the bush with a ruined rose and no remorse. “And once bowed to a pigeon that flew into his scooter path.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension in your chest.

Hattie squeezes your arm. “He’s always been a mess. You’re just the audience he wants to impress.”

It helps. More than you want to admit. Enough that you start teasing him again, casually ruthless, when he tries to re-line the shot with disastrous optimism.

Later, after the sisters have retreated indoors with threats of blackmail via group chat, Oscar sidles up beside you like a teenager approaching his crush. He takes one look at your expression before grimacing. “They told you, didn’t they?”

You sip your drink, eyes on the horizon. “About ballet? Or the pigeon? Or the part where you once cried watching a butter commercial?”

He groans. “All of it, then.”

You turn to face him. He’s flushed, slightly winded from chasing the ball into a bush, and possibly still emotionally recovering from Mae calling him a ‘walking rom-com montage.’

You offer a half-smile. “It’s not me, right?” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “Like, have I cursed you by being with you?” 

He stills. Then, he gently takes the cup from your hand, sets it aside, and reaches for your fingers like they’re the last steady thing in a very wobbly world.

“Babe,” he says, entirely sincere for once, “if you think for a second that you’re the reason I trip over my own feet, or miss goals, or accidentally decapitate a garden gnome with a frisbee, you’re giving yourself way too much credit.”

Your eye roll aborts when you realize there’s some Attempt to Comfort in his words. “That was oddly romantic,” you say wryly. 

He leans in. Kisses your forehead. “You’re not the curse,” he says against the crown of your head. “You’re the prize.”

From inside, you hear one of his sisters gag. Probably Mae.

It makes you laugh. And that makes Oscar smile. 

And you know, with a warm, ridiculous certainty, that he’ll absolutely say it again the next time.

It turns out, Oscar takes public theatrics very seriously.

You'd think the croquet incident, complete with airborne mallet shame and a rose bush eulogy, would’ve scratched the itch. But no. That was merely rehearsal.

Because the next time he says it, he says it on live television.

You’re in the McLaren garage, pretending not to be a ball of nerves wrapped in fire-retardant denim. There’s the usual hum of mechanics and telemetry and a dozen people pretending this isn’t their Roman Empire. The broadcast plays overhead, mostly background noise. Until it isn’t.

Because Oscar—sweet, mildly unhinged Oscar—is actively waving down a camera.

He’s standing in full race suit, helmet under one arm, expression one part cheeky and two parts wait for it. The moment the camera zooms in like the universe had conspired to indulge him, he mouths it.

You see it. Clear as sky, sharp as sin.

This one’s for you, babe.

The world might need a second to register. The broadcasters are scrambling to interpret it, probably scrambling to subtitle. 

But you? You’ve kissed that mouth enough times to know every vowel, every curve. You know exactly what he said.

And oh, you are horrified. And hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Of course he would do that. Of course he would take your whispered insecurities and lob them into the stratosphere, daring the universe to do its worst. Of course he’d drag your inside joke into the spotlight just to prove that it’s not cursed, not broken, not unlucky.

You duck your head. Cover your face with your hands. Feel your heart tap-dancing somewhere near your ears.

The race starts. Oscar drives like he’s been possessed by something divine and deeply caffeinated. Every corner is poetry. Every overtake is vengeance. He roars through the grid like this is personal. 

You stop breathing somewhere around Lap 43. By Lap 57, you’re leaning so far over the pit wall you’re basically a wind sock. When he crosses the finish line in P1, the garage erupts. Mechanics cheer. Engineers high-five.

Oscar finds you after the podium, still in his race suit, smelling like victory and sweat and audacity. There’s confetti in his hair and his smile is unfair, too bright, too much.

“Did you see?” he asks, already grinning like he knows.

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him. Hard. The kind of kiss that answers everything. That thanks him for the chaos and the clarity. That forgives him for being a lunatic with a platform and a plan.

You pull back to wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you back like you’re better than any trophy on the grid.

Oscar may not be good at a lot of things outside of racing.

But he’s stupidly, spectacularly good at loving you. ⛐

[rb2242]

something to you ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

alex has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where alex gets mad on your behalf.)

ꔮ starring: alex albon x reader. ꔮ word count: 0.9k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. profanity. reader has a teensy tiny injury. carlos makes an appearance. ꔮ commentary box: happy alex day! ❥ i have a couple more alex plots planned, but for now, here's my last -ish installment to the soft spot mini-series. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You thought you’ve seen Alex in every possible light. 

You’ve known him for quite a bit, after all. It’s the type of friendship that has ebbed and flowed despite distance and time. You’ve been given a front row to the dozens of men that Alex has been throughout the years. 

The happy-go-lucky, well-spoken Alex the racing world knew. The relentless Alex who drove with grit and grace. He’s come to you with tears of frustration over losses beyond his control; he’s come to you beaming because of wins he rightfully deserved 

Those are the versions of Alex that you know. And so you’re colored surprise to meet another one— 

He’s kneeling in front of you now, his hand cupping your cheek. This is an expression you haven’t seen on Alex’s face in… ever, really. His jaw is clenched and there’s a hint of flint in his eyes, a fire that you hadn’t known was possible to see. 

“Hey.” You can tell from that single word that Alex is holding himself back. He’s forcing himself to keep his voice level, to not scare you off. Even now, he’s considerate.

“I’m not mad at you,” he repeats, “I just want to know what happened.” A pause. Then, he adds a softer, “Please.” 

The plea nearly makes you crack. The thing is— it shouldn’t be a big deal. Not to you, at least. It was just an unfortunate incident, a case of overzealous paparazzi recognizing you.  

One of them had gotten just a little bit too pushy. They had insisted something about you being the newest WAG on the paddock, and when you tried to slip away, they’d tried to get their shot anyway after calling you something like a stuck-up bitch.

The cut between your eyebrows is negligible. It’s a barely-there gash, something you know will scar over and heal in no time. 

Alex is treating it like the photographer had broken your bone. “I’m fine,” you insist, your voice cracking on the second word. You clear your throat before you go on, “I’m sure they didn’t mean it.” 

Carlos interrupts from a couple of paces away. “It was not an accident,” the older driver says, his lips pursed in poorly concealed rage. He had been the first to get to you; had been the one to call over Alex when he noticed the cut that hadn’t been there earlier that day. “They are saying the paparazzi swung.” 

Alex hisses in a breath through his teeth. You wince. Carlos slinks away, as if realizing this is not a conversation he should be taking part in. 

Little too late, you think wryly as Alex’s searching gaze rakes over your face.

“I need a name,” he says evenly. “If not a name, a media outlet. Or any descriptors.” 

You glance at Carlos over Alex’s shoulder, but the Spaniard has opted to feign disinterest by reading a nearby sports issue. (The magazine is upside down.) With a low tsk of disapproval, you finally give Alex an answer to his question. “Someone from Getty.” 

The heat in Alex’s eyes simmers just the slightest. He gives your cheek a tentative squeeze, and his hand lingers a little too long, like he’s hesitant to pull away. He gets to his feet, though, leaving you seated in his driver room chair. 

He flashes you a smile. It looks a little forced. “Be right back, okay? Don’t have too much fun with Carlos. I’ll know if you talked shit about me.” 

Even the joke sounds weak. 

Alex moves out of the room, his strides determined. He’s just a little hasty, so he ends up leaving the door slightly ajar in his hurry. You open your mouth to comment on it to Carlos, but the two of you freeze at the barking sound of Alex’s voice from somewhere in the motorhome. 

“Get me on the phone with Getty fucking Images!”

You and Carlos share a look. 

“Whew,” Carlos breathes, putting down the magazine. “I have never seen him like that before.” 

“That makes two of us,” you respond, wringing your hands together in your lap.

Alex has been many things— annoyed, critical, upset. Angry is new. Not only to you and Carlos, it seems, as the people of Williams scramble to accommodate the stewing driver. 

By the time Alex has deemed things sorted, he returns with that same plastic smile. Carlos actually excuses himself this time, shooting you a mouthed ‘good luck’ halfway out of the door. 

“Do you want a bandage?” Alex asks you. “Or I can get you checked out, if it hurts.” 

“Alex.” 

“I think there’s actually a first-aid kit here somewhere.” 

“Alex.” 

“I was looking it up earlier, and antiseptic—” 

Your fingers wrap around his wrist. He finally stops, his face flushing a bit. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you have the impression that he’s not apologizing solely for his rambling.

You squeeze his wrist reassuringly. There’s a lot of things you could do. Tease him for his fretting; ask him why he got so riled up in the first place. In the end, all you can manage is a soft and sincere, “Thank you.” 

Alex’s rage crumples like a house of cards. He lets out a single, shaky exhale and tilts down.

It’s negligible. Barely there. The kiss Alex plants on your forehead is more of a brush of his lips, right over the injury you thought wouldn’t be that big of a deal. 

This, though— the kiss, the anger— it all feels like it should mean something. ⛐

[rb2242]

to be honest ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

“i’m sorry i had a machine hooked up to me and i couldn’t lie.” 

ꔮ starring: alex albon x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. inspired by and references the Does Alex Albon think he is No. 1 at Williams? | The Lie Detector video, secret (not for long, sucker) relationship. ꔮ commentary box: this idea has been clanging in my head for two weeks now, i fear 🐈‍⬛ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Alex had asked—begged—you not to watch the lie detector test video. 

You agreed, but not without teasing him about divulging some embarrassing secret. You figured it was something along those lines. Maybe they made him choose his favorite cat or reveal his ridiculous pre-race routine. Either way, your boyfriend seemed pretty serious about not wanting you to see that particular piece of content. 

Except it’s been impossible to avoid. 

Your algorithms are unsurprisingly fine-tuned to anything and everything Alex. Clips of his radio messages on Instagram reels, edits of him to Hamilton songs on your TikTok For You page. You’re idly scrolling through your Twitter feed when one particular post catches your attention. 

It’s not even the concept of a reveal that catches your attention. No, that was to be expected. 

What did they mean—Alex asked for it not to be mentioned? 

It’s one thing to keep you from watching. It’s a completely different situation to ask everybody else to stay mum, as if purposefully keeping you out of the loop.

That would make no sense. You try to shake the thought out of your head, try to go back to doom-scrolling, but it nags in the back of your brain. Alex wasn’t the type to hide things from you. The two of you were a secret to the rest of the world, sure, but there were no secrets between you. 

Right? 

You set your phone on Do Not Disturb. You scrub the kitchen clean. You take a scalding hot shower. None of it helps. 

By the time you’re back on your couch, red-faced from the heat of your bath and something else entirely, you make an executive decision. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, you decide. Alex has given you grace for much worse. 

You pull the video up.

The guilt you’re feeling ebbs at the familiar lilt of Alex’s accent. My heart is gonna be, like, two hundred.

He’s not even on the screen yet, but you can imagine the way his boyish smile would curve around the words. He’s not due to visit until much later, so this six-minute video will have to tide you over the feeling of missing him. And your curiosity. That, more than anything. 

For a moment, you nearly forget why you’re watching. It’s so easy to be distracted by Alex’s sheer expressiveness, by the way he’s always just a bit breathless when he’s laughing. You want nothing more than to reach into your phone and will him to be seated right next to you, alleged reveal be damned. 

Have you ever sat on the toilet so long, your legs fell asleep?, he’s asked, and you simultaneously snort with on-screen Alex. 

Many a times, he answers, and it’s registered as the truth. But it’s more because that’s my time to watch TikTok.

You’re all-too aware of that habit. The petty arguments of you slamming on the bathroom door, demanding for your turn, only for Alex to shout back that he’s finishing part 32 of some movie cut up into several videos, and he’ll be out soon, he swears. It’s the type of domestic image that paints how comfortable the two of you have been this past year, even if there was nobody else to see it. 

Did you have a celebrity crush growing up? 

Yes, on-screen Alex responds. When prodded, he adds rather sheepishly, Erm… Emma Watson. 

You knew that, too. When you first found out, you made Alex sit through the fourth movie so you could tease him relentlessly. Fed up, he had tackled you down onto the mattress during the Triwizard Tournament’s Second Task. The ensuing makeout session had been both heated and playful. A part of you can still feel it thrumming beneath your ribs, months later. 

You’re scheming how to orchestrate another Harry Potter marathon just as two things happen at once. 

First, the Alex on-screen gets asked—baited, more like—with a query of And does your girlfriend compete? 

Then, your front door swings open. The man himself calls out like he always does, “Honey, I’m home!” 

It’s an inside joke, one you can’t really dwell on. Your attention is halved. 

You’ve started out of shock, and your phone is playing on full volume. Just enough for your boyfriend to hear his own sputter of My—my what? from what you’d been watching. 

There’s the sound of something crashing in the entryway. Later, you’ll discover it’s Alex having dropped his duffel bag in his own panic. 

He’s at the mouth of the living room in the next second, but you’re too busy going slack-jawed at the scene in the challenge. The polygraph shoots up. The examiner shakes his head amusedly. The man on the screen fucking laughs, goading Alex, So there it is! You’ve got a girl, Albono?

“You’re watching the video!” Alex shrieks accusingly. 

In return, you screech, “You told everyone about me?!”

Alex darts forward. You mentally curse his racer reflexes and his long legs as he throws himself on top of you. He’s blissfully unaware of his own weight, and so you feel winded amid your attempts to fight back. 

“I didn’t—tell about you,” he argues, his arms flailing as he tries to wrestle your phone out of your hands. “That’s all I said!” 

Which is a damn lie, of course. You don’t even see your screen anymore, but you can hear the video playing out. 

Alex being asked, Would you say this is your soulmate? 

Alex, without missing a beat: Yes. Without a doubt, yes. 

The Alex on top of you groans. He buries his face in the crook of your neck like he might be able to run and hide from his answer, especially as the examiner declares, He’s not lying. 

You relent, hitting pause and casting your phone aside. It lands somewhere by the foot of the couch. “I can’t believe you watched it,” your boyfriend petulantly murmurs against your skin. 

“I can’t believe I’m your soulmate,” you shoot back, and he pinches your side in retaliation. 

“Seriously,” he huffs, adjusting his positioning so that he’s not crushing you too much. “What happened to trust, huh?” 

“Slow down, Gabriella Montez.” 

“Stop being a nerd. It makes me want to kiss you.” 

You’re giggling as Alex rolls off you, flopping to the other end of the couch. He’s all lanky limbs and furrowed brows, his glare fixed on your phone like Sky Sports has personally wronged him. You reach out to rub his ankles, and he instinctively relaxes as if his body is fine-tuned to respond to your touch. 

“I’m sorry for watching the video,” you say. 

Alex frowns. “You’re not sorry.” 

You’re not. 

He heaves out a long-held sigh. “I had to do this whole thing,” he grumbles absent-mindedly. “Hid my Instagram story from you and all that…” 

“You what?” 

“Anyway. Anyway.” Alex clears his throat, his frown curling into a thin pressed line. It’s a rueful kind of grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tick for when he’s guilty. “I was going to tell you.” 

“I bet you were,” you hum. 

You’re not mad. Not really. You know he’s been itching to go public, has wanted you in the Williams hospitality suite for God-knows-how-long. That laminated ID card that would proudly proclaim Guest of Alex Albon.

“They still don’t know you,” he offers. This time, he’s reaching out for you. Preemptively trying to soothe some imagined annoyance. Alex tugs you gently until you’re resting between his legs, his face burying in the back of your hair. 

“All they know is that you exist,” he adds, “and they don’t have to know anything else.” 

You feel a pang in your chest, one put there when you’re reminded of just how lucky you are to have somebody so patient. Someone so willing to set aside his wants for your comfort, your peace of mind. 

“Okay,” you say, voice now softer that Alex has his chin hooked over your shoulder. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry I had a machine hooked up to me and I couldn’t lie.” 

You laugh. “As long as you promise to never lie to me,” you note, nudging his ribs lightly. He lets out an exaggerated howl. 

“I would never,” he grumbles, and you know—you know that’s the truth, too. 

You tilt your head slightly, catching the complicated expression on Alex’s face. There’s that hint of insecurity, that touch of guilt, that flash of impatience. But all of it eases up when you lean in, and you kiss the doubt away. 

“I believe you,” you breathe against his lips, and he’s already smiling before he pulls you in for more. ⛐

BONUS —

[rb2242]

wait for me (reprise) ⛐ 𝐌𝐕𝟏

to know how it ends and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time. it’s a sad song. it’s an old song. we sing it again, and again, and again. (or: you and max are haunted by the myth of orpheus and eurydice.)

ꔮ starring: max verstappen x reader. ꔮ word count: 5k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of blood, injuries, death; mentions of food, alcohol. reincarnation, past lives, themes of memoy/myth. title references hadestown’s wait for me (reprise). ꔮ commentary box: my first ever max fic!!! a dual dedication: for @amyelevenn, whose innocent question about the greek myth had me locking tf in, and @hello-car-fandom, who is literally the matching max discord icon to my yuki one 🥀 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first time you see him, he is bent over a crate of pomegranates.

His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, sunlight catching on the fair hairs along his forearms. He lifts one fruit, turns it in his hand like he’s weighing something older than weight itself, and sets it down again with a gentleness you don’t expect from a man whose boots are dust-worn and whose voice, you imagine, is made for bartering.

You’re not supposed to be there, of course. Your governess has already turned twice from the apothecary window, searching for your figure in the crowd, but you’ve stepped behind the stall of dyes and silks. Curiosity, as always, tugging at your hem like a child.

And there he is.

He doesn’t see you yet. But something in your chest tugs loose anyway. Like a string pulled taut through lifetimes, plucked just once.

You step forward. Slowly. The sun drips gold over the rooftops and the awnings flutter like wings. You’re in your softest slippers, and they make no sound on the stone.

You reach the edge of his stall and touch a fig, more out of hesitation than interest. He looks up.

His eyes are the color of river-washed stone, something clear and steady. He is not beautiful in the way you’ve been taught to admire—too sharp, too still—but he holds himself like someone who knows how to listen.

When he does speak, it is not a question or a price, but a simple, quiet thing: “You’re not from here.”

Your lips part. There is a pause. A breath. And then you say, "No."

It is the beginning. It is always the beginning.

You come back the next day. Then the day after that. You learn his name—Maxim, though the others call him Max. He was born on a salt-swept coast and followed trade routes inward, carting spices and stories in equal measure.

You tell him little of your life, though he sees the quality of your shoes and the tremble of your hand when you offer coin. He never asks why someone like you lingers by someone like him. He simply lets you.

He has a way of speaking that feels like music with the notes stripped out. 

Cadence and breath, patterns that curl behind your ribs. You catch yourself memorizing them the way you once memorized prayer.

One evening, as the sky bruises into dusk, he hands you a sprig of lavender wrapped in linen. “For your hair,” he says, almost shy. As shy as a man like him can be. “If you like.”

You take it. It will dry in a drawer you never open again.

Your governess scolds you, of course. Your father suspects. There are words like suitable and propriety whispered behind closed doors, and you pretend not to hear them. The truth is, it was never about rebellion.

It was about the sound of his hands sorting citrus. The way he’d walk you past the river without ever trying to touch your hand. How, once, you said you liked a song drifting from a tavern door and the next day he hummed it under his breath as he packed his cart.

You see him. He sees you. That, somehow, feels like the first true thing you’ve ever known.

You don’t know, not yet, that there is a myth unraveling around you. That you have stepped once more into the same story with different names.

The night before your wedding, it rains.

Not the soft kind, not the kind that you romanticize through glass windows and poems. Instead, the kind that soaks through silks and silences gardens, that makes the world feel like it's holding its breath. 

Somewhere in the city, candles gutter low in brass holders. Somewhere, the servants are heating stones for your bath. Somewhere, you are curled on the velvet seat of your window, forehead to the glass, thinking of Max instead of your arranged betrothed.

Your dress is already hanging by the door. Cream and gold. Woven pearls. A neckline stitched for royalty. It looks nothing like you, and yet it will become your name by morning.

The knock comes just before midnight.

You don’t startle. You knew, somehow, that he would come.

When you open the door to the back garden, he is drenched. Water tracks down his jaw, his collarbone. He looks at you like someone might if they’d come to steal back something precious. “Run away with me,” Max says.

No preamble. No please. Just the impossible, unspoken thing now spoken aloud.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to. God, you do. Your heart has been aching in the shape of him for weeks now. You’ve pressed your palms to it, tried to soothe it with reason, with tradition, with duty. None of it worked. And still—

Still.

Beyond the garden walls lie marble corridors and firelit banquets. A life of carriages, of curated affection, of everything laid out in gold leaf and ledger. A life prepared for you before you could spell your own name.

He takes your hand anyway. Warm, rough, trembling just slightly. In your head, you tell yourself, this will be enough. 

You run.

The streets are slick with rain. Your slippers catch on cobblestones. He laughs once, breathless, the sound breaking something inside you. You laugh too, not because anything is funny, but because it’s all so alive. For the first time, you are not someone’s daughter or someone’s bride. You are just someone his.

At the crest of the hill where the town ends and the road begins—where roofs shrink into chimney smoke and trees sigh toward open field—you stop.

The wind has teeth. The rain softens. Your heart is so loud you think it might echo.

He turns to you. He sees you, as he always has. He sees how the doubt comes in. 

You want to say yes. You truly do.

But behind your ribs, something curls inward. You think of your mother’s hands, worn smooth by luxury. You think of how your name is threaded into debts and alliances like silk through a loom. You think of everything you've been taught to want, and how none of it fits you. But still, it is yours. The life you never chose but cannot let go.

You hear him exhale. A small, steady thing. Like the sound of a song’s last note.

He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t follow. He just steps forward and presses his forehead to yours. “I’ll find you again,” he murmurs, and his voice is steadier than it should be. “Another life. Another road. I’ll try again.”

You nod, and it feels like both a promise and a prayer. In some ways, it is a curse. It sets your fate into stone. 

This is how the myth remembers you both: Not for the running, but for the turning back.

This is your first life. The not-quite. The almost. The root before the bloom.

And he—

He is the music you carry with you, even in silence.

Even as you marry.

Even as you forget.

Even as you don’t.

The second time he meets you, it’s under a buzzing fluorescent light in a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat.

You’re crouched beside him, gloved hands pressed to the bloom of blood just under his ribs. Your touch is steady, efficient. Your voice is steadier than the rest of the world, like something made of wool and warm air.

“Stay still,” you say, without looking up. “You’ll make it worse.”

Max doesn’t speak. Not because he can’t—his lip is split, not his tongue—but because there’s something reverent about the way you work. Like a ritual. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before and hated it every time.

He watches you instead. The furrow in your brow. The way you brace your wrist just before the thread tugs tight. The way you move as if you’ve forgotten how to flinch.

It is not love yet. But it is the shape of it. The beat before a song.

The underground circuit is brutal. Max has been fighting since he was seventeen, not for the thrill of it, but for the change he swears is coming.

“They need someone better than the worst of them,” he tells you once, after a match that leaves him breathing smoke and limping on one leg. “Someone who doesn’t just take, but builds something after.”

You don’t answer. You just hand him a bottle of water and a fresh compress. That night, though, you leave the lights on longer in the med tent.

He notices.

You never ask him to stop. Not once.

Instead, you touch his wrists like they are more than tools. You memorize the patterns of his bruises like constellations, like they could map him back to something softer. You don’t say much, but when you do, it stays with him.

“If it ever gets too dark,” you say once, stitching the arch of his brow, “promise you’ll remember where the light was.”

He thinks of that for days. The light. The where. He starts counting all the places you’ve left it. On his shoulder in passing, in the curve of your tired smile, in the way you once fell asleep sitting up, arms crossed, waiting for him.

You keep a record of every wound, even the ones he doesn’t remember. He finds your notes once. Tucked into the back of a field book, written in your neat hand: Laceration, left temple. Minor fracture, 3rd metacarpal. Patient says he’s fine. He is not fine.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees it. Just folds the paper back into place and holds it like scripture.

One night, he loses badly. Too badly.

You’re already waiting in the alley behind the arena, jaw clenched, bag slung across your back as if you knew this was coming. You don’t yell. You don’t cry. You just kneel beside him in the dirt and whisper, “You said you were done with fights like this.”

Max laughs hoarsely. It tastes like copper. “I said I was trying.”

You pause. Your hands hover over his ribs. Your eyes close. “You’re not Orpheus,” you murmur. “You don’t have to follow every ghost back into the dark.”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t even know who the fuck this Orpheus bloke us. But your hands tremble when they press the gauze down, and he understands, in some unspoken, sacred way, that you’re scared.

Not of him. For him.

Love, when it comes, is just above the surface.

It’s in the way he holds his breath when you stand too close. The way you let him linger longer each night before sending him off with bandages and warnings. The way your eyes search his face like they’re looking for proof that he made it back.

It’s in the time you tuck a small white flower behind his ear and say, “To remind you you’re still alive.”

It’s in the way he forgets he ever fought for glory, and instead starts fighting for after.

This is your second life. Another sowing. A softer myth. The roots beneath the ruin.

Though he doesn’t know it yet, though he never quite says it, he’s already started loving you. Not in the way that demands. In the way that stays.

But the myth persists.

Max tries to forget it. He tries to press it down beneath split knuckles and calloused palms, beneath routines and repetitions, beneath the lull of training drills and the clean ache of exhaustion. It still clings. It lives in the space between who he is and who he wants to become.

Some nights, he dreams of singing. Not with his voice, but with his fists. As if every hit might carry a melody only he can hear.

He tells himself he fights for change. For something better. For the boys watching from shadows and chain-link fences who don’t yet know how to leave. Sometimes, it feels like he’s chasing something older. A story he can’t quite rewrite. A descent he doesn’t know how not to make.

And then—

You.

You, with your steely eyes and your hands that remember every bruise. You, who never flinches, never lectures, only looks at him like he’s already worthy of softness. You, who tracks his ribs and not just the damage done to them but the way they rise and fall when he breathes. The way he forgets to exhale when you’re near.

He thinks he can separate the two: the fight and the feeling. He thinks the ring can stay its own kind of church. But then one night, you follow him.

He doesn’t see you until after the first bell. You’re standing by the ropes, your coat pulled tight around your shoulders. The look in your eyes is not disapproval, not even fear—just sorrow.

It unspools him.

The match begins. He tries to focus. He plants his feet, calculates timing. But your presence clings to him like heat. Every time he moves, he wonders if you’re still watching. Every time he swings, he wonders what you think of this version of him. The one who still hasn’t learned.

You are the ghost in his periphery. The light at the mouth of a cave he was never meant to leave.

He catches a blow too late. His jaw reels left. His shoulder crumples next.

He hears his name. Not from the crowd, but from memory. From your voice, precise like a metronome in his bloodstream. It is a voice from this life, but from some other past life, too. 

He turns.

Just once.

Just to be sure you’re still there.

He shouldn’t. He knows that. He turns anyway. And in the breath it takes to find you—your hand half-raised, your mouth parted in some unsaid warning—

He is struck.

Hard. Clean. Below the ribs, where the body folds in on itself.

He falls.

He does not rise.

The lights above blur. He tries to blink, but the room tilts. The shouts fade. The ring disappears. And then: your hands.

Your voice, breaking. A sob caught in velvet. “Max. Hey, Max, stay with me,” you’re saying. “Stay here.”

He wants to. More than anything. He wants to stay. But the dark comes softly, like a curtain.

The last thing he sees is you. 

Crying, yes. But still holding him like something precious.

Still loving him like a vow.

This is your second life: the tragedy planted deep. The seed that will bloom in mourning.

He follows you into the light, and hopes, next time, he’ll know better.

In this third life, you are always just a half-step behind him.

On planes, on paddocks, in glassy press rooms where the air smells like cold coffee and microphones. He is the sun every camera turns toward, and you are the shadow following the arc.

Your badge says Press Officer. Your inbox holds a hundred questions no one wants honest answers to. But your world shrinks to the shape of his name, repeated over headsets and hotel keys, on embargoed articles and race day briefings.

Max Verstappen.

He walks like the world owes him nothing and still chooses to give him everything. You, more than anyone, know the cost of that kind of glory.

You learn the language of his silences before you ever learn the full weight of his voice. You learn when not to knock on his door. When to bring coffee instead of advice. When to pull him away from a camera just before the mask slips.

You learn that winning does not make it easier.

Still, you stay. Because he is not just Red Bull’s golden boy. Because sometimes, after a race, when the adrenaline fades and the noise dies down, he looks at you like you’re the only thing still holding.

“You should sleep,” you tell him once, after Japan. He’s slouched in a chair, still in his suit, eyes bleary with exhaustion.

“I will,” he says. Then: “Only if you do too.”

It’s not flirtation. It’s care. It’s knowing you’d both work yourselves past the point of reason if left unchecked.

You fall in love with him in pieces. In the way he unlaces his gloves with reverence for the sport. In the way he listens when you brief him, even when he’s barely slept. In the way he thanks you—softly, always sincerely—when you deflect a question with a smile and an effortless pivot.

He falls in love with you in silence.

You know because he starts looking for you first in a room. You know because after Monaco, when he climbs out of the car and into champagne and shouts, he finds your hand without looking. Just a brush of his fingers against yours, nothing more. It lingers all the same.

The harvest in this life is not loud. It is not fireworks or flowers.

It is a shared umbrella during a downpour in Spa. It is his voice, groggy with sleep, calling your name across the hallway in Bahrain. It is you, leaning against a barrier wall as his car screams past, thinking, not for the first time, that you are both chasing something that only exists in motion.

At some point, he starts waiting for you before press briefings. Hands in his pockets, gaze low, like it’s the most natural thing. Like he’s always known how to wait on you.

At some point, you stop correcting reporters when they assume you’re together. You’re not, not exactly. But there is something there. A closeness that breathes.

One night—after a win that feels more like survival—you find yourselves alone in the garage. Everyone else has gone. The track is silent. He’s sitting on the tire stack, still in his fireproofs, head bowed. You hand him a bottle of water. He takes it, but doesn’t drink.

“It never feels like enough,” he croaks.

“What doesn’t?”

“All of this. The wins. The noise. The… everything.”

You sit beside him. The air smells like rubber and rain. “It’s enough for me.”

He looks at you, searching for proof that you mean it. And you do. It’s not a confession. It’s not a kiss.

It’s heavier than that.

It’s the way he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. It’s the breath you share between you. “I think I loved you before I knew how to name it,” he confesses, and it’s every unraveling, happening all at once.

You don’t answer. You just stay, hold the moment like something delicate.

This is your third life: the yield.

And for once, you don’t have to run. You don’t have to turn back. You just stand beside him, steady. As you always have.

As you always thought you will.

It doesn’t end in a crash or a scandal. It’s a subtle shift. The kind that happens in rooms you’re not invited to. The kind that starts with a look held too long and ends with your name removed from an itinerary.

You notice the change before Max does.

At first, it’s just that the briefings come later. Then someone else is asked to escort him to media. Then your access code stops working at the paddock gate.

Max doesn’t see it. Not at first. He’s still winning. Still locked in the momentum of it all. That’s the cruel thing about glory—it moves so fast, it doesn’t notice what it leaves behind.

You try not to resent it. You try not to resent him.

He finds you one night outside the motorhome. The air smells like burnt fuel and celebration. He’s flushed with victory, his hands still twitching from the wheel. He says your name like a question and a relief.

“You weren’t at the presser,” he says.

“No,” you reply, managing a smile. “I was… needed elsewhere.”

He frowns. He’s always been sharper than he pretends to be. “Are they moving you?”

You don’t answer. You look past him to where the sky bruises against the floodlights.

 “Hey,” he says gently. “If something’s going on, you can tell me.”

For a second, you want to. God, you want to. 

You want to tell him how they watched you too closely. How someone at Red Bull asked you if your loyalties were getting personal. How the look he gave you after Brazil—tired, joyful, yours—became the beginning of the end.

You know Max would do something about it, if you asked. He’d raise hell. He’d demand concessions. There would be space for you, at his expense. 

This is your third life. The life of the yield. And sometimes, harvest means knowing what to leave behind.

So you smile again. Softer this time. “Maybe I’m just tired,” you say.

Max nods, but you see it—the way his shoulders set, the worry he can’t quite hide. He reaches for you, stopping short at the last minute. His hand lingers, useless, fingers aborted in a half-hold. “You’ll tell me if you go, right?”

You nod. It’s a lie.

He turns back toward the celebration, and you feel it in your chest. The echo. The myth and its reprise.

This is the moment Orpheus looks back.

It isn’t deliberate. He just wants to make sure you’re still there.

Max glances behind him. Just once. Just to see.

And that’s all it takes.

A week later, your name is gone from the roster. Your replacement is efficient, polite. Max doesn’t ask for you. Not right away. He’s still midseason. Still running.

When he does, they say you left of your own accord. He believes it. Because he has to.

You disappear without a sound. No goodbye. No forwarding address. But you keep the voicemail he left that first night you didn’t answer.

“Hey. I—just checking in,” he says, polite as always. Not pressing. Not demanding. “Let me know you’re alright, yeah?”

You play it sometimes, in cities where no one knows your face. It sounds like a life you almost got to keep.

This is still the third life. And even here, even in the season of plenty, the myth curdles.

You were almost his.

Almost.

But Orpheus turned around, and you could not follow.

In this fourth life, Max is no one special.

No headlines, no cameras, no circuit carved into the year like a second spine. He lives in a modest apartment above a bakery in Hasselt. The floors creak in the mornings. The radiator hums like a secret in winter. His world is small in a way that feels, for the first time, bearable.

He works at the auto shop three blocks down, comes home with oil on his fingers, the sleeves of his jumper rolled to his elbows. It’s a life of repetition. Ordinary, honest, good. 

He thinks he has seen all there is to see.

Then, one afternoon in late March, just as the frost begins to loosen its hold, he hears it. Singing.

Soft. Barely above a murmur. It drifts through the alley like something half-remembered. Warm and clean, the kind of voice that doesn’t ask to be heard, only happens to be. He pauses mid-step on his balcony, one hand on the railing, head tilted like a man listening for thunder.

Across from him, a second-floor window is cracked open. The lace curtain flutters like breath.

He doesn’t see you that day. Just the echo of your voice and a flicker of movement. But something inside him stirs. An ache with no name. Like spring breaking.

It happens again. And again.

You sing in the early evenings, when the sky goes lilac. He never means to listen. But he never quite manages not to. He leans on the railing, cigarette unlit between his fingers, letting your voice turn the bricks golden.

One day, you catch him.

You’re hanging laundry on the line between buildings, humming something old and mournful. You glance up—and there he is. Half-frozen, guilty, like a boy caught trespassing. Your eyes meet. You don’t look away.

“You’re not subtle,” you say, but you’re smiling.

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry. You’re just... really good.”

You laugh, and it’s a sound brighter than the song. “Apology accepted.”

From then on, there are conversations over the balconies. Nothing grand. Just shared hours in the in-between.

You ask what he does. He tells you about busted engines and brake fluid, about the satisfaction of fixing something with your hands. He asks about your music. You shrug. You don’t call yourself a singer. Just someone who likes sound more than silence.

Sometimes, you play guitar, barely audible beneath the city’s breathing. Sometimes, you sing him old folk songs in languages he doesn’t know.

“They’re all so sad,” he tells you once.

“Most songs worth singing are,” you reply.

He smiles. Something in his chest folds.

He doesn't realize it yet, but he’s already begun orbiting you. In small ways. He times his balcony breaks with yours. He lingers by the windowsill longer than he should. He finds himself searching for your silhouette behind the curtain, like a lighthouse.

You don’t meet in person for weeks. You don’t need to. The space between your balconies becomes sacred. Liminal, alive. A string stretched taut with every look, every shared breath.

In this life, he does not chase fate. He doesn’t need to. He simply waits. Watches. Listens.

When you sing, he thinks—for the first time in a long time—of staying.

This is your fourth life. 

There are no monsters to fight. No mountains to climb. Just the long, slow miracle of two people finding their way back.

Max, who once raced toward gods and ruin, learns the forgotten art of holding still.

He doesn’t ask for a month, though.

Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he does, so badly, it frightens him. There’s something too holy about the space you share. This careful, suspended thing made of glances and song. A fragile ritual of half-smiles and half-started sentences. He’s terrified that naming it might dissolve it, that reaching out might break the spell.

But one evening, after a long day of oil and windchill, he hears you humming again on the balcony and thinks: Now or never.

He crosses the street with his heart thudding like footsteps, knocks once on the door that has never belonged to him, and when you answer—barefoot, tea mug in hand, eyes wide and curious—he says, “Do you want to get a drink sometime?”

You smile like dawn breaking through overcast. A small, surprised thing. The kind of smile that reshapes the air.

“It took you long enough,” you tease, and he finds himself inclined to agree.

Days later, you find yourself in the pub down the street. The place is warm and low-lit, all scratched wood and the smell of hops and comfort. There’s an old dog sleeping beneath a radiator. A jukebox that plays 70s ballads with too much echo. You sit in a booth tucked beneath a crooked old clock, your knees nearly bumping under the table. 

Max talks more than he usually does. So do you.

You tell him about the songs your grandmother taught you, the ones you always forget the words to but hum anyway. How they remind you of windows open in summer, of clothespins and sun-warmed tile. He tells you about the first car he ever fixed, how the engine stuttered like a heartbeat and how he still misses it. He admits he sometimes dreams in throttle. You admit you sometimes dream in melody.

You drink too much, but not enough to forget.

When you leave, the night is gentle.

Cobblestones echo beneath your steps as you wind your way home, giggling like teenagers with nowhere to be. Your hands brush once, twice. Then linger. The silence between you softens into something intimate.

You stop just before your street and turn to him, eyes bright with mischief and something older, something deeper.

“Let’s play something,” you say.

He raises a brow. “At midnight?”

“M-hm. Close your eyes. I’ll guide you.”

He laughs, hiccuping incredulity. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s not,” you protest, lips already forming a slight frown. “Come on, Verstappen. Trust me.”

He does. Of course he does.

You place your hands on his shoulders, warm and steady. He closes his eyes.

He walks.

The street stretches out like a story. The world narrows to your breath behind him, your touch steering him past loose stone and memory. Your voice floats behind him like music. Telling him to turn left. Straighten up. Mind the puddle.

He grins, eyes shut, trusting. His entire life becomes the sound of your footsteps, the lightness in your tone, the gentle pull of your fingers against his coat. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, something hums. Something old. Something like myth.

He has walked blind for you before.

In another life, maybe it was a stairwell. Or a descent. Or a dream. He doesn’t remember it, not in any tangible way, but it lives in his bones. That echo of trust. Of following.

And maybe that’s why he does it.

Maybe he hears you stumble, just slightly. Maybe a car door slams in the distance and he remembers reality. Maybe he doubts. Or maybe—maybe—he just loves you. Loves you so much, and has loved you across lifetimes, across wars and ballrooms and broken ribs, that it makes him ache.

Whatever the reason, he turns.

He opens his eyes.

And there you are.

Not gone. Not fading.

Just you. Laughing softly, flushed from beer and wind and something truer. Looking at him like you’ve known him forever. Like he’s finally found the place he’s been running toward his whole life.

He exhales. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.

You step closer, your grin softening into something breathtakingly tender.

“You weren’t supposed to look,” you say, mock-scolding.

“I had to make sure you were still there,” he murmurs.

Your gaze softens. “And am I?”

He reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours with the ease of inevitability.

“You are,” he says. “You are.”

This is your fourth life.

There is no disappearing act. No vanishing into mist. No punishment from gods. Just the streetlight gold, the hush between heartbeats, the miracle of two people choosing to stay. Max dares to lean in, and he tastes the curve of your lips against his. 

Max turned. And this time, nothing was lost.

Only found. ⛐

FOOTNOTES:

“Humans have four lives. A life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.” — Guardian: The Lonely and Great God (2016)

“"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious” — u/aaronstveit

[rb2242]

mics up | series masterlist

ft. '15-'25 grid, fem journalist!reader

you've been covering the riveting sport of formula 1 ever since you stepped foot onto the journalism scene. so much so, that the entire grid already knows who you are.

NOTE: just a fun little series to go back to whenever im in drought or wanna write but dont have the mental stability to :>

ONE. GRID WALK !

a pre-race tradition wherein you interview drivers and team members before a race.

TWO. HOT LAPS !

a pre-season tradition wherein you interview the season's rookies in the passenger's seat as they take you flat-out on the track.

THREE. BOX, BOX !

social media content wherein you throw a series of rapid-fire questions at the drivers and they can only answer with yes and no.

FOUR. IDIOT ASKS !

press conferences can get stuffy so what better way to lighten the mood than to ask the drivers funny questions.

FIVE. FORMULA FUN !

social media content wherein you indulge the drivers in the latest tiktok trends.