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System Failure - Masterlist:

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Links:

Disclaimer

Prologue

Chapter 1: Imola

Chapter 2: Monaco

Chapter 3: Barcelona

Chapter 4: Brackley

Chapter 5: Montreal

Chapter 6: Maaseik

Chapter 7: Spielberg

Chapter 8: Vienna

Chapter 9: Silverstone

Chapter 10: Brackley

Chapter 11: Brackley

Chapter 12: Olbia

Chapter 13: Milton Keynes

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To Paint a Picture

y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

Palimpsest — An object or image that reveals its history, just as a chalkboard sometimes allows us to see partially erased marks

Patch — A small piece of fabric used to mend a tear or puncture through application to the rear of the canvas.

Paradigm Shift — When one era shifts into another, the habits of the earlier one are disrupted by new ones which eventually settle into a familiar routine.

Patronage — the physical or emotional support of a patron

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𐙚⋆˚ crowned in coral (master list)

warnings: royalty au, slow burn, light angst, underwater politics, near-drowning, emotional tension

pairing: percy jackson x amphitrite daughter reader

summary: you were born with coral in your hair and a kingdom beneath the waves. the throne is heavy, and the sea keeps its secrets. when percy jackson arrives, a stranger, everything shifts. the ocean brought you together, but will it break you apart?

🎧 – the ocean is you, love in the dark, atlantic, seabed, blue banisters, underwater, baby you’re a haunted house

let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

part one: salt and silk synopsis ⇒ the day of your coronation, the ocean stirs with unrest. percy jackson arrives at atlantis — a stranger summoned by your mother’s council to keep peace.

part two: the court of glass synopsis ⇒ you learn that atlantis is more fragile than you imagined, and percy is harder to read than the currents. the court’s politicking wears on you both, but when danger erupts at a council meeting, your fates become intertwined.

part three: echo chamber synopsis ⇒ strange whispers haunt your dreams and percy’s. when visions begin to blur the line between reality and myth, you must trust him to help uncover a threat buried deep beneath the ocean’s floor.

part four: a crown of barnacles synopsis ⇒ the ancient rite to claim the throne tests your strength and your will. the final trial demands a bond — and percy’s name is called by the ocean itself. the choice is no longer yours to make.

part five: undertow synopsis ⇒ with danger closing in, you and percy hide in an abandoned nereid temple. days become nights filled with hesitant trust and quiet confessions. the sea binds you, but will it be enough to save you both?

part six: the betrayal and the escape synopsis ⇒ a trusted ally turns enemy, and atlantis shatters around you. percy risks everything to save you from drowning beneath collapsing coral halls.

part seven: coral breaks, water mends synopsis ⇒ healing comes slowly in the quiet after the storm. the crown is yours, and for the first time, you choose your own path. beneath the waves, a new beginning rises.

i’m caught beneath the waves, sinking deeper every day..

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[SUMMER SUNSHINE!] 𓆝 ⋆｡

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: finally on holiday after winning two races and a constructor's championship, oscar comes home to the aussie summer sunshine only to find his sister's best friend making his heart beat once again.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: childhood friends to lovers, best friend's brother trope, mental health/emotional regulation discussions, poor humour, dashes of angst here and there

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x childhood bsf!fem!reader

PT.1 WELCOME HOME, SUNSHINE 2.3k words

PT.2 CHAMPAGNE COAST 3.3k words

PT.3 PERFECT DAY 3.5k words

PT.4 WALKING ON SUNSHINE 2.8k words

PT.5 ISLAND IN THE SUN 2.8k words

PT.6 FALLING FOR YA 2.1k words

PT.7 SUNSHINE, AT LAST 3.3k words

𝐀/𝐍: sooooo i'm so excited for this! since this is me... expect some plot holes or like a lot of them. i'm planning to release every part over seven days bc ngl i hate waiting for parts as a reader so... ♡︎ first part will be out today! – i think this is a total 20.5k fic if i did all the actual calculations.

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The Long Way Home | Masterlist

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Hello!!! I hope you’re all doing well and are as excited for this fic as me. Updates will be sporadic but hopefully a handful of chaps per week minimum!

Wattpad Link

Chapter One

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you say good morning, when it's midnight ⟢ OP81 series

main masterlist | fic playlist

PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is officially the series masterlist for 'you say good morning, when its midnight'! again, this is inspired by the song 'jet lag' by simple plan. hope you guys will like this one.

part one ⟢ part two ⟢ part three ⟢ part four ⟢ part five ⟢ part six ⟢ part seven

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masterlist

I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for reading and engaging with the story. Your support means the world to me! To avoid any confusion, I’ve compiled a masterlist of all the chapters in chronological order, with each year broken down into its own set of chapters. Each year represents a different phase in Amelie and Lando’s journey, with the chapters unfolding in order of events as they grow and evolve. Some years may have more chapters than others, as certain moments in their relationship take longer to develop, while others might overlap as I occasionally get new inspiration that will influence the storyline.

I’m also open to any requests or suggestions you may have—don’t hesitate to reach out!

Thank you all again for being a part of this journey. Love you all! 💕

request over here!

Amelie Dayman x Lando Norris - Singer DR

2020 - The One Where We Pretend the Spark Isn't There

2021 - The One Where We Let the Fire Burn Out

2022 - The One Where Time Turns Us Into Ghosts

2023 - The One Where We Find Ourselves Again

2024 - The One Where We Hit Reset

2025 - The One Where We Build Our Bridge

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slim pickins!

max verstappen x popstar!reader -> social media au

max has been a silent fan of popstar!reader for years, it's a running joke in the fandom at this point. when the stars align and max is finally able to attend one of her concerts, a chance meeting changes everything. he doesn't intended to let her down like past guys have.

-> fc: sabrina carpenter (and references to her discography included)

y/n.chronicles has made a post

liked by max.verstappen, 🎀user and more

my darlings! the first show of the emails i can't send tour was simply magical. i can't believe how loudly you all sung! you sure know how to make a girl dreams come true here's to many more screaming crowds and suprise songs! onto london next 💌💋

comments

user4 vocals? stage presence? outfits?? 10/10 no notes.

y/n.news WE NEED A LIVE ALBUM IMMEDIATELY.

↪ toomanyplaylists literally how will we live without her cover of dancing queen on Spotify!

↪ betterbest manifesting this!!!

rawrrawraw i volunteer as your mic stand for the next show

singerbestie gorgeous girl <3

↪ y/n.chronicles 💌💋

54user1 you came, you sang, you emotionally DESTROYED us <3

↪ betterbest hearing vicious live isn't enough. i need it injected into my veins.

newuser um... is anyone going to talk about the fact that THE max verstappen in in the likes rn. like. WHAT

↪ pitlaneprincess babes where have you been??? he's been lurking in her likes for YEARS he's a certified fan girl since day one

↪ newuser OMG WHAT. MY WORLDS COLLIDING

↪ singsingsing the idea of him in a hotel room after quali just listening to “bet u wanna” on repeat 😭

↪ hotgirlupdates he’s been in his “i’ll support her from afar” arc for too long it’s time for ACTION

↪ singsingsing max verstappen liking every y/n post but never commenting is my roman empire

busywoman i keep seeing photos of her singing emails i can't send with tears in her eyes omg guys

user5 dare i say queen of pop???

max.verstappen has made a post

liked by f1fangirl, 🎀user and more

Tough weekend, but we came out on top. Well done redbullracing, we keep pushing and moving forward 👊 onto silverstone

comments

verstap.fan stellar win. great job max 👏

user1 ok max we see you with the absolute thirst trap second photo like DAMN

↪ f1fanatic he really though he could subtly sneak that into the photo dump without us noticing...

newuser not to be delusional on main but i know someone else who is going to england soon...

↪ ranracer huh?

↪ y/nlovesf1 OMG. WAIT.

↪ newuser no cause i would die if max went to the show. but would our little fanboy survive seeing y/n cry during emails i can't send

↪ pensburner she cries, he cries, i cry, security cries. full emotional collapse. 

↪ personaldiary: “dear diary, she looked at me during the third chorus. we are spiritually married now.”

redbulllracing thats our wc 👏👊

singsingsing every time max posts i hope to find y/n in the likes... one day it will happen

y/n.chronicles has posted to her story

y/n.news has made a post

liked by max.verstappen, newuser and more

tminus 20 minutes till the london show of the emails i can't send tour starts... sources say there are some celebrities in the crowd tonight though no one has managed to capture a clear photo! (lets just say fast times would be an song title for this celeb)

comments

y/nfangirl THAT OUTFIT shes so mother

f1user3 guys this is not a dril this is not a drill

↪ pensburner like its HAS to be max right

↪ gossipcentral guys i'm in GA rn and i SWEAR i spotted him on the second floor balcony!!!

↪ pensburner say sike om girl drop proof rn

coolgirl321 y’all are so desperate to ship people who’ve never even spoken 😭

↪  gridgossipgremlin and? let us have fun in peace

↪ capgirlie no cause even if they breathe in the same timezone y’all are planning the wedding 💀

theblurrytruth idc if there’s no proof. if i say he was there, he was there. manifestation > evidence

micstandwife give it 24 hours. someone always leaks a photo.

manifestingy/n WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE FACT THAT MAX IS IN THE LIKES RN. HE'S THERE CONFIRMED?

↪ pensburner 📸WE GOT HIM FOLKS📸

y/n.news has made a post

liked by f1fangirl, 🎀user and more

From likes to late-night links 👀 Max Verstappen and Y/N were seen slipping out the back of her London venue together. Concert crush turned real-life?

comments

whatinthedelulu i thought we were joking. i didn’t think it would actually HAPPEN.

concertgirlie13 first time hanging out?? and it’s post-show??? what did they TALK about in that car

redbullgroupie he liked her post, watched her sing about shit exs, then slid backstage like “hi i’m max” 😭

↪ pensburner the fact he just watched her sing slim pickins as well, like i KNOW he was taking 'how not to act' notes before meeting her

definitelynormal i’m not saying it’s love at first sight but also… yes i am

coolgirl321 you guys are so fucking annoying like a guy and a girl can't even hang out without you all acting like they are MARRIED like pls get a life

↪ 🎀user respectfully... shut tf up and let us dream

singerbestie UM.

↪ writingbetter GIRL GO GET US THE DETAILS.

incoming facetime call from singerbestie

y/n.chronicles has made a post

liked by max.verstappen, 🎀user and more

oh london you have been so good to me

comments

y/nstan GOD LORD i swear my pants were JUST on

f1fanatic excuse me 📸 is that man's hand in photo three who we all think it is

pensburner oh this is some wifed up glow

whatinthedelulu girl we ALL know why this city has been good to you

↪ writingbetter i never thought i'd be blessed enough to live through y/n's soft lauch era

max.verstappen hard to pick a favorite moment

↪y/n.chronicles i could name a few 💌

↪ user31 UM GUYS

↪ readingwriting MAX SAID FUCK THE SOFT LAUNCH I NEED PEOPLE TO KNOW SHES MY GIRL

↪ lunalove i have no one to talk to about this oml

racingfan I know the grid group chat is going crazy

↪ lunalove oh to be a fly on the wall of their dms rn

deluluera I thought we were all joking. I thought this was a joke. Mr Max Verstappen in fact DID NOT take it as a joke 😀🙌

peoplewatcher does anyone else think this is all happening really fast? Didn’t they meet for the first time this past weekend?

user5 drive fast play faster ig 😭

lunalove I cannot and will not be normal about this

user72 oh the next album is going to hit so hard

user3 the slim pickins to love song pipeline is about to happen I can FEEL it in my bones

y/nfanatic he better treat her right. y/n deserves the world after all the bad guys she’s dated.

↪max.verstappen I will.

comment liked by y/n.chronicles

y/n.chronicles has posted to her story

max.verstappen fuck you can't post things like this when i'm stuck at the track

↪y/n.chronicles why? am i distracting you? can't imagne why i would be

↪max.verstappen you know exactly why schatje

↪max.verstappen so gorgeous, i wish i was with you right now

↪y/n.chronicles come to my hotel tonight?

↪max.verstappen don’t ask me that unless you mean it, I don't do casual

↪y/n.chronicles neither do i

y/n.chronicles has posted to her private story

singerbestie girl go ask the f1 driver in your dms for a quick rules run down 😭✌️

↪ y/n.chronicles STOP i'm trying to come across as cool and effortlessly knowledgable

↪ singerbestie and girl a big public day out when you have a concert that night? are you sure about this? ik how drained you can get from media stuff

↪ y/n.chronicles he's worth it.

↪ y/n.chronicles and girl he might be in more than my dms...

↪ singerbestie Y/N/N. SPILL.

possible future part 2? got hyped and did this instead of uni work... would love to here where you guys would want it to go! time skip?

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You Belong With Me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

Author's Note: Buckle up for 8.6k of pining and angst.💔

8.6k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

He notices you before he knows your name.

It’s a week before the start of the season and he’s already annoyed, the press commitments are piling up, the weather’s unpredictable, and his entire apartment smells faintly like engine oil because someone thought it was a good idea to drop off a suit bag soaked in the stuff.

He doesn’t want to be at the party. He shows up out of obligation, because Red Bull asked and because saying no would mean a series of passive-aggressive texts and PR headaches he doesn't have the bandwidth for right now. It’s the usual kind of thing, sleek rooftop venue, too many influencers, too few genuine smiles. He’s already decided he’s going to stay for exactly one drink, nod at the right people, dodge any cameras, and ghost before someone tries to rope him into a TikTok.

But then he sees you.

Not across the room in some cinematic, slow-motion way. No, you’re closer than that. Just a few steps away, standing on the balcony with one arm resting along the railing, backlit by soft golden light, laughing at something someone said, your hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Your dress catches the breeze, and your hair’s a little messy in the most effortless kind of way. You look like summer feels, warm, untouchable, a little wild around the edges.

And Max stops walking.

Just… stops.

He doesn’t believe in that moment-freezing cliché. He’s not the poetic type. Never has been. But for a second, the noise of the party dims, the chatter and music and clinking glasses fading into a kind of distant blur. It's not love at first sight, he doesn’t believe in that either but it is something. A shift. A pull in his chest that feels annoyingly real.

He finds himself staring before he even realises he’s doing it.

Not in a creepy way, at least he hopes not, but with the kind of confusion you get when you see something familiar in a stranger. He doesn’t know you. Hasn’t seen you before, but for some reason he wants to.

Really wants to.

Not because you're beautiful, though you are. It’s something else. He watches you lean in closer to your friend to whisper something, and your smile twists into something conspiratorial. Max swallows, blinking like he’s trying to reset himself.

He doesn’t approach you. Not yet, but for the first time that evening, he forgets about the press, the weather, the oil-stained suit. For the first time in a while, he wants to stay.

Because you’re here. And somehow, that changes everything.

He finds himself back near the balcony ten minutes later, and it’s definitely not accidental.

He’ll pretend it is if anyone asks. Pretend he just needed a breath of air, or a quieter place to check his messages, but the truth is his feet carried him here on their own. Something about you pulled him in like gravity.

You’re alone now, scrolling through your phone, glass nearly empty. He hesitates just a second, a rare pause for someone so decisive, then clears his throat gently.

“Didn’t think anyone actually came out here for the quiet.” he says, his voice smooth but a little dry, like he’s halfway between a joke and a real observation.

Your head turns at the sound of his voice. You meet his eyes, no flinch, no flicker of recognition, or maybe you do recognise him and you just don’t care.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, gesturing slightly toward the party behind you. “Those rooms start to hum after ten minutes. Felt like my brain was short-circuiting.”

He huffs a laugh and steps closer, just enough to lean on the railing beside you. He keeps his body language easy, casual. Like he’s not trying. Like he’s not thinking about this too much.

“Max,” he offers.

You glance over at him, amused. “Yeah, I know.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. “Right. Guess that was dumb.”

“I’m just messing with you,” you say, and God, your smile is even better up close. “Nice to meet you Max.”

He watches you sip from your glass, eyes flicking over your features your mouth, your fingers, the way you keep playing with your bracelet like you don’t even realise you’re doing it. You don’t seem like you’re trying to impress anyone and it’s driving him crazy in the best way.

“You here with someone?” he asks casually.

You nod, but you don’t elaborate.

There’s a beat of silence. You turn to him slightly, your eyes curious. “So... is this your thing? Lurking on balconies, trying to charm strangers?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to leave,” he shoots back, without missing a beat.

You laugh not a fake little chuckle, but a real one. It knocks something loose in his chest.

The rest of the night moves quickly after that.

You end up on a couch somewhere near the bar talking. You both bond over how awkward these events are, how no one ever really knows what to do with their hands during posed photos, how champagne always tastes better in theory than in reality. You both end up swapping stories about the worst flights you’ve taken. Your favourite drivers growing up (and no, he’s not offended he isn’t on your list).

He clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, and you say it with that same sly smile that’s already starting to etch it’s way into his brain.

You like the same takeout spots in Monaco. You both hate olives. Neither of you remembers the last time you properly unpacked a suitcase

He hadn’t expected to laugh this much, you’re funny, sharp, witty, with that kind of dry sarcasm that’s hard to find. You tease him, and he gives it right back. Somehow the conversation twists to childhood stories, to family stuff, the weird in-between space of growing up too fast and never quite knowing if you got it right.

Then you lean in.

Not dramatically. Not flirtatiously. Just close enough to show him something on your phone a photo of your family dog, something stupid you promise will make him laugh. And it does. But he’s barely paying attention, because now he can smell you, that warm, sweet scent with a little bite underneath. He doesn’t know much about perfume, but it smells like you, and now he’s going to think about it every time he catches it again.

He doesn’t want the night to end. He doesn’t want to go back to the party. Or the press schedule. Or the hotel room that smells like engine oil. He just wants to stay in this sliver of time with you, where everything feels quiet and golden and just a little bit dangerous.

The reveal comes too late.

You’re saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to let you go yet, isn’t ready. Hasn’t even gotten your number. He’s halfway through trying to think of a not-too-obvious way to ask when someone steps in behind you, fitting into the space like they’ve always belonged there, an arm slips around your waist.

Max blinks.

Lando.

“Babe, ready to head out?”

The word babe hits harder than it should, loud and casual and completely unexpected. Max goes very still. The world doesn’t stop, but it blurs a little.

You smile up at Lando like you’ve done it a hundred times before, and Max forces something like a polite expression onto his face.

You glance back at him, there’s something like guilt in your expression, like maybe you’ve just remembered the conversation you had. “Sorry,” you say, almost wincing. “I should’ve mentioned. I bet it seems weird now that I didn’t…”

No, he thinks. You didn’t.

“Right,” Max says, forcing a nod. “Yeah. No worries.”

Lando, oblivious to the tension, gives him a quick grin. “Didn’t know you guys had met.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “Yeah, just talked a bit on the balcony.” He pauses then adds, “How’d you two meet?”

Lando nods like that makes sense. “Over the break actually. My sister introduced us.”

Max glances at you then, just for a second, and catches the way your gaze flicks down, like you can’t quite look at him. Or maybe he’s imagining it. Hell, he hopes he’s imagining it.

“She’s great right?” Lando adds, nudging you playfully. “Honestly, don’t know how I pulled it off.”

You roll your eyes, murmuring something under your breath that Max doesn’t catch, but your fingers curl lightly around Lando’s jacket. It’s a small gesture. Familiar. Comfortable.

And suddenly Max feels like an idiot for reading into anything earlier. For thinking you’d smiled at him differently. Like it meant something.

But it felt like something.

Lando slides his hand from your waist to your back, casually possessive in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Anyway, we’re gonna head out before anyone get’s a chance to tell her any embarrassing stories. You good mate?”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost too fast. “All good.”

He smiles. It feels like glass in his mouth

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but there’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t make it worse. Lando says something Max doesn’t catch, and then the two of you turn to go, weaving through the crowd like it’s just another night.

He tells himself it’s fine. Just a good conversation. One night. A pretty girl with a quick laugh and a sharp tongue, who happens to be taken. Happens to be dating Lando of all people.

It’s not like it was going anywhere anyway.

So he lets it go, or at least, he tries to.

Pushes it down. Brushes it off. Chalks it up to timing, to circumstance, to a moment that wasn’t meant to stretch past a balcony and a glass of wine.

But forgetting you is harder than it should be, because before he can catch his breath, before the memory even has a chance to fade you’re just there.

Everywhere.

Race weekends. Hospitality lounges. Dinners. Media days, even the random downtime between sessions. Always by Lando’s side, but not just as a silent plus-one. You’re involved. Engaged. Bright. Everyone around you lights up when you laugh, and Max starts to notice that he’s seeking it out.

Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but he catches himself doing it, scanning the motorhome crowd, the paddock, the grid. He starts recognising your laugh before he sees you. Starts hearing your voice in the blur of post-session chaos. Starts catching your eyes sometimes across the garages. Just a flicker.

That same wind-in-your-hair kind of energy that first caught him is still there, and it’s impossible to ignore. And then he hates himself a little for it.

Because it shouldn't matter.

Because you’re with someone.

Because that someone is Lando.

And because the more Max tries to shove you out of his head, the more space you seem to take up.

It gets worse after Bahrain.

He’s just won, lights to flag, clean and clinical, the kind of performance that should leave him floating, and for a while it does. The podium, the champagne, the roar of the anthem humming in his chest. The adrenaline, the sweat still drying on his skin, the weight of the trophy in his hands. But now, walking through the corridors the high is already starting to fade, dulled around the edges like something’s missing.

He’s still got a towel slung around his neck, his race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin. His heart is only just slowing down. He expects silence, maybe a few staff, instead, he walks into the private lounge and sees you.

You’re perched at one of the small round tables, legs crossed effortlessly, sipping from a bright-red can of something fizzy. Your sunglasses are pushed up into your hair, and you’re still wearing your paddock lanyard, twirling it around your fingers in absentminded loops. Lando is beside you, hands moving fast as he talks a mile a minute and your laughing softly under your breath.

Max stops for half a second in the doorway before forcing himself to keep walking.

You glance up when you hear him, and your entire face lights up. “Congrats.”

Two syllables. One smile. That’s all it takes.

His pulse spikes harder than it did on Lap 42.

He nods, playing it cool. “Thanks.”

Lando claps him on the back. “Man’s a machine right?”

Max shrugs, offering a quick grin. “It’s a team effort.”

“Still,” you say, standing now, brushing a strand of hair from your face, it’s a simple movement, nothing special and for some reason he wants to memorise it. “You make it look easy. It’s pretty incredible.”

He meets your eyes and for a second all the noise around him disappears, like it’s come to do when you're around.

“Thanks,” he says again, quieter now.

Your eyes linger on him for a beat longer than necessary before Lando throws an arm around your shoulder. You lean into his side, casual, unthinking like it’s second nature. Max swallows the bitterness that rises in the back of his throat.

He tells himself to walk away. Go shower. Get food. Do anything other than stand here watching you like he’s forgotten how to move, but instead he stays planted, towel still around his neck, pretending it’s all fine.

Pretending he doesn’t already know this season is going to be a whole lot harder than expected, and not for any reason he could have ever seen coming.

You keep ending up alone together. Not by plan, never that, but by chance, the universe tugging invisible strings.

Like in Miami, when Lando disappears during a media block, caught up in a last-minute interview, and somehow Max ends up next to you under an umbrella shade, both of you half-melting in the afternoon heat, hiding from the sun.

You talk, about nothing at first, harmless stuff. What you’d cook for your last meal. Which drivers have the worst music taste. How neither of you really understand the appeal of those dystopian Netflix dating shows, but you both keep watching them anyway.

It’s easy. The kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like it’s building to anything, but still feels like something. You don’t ask him about the race or the standings or how the car feels in Sector 2. You ask him what scares him more, flying or falling. You ask him what he was like at fifteen. If he still remembers the first thing he ever wanted to be.

The topics shift easily drifting from deep to dumb in seconds like you’ve both forgotten this is supposed to be a quick conversation.

“What’s your last meal? And don’t say pasta, because I will absolutely judge you.”

He raises a brow. “You’re judging me already.”

“I’m preemptively judging you,” you clarify, eyes dancing.

He plays along. “Fine. My mum’s tomato soup.”

You gasp and coo. “That’s too wholesome. I was expecting something rich and unhinged like a raw steak with gold leaf on it.”

He smirks. “Guess I’m boring.”

“You’re not boring, Max-a-million,” you say, and it slips out like it’s been said a hundred times before.

He groans, but it’s soft. Familiar. “No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“Too late,” you grin.

“Falling,” he says, without thinking. Then, “But not physically. Not like… off a building or something.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Emotionally?”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “Yeah. That kind.”

You nod, like you understand more than you should. “Same.”

“What were you like at fifteen?”

He makes a face. “Annoying. Too serious. Too fast.”

You smile. “Still fast.”

He huffs a breath. “Still serious.”

You lean your head back against the chair. “Did you always want this? Like… this this? F1?”

He glances at you, and your expression is so open, so easy, it knocks something loose in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I wanted to be a fighter pilot when I was little.”

Your mouth quirks. “You think you can pull off aviators?”

He laughs so hard he forgets where he is. He forgets about the track, the cameras, the points, the pressure.

Somewhere in the middle of a story you’re telling something about a terrible hostel and a street performer with a kazoo. He just listens. Watches your eyes light up.

You’re not just funny. You’re brilliant. Quick-witted. Curious. Passionate in a way that sneaks up on him.

He can feel himself falling. Inch by inch.

And he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked when you call him Max-a-million again while swatting a mosquito off your leg.

He rolls his eyes like he’s offended. “Please stop saying that.”

You grin. “Can’t. Trademarked.”

It’s a very stupid nickname, some dumb inside joke you now have and he rolls his eyes, pretends to hate it, but secretly? He wants to hear you say it again. Wants it stitched into his life like it’s always belonged there.

Wants you.

But he doesn’t know what to do with that, because you’re his friend now. Lando’s girlfriend. Off-limits in the clearest, cruelest way.

So he just keeps sitting there, letting himself fall, while pretending he’s not already at the bottom.

As the season rolls on, it sneaks up on him in pieces.

You’re just there more often now. Not in any deliberate way, but like gravity keeps pulling you into the same spaces. Hospitality lounges, press paddocks, bar balconies. Somehow, he always ends up next to you.

Every time you see each other, it’s like you pick up where you left off a rhythm that neither of you ever have to work at. Like you’ve known each other longer than you actually have.

He notices everything.

The way you hand him a piece of gum before FP1, no words, just a slight smirk as he takes it from your palm. The way you laugh with your whole body, unfiltered and open, and how you always lean into him when you do. The way you say his name not with awe, not with flirtation, but with this low warmth that no one else ever quite uses. “Max,” you say, softer, rounder, and every time he hears it, something in his chest tightens.

And the handshake. That dumb little handshake you made up after Imola three taps, a pinky twist, and a snap. He tried to protest it at first. Called it stupid. But now he’s the one who holds his hand out for it when you part ways in the paddock. He never forgets.

It’s your thing. Yours and his.

A friendship. That’s all it is. That’s all he keeps telling himself it is.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t cross lines.

But he thinks about you more than he should. Too often. In the quiet in-between moments after qualifying, before flights, when he’s lying in a hotel room alone with nothing but static playing on the TV. He thinks about the way your eyes find his in a crowd. The way your voice sounds when you're tired. The stupid nickname you gave him and how no one else is allowed to use it now.

It makes him feel guilty. Even though he hasn’t done a thing.

Because you’re with Lando.

Good guy. Friendly. Easy to like. Max has known him long enough to know he always means well, even when he’s immature. He treats you well enough. Laughs with you. Shows you off. You seem happy. Most of the time.

But Max sees it, or maybe he’s imaging it, he’s not sure. The way you sometimes scan a room even when Lando’s right beside you. The way your smile falters when you think no one’s looking. The way your eyes drift past Lando, past the noise and land on him, and for one stupid, selfish second, Max lets himself wonder if maybe you’re searching for him.

If maybe you feel it too.

Lando’s away, off somewhere sunny and overexposed for sponsor dinners and promo shoots, his name attached to three different press stops in forty-eight hours. Max isn’t sure which city he's even in. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe Milan.

Max is at home, alone in Monaco, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the sim rig cooling down. He’s sprawled out on his couch, feet on the coffee table, half-watching Twitch with the volume low.

It starts with a text.

Late. Casual. Random.

You ever actually beat that stupid time trial record?

Max reads the message twice before smirking, thumb already tapping out a reply. He knows exactly what you’re talking about a conversation from a week ago, back in the hospitality lounge in Japan, where you were complaining (loudly) about how the F1 game had it out for you.

He teased you mercilessly for it. Told you the game was easy. You’d rolled your eyes and promised to prove him wrong.

Nope. Still a tragedy. Wanna coach me through it? Or just sit there and judge?

Both. Obviously.

That’s all it takes.

You join his Discord call a few minutes later. No build-up. No big deal. Just one conversation flowing into another the same way it always does with you.

That night, you play for five hours.

The conversation flows like it always does quick, easy, effortless. You talk trash, accuse each other of cheating, devolve into dumb inside jokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.

You dramatically narrate your own crashes like a race engineer on the verge of a breakdown. He tells you your racing line is criminal. Time melts away. The room around him blurs. He doesn’t even realise how late it’s gotten until the first threads of dawn start filtering through his apartment windows in Monaco.

You yawn and stretch somewhere on the other end of the line. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially ruined sleep for me.”

“That was the plan,” Max replies without missing a beat.

“I feel like we just set a world record,” you say. “For how long two people can talk shit while driving in circles.”

Max lets out a soft laugh, tired, but genuine. “I think that’s called Formula One.”

From there, it becomes a pattern. Not official. Not scheduled. Just something that happens when the time is right.

Post-race Mondays. Rainy midweeks. It’s all easy, effortless, one of you sends a link, the other joins without question. You game, you talk, you lose track of time. Every time, it’s hours. Every time, it feels like five minutes.

You tease him when he loses. Call him dramatic when he blames lag. Mimic his Dutch accent when he’s trying to explain strategy, and somehow, in between the laughing and the bickering and the long silences that aren’t awkward at all you say something that hits too close. That thing about how he hides stress behind sarcasm

Something shifts in his chest. He’s not sure what.

Just that you know him. Already.

Too well.

The friendship cements itself in those hours. In the in-between.

He starts sending you dumb pictures of his cat sleeping in weird positions stretched out like royalty across his sim chair, paw over its face like it’s had enough of Monaco life. You text each other blurry selfies from the track and half-eaten sandwiches you regret buying. You send him screenshots of your notes app full of nonsense, half-finished grocery lists, your favourite F1 radio quotes, he doesn’t know why he cares, but he reads them all.

You FaceTime from airport terminals and hotel rooms, makeup half-on, hair in a bun, wearing mismatched socks and ranting about a guy who coughed too loud during your workout. You’re real with him. Unfiltered. Messy. Honest in a way most people aren't allowed to be around Max.

You tease him relentlessly about his toddler-style strop whenever he gets worked up mid-game, the way he throws his headset off like it personally betrayed him, the muttered swearing in Dutch, the overly dramatic sighs that echo through the mic.

“You genuinely pout,” you tell him one night, biting back a laugh. “Like actual full-lip, crossed-arms sulking.”

“I do not pout,” he mutters, but he’s already laughing.

He retaliates by poking fun at your Spotify playlists. “There are seven different versions of the same sad acoustic song,” he says. “Do you just hit shuffle and cry?”

There’s a beat of quiet before you both start laughing the kind that builds slowly, peaks, and then rolls into silence again, warm and worn-in.

There’s a day where you speak only in impressions so bad they make you wheeze-laugh into your pillow.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s friendship. Simple. Safe.

But Max feels it, the shift. The pull.

This quiet, slow-burning want that sneaks up on him in quieter moments. The kind of ache that grows without asking for permission.

And then there are the harder days.

You call him when things feel heavy.

When your family’s being difficult. When your job is running you into the ground. When you’re sitting in a hotel hallway barefoot because you just need a minute. You don’t ask for advice. You just talk, and he listens steady, grounded, patient in ways he doesn’t always know how to be for himself.

And when Lando forgets a date not cruelly, just distractedly, a date buried under sponsor events and post-race press, you call Max. You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit on the line, voice small, and say, “It’s not even about the date. It’s the fact that I had to remind him.”

He doesn’t judge. Doesn’t rush. Just listens. Holds the silence. Lets you unravel, piece by piece, without trying to fix it. He tells you it’s okay to feel like you deserved more, because you do. He wants to tell you that if it were him, if it were ever him, he’d never forget something that mattered to you.

He doesn’t offer the words he wants to, the ones caught behind his teeth. Instead, he tells you it’s okay to feel hurt. That it’s not needy to want to be remembered.

He stays on the line long after you’ve stopped crying. Long after the silence settles.

He wants to be the person you can rely on. The one you reach for in the dark, because he’s your friend and he needs to be your friend. Even if it wrecks him a little more every day.

Even if every moment he’s the one you lean on, he’s reminded that he’ll never be the one you lean into.

Your friendship keeps growing. It builds in layers, steady, natural, like something that was always supposed to be there.

The more time you spend together, the more Max notices. Not just the way you make him laugh or the way your jokes land exactly the same way his brain works, but the little things. The quiet compatibilities. The instincts. How you always gravitate to the same seats, how you both hate long dinners, how your movie taste overlaps just enough to fight about it.

You get each other.

In a way he doesn’t get most people.

But none of it changes the one thing he keeps trying not to think about.

You’re still with Lando.

You still sit in his garage, wearing one of his oversized hoodies like it’s second skin. You still wait for him after races, still kiss him behind the pits after any finish no matter what place, like you're proud… like you love him.

And Max just watches.

Always from the sidelines. Always quiet.

Pretending like it doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. Like it doesn’t twist something sharp in his gut. Like he doesn’t want to rip the seams of the universe apart just to be where Lando is.

Because he knows in that deep, frustrated, unshakeable way that he would do it differently.

He wouldn’t forget your coffee order. Wouldn’t cancel dinner because his ego was bruised. Wouldn’t scroll through his phone while you talked about your day, only half-listening, nodding at the wrong parts.

He’d see you.

Not just the version you show the world. All of it. The sharp, sarcastic comebacks. The stubbornness. The softness you try to hide when you're tired.

And he’d love it. He already does. But he doesn’t say any of this. He can’t.

So he drives. Focuses. Wins.

Because that’s the one thing he can control. The one part of his life that doesn’t feel completely out of reach.

And still, you’re there.

In his life. Constant conversations woven into the rhythm of his days before he even realises it.

Stupid inside jokes born from race weekends, post-session chaos, and shared hatred for overpriced hotel drinks. Quick updates, check-ins, little things like:

“Guess what I just heard in the hotel lobby? Lift jazz version of your crying-in-the-club song.”

“You looked exhausted earlier drink actual water today, not just energy drinks.”

“Have you eaten today? I have some sushi with your name on it.”

“You blinked seventeen times in that interview. Were you trying to Morse code me?”

“I always know it’s been a long day when your texts stop using punctuation.”

Then it becomes more.

Random questions that spiral. Conversations at 3 a.m. when neither of you can sleep.

Discussions about whether cereal counts as soup, or who you think would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“You’d be dead in the first twenty-four hours,” he says, completely serious.

“Wow. Harsh.”

“You’d trip over a suitcase and get eaten.”

“Bold talk for someone who can’t even do his own laundry.”

“Laundry is not a survival skill.”

You send voice notes sometimes. Half-asleep ones, where your voice is soft and slower, a little hoarse from the day.

Max listens to them more than once.

His phone lights up with your name more than anyone else’s now. And he lets it. Wants it.

Texting doesn’t feel like cheating. Not really.

Even when he knows that it’s the part of his day he looks forward to most.

It starts to feel like a rhythm.

He wakes up thinking about you more often than he means to.

He trains with your voice in his ears, half-listening to a podcast you swore was brilliant, even though he swears he hates podcasts. Now he lets you explain some ridiculous true crime theory or read him an article in your worst newscaster voice.

He races. He wins. And if you’re not there at the track, not waiting in the garage or watching from the pit wall, he calls you after.

Not for celebration. Just because it feels wrong not to. Like gravity. Like breath.

You’re in the hospitality lobby one weekend, seated on a velvet chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, the lanyard around your neck swinging gently as you talk animatedly to someone on a voice note.

Max spots you instantly, and without thinking, without asking, he drops into the seat beside you.

No greeting. No fanfare. Just that easy kind of silence that only exists between people who don’t have to try.

He leans slightly over your shoulder, peeking at whatever video you’ve pulled up, and listens while you vent. He doesn’t catch all of it. Just the rhythm of your voice, the way it curls and softens when you realise he’s there.

Your foot ends up nudged against his thigh.

You don’t move it.

Neither does he.

It’s nothing. Really.

And it’s everything.

There are moments.

God, there are so many moments.

You watching his post-race interviews and mouthing along with him like you’ve anticipated what’s he going to say next. He catches you doing it once through the reflection of a motorhome window lips syncing in time with his words, eyes narrowed as if willing the reporters to get to the point. He smiles to himself and doesn’t say a word.

There’s the flight from Spa to Zandvoort. You’re all seated in his jet Lando across from you. You’re beside Max, curled up beneath a blanket, and somewhere over Belgium, your head tips gently against his shoulder.

Barely a touch. Barely a weight. Like you didn’t mean to. Like it just happened.

He doesn’t move.

Neither does Lando.

He just glances up once, registers it, and looks away again. And Max sits there, heart pounding, terrified to breathe too deeply in case you wake up and move.

He knows things about you now that no one else seems to remember.

Your favourite lip balm the one that smells like strawberry and always disappears from your bag.

The way you bite your thumbnail when you’re overthinking.

Which songs you skip halfway through, even though you swear they’re your favourites. How your mood shifts when the weather changes. How you always hum under your breath when you’re working on something.

He knows you.

All of you.

Better than anyone he thinks.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because there’s nothing wrong with what’s happening.

You’re allowed to have friends outside of Lando. You’re allowed to laugh with Max. To sit beside him. To know his drink order and tell him when his hair’s a mess. Lando likes that you get along. He doesn’t question how close you and Max have become. Why would he?

It’s just friendship.

That’s what you keep telling yourselves.

Neither of you ever expected to find someone who fit you so well. Who laughed at the same things, who understood the same family pressures, who found the same stupid YouTube videos funny at 2 a.m.

The three of you hang out together all the time. It’s easy. It’s normal. It’s safe.

And Max, Max tells himself it’s just bad timing. That in another life, in another version of the world, maybe he would’ve met you first. Maybe things would’ve been different.

But that’s not the life they’re living.

You’re happy with Lando.

And Max?

He has to learn to be happy with your friendship.

To be your almost.

There’s a moment that nearly breaks him.

Barcelona.

You’re in his driver room between sessions. You’d followed him in after media, talking without really thinking, plopping down on the small sofa like you belonged there.

He’s at the edge of the treatment table, scrolling through race data on his tablet, only half-focused, because your voice is in the background and it’s oddly comforting.

You’re rambling. The heat’s gotten to you, you're talking in lazy circles, eyelids drooping, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Then your words trail off mid-sentence, drifting into silence.

And just as your breathing starts to even out, just before you fully tip into sleep, you mumble so quietly he almost misses it.

“I like being around you. You feel safe.”

Max freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the floor like it might hold the answer to whatever this is, this thing that keeps happening between you when neither of you are brave enough to name it.

All he can think as his chest tightens and his hands curl against the edge of the table, like that one sentence didn’t just knock the air from his lungs, is how badly he wishes you meant that the way he does. Because to him, safe means home.

People start to notice.

It’s subtle side glances, raised eyebrows, the occasional lingering smirk from someone in the paddock who’s paid just enough attention.

Then it’s Nico.

After a press conference in Montreal, while Max is sipping water and half-scrolling through his phone, Nico nudges him with his elbow, eyes gleaming with something that isn’t quite judgment, just amusement.

“That girl of Lando’s,” he says, keeping his voice low but pointed, “the one always hanging around? She’s got you wrapped around her finger huh?”

Max doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer.

He just shrugs, the kind of shrug that’s supposed to mean whatever but feels more like don’t ask me that.

But even as he brushes it off, he can feel it on him. Like a bruise that someone’s pressed too hard. A soreness he forgot was there until someone pointed it out.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t even know what to call you.

You’re not his. Not just a friend either, not anymore, not with the way you fill the space around him even when you’re not there.

You’ve become the middle of everything.

The person he’s always half-replying to in his head during interviews, pretending to listen while mentally saving stories to tell you later.

The laugh he waits for. The one he leans toward instinctively when he hears it across the paddock.

The name he types and deletes in his notes app when something good, or stupid, or beautiful happens and he wants no, needs to tell you first.

You’re the part of his day he never wants to end.

And that’s what wrecks him most.

He catches himself staring at his phone more than he should.

Waiting for the ping. That green bubble. That small, digital flicker of your attention the one that makes his pulse trip even though he tells himself to stay calm.

Sometimes it’s something simple:

You see this meme?

Other times, it's heavier. Quieter.

I missed talking to you today.

And that one stays with him.

Long after he’s read it. Long after he’s put the phone down. It echoes like a bell rung too close to his chest.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say back?

I miss you like an ache in my chest?

I miss you like a secret?

I miss you like a man in love with someone he can’t have?

Instead, he types something safe.

I’m always here.

And hopes you can read between the lines. Hopes you hear what he’s not saying.

Because he’s loving you in silence. In stillness. In the space between every message, every look, every moment that feels like more than it should.

He’s back home during another break in the season. The sun’s setting and the windows are open, the sea a distant hush below, but none of it helps. The city lights flicker across his apartment walls, and his brain won’t stop spinning.

Not about the car. Not about tire degradation or lap delta or next year’s contract.

Just you.

You, like a song stuck on loop in the back of his mind. You, filling every inch of the quiet.

His phone buzzes just after ten. A photo.

Your dog, wearing sunglasses and a crooked little smirk. The caption just says, He gets his attitude from me.

He replies without hesitation.

Snaps a quick selfie one of the rare ones. No expression, just that deadpan, disinterested look you once claimed made him look like he was pondering the end of the world.

Two minutes later, your response lands.

That’s your sexy face, huh?

His chest tightens.

Not in that fleeting, ego-boosted way most compliments land, this one hits lower. Deeper. Where he keeps the things he never says out loud.

His fingers move before his brain catches up.

You think I’m sexy?

Sent.

The second it delivers, his stomach twists.

Too much. Too obvious. Too fast.

He locks his phone and tosses it on the couch, stands up too quickly, starts pacing, heart pounding, blood hot, regret already blooming in the back of his throat.

You leave it on read.

For two hours.

He checks the time. Then again. Then again. He thinks about calling one of his friends just to scream into the void. Thinks about throwing his phone into the sea.

He doesn’t.

But he wants to.

It’s almost midnight when his screen finally lights up again.

One line.

Don’t do that.

That’s all you say.

No emoji. No follow-up. No explanation.

Max stares at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he waits long enough.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He types something deletes it. Types again. Backspaces. The silence stretches around him, and suddenly, the apartment feels too big. The lights too dim. The air too still.

Don’t do that.

He knows what you meant. He knows where the line is and how close he just got to crossing it.

But something about your words doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like a warning.

Like you feel it too.

Like you’re scared of it, just as much as he is.

He sits back down slowly, phone in hand, thumb still frozen over the screen. His heart thuds painfully behind his ribs. He doesn’t reply. Not yet.

But he doesn’t turn the phone off either.

Because for the first time, in all this silence, he wonders:

Maybe I’m not alone in this.

And that thought alone is enough to undo him.

Max doesn’t love going out during the season.

He hates the noise. The cameras. The press of people pretending not to stare, the unspoken pressure to smile.

But tonight is different, because you’ll be there, that’s all it takes.

One look at your name on the guest list attached to Lando’s, of course and suddenly the noise doesn’t seem so bad. Suddenly, the chaos feels worth it if it means seeing you again. Laughing with you. Even if it’s only for a moment.

Even if it hurts.

Because Max will take whatever pieces of you he can get.

Even the ones that aren’t his to keep.

It’s a sponsor party, not wild, not chaotic. Just sleek. Polished. Expensive lighting and cold champagne.

He spends longer getting ready than he wants to admit. Wears the cologne you once said smelled good. Buttons up the deep navy shirt you teased him about months ago the one you said made his shoulders look strong. He catches himself adjusting his watch in the mirror. Then rolls his eyes at his own reflection.

He tells himself not to expect anything. Buries it beneath the surface where all the other unsaid things live.

But still, something in his chest is restless.

Maybe tonight.

Maybe you’ll look at him the way he looks at you like you already know the ending and you’re afraid of it.

You walk in twenty minutes late, effortlessly stunning in a black dress that hugs you in all the right places, and Max forgets whatever he was just talking about.

Time doesn’t stop. But it stutters.

You spot him across the room and smile not politely, not vaguely, but with that spark you always give him. Like you’re glad he’s here. Like you’re looking for him, not just seeing him.

You make your way over with a glass of something pale and sparkling in your hand. Your earrings catch the light. Your heels click like punctuation on the marble floor.

“No Lando?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You glance over, “He’s running late.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice light. “Guess I got lucky.”

You don’t leave his side after that.

You drift with him through the room not clinging, but constant. Your hand brushes his arm when you lean in to speak. You laugh more easily tonight. Your shoulders are looser. You're drinking more than usual not messy, just a little free.

At one point, you tilt your head and look him up and down, eyes flicking to the open collar of his shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you say, voice dipped in something warm.

Max lifts his drink, smirking. “Not too bad yourself.”

It’s just you and him, suspended in the kind of unspoken tension that’s almost worse than anything you could say out loud.

You reach for his drink, take a sip without asking, then hand it back. Your fingers graze his barely there, but it’s enough to set something inside him alight.

They linger.

And Max, God help him, lets himself believe. Just for a second.

Maybe this is finally the start of something.

But then you disappear.

For half an hour, maybe more. Long enough for the champagne to go warm in his hand. Long enough for the hope to start dissolving at the edges.

He mingles. Nods along with sponsors. Forces a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Keeps scanning the room.

Then he sees you.

Your back is to him.

And Lando’s arms are wrapped around you.

You're standing just off the dance floor, the picture of easy affection. His mouth is at your ear, and you’re laughing, head tilted, one hand curling around the edge of his jacket. It’s intimate in a way Max has no right to look at. Like you belong there. Like whatever flickered earlier was just a trick of the light.

Max freezes. Not the quiet ache he’s gotten used to. Not the slow burn of unspoken feelings. No, this is worse.

Because for one stupid, vulnerable moment, he really thought maybe.

And now?

Now he’s choking on it.

You pull back from Lando just slightly, smiling as you rest your hand on his chest. You don’t see Max across the room, but he sees everything.

And he turns away before you can.

Before you catch the way his jaw clenches so tight it hurts. Before you notice how his hand trembles as he downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, needing to dull the sharpness clawing at his ribs.

Wishing, not for something dramatic, not for a grand gesture, just for a door to close, and a world where he doesn’t have to watch the person he loves choose someone else.

Later, someone finds him outside up on the rooftop balcony, the music’s faint up here. The noise muffled.

Max sits on the ledge, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the skyline like it might offer some kind of answer.

“What’s that face for?” someone on his team asks, voice cautious but not unkind.

He shrugs, eyes never leaving the horizon. “I don’t know. Thought I almost had something tonight.”

He doesn’t say it was you.

Doesn’t say that your laugh is still bouncing around in his skull like an echo he can’t get rid of. Doesn’t say that he saw the way you looked at him before Lando showed up.

He just stays quiet. Lets the night air settle over him. Lets the ache sit in his chest like a stone. And wonders, not for the first time, how it’s possible to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

He knows the truth now. He’s utterly, irrevocably, silently in love with you.

And it’s never going to matter. Not in the way he wants it to.

It comes to a head in Monza.

The sky is impossibly blue, the air heavy with sun and sound, the track a blur of heat haze and anticipation. And you… you're radiant.

Max notices it the second he sees you.

Light dress. Sun-kissed skin. Hair down and wild like an afterthought, sunglasses perched on your head like you forgot they were there. You look like summer distilled into a person, it reminds him of the first time he saw you.

And you’re his for the day not in any official, spoken way, but in the quiet, unspoken rhythm you’ve built between you. Lando’s doing PR, media rounds that keep him off-site, and somehow, like it always seems to happen, you end up with Max.

You spend most of the afternoon in the Red Bull garage.

You’re at his side during debriefs, leaning in close as he reviews sectors. You scroll through telemetry with an almost comically serious look on your face, brow furrowed in focus, asking questions that most people wouldn’t even think to ask. The kind that make Max grin. Because you get it.

You care.

And for the first time in weeks, something cracks open in his chest, something reckless and stupid and full of hope.

She wants to be here, he thinks.

She wants to be with me.

You’re both laughing over something stupid during lunch when Alex walks past, then slows. Double-takes.

He throws a look between the two of you, not cruel, just amused, and loud enough to cut through the bubble you’ve been living in.

“Didn’t realise you were on Red Bull’s payroll now,” he says to you with a raised brow, voice too casual to be casual.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs, smirking. “I mean, you spend more time in their garage than McLaren’s. Pretty sure Lando’s starting to look around like he lost his girlfriend.”

Max freezes.

It hits like cold water. A slap. A warning.

You laugh, light, quick, deflective. “Okay, wow. Bit dramatic.”

But Max sees it. The flicker in your expression. The way your eyes dart away. That brief, faltering pause where you’re not quite sure what to do.

Alex walks off, leaving behind the silence.

The kind that buzzes.

Like something just cracked wide open.

Because until now, no one had said anything. Not even Lando. Not about the way you and Max orbit each other like gravity. Not about the way you light up when Max is near. Not about the way he looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment before it’s gone.

But now it’s been said. Out loud. Witnessed.

And Max feels it, the shift. The weight.

The beginning of the end.

You’re quieter the rest of the weekend.

Shorter texts. Delayed replies. No FaceTime, not even a “can’t talk, I’m tired.” Just silence.

The next morning, you’re not there before FP3. You don’t show up after quali. You don’t come by the garage all weekend.

It’s like being cut off from oxygen.

Max tells himself not to overthink it.

But when the second race weekend goes by and your messages keep coming in cold and clipped, he feels it in his bones.

You’ve pulled away.

He doesn’t need a conversation to know it. He can feel the distance like a phantom pain.

When you finally call, it’s early. Static-filled. Rushed.

“Hey,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry… Yeah… Just trying to be more present. With Lando. I think I’ve been too wrapped up in other things.”

Other things.

You don’t name it. But he knows. He knows.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at the floor, gripping his phone like it’s anchoring him to something that’s already slipping away.

You clear your throat. “You understand, right?”

He lies.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You hang up after promising to “catch up soon.”

And Max is left alone, phone still warm in his hand, screen dark.

This is right. This is what should’ve happened months ago. It’s the mature thing. The loyal thing. You’re choosing your relationship. You’re choosing him.

But it feels like losing a limb. Like he has to relearn how to walk, talk, breathe without the constant pulse of you in his life.

The silence stretches. Days. Weeks.

You still text sometimes. Safe things. Surface things. Memes. Some media gossip.

But it’s different. There’s space between every message now. Hesitation in every word. You don’t send voice notes, you don’t call when you can’t sleep, and Max for all his stubbornness, for all his fight, doesn’t push.

He just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Weeks later. Singapore. Hot. Noisy. Tense.

And Max is tired of pretending he’s fine. That night, Max opens your chat.

Types:

I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types again:

I wish things were different.

Deletes that too.

Stares at the blinking cursor until it fades, and closes the app without sending anything at all.

Just lies back in the dark, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. Until long past midnight, just as he thinks he's finally stopped waiting

His phone lights up. Like you knew somehow that tonight was the night he needed it most. The ache he thought he was hiding so well, mirrored right back at him.

One message.

Three words.

Are you awake?

[rexit-mo]

The mysterious Mrs Piastri - Masterlist

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: The one where Oscar has been married since he was 18 years old and never bothered to tell most people.

Links:

In chronological order:

The Alpine-McLaren Fiasco

The Alpine - McLaren Fiasco…and Felicity Piastri’s hand in it. (Or: why multiple F1 team principals are terrified of Oscar’s wife.) Set in the Summer of 2022. 

Supernova

Oscar Piastri realises that his daughter is more similiar to his wife than he thought. Set in Summer 2023. 

The mysterious Mrs Piastri

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

Wait, What?

Oscar Piastri managed to keep his wife a secret on accident for nearly half a decade…

Come to think off, that was not the only one he kept a secret. 

Home Sweet Home

Oscar Piastri is just happy to be home with his girls. Lando Norris meets Felicity and Bee Piastri.   

Bribery remains effective

Oscar Piastri thought doing kindergarten drop-off for his daughter would be easy — until Bee negotiates like a Formula 1 strategist and declares that the chickens at home are better friends than her classmates.

That Kind of Love

The most attractive thing about Oscar Piastri wasn’t his appearance. Or his mind, even though he was brilliant. It’s the way he loves his daughter. 

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

[rexit-mo]

oscar piastri masterlist

smaus

⊹ loverboy!oscar is crushing on popstar!YN. she doesn't know he exists... until she does.

part one

part two

part three

[rexit-mo]

Invisible String — Series Masterlist

( MAX VERSTAPPEN x CELESTE S. PEREIRA )

SUMMARY — Celeste’s ambition was her shield, her love for her family her foundation. Max’s fame was his cage, the truth his prison. The invisible string connecting them was one they could neither see nor deny — pulling them together in spite of it all.

WARNINGS — Sexually suggestive content. Chronic illness (Type 1 Diabetes). Lying and deception. Mentions of death of a parent. Emotional themes (grief, trust issues). Identity concealment. Angst + Fluff. Happy ending. Age difference (26-23).

AUTHOR NOTES — There are so many things I want to say, but I'll start with a warning - their love is real and raw and so passionate that you will feel it in your bones. This series will conclude after 5 chapters — 1 chapter per week, posted on a Monday.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three (Coming Soon)

[rexit-mo]

★ MASTERLIST

it's nice to have a friend lando is one of your closest friends… until he sleeps with you and ghosts you.

part one ★ part two ★ part three ★ part four ★ part five ★ part six ★ part seven ★ part eight ★ part nine ★ part ten ★ part eleven ★ part twelve ★ part thirteen ★ part fourteen ★ part fifteen ★ part sixteen ★ part seventeen ★ part eighteen ★ part nineteen ★ part twenty ★ part twenty one ★ part twenty two ★ part twenty three ★ part twenty four ★ part twenty five ★ part twenty six ★ part twenty seven ★ part twenty eight ★ part twenty nine ★ part thirty ★ part thirty one ★ part thirty two ★ part thirty three ★ part thirty four ★ part thirty five ★ part thirty six ★ part thirty seven

bonus written parts: part one

[rexit-mo]

Collision Masterlist

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual angst and smut

Some part will be SMAU and some fully written

Part 1

Part 2 (SMAU)

Part 3

Part 4 (SMAU)

Part 5 (SMAU)

Part 6

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

[rexit-mo]

DMs and Drive Days

masterlist - request

Lando Norris x Influencer!Reader

Summary: It starts with a viral TikTok of you calling Lando your "celebrity crush" during a livestream. Next thing you know, fans are shipping you two hard—and Lando is playing along. Until it doesn’t feel like “playing” anymore.

warnings: none

a/n: Hi guys, this is going to be a multiple-part series, please enjoy <3

"Okay, no, but seriously," her phone propped up against her mirror wobbled slightly as she placed it down, and slid into her vanity chair, "I think I'm accidentally becoming a real streamer."

Her best friend squinted at her from the phone screen. “Girl, you passed accidental like three growth spurts ago. You hit what, six thousand live viewers last stream?”

“Six point eight,” she corrected, dabbing concealer under her eyes and blending with quick, practiced taps. “And half of them were bullying me in chat for screaming every five seconds.”

“You were playing Phasmophobia, what did they expect? Bravery?” Her best friend rolled her eyes. “Anyway, your TikTok clips are popping off. Like, the ‘screamed-at-the-wall-and-died-immediately’ one? I saw that on my FYP three times. And not from you.”

She snorted, reaching for her brow pencil. “God, that one was so embarrassing. My mic picked up my soul leaving my body.”

“You’re literally a meme now. A cute meme.”

“A sweaty meme,” she said, leaning closer to the mirror to fill in a sparse spot in her left brow.

“Speaking of cute—what’s the vibe tonight?” her friend asked, leaning in like she was about to be told a state secret.

“Honestly? Chill chaos. Horror game for like an hour, then maybe some dumb Q&A if I get too scared.”

“Which you will.”

“Which I will,” she agreed, laughing as she reached for her blush. A soft tone that complimented her skin—safe for stream lighting. “I already know it. That stupid hallway sound effect gets me every time.”

She swept blush across her cheeks, blending it up toward her temples with a soft hand. “Honestly, I might not make it past the first ghost. I’ve got my ‘panic and talk to the chat’ face ready, though.”

“Iconic behavior,” her best friend grinned. “Classic you.”

She smirked at the screen. “Anyway, enough about my ghost-related downfall—what’s happening with you and mystery girl?”

Her best friend immediately ducked her head and groaned. “Why do you always do this when you’re doing your eyeliner? You know I can’t lie to you when you’ve got one eye half closed.”

“That’s the point,” she teased, carefully dragging the felt tip across her lash line. “I want the tea and the wing.”

Her friend sighed, cheeks already pink. “Okay, fine. We got coffee. And then dinner. And then… she kissed me.”

The eyeliner pen froze mid-swipe.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“She kissed you?! Like a real kiss or a ‘thanks for dinner, pal’ kiss?”

“Real. Kiss. Hands in hair. Lip gloss stolen. Whole thing.”

She gasped. “Oh my god, you’re basically girlfriends now.”

“I knew you were gonna say that,” her friend groaned.

“But you are! That’s like a third-date level kiss! You don’t kiss like that unless you like-like someone.”

Her best friend looked like she wanted to melt into her hoodie. “She said I make her laugh. Like, a lot. I almost blacked out when she said it.”

“That’s adorable. I love her. I haven’t even met her, but I’m obsessed.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Correct,” she said, popping the cap back on her liner. “And now my eyeliner’s perfect, so thank you for being gay and cute.”

“You’re welcome, I guess?”

She grinned, setting her phone in a new position so she could plug in her headset and boot up her gaming setup. “Alright. I’ve got five minutes to look like I’m emotionally stable before the internet watches me lose my entire mind to a pixelated demon child.”

Her friend chuckled. “You’ve got this. And hey—if things get too scary, just fall over dramatically and claim it was performance art.”

“Tempting. I’ll keep that in my back pocket.”

“Break a leg, stream queen.”

“Later, girlfriend-of-the-year.”

She ended the FaceTime with a final wave and locked her phone, tucking it under her monitor stand where it lived during streams—out of sight, out of panic-trigger range.

With practiced ease, she adjusted her LED strip lights from “vibey sunset” to “cool blue panic,” flicked her ring light on, and opened her streaming software. As her face lit up on the screen, framed by the soft glow and chaos of her background posters and plants, she took a deep breath.

Okay. You got this. Just you, the chat, and one highly haunted house.

“Going live in three… two…”

She clicked the button. Her overlay popped to life—username in bold cursive, chat scrolling fast already—and the little ping of new viewers hit instantly.

Chat: omg she’s hereee she looks too pretty to be this scared it’s scream o’clock LET’S GOOOO manifesting flashlight battery survival GET HER TO 7K VIEWERS TONIGHT

“Hi friends!” she said brightly, waving at the camera with both hands. “I’m emotionally unprepared and under-equipped for what we’re about to do, but welcome in!”

She pulled her headset on and launched the game. That eerie loading screen music started—low static and creepy lullabies—and the nerves kicked in instantly.

“You ever question your life choices?” she muttered, eyes already darting around the flickering hallway of the game. “'Cause I’m currently wondering why I do this to myself willingly.”

The jump scares started fast. She screamed within the first six minutes. Twice.

By the thirty-minute mark, she had thrown her mouse, knocked over her water bottle, and begged an in-game ghost named “Margaret” to spare her.

Chat: not margaret beefing again 😭 this is Oscar-worthy content SHE THREW THE MOUSE I’M DEAD give this girl a break omg pause for a Q&A pls she needs a breather

Laughing breathlessly, she yanked her headset halfway off and leaned back in her chair.

“Okay, okay, okay—we’re taking a break,” she gasped, fanning herself dramatically. “Margaret can haunt her own damn self for a minute. I need emotional support. Someone distract me before I cry on stream.”

The chat exploded with suggestions.

“DO A Q&A!!” “IG questions??” “Say something unhinged!” “Favorite cereal! Celebrity crush! GO!”

She groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “You guys are so nosy, it’s actually insane.”

Still, she opened her Instagram and tapped through the latest question box she’d posted earlier in the week. The screen filled with chaotic curiosity.

What shampoo do you use? Are you secretly dating anyone? What’s your biggest fear (besides Margaret)? Who’s your celebrity crush 👀👀👀

She read that last one aloud, instantly regretting it.

The chat lit up.

👀👀👀 don’t be shy SAY IT say lando norris or you’re lying we know what your type is bestie

She froze, eyes narrowing at her camera. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, what makes you think I have a type?”

chat: short kings with messy curls and fast cars

“...I hate you all.”

She covered her face with both hands, peeking through her fingers at the chat that was now 90% Lando-related memes and “👀” emojis. This is what she gets for reposting ONE of Landos wins on her Instagram story.

“I’m gonna say this one time and then we are moving on, okay?” she said, sitting up straight with faux seriousness.

The chat slowed a little, like everyone was collectively leaning in.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. If I had to pick a celebrity crush—just one—I’d say…”

A pause. A smirk.

“…someone who can drive stick and stream Minecraft, probably.”

The chat exploded.

OH COME ON THAT’S SO SPECIFIC just say lando babe we already KNOW 10/10 no notes messy-haired menace confirmed

She laughed, her cheeks warm with embarrassment and amusement all tangled together. “You guys are actually the worst. The absolute worst. I love you.”

Sliding back in her chair, she clicked through the question box and picked another. “Okay, moving on before I dig my own grave deeper…”

“What’s your favorite horror movie?”

“Ooh, good one,” she mused. “The Others or Hereditary. I like the ones that make me sleep with the lights on for three nights straight.”

Another question popped up.

“Do you believe in ghosts IRL?”

“After tonight? Absolutely. Margaret lives in my walls now.”

She ran through a rapid-fire session of ten more:

“Comfort food?” “Mac and cheese. Extra breadcrumbs. Zero shame.”

“Star sign?” “Sagittarius. Yes, I’m chaotic. No, I won’t apologize.”

“Favorite song right now?” “Anything sad and dramatic. Bonus points if I can stare out the window like I’m in a music video.”

“Most embarrassing stream moment?” “I once screamed ‘OH MY GOD’ so loud I scared my cat off the desk.”

“Do you have a crush on anyone IRL?” “Rude. Next question.”

“What would you do in a zombie apocalypse?” “Die immediately. I’m not built for survival. I’d be looting snacks, not weapons.”

“Have you ever been recognized in public?” “Yes. At a grocery store. I was buying five types of cheese. I have no regrets.”

“Any tattoos?” “One. Small. Hidden. Mysterious.”

“What’s your type?” “People who are unintentionally funny and slightly emotionally unavailable. So… chaos.”

“Stream goal?” “Honestly? Keep having fun and not get possessed during horror games.”

She smiled softly at the camera and let the moment linger.

“Alright, that’s enough oversharing for one night. I should probably go get emotionally prepared for round two with Margaret.”

The chat filled with groans and hype.

NOOO more questions PLEASE she's going to need another break in 3 mins lol Margaret don't come to play

She chuckled, already unpausing the game. “You guys are a menace. But fine. Let’s see if I survive ten more minutes without crying.”

Thirty minutes later, after one ghost chase, two bad flashlight malfunctions, and zero dignity remaining, she ended the stream with a dazed laugh and a sleepy wave.

“Alright, for real this time—thank you for hanging out. I adore you weird little gremlins. Goodnight, go touch grass, drink water, and may all your haunted houses be bug-free.”

She shut everything down—the lights, the camera, the noise. Suddenly, the room was quiet, her heartbeat still racing slightly from digital fear.

She pulled off her headset, crawled into bed in her oversized sweatshirt, and barely remembered to plug in her phone before crashing face-first into her pillow.

Her last thought before sleep hit?

Margaret better not haunt my dreams.

-

Sunlight leaked in through the edge of her overpriced blackout curtains, soft and warm and very much too early. She groaned into her pillow, refusing to open her eyes just yet.

Her body ached in that weird post-stream way—like she’d run a marathon with her voice and facial expressions alone. One leg was tangled in the blanket, the other hanging off the bed, her oversized hoodie halfway up her stomach. A true picture of grace.

She blinked one eye open and blindly reached for her phone, half asleep, fully crusty, and already dreading the horror clips she’d find on Twitter.

7 unread Discord DMs. 15 new Instagram notifications. 32 Twitter mentions. Over 300 new TikTok likes. And a text from her best friend that just read: “GET UP AND GO LOOK AT YOUR TAGGED POSTS RIGHT NOW.”

She blinked again.

Okay.

Still not sitting up, she opened Instagram and tapped into her tags. Right at the top—a stream clip posted by one of her fan pages.

@streammomentsdaily “Someone who can drive stick and streams Minecraft 👀👀👀” [🎥 Clip attached | 00:39 seconds]

Oh no. Oh no. She clicked it, cringing the second her own voice played.

“I’d say… someone who can drive stick and stream Minecraft, probably.”

And right below it, bold as day:

💬 @landonorris: interesting taste.

She sat up so fast her head spun.

“WHAT.”

She scrambled to reread it. Maybe it was a fan account. Maybe it was fake. Maybe she was hallucinating. She clicked the username.

Verified. Bio: McLaren Formula 1 Driver. Twitch Addict. Gamer at heart. Most recent post? Him and Max laughing mid-livestream.

She dropped her phone onto the bed like it was hot and screamed into her hoodie.

No. Nope. This isn’t real. My life is a simulation. I’m being punked. Ashton Kutcher is hiding in my closet.

Her phone buzzed again.

Bestie 🩷:

are you breathing should I send an ambulance OR A RING? he did not just flirt in lowercase in your comments

She typed back in all caps:

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

Then another notification popped up—Twitter this time. Someone had screenshotted Lando’s comment, and now her name was trending locally. The replies were chaos.

bro just folded for a gamer girl lando norris has a type confirmed he’s so unserious for this pls tell me she responds i’m living for streamer x driver energy

She flopped back against her pillows, heart racing, cheeks on fire.

“What the hell is happening,” she whispered, grinning like an idiot.

And then—because she was a little chaotic herself—she opened Instagram again, clicked on the comment, and hit reply.

@yourusername: just trying to keep up with the competition 😌

Instant regret. Instant adrenaline. Instant "what did I just do???" vibes.

Her phone buzzed again—this time, it was a FaceTime request from her best friend. She answered it mid-sigh, eyes wide and unbrushed hair fully living its own life.

The screen lit up with her bestie’s face, who was already yelling before the connection stabilized.

“YOU. ARE. INSANE.”

“I panicked!”

“You flirted with Lando Norris on Instagram!”

“I know!!”

Her best friend cackled, clutching her chest. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far. From horror game scream queen to international flirting icon.”

She groaned. “Please, shut up. My mouth moved faster than my brain. I literally blacked out for fifteen seconds.”

“No, because—look at the comments.”

She opened Instagram again and refreshed the post. Sure enough, under her reply:

@landonorris: careful, i’m competitive too.

Her soul left her body.

“Nope. Goodbye. I’m logging off of life.”

“You are NOT,” her best friend said, pointing at her through the screen. “You are going to bask in this chaos like the main character you are.”

Before she could spiral too hard, another notification dropped. This time from her Instagram’s DMs.

@landonorris sent you a message.

Time stopped.

Her best friend saw the expression on her face and immediately screamed again. “WHAT. What happened?!”

“He DMed me,” she whispered. “What do I do? What do I say? Should I wait?? Is it lame to open it right away?”

“OPEN. IT. RIGHT. NOW.”

She tapped.

Lando Norris [Verified] Hey. That clip was hilarious. So… Minecraft, huh?

She stared. Then looked up at her best friend in the corner of her phone screen, who looked equally stunned and unhinged.

“I think I’m gonna pass away.”

“Girl, if you don’t answer him in the next five seconds—”

“Okay, okay!”

She typed, fingers trembling but determined:

@yourusername: Haha yeah, Minecraft and ghost trauma are kind of my whole brand at this point. You a horror game fan or do you just enjoy watching people suffer? 😇

She hit send. No turning back now. Making sure to screen share so her best friend could see.

Her best friend gasped. “That was flirty. That was subtly flirty. I’m so proud.”

“Was it too much? Too casual? Should I have added a ghost emoji?”

“Too late now! Let it live. Let it breathe.”

They sat there in silence for a beat, both staring at the screen.

Then: Lando is typing…

She screamed into a pillow.

[rexit-mo]

Radio Silence | Series Masterlist

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Zak’s daughter OFC, forbidden romance vibes, very very slowburn romance, ableism on page, strong language, autistic meltdowns on page, eventual sexual content.

Notes — Hope you love it. This series will be longer than From Eden, possibly around 20 chapters. Remember to check each chapter for individual warnings.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

[rexit-mo]

Hurricane Master List

playlist

part one