#f1 fanfic

[verstappenverse]

All Over You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.

2.7k words / Masterlist

Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.

You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch, you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.

It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.

And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.

He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.

So you think, this is us. You think, this works.

Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.

It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.

You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.

And then you catch it.

“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”

A beat.

“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”

You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.

He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”

Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.

You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.

But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?

And just like that, something in you begins to shift.

You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.

You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.

Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.

You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.

You still want to. God, do you want to.

Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.

Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.

So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.

Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.

A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.

At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.

But the distance doesn’t fade.

It expands.

One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.

He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.

It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.

But this?

This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.

The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic

He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.

It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.

Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.

And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.

He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?

Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?

The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.

You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.

But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.

And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.

You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.

You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.

But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.

Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?

You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.

Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.

By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.

That’s when he finally speaks.

“Did I do something?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”

You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”

He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.

You don’t cuddle him that night.

You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.

Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.

It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.

You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.

You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.

The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.

He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.

But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.

And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.

And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.

Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.

“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”

You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.

“I heard you,” you say.

His brow furrows. “Heard me?”

“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”

Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.

“You heard that?”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”

His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”

“Wait, baby—”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Max’s heart actually hurts.

He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”

You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.

“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”

A beat. His voice softens.

“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”

You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”

His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”

He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”

Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”

Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.

You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m right here.”

He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”

You nod. “Promise.”

Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.

“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”

You smile into his skin, small and shy.

He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.

You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.

And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.

[pucksandpower]

Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what’s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”

[dannyriccsystem]

Could u do smth where the drivers thought u were wearing a push up bra but it was really just all natural 😜

ALL NATURAL!

Summary: The boys think you’re wearing a push-up bra… Surprise, it’s all natural!

Warnings: Reader is described to have a big chest, mature for them all / smut for a few, Y/N usage

Featuring: MV1, DR3, LN4, CL16, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81

First time writing for George on this account since people wanted to see him added… That’s my diva. Hopefully I don’t butcher his writing!

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

It was approximately seven in the morning. You were accompanying Max with his race travels for the upcoming triple header, because you didn’t want to spend another three weekends in a row alone. The two of you had just recently started dating, which left some room for firsts in your relationship.

You were currently showering— Just an average part of your morning routine. Afterwards you’d eat breakfast, brush your teeth, get dressed… So on and so forth. The hotel water pressure was impressive, so you found yourself lingering under the downpour of water longer than normal.

Long enough for Max to step in the water behind you. He seemed half asleep still, blinking away the tiredness in his eyes, and it slightly shocked you to see him just invite himself in, but you most certainly were not complaining. Making room for two, you were pulled back against his chest, his arms snaked around your waist to settle on your stomach.

He leaned down to press a little kiss to your neck, his movements slow with grogginess. He hummed, and then he paused. “Wait-” His tone was slurred, brows furrowed. “They just naturally sit like this?” You were confused until he raised his hands, cupping your breasts.

“Yeah?” You asked, still unsure of what he was trying to get at here. “Why? What were you thinking?”

“I thought you had some magic bra or something.” He gave them a gentle squeeze before pulling away to shampoo his hair casually. You blinked, and then laughed at such a ridiculous question.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

“Danny!” You called out from your boyfriend’s bedroom. You stood before a tall mirror, spinning in circles to look at the dress you just bought from all angles. Of course you tried it on at the store, but this was different. Now you could actually style it. The dress was strapless, which meant you opted to just not wear a bra underneath. It was a risky choice, but it looked good nonetheless.

Danny came darting into the room, eyes widening when he saw you. He was dressed in a white button-up and some dress pants and shoes, ready for your date. It was one of very few, considering your relationship was a recent thing. “Wow,” He muttered as he stepped behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he looked at you in the mirror.

“Do you like it?” He nodded, eyes traveling down. With a raised brow, he lifted his hands to rest on top of your chest, and they then trailed up to caress the spot bra straps would typically sit at. “What?”

“Where are the straps?” You turned your head to him, smiling.

“I’m not wearing a bra, Danny.” He blinked, and then looked back at your reflection, and then to you again. “Why is that surprising?”

“They just naturally sit like that? I thought there was something pushing them up.”

“No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “All natural.”

“That’s crazy.” He paused. “So, should we just cancel the date or..?”

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

“Are you ready?” Lando, your boyfriend, asked. He was sprawled out on his bed with a bowl of popcorn next to him, and a pile of pillows and blankets scattered all around. It was movie night with Mr. Norris.

“Uhh, not quite— Do you have a hoodie I can borrow?” You asked as you glanced around the room, standing at the foot of the bed in front of the TV. He just nodded and pointed to the closet.

“Take any of ‘em.” He munched on another handful, on track to finish half the bowl before you guys even started the movie. You hummed and walked over to his closet, sliding the door open and grabbing the first one you could find.

With your back turned to him, you slowly slid off your spaghetti strap tank top. Lando watched with awe, his mouth slightly agape at the sight of a completely bare back. You slid the hoodie on after and then turned around, climbing into the bed beside him.

“What?” You asked upon the sight of his amazement. He blinked at you, and then tilted his head.

“How do you keep your boobs so high?”

“What?” You asked immediately, giving him a weirded out look. He flushed a dark red, the tips of his ears especially warm.

“You’re not wearing a bra—”

“Were you watching me change?”

“Just from behind!” You laughed, shrugging your shoulders.

“They just sit like that naturally.” You grabbed a handful of popcorn and nodded with approval. A popcorn machine was the best addition to his home for sure. Tasted just like authentic movie theater stuff.

He had been quiet. Too quiet, until… “Can I see?” With that boyish grin of his.

“Lando.”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

When you were invited to Charles’ house to ‘test out his new hot tub,’ you didn’t think that would include sitting on his lap for a steamy make out session.

His hands traveled up your sides, caressing the bare skin and pulling you down. His erection was pressed against your inner thigh, soft groans leaving him as you grinded and shifted against it. He squeezed you reassuringly.

You shivered as you felt one hand creep out of the water and travel up your back, tugging on the strings that tied your bikini together. It fell off with ease, descending to float atop the surface of the water.

At first all was well— Charles was distracted by your lips and your hips. Then, when he pulled away for whatever reason, he seemed to freeze at the sight of your bare chest. Unsure of his gaze, your slowly raised your hands to cover yourself up, only to have your hands moved aside.

“Do you not wear something to push them up?” He asked as if it was a mind blowing revelation.

“Uh, no?” He still held your wrists, and you blinked with surprise. “That’s just… How they are?”

“Oh my lord,” He tossed his head back and groaned, and then leaned in to capture your lips once again.

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

After a long event with your boyfriend, all you needed was to come home and relax. You both decided to stay the night at his house since it was late, and it didn’t seem like a big deal anyway. Your clothes were comfortable enough.

You flopped down onto his mattress, burying your head in one of the pillows. Your whole body sunk into the firm material of Lewis’ bed, and you heard him chuckle as he removed his shirt and then climbed in beside you. Roscoe sat at the end, curled up into a ball.

After a moment of relaxation, you sat back on your knees and pulled your arms into your shirt. You removed your bra with ease, tossing it to the side. It felt like freedom.

Lewis’ gaze wasn’t slick, though. You raised a brow once you caught him staring, all while you laid down on your back.

“Do you not wear a push-up bra?” He asked casually, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. You shook your head no with a negative ‘uh-uh.’ “So they naturally sit like that?” You nodded with a positive ‘uh-uh.’ “What a blessing,” He replied, kissing your forehead. You just grinned.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

“Do you care if I change real quick?” You asked your boyfriend, holding the set of pajamas you had left at his house just for this purpose. You may as well live with him at that point, but neither one of you were ready to make that decision yet.

“Go for it, amor.” He confirmed as he straightened out the bed. He couldn’t help but peek as you slipped your shirt off, and your breasts spilled free. He didn’t expect you to be entirely bra-less, everything showing. He cleared his throat and looked down, unsure of what to say.

You didn’t seem to notice his sudden change of mood as you slipped under the covers, yawning and stretching your arms out. Carlos settled in beside you, pulling the covers up and then resting his head on your chest.

You hummed as you ran your fingers through his soft and silky hair, enjoying the relaxing sensation of locks between your fingers. It was a quiet, yet comfortable moment.

Leave it to Carlos to ruin that!

“I can’t believe your boobs are naturally this perky.”

“Oh, that’s crazy.”

—

GEORGE RUSSEL - GR63

About two days ago you had purchased a new perfume when your old limited edition one finally ran out. You were super upset, but the new one was delicious as well. It was a wildly different scent from the last, but oh well.

At first he said nothing, but George most certainly noticed. However, upon the third day he finally cracked. While you were folding laundry he came up behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist and his nose buried in your neck.

“Hm?” You didn’t think much of it, assuming it was just a natural hug from your freakishly tall lover. Until he buried his face further, and his hands started to wander.

“New perfume?” You were impressed he could tell, and gave a delighted nod of approval. His cold, long hands snaked up your shirt, but he jumped with surprise when they landed on your breasts. “Oh-!”

“What?” You asked immediately, flinching at the contact.

“I was expecting fabric. You’re not wearing a bra? I thought you wore push-up bras…”

“I can’t believe you know what that is.” You finished folding the last piece of clothing. “Nope. I don’t.”

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

“Y/N,” Oscar softly whined as you sunk down onto his length, plush velvety walls squeezing him tight. He buried his face in your exposed neck, suckling softly to suppress the sounds he was making.

You weren’t much better off, letting out breathy moans and whines while he gently moved his hips up and against yours. You placed your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself.

Oscar’s hands grabbed the hem of your shirt, and the two of you broke apart from such a tight hold just long enough to have the shirt pulled over your head and tossed aside. When he looked back, it seemed he was expecting more. However, there you were… Completely naked.

His thrusts paused for a second as he stared at your chest, and then slowly pressed soft kisses to them while resuming. You didn’t question it until he added, “Such pretty tits…”

When you were both done and exhausted, you asked him again what he meant. He seemed shy as he answered, “I always thought you wore push-up bras, or those sticky inserts. I was in awe.”

Cute.

[81pastrys]

Morning Song

Summary— Lila doesn’t know the lyrics to their song until Lando leads while making dinner

Warnings— shy Lila

A/N— so cute 🥺

Dad Lando List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— hii, so, do you remember that mclaren video where lando and oscar had to guess and sing songs? i just remembered the part where lando sang along "the climb" from hannah montana and thought of him and his daughter singing it while having breakfast in their house or maybe after he picks her up from kindergarten, during the car ride. just something sweet between them both and the song itself or the series and movies. thanksss

Lando and Lila had a beautiful father-daughter relationship. Lila’s mum adored the small things they would do. One day Lila was humming a song and she was confused on what song it was.

“Lila what song is that?” She asked, Lila was working on some coloring sheets assigned as ‘homework’ for kindergarten.

“Me and daddy’s song.” Lila said, her face lighting up with a smile and soft giggles erupting. Her mum had never heard Lando talk about him and Lila’s ‘song’ so she asked Lila to sing the words.

Lila went shy and red, putting her colors down and sighing. “It’s okay if you don’t remember them sweetheart, I just don’t know the song.” Lila looked nervous or anxious when she looked up to her mum.

“I don’t know all the words, daddy does.” She admitted. Her mum left it at that and Lila finished coloring. Lando got home from working and was greeted by his girls.

“Hey sweetheart.” He said and kissed the little girl on the head. Her fluffy curls bouncing as she did, excited to see Lando. It was nearing dinner and his wife took a shower, leaving them in charge of an easy dinner.

“Daddy can we play that song?” Lila asked, looking up as Lando watched over the food on the stove. Lando giggled and connected his phone to a speaker and searching for the song.

The climb by Miley Cyrus, her favorite song since he went all out on a McLaren media video in Austin. She hummed the beginning and then Lando started the song off. “That dream, I’m dreaming.” Lila completed the line with a giggle, Lando using the spatula as a microphone now instead of a cooking utensil.

Lando continued the mellow verses until it got to the good part and Lila giggled trying to sing with him. He was dancing around and making silly faces as he did so, her giggles replacing the singing completely. “There’s always gonna be another mountain!” Lando sang the lyric and then pointed the ‘microphone’ to Lila.

“I’m always gonna wanna make it move.” She giggled with the song. Lando followed giggling with her. They sang a lyric together and her mum emerged from the corner, adoring the sight in front of her.

“Look at you two singers.” She smiled big. Lila shied away and Lando kept singing to her. Her mum giggled as Lila’s face showed clear embarrassment.

“Come on Lila it’s your favorite part!” Lando encouraged her to continue singing. “Waiting on the other side!” Lando dragged out with his daughter. “There you go!” He smiled. The music died to a lower volume for background music and her mum took over dinner.

Lando put Lila on the counter and they watched dinner being made by the ‘professional’ now. “That’s our song.” Lila said under her breath. Lando whipped his head to her and his face showed a bit of confusion.

“What do you mean sweetheart?” He asked. His wife shrugged and gave him a look of confusion as well. “Do you mean you didn’t want mama to hear us?” He asked her quietly, for his wife not to hear. Lila nodded at him and he fake pouted. “But then she wouldn’t hear your beautiful singing voice.”

Lila looked at him with adoration, she didn’t think she was good at singing. “Really?” Lila asked. Lando nodded. “You sing better than me.” She cowered again.

“Oh Lila, don’t say that.” Lando said. “You sing beautifully and I sing horribly.” She giggled and her mum also smiled. Dinner was ready and played, all Lila’s worries washed away when they ate dinner.

No words, speechless. Lando would do this.

@il0vereadingstuff @kallanfiona @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @justaf1girl @chertik-007vvv

[cressidagrey]

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes: 

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him. 

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned. 

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

 Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing. 

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

 We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

 Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

 And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city,  snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

[jungwnies]

bf moments | max verstappen

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!max x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : compilation of fluffy boyfriend max moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : im so proud of the podium this week !! can't wait to see the rest of the f1 season omfg <3

boyfriend!max who says "you don’t need to thank me" every time he helps, whether it's late night tea or quietly fixing the kitchen light before you even notice it's out.

boyfriend!max who buys two of your favorite snacks because "you always eat mine," even though he'd give you his anyway without hesitation.

boyfriend!max who doesn't post much but keeps a secret folder in his phone full of candid photos of you, most taken when you're laughing or mid-sentence.

boyfriend!max who plays with your fingers while he drives, especially during long quiet night rides with music low and the windows cracked open.

boyfriend!max who acts annoyed when you steal his hoodie but pulls the sleeves over your hands and kisses your head before letting you walk off with it.

boyfriend!max who rests his chin on your shoulder while you're doing something, just watching without saying a word like you're the calm in his world.

boyfriend!max who doesn't say "I miss you" directly but sends you random memes or videos with no context just to start a conversation.

boyfriend!max who always adjusts your seatbelt when you get in the car, even if you've already done it, because it makes him feel like he's taking care of you.

boyfriend!max who hooks his foot around your ankle under the blanket when you're sitting on opposite ends of the couch, like he always needs a point of contact.

boyfriend!max who listens to you vent without interrupting, then hands you a snack and says "wanna play FIFA?" so you can yell at the screen together instead.

boyfriend!max who slips his race gloves into your bag or leaves a note in your jacket pocket before a trip so you have a piece of him when you're apart.

boyfriend!max who doesn't always find the perfect words but always shows up with your favorite drink, your playlist, and the softest "you alright?" when it matters most.

boyfriend!max who looks for you in the crowd after every race and sends a blurry photo of the grandstand if you're not there, with a simple "felt empty."

boyfriend!max who doesn't need to say much to show he loves you, because every quiet gesture speaks louder than any words ever could.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[lvrclerc]

✶ BETTER THAN THE NOVELS

summary: you're a romance novel influencer that has never actually experienced romance. ironic, right? and when f1 driver lando norris accidentally becomes a constant presence in your life, he decides he can't possibly let that slide.

F1 MASTERLIST | LN4 MASTERLIST

pairing: lando norrisﾉf!reader

wc: 11.2k

cw: reader is a ferrari fan and is said to wear feminine clothing (dresses, skirts etc), reader has a race taking place in her home country but it's not precised where, takes place during a fictional season (w the 2025 grid), cussing, inspired by nick and cassie on tiktok, slight angst near the end for plot reason, otherwise just tooth-rotting fluff!

a/n: first fic who cheered! this is so self-indulgent and cliché but who caresss also its a long one so buckle up (editing was hell, ending is a bit rushed too sorry)

THERE WAS NOT ONE day in which @.whoisy/n, book influencer extraordinaire, did not pass her day with her head inside a romance novel.

You always liked reading. The passion struck you in late primary school when you first opened Percy Jackson and before you knew it, you finished the entire series in three days and begged your parents to buy you Heroes of Olympus. There was no going back after that. You couldn’t spend a day without your thirty minutes to an-hour reading session.

Like every girl raised with the idea of being a strong, independent female lead in the novel that was your life ─ at the sweet age of thirteen, dare I be precise ─ you never dabbled too much into romance. If it ended in a book you were currently reading, so be it, but you wouldn’t outwardly enjoy it. Why would you need someone in your life? You were so not like the other girls, you didn’t waste your time on boys or parties or things like that ─ you didn’t even wear pink!

Except that now that you have grown up, at the age of twenty-two, you liked wearing pink and bows, and because you spent most of your life buried in books with this idiotic, sexist idea of the “not-like-other-girls”, you never had kissed or dated anyone. Damn Rick Riordan.

I mean, you went on dates, sure, but they never went anywhere further than a “that was fun!” text and radio silence right after. It made you feel used, sometimes, but at that point, it was just something you expected whenever you took an interest in an individual.

The only thing that stuck with you as you got older was your passion for books. So after you resigned yourself to it, you dived into romances. Bad idea, really, because you started living vicariously through them.

Everything was so perfect: the storylines, the female leads, the guys and the girls and what they whispered into the other’s ear, and when they noticed small things nobody else would’ve noticed, proclaimed their love high and loud in heartfelt speeches, the awkwardness of a first love and the tenderness of a first kiss. A part of you, whenever you tapped your Kindle or rushed through the pages, ached a little in the middle of your incessant giggling. Something that yearned for a story like that - but you’ve learned against your will that nothing in the real world could compare to the stories or the movies.

You were doomed to die an old maid with many, many cats and a thousand bookshelves. It didn’t sound that bad, of course, but come on. You still held hope that maybe, one day, something like that would happen to you. Maybe.

One of your favorite subgenres was sports romance. There was something so romantic about running into someone’s arms after a well-spent game ─ you devoured the hockey ones, the basketball ones, even the football ones. More recently, though, you got into the motorsports ones ─ more specifically, Formula One.

There weren’t many, mainly because of the work that had to be done to dodge plagiarism: you couldn’t use the actual drivers or team, so you had to reinvent everything down to every detail. But for those that existed, you simply couldn’t let them go. You liked Formula One, it wasn’t a proper passion like reading was but it still was a nice pastime: you’d turn on your sketchy website that streamed F1 TV Pro to watch the Grand Prix and became impatient during the overly long summer and winter breaks. While you were more partial to drivers than to teams, you grew very fond of Ferrari as the years went by.

You were very vocal about your interests in your accounts. Obsessing so much over books gave you access to fandoms at a young age and a desire to have your own space within them. You quickly became a staple presence on BookTok, BookStagram, and BookTube after your first posts and videos went public. People found you funny, endearing, and relatable… not to throw yourself flowers, but you were. It’s that transparency about your Sahara-desert dry love life and your contagious excitement about your hobbies that made you so popular, reaching millions around multiple platforms.

People liked you, so people were kind to you. An advanced reader copy of a new F1 romance novel was on another level of kindness, though.

You hadn’t expected it, but it came in your mailbox with a sweet written word from the author, Leandra Moore ─ she was pretty influential and had written multiple New York Times-acclaimed New Adult romances. You didn’t even process everything she was saying, only that she liked your videos and your personality and ‘thought you might like her new work’.

What a stupid question. Of course, you did.

You devoured the 430 pages in a sitting. The sky, awfully bright when you got the package, was pitch black by the time you turned the last page. You were breathless, flushed, and smiling so hard your cheeks were beginning to hurt. “Silver Spring Race” was a wonder of brother’s best friend, secret exes, and second chance rom-com goodness, mixed with the adrenaline of the perfect F1 season, five out of five stars on Fable and GoodReads. You didn't waste any time: tripod, lighting, and you were already filming a review video in your almost ecstatic state, giggling away with the camera knowing full well you were sharing with a few thousand.

It was a simple review as you always did. Yet, it did way, way better than your normal videos ─ so much so that the book had to be released early. So much so that Leandra had the means to host a release party after the goddamn Miami Grand Prix. So much so that she invited you, personally and free of charge, as multiple other book influencers to attend the Grand Prix and the release party the day after.

Someone had to pinch you because holy shit, this couldn’t be your reality. You never confirmed something as fast as you did for that. Honestly, who wouldn’t?

The race had been an exceptionally good one. The sun was bright and hot but the slight breeze made up for the extreme Miami heat. You and your book influencer friends and acquaintances had amazing seats at the Beach Grandstands - some on the North and some on the South. You quietly wondered just how much money did Silver Spring Race generated for Leandra to get those sought-after seats.

There had been a few technical difficulties during the race, causing Pierre Gasly to DNF, and a narrowly avoided crash on Albon's part which cost him to lose standing. Ferrari was going strong, though, which kept you breathless from screaming until the checkered flag. Norris ended in pole position, with Verstappen following suit in P2 and Leclerc in P3. While it was not the outcome you hoped for due to your bias toward the latter's team, you had to cheer when faced with the radiant smile of the first-placed.

Now, the thing was to get out of the stands. That was a harder task, the Beach Grandstands were filled to the brim and before you could process what was happening, the flow of people separated you from your friends. No matter how much you fought against the current you couldn't help but be brought down to wherever they were going: guess you'll have to find a way out by yourself.

By the time people scattered, you were in an unknown setting with multiple staff members, all wearing different colors ─ pink, orange, red ─ and running around. You would have liked to stop one of them to ask where you were, or at least how you could access the parking area from here, but all passed you as if you didn't exist. You couldn't blame them, the Grand Prix had just ended, and they probably had ten thousand other things to do. You were on your own. Great.

You just wandered off and hoped you'd stumble upon a miraculous exit sign amidst the long and confusing hallways.

You definitely didn't expect to crash into Lando Norris.

You didn't realize it was him at first. The only thing you knew was that as you were looking around, finally finding somewhere open from where you could see the stands (but still not anywhere that looked like it could lead you to the parking lot), you back bumped full speed against someone.

You turned around, heart skipping because of the shock. Soon enough, though, your astonishment turned horrific when you gradually noticed the full can of Monster energy drink spilled on an orange tracksuit, staining it deep brown.

It couldn't get any more embarrassing. Until your eyes darted up and you saw a mess of curls and wide, green eyes. That's when your horror became panic. Holy fuck, you didn't just─

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed, after a few seconds of stunned silence. “I'm so, so sorry─ I didn't─ I was looking for the exit and I didn't see─ holy shit─”

You started aggressively looking in your small handbag, hoping─ no, praying, you brought some tissues with you. You spilled an energy drink on Lando Norris. His energy drink. Lando Norris was in front of you, staring at you like you were some wild, erratic animal. He was probably furious. You wanted to bury yourself six feet deep underground. “I'm sorry, I can't find any tissues I─”

He snorted.

You froze in your tracks, interrupting your rambling. A glimmer of amusement shone in the driver's eyes. “It's chill, don't even worry about it. It's not as if that was like, the only suit I owned.”

“Uh─” you started. “I'm still─”

There was something about your expression, maybe the fact you were opening and closing your mouth searching for something to say like a fish out of the water, that made him reiterate. “Really, it's cool. You can stop panicking.” After a pause, he continued, in a more reassuring tone. “Plus I'm already all sweaty and dirty, so not much of a difference.”

He was…? Heat furiously rose up to your cheeks and you couldn't tell if it was because of embarrassment or his words or how painfully aware you were of the situation. “What?”

This time, Lando's face was graced with a shit-eating grin aimed right at you. “From racing and champagne, you know.”

Oh.

Now you wanted to be five feet under. What was wrong with you? “Right.” You took a deep breath. You bump into Lando Norris, an F1 driver you admired for years no matter your loyalty to Ferrari, and spill an entire energy drink on him before accidentally stepping right into borderline sexual harassment. Get a grip, Y/N. “I saw. I mean, I was in the stands. Beach Grandstands. I saw you. Win the race. Congratulations, by the way!”

You sounded like a robot. Oh my god. You couldn't act less natural even if you tried.

Lando arched an eyebrow. “Thanks a lot. But uh, if you were in the stands─ what are you doing in staff quarters?”

Your heart lurched in your chest, realizing the impression you probably gave. “Shit. I promise I'm not a weird fan or anything, I'm not a stalker! Which is definitely what a stalker would say. But I'm not. I was dragged by the mass of people and I couldn't find the exit and nobody would tell me─”

Another laugh from him interrupted you and what surprised you was the absence of mockery: he sounded genuinely amused. You didn't know how to react to the fact he found your distress funny. “Are you always this anxious?”

“See, this whole…,” you made a circular hand gesture, “... situation is not helping my anxiety. So the answer would be maybe.”

Lando chuckled again and this time, an awkward smile found its way to your lips. “I wasn't trying to blame you, it was just a question. You can breathe. But the exit's not there.”

“Yeah, I think I noticed,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“It's through there,” Lando turned around and pointed to a slightly hidden door, but right above was a bright green exit sign. You were blind. “You just go straight and the parking lot shouldn't be that far.”

“Oh, uh. Thanks. I didn't see it,” you simply answered. Dusting off invisible dust from your clothes, you looked at him again. “Again, I'm sorry about the drink. Really.”

“I told you it's nothing, just go before a team member calls security on you, ‘aight?”

You aggressively nodded, which stole another breathless laugh from him that you decided to ignore. Right as you went through the door, the curly-haired driver called: “Hey!” You turned around, frowning in incomprehension.

“Next time you decide to sneak into McLaren's quarters,” Lando said, “at least wear the right colors.”

You quickly glanced at your Ferrari shirt, slightly cropped to go with your jean skirt. That's when the words echoed in your brain. “I wasn't sneaki─!”

Before you could finish your argument, he closed the door on you.

Walking back to your car, the realization of everything that went down the last 10 minutes slowly dawned on you. What the fuck had just happened? Was it real? Did you hallucinate? Did you just humiliate yourself like that in front of Lando Norris?

Most importantly: novels made meet-cutes seem so simple and easy, how did you manage to mess it up that bad?

A day later, you tried to push that interaction to the back of your mind, mainly because of how embarrassed you were about how you acted but also because otherwise, you wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

Once the night had comfortably settled, you confidently walked into the venue Leandra rented. It was an immense room in an even bigger hall, and so elegant you couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. You guessed that’s what you were supposed to expect when you partied at the same place the drivers usually did ─ at least that's what one of the girls told you: it was where they would throw after-parties when they had time after races. Fits the theme, you thought.

The decor was tasteful and themed in a way that didn't feel cheap, which was surprisingly hard to do, as you discovered as you mingled with Leandra Moore and her entourage. The buffet was delicious, the champagne was flowing, and there were professional photographers and signed illustrations of the two main characters of Silver Spring Race, along with a Fairyloot exclusive edition of the book. You could have died right here and there: the details were to die for.

Right as the music was getting louder, the conversations grew more deconstructed and the alcohol less diluted, you decided to step out for some fresh air ─ as much fun as it was, being socially involved for so long was tiring you out. If you wanted to last the night, you needed a little break.

The exit was notoriously hard to find, which gave you war flashbacks from yesterday you had a hard time pushing away, but you didn't spend as long finding it ─ just enough to regret the aesthetic choice of wearing high heels for the night.

By the time you got outside, your feet were aching for freedom. You quickly rushed to the stone stairs leading to the party hall and sat on the first step. The scenery was quite stunning: a fountain throned in the middle of the place leading to stairs, lightly illuminated by the white neons in the water and the warm hall light, and tall trees surrounding the square. You could have probably appreciated it more if you weren't so preoccupied with detaching those fucking straps of your ankles: why weren't they coming off, those little─

���Oof, looks like you need help again.”

Your hand froze on your shoe as the voice and accent hit a familiar spot in your brain. It took you a second to catch up, and around a minute to realize. Your heart dropped and you turned around, slowly, like the main character in a horror movie.

Lando Norris stood before you. Again.

Who exactly was controlling your life? Because the odds of this happening a second time were really, really low.

His hair was usually messy, and yet tonight they seemed more contained and professional. He wore a white shirt, and a few buttons popped open at the collar gave you an open view of a small gold chain around his neck ─ you had to drag your gaze away. Straight-legged black pants finished the look, topped off with black loafers. He looked miles away from the Lando Norris you accidentally ran into after the race. He probably showered.

He looked gorgeous, too. It would be a blatant lie to even ignore it, and that realization slightly took your breath away.

Yet, the only thing coming out of your mouth was a strangled, “I swear I'm not stalking you.”

A pause. You had serious issues.

And still, Lando laughed. Hard and loud, like the ones you saw in a few selected interviews when you were bored and scrolling on YouTube during the breaks. It made you feel slightly self-conscious. He breathed in as he walked toward you, a chuckle still in his tone when he spoke up. “I mean, I'd believe you this time but the coincidence's pretty big.”

An offended scoff escaped you and suddenly, all the thoughts about him being a celebrity, a renowned driver, a trust fund kid flew out the window right into the fountain. 

“I'll let you know I was invited to an event here, thank you very much. I have other, more important things to do than follow someone around.”

When you realized what you said, your eyes widened. “Sorry, I didn't mean─”

But Lando was smiling.

“Nah, you did.” Right now, he stood right next to you on the stairs and you quietly wondered if he was going to sit down or keep looking down on you like that. Then you realized that you were, again, in the most improbable situation known to man. Anxiety swirled in your stomach.

“Soo… what event are you attending?”

You squinted your eyes up at him. “...Is this an interrogation?”

Lando simply shrugged. “Can never be too sure.”

Well, you couldn't blame him for that.

“A book release party. The author, Leandra Moore, happened to invite me and other people. She was the one that got us tickets for the race yesterday, too. I just went out to get some fresh air.”

He hummed in response. “Oh yeah, heard something about that. I guess you're legit, then.”

“Yes, I am!” When you looked up again, there was that shit-eating grin. You rolled your eyes to the high heavens.

“... Wait. Is your name Y/N?” He suddenly asked.

Huh?

You never mentioned your name to him. You don't think it was even brought up in the 15 minutes you two talked. A frown scrunched up your eyebrows. “Uh, yes? How'd you know?” Silence. “And I'm the stalker?”

Lando laughed a bit at that. He finally sat down next to you, and the heat of his exposed forearms somewhat close to your own made you panic again.

“Y/N as in WhoisY/N?”

The gasp you let out could have landed you a role in The Young and the Restless. There was no fucking way. Absolutely none. This is where you drew the line. “You can't possibly be watching my videos.” Your tone was resolute.

“Nah, not me. My little sister though, Cisca.” That made more sense than to imagine Lando Norris, McLaren's golden boy, giggling and kicking his feet in front of your last romance review. Still, it felt unreal. “She eats up every single one of your posts. You’re the reason why we have so many cartoon covers at home, that's why I thought you looked familiar at first. The book release party confirmed it.”

You didn't know what emotions you should let transpire first. The fact that you were a celebrity in the Norris family was enough to make your jaw drop, but the mention of cartoon covers added heat to your cheeks ─ you hoped he never opened his sister's books.

“She's so gonna freak out when I tell her I met you,” he said between laughs.

“She's going to freak out?” You asked in disbelief. “You're in Formula 1. She can't freak out because of me. I'm freaking out because of you!”

He didn't point out your statement, thank god, but his eyes didn't seem to miss it. “I'm her older brother, she uses that to make fun of me now. But no, definitely, she's going to freak out.”

“What even is my life right now.”

That, at least, made you both erupt in an unstoppable fit of laughter. When it died down, you finally had the space to ask the question sitting in your mind since he appeared behind you. “What are you even doing here?”

Lando arched an eyebrow at you. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes.”

He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, clearly mimicking you. “There's a race after party in the hall. McLaren special. Also went out to get some air, DJ-ing was becoming suffocating.”

“Oh,” it clicked, and you started thinking out loud. “I guess the girls weren't lying when they said that's where the drivers partied. It makes sense Leandra would rent out this hall.”

“Why?”

You were pretty sure smoke could be escaping from you right now just by how flustered you were. “Uh. For promoting her book?”

“Yeah, I got that, but like… why would our parties have anything to do with it?”

Lando was becoming suspicious again. Somebody kill you right now. How do you keep messing it up? “Because… it's… an F1 romance?”

Blank stare. You were just as red as the dress you wore and ready to go home to cry yourself to sleep. Then he laughed, hysterically, and you couldn't feel more ashamed.

“That exists?” He asked, breathless.

You turned your face away from him. “Yes.”

“And you read that?”

“Leave me alone,” you added, “if she follows me, your sister does too.”

That seemed to make him stop, at least, to your devious satisfaction. “I think I'll need to take a look at her shelves when I go home.”

“For the good of the girl and mine, please don't.”

The cold night breeze brushed your arms and you were now very mindful of how thin the material of your dress was. You shivered, rubbing your arms with your hands. Lando was quick to notice. “Shit, sorry. I don't have a jacket. I would have landed it to you otherwise.”

You don't know what came over you, but you bumped your shoulder with his. “Wow, that was almost gentleman-like.” Where did this familiarity come from, you didn't know ─ you have known the man for no longer than an hour. But there was something about the easy-going conversation, the late night, and the champagne buzzing in your blood that made this scene… just like the ones you read about, in your favorite books.

As soon as that idea slithered into your mind, you forcefully pushed it out. That was another level of delusion, Y/N. Those novels fried your brain.

You got up before Lando could answer. “It's fine, I was going to go back to my hotel anyway. The party drained my social battery and my flight takes off early tomorrow, so it's better if I go to sleep.”

“Okay, sure. Let me walk you to your car at least.”

Oh shit. “... I don't have a car.”

He blinked slowly. “What do you mean? How'd you come here, then?”

“I carpooled with some girls who are not going home right now.” That was a very dumb idea now that you look back on it.

“So… how are you planning to get to your hotel?”

You didn't bring your wallet with you, so no chance of getting a taxi. “... I'll walk?”

“... Yeah, no. No chance. At night? Dressed like that?” He took you in, making you hyper-aware of the high slit and the almost sheer material of your dress. “I'll take you.”

You were stunned. So much for avoiding delusion or further embarrassment. “I can't possibly ask you─ I mean, you have a party─”

“If you think that after-party is going to end anytime soon, you're so wrong,” he chuckled.

In all honesty, you could have argued more, but Lando already seemed settled on his decision. He stood up, not before grabbing the heels you took off during the conversation and decidedly headed toward the parking lot. You hummed and followed suit as he started walking toward his car, your comments dying on your tongue. The improbability of what was currently happening was just too much for you to grace it with a thought, so a sentence would be crossing the limits.

The car ride was spent in comfortable silence as soon as you typed the address of your hotel in his GPS. Your eyes widened when his car came into view: a black 2018 McLaren Senna, with red accents, you hadn't seen so beautiful with your own eyes in a while. You had to bite back a gasp when you got in.

Lando rolled the windows fully down. The wind whipped strands of hair around as you watched the scenery roll by at a dizzying speed, making you wonder if he knew what a speed limit was. Soft bass music played on the radio, one you didn't know the lyrics to, but Lando did as he whispered-sang them. He looked calm behind a wheel that didn't belong to a Formula One car, the contrast was drastic. The driver met your eyes with a smile, and that was only then you realized you'd been staring. You turned your head as he laughed.

When your hotel came into view, you quietly thanked him for dropping you off and stepped out of the car. You didn't know what to do after that. Some part of you tugged at your mind ─ it was too good to be true, those things only happened in books. He was probably waiting for something in return. After a small wave to him, you were ready to disappear behind the doors and leave this night behind.

“Wait!” Lando called out from his opened window. Your stomach dropped. You knew it.

Hesitantly, you turned around.

“You're still wearing the wrong color,” he simply said, “I better see you in orange if you want my services next time.”

Relief washed over you and no matter how hard you fought it, a smile broke your carefully impassive facade. “Next time?”

Lando smiled at you. “Next time.”

And when he drove away, you couldn't help the butterflies in your stomach either.

As you lay in bed that night, you didn't push anything away. You processed what happened, today and yesterday. You didn't know how to feel or what to feel exactly, many emotions were contradictory, but maybe it was alright ─ not to know. To just let yourself feel without having to put a name on it.

When you grabbed the phone in your handbag, an Instagram notification caught your attention before you could even unlock it.

@.lando started following you.

A disbelieving, loud laugh escaped you. He did say there would be a next time.

After that it was safe to say, even though a little wild, Lando Norris had become a staple in your daily life.

The moment you got back home, you had received a DM by the driver himself asking if you traveled safely to which you couldn't help but reply with a “Stalker much?”. He simply answered that there was only a single flight going back to where you lived today, so it was easy to find on Skyscanner. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It made you smile.

The texts continued. What first started as small conversations every two days, reacting to each other's stories or silly tweets with not much depth behind them gradually grew, over a month, into useless life updates, every day with no exceptions.

lando: just ate the biggest fucking sandwich today

lando: [1 picture attached]

lando: scooby-doo type shit

whoisy/n: i'm so hungry actually

lando: did u get sidetracked reading again

whoisy/n: it's LITERALLY my job

lando: go get something to eat you muppet

whoisy/n: yessir

whoisy/n: u'll never guess what happened in my book

lando: he cheated on her right

whoisy/n: …

whoisy/n: you WILL guess what happened in my book

lando: LMAOOO that was so obvious from what you told me

whoisy/n: i had sm faith in him. men!!!

lando: they're all the same

whoisy/n: RITEEEEEE QUEEN

Lando always asked about what you were currently reading. It didn't take a genius or an Oxford diploma to notice how much you loved it, not when your entire social media presence was built around it. You knew it wasn't performative and he enjoyed hearing you talk about it ─ he often sent texts during the week asking about your favorite character, at what page you were, and if they kissed yet. It was harder during weekends due to races. Somehow, he still made time.

Similarly, Lando took the habit of sending you long vocals at the end of his days, explaining what happened, what Oscar and him were up to, and how annoying the different media were. He still refused to tell you much about his team, because your allegiance to Ferrari was simply “outrageous” according to him. You gladly landed a listening ear, chiming with a helping comment whenever you could. The late evenings got later and the vocals longer and longer each passing week, and before you knew it you two were calling almost every night.

It was a normal occurrence. He would get ready for bed and you would drop your Kindle for an hour or two, even longer the rare times he didn't have anything planned the next day. You would talk about anything and everything at the same time ─ sometimes he'd rope you into downloading a game and playing it with him, sometimes you'd just remodel the world until one of you was too exhausted to keep playing God. Most of the time, it was Lando.

Due to its sudden start, this growing friendship of yours quickly attracted the attention of your entire following base as well as his. Lando commented on almost all your new Instagram posts and TikToks with random things that either had a link with what you were talking about or none at all ─ most often alluding to the many inside jokes that stemmed from your conversations. Every interaction succeeded in making everyone crazy, especially your followers: apparently, you were finally getting the sports romance you were dreaming about for years.

The thought crossed your mind, how could it not with the amount of allusions under your posts? The fan edits on your For You page? But you never let yourself linger on it for too long.

You and Lando were friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

The call you got that night was unexpected. Tomorrow was race day, the Canadian Grand Prix more specifically ─ and Lando never called before a race. You understood perfectly, something about being well rested and focused, so you usually sent a good luck paragraph he'd read in the morning and answer after the event. So why did his caller ID light up your phone screen as you were getting ready to go to bed, you didn't know. 

You picked up without a second thought. “Everything's alright?”

“What happened to hello?” He chuckled, his voice grainy through the speaker.

“My God,” you sighed. “Hello, Lando. Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“You never call before race day.”

Silence. “Hello?” You called. “You're still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, it's just─ your books are so unrealistic.”

Your heart skipped a bit, and you sat a little straighter against your pillow. “What?”

“I couldn't sleep and I didn't have anything to do, so I picked up one of your F1 romances you recommended in your last video─” No. No, he didn't. “Throttled? By Lauren Asher? And I just─ it's so dumb.”

Your mouth dropped open and instead of letting out words, a small screech left your lips. “You─ you read─? Why?”

“Like I said, I couldn't sleep. Whatever, it's─”

“Embarrassing!” You interrupted Lando. “You read one of my─ oh my god. This is not the family-friendly kind either. And it's F1. Next time just punch me in the face, I’ll be less humiliated.”

A wheeze came from the other side of the phone. You buried your head in your pillows, trying to put out the fire in your face. “Oh yeah, definitely not family-friendly.”

You groaned in response but that didn't stop Lando from continuing. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, it got most of the sport right but otherwise it's so… it took all the competitiveness out! That's, like, the entire point of F1! I thought you were a fan, how can you willingly enjoy that?”

“I mean, I know it's not the most accurate representation of F1,” you flopped on your back, “but it's kinda like Drive To Survive, y'know? Most people watch it for the drama. I read those for the romance plot.”

Lando scoffed at your words. “Even the romance plot isn't that good, Y/N. The whole part in which he throws a race to make her happy? That's such bullshit.”

“How so?”

“If you love her, you win a race for her.”

You couldn't put the words on it once again, but the way he said it constricted your chest with such tightness you had to take a long, calming breath. You had to concentrate to get out your next sentence. “Well, I don't know, it's not like I know anything about romance. I thought that was pretty romantic.”

“What do you mean, ‘don't know anything about romance'? You read this shit all day long.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, but that's not the real thing. I've never actually dated or kissed anyone, so actual romantic gestures are like… foreign languages to me.”

A beat. Until you suddenly heard a mess of covers moving around, reverberating right in your eardrums. You hissed, and Lando spoke up again.

“You've never kissed anyone? Or dated?” He sounded stunned, which surprised you. It's not like you've tried to hide it. It grew to be your brand over time.

“Uh, yeah. Never.”

“You're shitting me.”

“No?”

“I can't believe it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, jeez, thank you for making me feel so great about being a twenty-two years old virgin, Lando.”

“No! No! I didn't mean it like that,” he screamed at his speaker. “You're just… you're you. You’re too nervous for your own good, true, but your cheeks get darker when you laugh, you fiddle with your sleeves when you don’t know what to say, and you constantly hum songs when it’s too quiet for you. You're smart, you're beautiful, you're passionate, you're funny…” He got quiet before continuing. “I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you, that's all.”

Oh. Oh.

The fluttering in your stomach flew its way up to your throat, and for a little moment, you thought you were going to throw up. The silence stretched as you basked in Lando's words, left hanging in the thick air. Suddenly the screen didn't seem like enough space between the two of you.

Lando ended up breaking the stillness. “I just─ I think I should hang up. The race's tomorrow and it's getting─” A pause. You glanced at the time: 00:23. “Shit, the race is today.”

“Don't worry. Go to sleep, get those hours in and win tomorrow,” you answered in a shaky breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do.”

Still, neither of you clicked on the red button. “Lando?”

“Mmh?”

“Thank you. For what you said.”

“... I meant it.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He hung up.

You desperately tried to fall asleep, tossing and turning, fighting with your pillow and covers to get comfortable but the only thing your mind could focus on was the end sentence he uttered, the inflections of his voice a ghostly whisper in your ear. I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you.

How did you successfully act as if that call never happened? You didn't know. You never were a good liar, less of a good actress. Maybe it was the way Lando carefully sidestepped the subject every time you nearly alluded to it that made you so good about ignoring it altogether.

It was nothing. You just blew it out of proportion, like you usually did. Maybe you should try self-help books instead of romances for the next few months.

No matter how bittersweet your feelings were about this whole situation, you chose to put them aside, simply because Lando had two free weeks starting today and he chose to put a few of his days aside to fly out to your town. For the first time in almost three months, you were going to see each other face to face. And under normal circumstances! That would be a first.

When he came out of the airport, with a gigantic suitcase for just a few days and his characteristic grin adorning his lips, all questions just vanished into thin air. You resisted the urge to jump into his arms but you didn't miss how tight Lando held you when he initiated the hug ─ you melted into him like snow in the sun.

Lando had rented a hotel room for his short stay, a good thirty minutes ride from you. He used it once before you both silently declared your home was way better than a five-star Hilton. He squatted on your couch and you'd sleep in your bed, the rare times you slept as most nights were spent playing video games and marathoning movies. Most of them were romantic comedies. Lando would complain about the lack of realism and you'd smack him over the head, and the movie would be watched in between snarky commentaries and heartfelt comments on your perception of love, sneaking glances at each other.

You tried not to let the latter get too much to your head.

However, Lando's trip had to end at some point. Too soon, it was the evening before his plane ride home and you were helping him gather the stuff he left all over the place ─ the state of your living room was deplorable, but you could cry about it tomorrow morning. In any case, you had to get ready since Lando established earlier there was no way in hell he was going to go back without going out at least once. You replied by saying you already went out a couple of times but according to him, visiting was not considered “going out.”

A good thirty minutes later, you crossed the threshold of your house, heels clacking on the pavement as you approached Lando. He was waiting next to your own car, black shirt half buttoned and messy curls hastily tamed. You had forced yourself not to stare too much ─ friendship established or not, you were still the same girl he found on the stairs in Miami and he was still undeniably beautiful. His eyes raked over you in silence, his lips parting slightly, and you found your normally confident walk faltering.

You hoped he thought of you just the same.

Then, breathlessly, “Wow.”

That's all it took for fire to flame up your face, drowning the blush you so carefully applied. You graced him with a little spin, which he applauded. “Well, you're not so bad yourself,” you added. Understatement of the year.

You walked to the driver's seat, but Lando's hand on the handle stopped you going further. “Nah, I'm driving tonight. I got a surprise for you.”

“What do you mean, surprise? Weren't we supposed to go to the movies?” You raised your eyebrows, confused.

“We watched, like, 30 movies and I've been there 5 days - I’m starting to overdose. Trust me and get in the passenger seat.”

“... You being so ominous is making it very hard to trust you, Lando.”

“I’m an F1 driver, I can drive your car.” He sounded offended you doubted him, even though you weren’t alluding to his driving skills at all. Still, the tone he employed when mentioning your car was almost offending you. Not everyone had a McLaren salary.  “I meant the surprise,” you clarified.

“Ah. Well. Have a little faith in me, c’mon.” On these words, he climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door on you. The audacity of that man, sometimes you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t leave you much choice than to take the seat next to him and watch the landscape go by. Quiet conversation was made as the sky tinged with dark, navy blue, and before you knew it Lando was parking in front of one of the most reputable ─ and expensive ─ restaurants in your town. It was safe to say you never put a foot in it before.

When you got out of the car, you almost jumped at him. “That’s your surprise?!” You whispered-exclaimed under his amused gaze. “You’re crazy. Downright mad.”

“I’m inviting you!” Like it was the most natural thing in the world, to just indebt yourself by inviting a girl to dinner. The smile he flashed at you was a mix of hesitation and enthusiasm, so bright that any protests and remarks about how you just couldn’t let him pay died in your throat. Instead, you thanked to which Lando answered by giving you his arm. You took it and entered the restaurant.

You couldn’t describe the meal as anything but luxurious, whether it was taste-wise or the plate’s presentation. Your surroundings were gold plated and yet the only thing you could focus on was how hard Lando was trying to make you choke on your food ─ the jokes were flowing just as much as the wine in your glass, any awkwardness you may have felt stepping into this place disappeared into thin air as soon as Lando started occupying the conversational space, like he could sense how tense you were.

Before you could even look at the dessert, he stopped you. “We’ll skip that,” he said. You threw him a strange look. “I have another thing planned, just go with it.”

How many surprises were in store for you tonight? You didn’t know, and your Excel-spreadsheet-on-vacations self was getting panicky. But if there was one thing you learned with Lando was that your incessant worrying was needless, especially with him. You left after he took care of the bill, being very careful about not letting the numbers in your sight, and climbed back into the car. The sky was now an inky black and the air was lukewarm on your bare arms. Lando rolled the windows down like he usually did, but this time let you be in charge of the aux ─ considering it still was your vehicle. Frank Ocean’s “Moon River” resonated in between hushed giggles and the chime of the wind in your hair. Flashbacks of that fateful night, three months ago, crept through your memories. You still couldn’t believe what it had come to. 

You drove longer than you did before. This time, Lando parked on a cliff you had no idea existed, even though this was your town. And this time, when you got out of the car, your breath was taken away by just how many stars contrasted with the darkness of the night, the lights of the town too far away to blind them and instead joining them in a faraway source of light.

Marveling in front of the scenery stopped you from noticing Lando’s shenanigans behind you. He was awfully quiet, which wasn’t like him, so you turned around. 

You found him on the roof of your car. Literally. With plastic goblets, the half-empty bottle of wine you had at the restaurant, and ─ you weren’t joking ─ a plate of pancakes. Your jaw dropped open, nearly hitting the floor. “What? How─ huh?” No full sentence could come out of your mouth at this moment, no matter how hard you tried.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like pancakes,” he pleaded, “I woke up way too early to make them not be eaten.”

You thought you dreamt yourself climbing on the top of your car to sit next to him, but it was all very real: you were wholly stunned, which he seemed to notice. Sheepish, he prompted a proper explanation, “I just thought I should, uh, properly thank you. For letting me stay at your house and all. This seemed less impersonal than the restaurant.”

“You stole the wine,” was the only constatation you were able to get out, barely. Emotions constricted your throat too tightly for you to utter anything else.

He laughed. “Took it when you weren't looking. ‘S not like they're going to reuse it so I took care of the waste.”

“Such an ecologist soul,” you teased.

“They call me Father Nature at McLaren.”

“How'd you…” Words weren't coming out easily. Your eyes darted from the bottle, to the pancakes he probably woke up at an ungodly hour of the morning to make, and Lando ─ who was waiting for you to speak like you were his saving grace. Nobody ever looked at you like that, you thought, like you meant something more than what you were. “How'd you get this idea?”

Your question seemed to fluster him a little. He ran a hair through his curls, eyes darting to the side. “Uh, that's what he did. The male character in your book. Nothing Like The Movies I think? I thought that'd be something you like, y'know?”

Your heart thumped against your chest like it threatened to burst out of it. He read a romance novel, one of the most recent ones you reviewed. He took note of your favorite scene, in which Wes was supposed to take Liz to a restaurant but ended up eating on the roof of his car. He reproduced it.

For you.

“I…” There was a sentence threatening to spill out that you're not sure you quite mean yet, but you were feeling it so deeply it was hard to keep it in check. “I don't know what to say.”

“Then just eat the goddamn pancake before they get harder than they are. Turns out, they're not really durable.” It surprised a chuckle out of you.

The conversation carried on after that. The slow hum of Frank Ocean's discography escaping from the car made the perfect soundtrack to the vast discussions about racing, books, and life in general. The longer Lando and you went on, the quieter your voice got until they were reduced to a little more than a whisper, almost into each other's ears. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, your pinkie was intertwined with his, and the bottle was empty by the time the clock on your lock screen showed midnight.

“How did you even find this place?” You looked around once more, taking in the city lights, the tall trees, and the numerous stars above you.“I've been living here for years and I never knew you could get such a good view. Plus, it's not like you sneaked out during the night to scout places out. Unless?” You gasped exaggeratedly.

And there it was again, the pinkish tint at the end of his ears and the avoiding looks. “Nah, no sneaking out. I… I mean, what I did was─”

“You…?”

“I googled ‘date idea’ in your city and this is one of the places that came up.”

All of the sudden, the reality of the situation slapped you in the face. How Lando's thumb was lazily drawing circles on your hand, the romantic lyrics of the song playing from the car, the wine and the restaurant and how your eyes have been switching from his eyes to his lips a bit too often ever since you parked.

“Is this…?” You could kiss him right now. According to how transfixed he was by your mouth, you didn't think Lando would mind much.

You leaned in ever so slightly. He never answered your half-question, and even if he did you don't think you could have heard it through the hammering in your ribcage. However, his lips were but a brush of air against your own.

Because a goddamn flash stopped you.

You both jumped in surprise, the harsh light blinding you for a split second. The other half of it was enough to realize what you were faced with. Lando was the first to voice it, in more of a hiss than a sentence. “Fucking paparazzis.”

He got off the car in a jump, but a flurry of hurried footsteps told you that by the time he reached the spot the light came from, there would be no one left. You jumped off as well, dusting off your dress. “Lando?” You were shaking. Somehow, you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, panic, cold, or the brutal withdrawal of the high you were in not even a minute ago.

“The fuckers ran away.” His voice betrayed the palpable anger radiating off him. “I should’ve known. They’re always fucking there.”

The mood was gone, replaced by the static of the cold night air and the missing warmth of each other. By a silent, common agreement, you both cleaned up your car’s rooftop and climbed back in your seats soon after. The soft music was gone, the windows rolled up and Lando’s hands were tense on the wheel. When you got home, nothing more but a small “goodnight” was exchanged ─ apart from a glance, as you crossed your bedroom’s door, but it was too dark for you to interpret what it could mean.

When you woke up a few hours later, Lando was already gone.

You knew it was too good to be true. Things like that happened to the type of girls in the novels, not to you. But when Lando wouldn’t answer your texts, or carried on his vacations and his first Grand Prix back without a care in the world, you still couldn’t be asked to describe the terrible ache in your chest. You should have known.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around it ─ that all the late night calls, the comments, the texts, the rooftop of your car and the soft sweep of his breath on your lips was so easy to brush off for him. Not when it was the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ of what could have happened that night that kept you up for so many sleepless hours. It left you wondering if any of it was real: the friendship, the sweet words, and everything in between, or if you were just the new mystery girl to toy with and give up when it became too complicated.

The heartbreak and betrayal weren’t even the worst part of the situation. You didn’t expect the photo to come out as quickly as it did, after McLaren had a good PR team and would be able to at least intercept it, right? Wrong. It came out two days later. The picture was slightly blurry but clear enough so you could perfectly see your face and Lando’s, dangerously close to each other, and your hands intertwined together.

The flurry of comments, DMs, and interview requests sent to you after was unbelievable. Your community did the best it could to try and get the tabloids off your back, bless them, but all the other sides of the internet were either begging for more information or calling you names. Still, Lando and McLaren chose to ignore the whole situation. Swallowing your pride and deciding to take the high road, you did the same. You read romance books, you reviewed them, you exchanged a little bit with your followers on social media, you watched movies ─ you carried on with your day-to-day life, even if it was with a little less vehemence and a growing dislike for the romantic genre you adored.

It was the first year a Grand Prix would take place in your city. A brand new circuit, with brand new challenges. Taking place in the middle of the season, you were ecstatic when it was announced a few months back. Now, seeing people walking down your street with bright orange shirts and a number 4 on their back on a Friday morning, the only thing you wanted to do was to close your blinds and crawl back into bed for the weekend.

Your plans were thrown in the wind not even an hour later by none other than Cisca Norris. With an Instagram DM. You started following each other a few days after your friendship with Lando had been noticed by the public eye, but you’ve never really spoken to each other. She looked like a sweet girl nonetheless.

ciscanorris: heyyyy

ciscanorris: ik we never talked

ciscanorris: and that might not be the bestest moment to get friendly

ciscanorris: but heyyyyyyy

Your eyebrows rose at the notification, but you weren’t about to let your situation with Lando get in the way of interacting with his sister ─ who had nothing to do with it in the slightest.

whoisy/n: hey cisca! dw at all, hows it going : )

ciscanorris: great!! hbu?

whoisy/n: tired, but apart from that nothing much

ciscanorris: rest well then!

ciscanorris: i’m going to be honest tho

ciscanorris: i’m not just texting you to ask how you’re doing

It should have surprised you yet it didn’t. The timing was too spot-on to be a coincidence, but you chose to live in ignorant bliss.

ciscanorris: are you going to the race this weekend?

whoisy/n: what do you think

ciscanorris: can’t blame you

ciscanorris: my brother’s an ass

That made you chuckle.

whoisy/n: i was thinking worse

ciscanorris: so am i

ciscanorris: but he wants to make up for it

ciscanorris: really

ciscanorris: he insists you should go to the race

whoisy/n: and he couldn’t text me and ask himself because…?

ciscanorris: doesn’t want to spoil the surprise apparently

ciscanorris: idk what he’s planning

Another surprise. Knowing how the last one amazingly ended, you were a little doubtful. Lando sent his sister to ask you to come as if she was the one racing, and now he had something planned ─ again.

ciscanorris: just check your mailbox and think about it

This was enough to pique your curiosity. You went out immediately, opening the little white mailbox next to your front door. There was only a small, brown letter with your address hastily written in black ink ─ you recognized Lando’s handwriting. There it was: a paddock pass, classic McLaren colors, with your name on it. With it? A note, same brown paper, same handwriting: “Please”.

That’s all it took to convince you to go. After all, you still had to get a proper apology. 

This time, you entered the McLaren’s side of the paddock with purpose. The staff member at the entrance knew your name and even showed you the way ─ a sharp contrast with your experience a few months back. You stood above the garage, right in front of the track and near a decisive turn, though the number didn’t come back to you. It was a good spot, excellent even, it could be said to be better than the Beach Grandstands in Miami.

Yet, there was no sign of Lando.

You walked past Oscar in the hallways and the quiet driver just flashed you the tight-lipped smile you give to acquaintances in the street. You walked past his girlfriend, Lily, and you even passed by Lando’s dad, whose eyes widened in recognition but was clearly too busy to offer you anything more than that. Everyone but the man you came to watch the race for. You started to absentmindedly fidget with the bottom of your orange shirt ─ if that was his version of an apology, he was pretty shit at it.

The race started soon after your arrival, and the pit in your stomach dug deeper and deeper as you watched Lando do the formation turn. You suppose you were to wait until the end of the race, which made sense in a way, but you didn’t appreciate being put on standby like greenery on a windowsill.

The animosity dimmed when the sound of motors rang in your ears at lights out.

The circuit was brand new, and two days of preparations were not nearly enough to get acquainted with an entire novel track. Risks were high, and the probability of winning was evened out for everyone, which justified the cacophony of cars bumping into the others during the first lap as everyone found their footing. You believed Lando would have a good chance of ending P1 and snatching a victory in your city ─ it was the type of track and weather that favored him.

But Lando had started on pole position.

From the years you spent watching races and your general knowledge of him, Lando Norris didn’t do well when he started a race on pole. Most often, pressure got to him and he lost one or two places during the first few laps, which made you curse at the TV more than you’d like to admit. Unfortunately, it was exactly what was happening right now: you gripped the railing for dear life as Hamilton passed him, then almost broke your nail on the metal when Verstappen followed suit.

By the last lap, Lando had managed to stay P3 and keep his place on the podium, much to your relief, but the bitterness of pole escaping him was obvious in his behavior: champagne was sprayed all over him by his colleagues but he wouldn’t even look up from the ground, his traits disfigured by disappointment. Maybe some would see it as tiredness, but you knew better.

That’s why as soon as he walked down the podium to head to his team and to his garage, you darted downstairs to meet him.

It didn’t take long to spot Lando. His team surrounded him, clapping his shoulder and congratulating him with a bright smile. He barely returned them, scratching his neck in embarrassment. He was looking around like a lost puppy and you stood there, amidst the mess of elated people, unsure of what you should do or say. When Lando’s eyes set upon you, his expression went from disappointment to remorse in a split second.

He acted before you could. Rushing toward you, his voice was broken when he spoke up, trying to make himself clear above the surrounding noise.  “I’m so, so sorry. I fucked it all up. I was─ that was shitty. My race was shitty.”

You blinked. “What?” You couldn’t understand the link to the race and your situation to save your life. “Lando, you’re P3.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, gripping his curls. His eyes bore into yours, cutting off anything you might have wanted to add. “No!” He continued. “It’s not─ it’s not good enough. I should have been P1. It should have been me, up there. I worked… I worked so hard so I could…” He was breathless now, searching your face for something, even though you couldn’t tell what exactly.

“What are you even talking about?” Frustration elevated the tone of your voice.

“I was supposed to win the race for you!”

That shut you up. Incredulity coursed through you and your mouth, half-opened to say a sentence, couldn’t manage to get out a sound. His words didn’t make sense, and somehow you didn’t need to know more. Lando took your stunned silence as a sign to continue.

“I was supposed to win the race for you. I wanted to give you your book moment. You’re, you’re the type of girl that deserves to get swept off her feet, the grand gestures and all that!” He threw his arm in the air. “When you told me you never had that when we called that night, and the fact I could be the first one to do that for you… I never wanted something, someone, as bad.”

You felt yourself flush. “Everything else failed,” he kept on going, almost erratic, “I tried the heartfelt confessions but bailed right after, I tried to impromptu date but I forgot all about the fucking journalists. So I thought that- that maybe I could give it to you the way I knew best, by racing.”

His words, two months back, echoed in your mind. If you love her, you win a race for her.

“But I had to fuck that up too. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

All of it was for you.

The way Lando looked at you, desperate and miserable, the way your feelings were overflowing out of you and him… it was almost too much for you to process. Your mind and heart were an unintelligible tangled mess you couldn’t make sense of, and in classic you fashion, the first sentence that spilled out of your lips was a teary-eyed, broken, “You’re so stupid.”

“I know.”

You quickly wiped the tears that started spilling down your cheeks. “Not in that self-deprecating way you’re thinking of. Don’t you think it would have been easier if you just told me all this instead of ghosting me for almost a month? Making me think nothing about all this was real? Is that why you weren’t texting or answering me, you were figuring out how to go about this circuit?”

Lando nodded bashfully. You let out a dry laugh. “You’re unbelievable. I don’t care about- that! I don’t care that you didn’t get pole position, I don’t care about your ‘failed’ attempts. I couldn’t care less. What I care about is you. If you had told me that instead of leaving…”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he apologized again. “I just─ I wanted─ I know I acted like a moron and I should’ve done better but I thought that if I─”

“I understand. I know.” Gently, you took his hands, furiously fisting the pans of his tracksuit, into yours. Apparently, it acted as an ice bucket dropped right on Lando’s head. He stared at you as if it was the first time ─ in a way it was. He was sweaty, dirty, and covered in champagne, his curls falling onto his forehead and you were standing there, almost as surprised as your first meeting. Except everything else had changed, and the man in front of you wasn’t just a guy driving in a fast car you liked watching on Sundays. “But I didn’t need it. You’re plenty enough all by yourself, without the grand gestures and book-worthy moments. I’m not a book heroine. I need something real.”

The space between the two of you suddenly seemed too vast for the emotions inside of you. One of Lando’s hands carefully slithered on your waist, as if to test the waters. The gentleness of his movement, its implication, stole the breath out of you. “How real are we talking?” He was trying to make light of the situation, but the underlying seriousness in his voice betrayed him. 

“I think you know it by now.”

And just like that, his lips crashed onto yours.

It was an electric shock as if lightning struck you and spilled in your entire body. When he pulled back, you didn’t waste a second wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him right back in.

If his hands were considerate, never unraveling further than your waist and cheeks, his mouth was the complete opposite: hungry, intense. He kissed you like he had been holding back for so long it pained him not to touch you, and you kissed him back with the same vigor because you had been waiting just as much. He tasted like expensive alcohol and you were drunk on it, on the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands on your body. You couldn’t get enough. You don’t think Lando could either. It was messy, somewhat clumsy, his mouth wet and firm moving in sync against your own in haste and impatience.

But it couldn’t have been more perfect. Not for your first kiss.

“Really, right here? Get a goddamn room.”

You recognized Oscar’s voice, even though you couldn’t see him, which was an acidic reminder of where Lando and you both were. You broke the kiss first, and he let out a breathy laugh against your lips, sending shivers through your whole body. “That… was a long, long time coming,” he whispered.

“Whose fault is that?” He chuckled again. You did too.

You gave each other a bit of space, mainly for some well-needed air but also for the comfort of the staff around you. Still, Lando’s hand went up from your waist to your forearms, taking you in like it was the first time he saw you. His smile, wide and bright, brought the trademark heat to your cheek. “You wore the right color this time.” You were now hyper-aware of the shirt you wore, bright orange with a 4 printed on the back. “Good, I would've hated kissing you while you were wearing red. That equals cheating now, by the way.”

“Oh, really? You know, you still technically haven’t taken me out on a proper date,” you teased. “Don’t think you’re forgiven just yet.”

“Don’t even worry about that, I’ll take you out on the best dates ever. No paparazzis this time. You’ll even choose the movies.”

“Even if it’s a romcom?”

“I kinda grew attached to them because of you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Before you could get another comment out, a squeal replaced it as you felt the floor give up under your feet. It took you too long to realize Lando had swept you up in his arms, bridal style and was currently heading down a hallway. Your arms went up around his neck, this time for support. “What are you doing?” You asked with a giggle.

“Taking you to the driver’s room.” Even though you couldn’t manage to see his face, you could practically hear his grin, proud and cocky. “Going to give you reasons to forgive me, we can talk date ideas here.”

“What about the interviews?”

“They can wait.”

Playful protests escaped you under the incredulous eyes of the staff members who saw you disappear behind the white door. You didn’t care. At all. Anxiety be damned, as well as everything that held you back before. Because of this, what you had with Lando, felt perfect. Right. It might be too soon to call it love, but you had no doubt it would come to that sooner than later.

Because the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you, was undoubtedly better than any romance novel you ever read. Because it was real.

©drgnsfly 2k25. do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Craving You | LN4

✩‧₊˚ summary ━━━━━━━ Pregnant and aching with need, Y/N finds herself craving sex with Lando after weeks without it, though their attempts are humorously awkward due to her baby bump and slipping pillows. 

✩‧₊˚ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

✩‧₊˚ word count ━━━━━━━ 4.5k

✩‧₊˚ warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, creampie?, slow sex, pregnancy sex, nipples play?, multiple positions

Based on this request.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her back propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her hands rested on the swell of her belly, the baby within kicking softly as if sensing her restlessness. She glanced over at Lando, who was lying beside her, his head resting on one hand, the other tracing absent patterns on her thigh. His eyes were half-lidded, that familiar teasing glint shining through.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, like honey dripping over velvet. “Thinking about something… or someone?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, someone is definitely on my mind,” she quipped, her tone playful yet laced with a deeper undertone she didn’t bother hiding. She’d been feeling it all evening—that restless, electric energy buzzing under her skin. It had been weeks since they’d been intimate, and though she’d been the one to hesitate at first, now the craving was undeniable.

Lando’s eyebrows shot up, and he shifted closer, his hand sliding up her thigh to rest on her hip. “Care to share your thoughts?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, the teasing replaced by something far more serious.

She bit her lip, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her oversized t-shirt. “Maybe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure I can… say it.”

His gaze softened, and he moved even closer, his chest brushing against her arm. “You can tell me anything, you know that,” he said, his voice gentle but insistent. “Anything at all.”

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “I… I want to… be with you,” she finally admitted, her cheeks flushing as she spoke. “But… it’s been so long, and I’m just… I don’t know how we’d…”

Her words trailed off, but Lando didn’t need her to finish. He understood. His hand moved from her hip to her belly, his touch tender as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “We’ll take it slow, just like we always do.”

She nodded, her breath catching as he brushed his lips against her temple, then her cheek, before finally capturing her mouth in a kiss that was both sweet and searing. His hand slid under her t-shirt, his fingers skimming over her skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as the kiss deepened, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together. “You’re so beautiful,” Lando whispered, his voice rough with desire. His fingers traced the curve of her belly, his touch reverent. “I don’t know how you do it, but you just keep getting more and more stunning.”

She laughed softly despite herself, her cheeks flushing even darker. “You’re such a charmer,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Always know the right thing to say.”

He grinned, his dimples flashing. “Can’t help it if it’s true,” he said. “Now… let’s see if I can remember how to do this.”

His hand began to move with purpose, fingers trailing a slow, deliberate path downward. His touch was electric, every inch of her skin buzzing as he traced the curve of her waist, down to the soft swell of her belly. He paused there for a moment, his palm resting protectively over the life growing inside her.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe and desire. “Every part of you. Every inch.” His hand drifted lower, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her sleep shorts. She bit her lip, her breath hitching as his fingers dipped beneath the fabric, teasingly slow, as if he was savoring every second of this.

“Lando…” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and desperation. Her body tensed, her hips lifting slightly off the mattress, as if urging him to take what she was so clearly offering. His hand stilled for a moment, his eyes locking with hers, searching for any sign of hesitation. But there was none—only need, raw and unfiltered, burning in her gaze.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice soft but laced with an intensity that made her stomach flip. She nodded, her hands gripping the sheets as she whispered, “Yes. I want you. I need you.”

Her words were all the encouragement he needed. His fingers slid lower, brushing against the warmth between her thighs, and she gasped, her back arching as he found her most sensitive spot. His touch was light at first, a gentle exploration that made her toes curl and her breath catch in her throat. But then he pressed deeper, his fingers circling in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her body.

“God, you’re so wet for me,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire as he leaned in to capture her lips in a searing kiss. His other hand cradled her belly protectively, his touch a grounding contrast to the fire he was igniting between her legs. She moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his fingers never stopping their relentless pace.

“The baby…” she murmured against his lips, her voice wavering despite the ache coursing through her.

“We’re fine,” he assured her, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’ve got you. Both of you.” His lips trailed down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her shudder. “Just let me take care of you.”

And she did. With every touch, every kiss, every whispered word, he reminded her why she’d waited for him, why she’d let herself fall so completely. Because when it came to Lando, it wasn’t just about the physical—it was about the way he made her feel, the way he cherished her, even in moments like this when the world felt too big and their bodies felt too small.

“I need you,” she whispered again, her voice breaking as his fingers curled inside her, sending a wave of pleasure so intense it stole her breath. And he didn’t hesitate. He never did. Because when it came to her, Lando was always ready to give her everything.

“Stop,” she gasped, her voice breaking as his fingers curled inside her again and again, sending a wave of pleasure so intense it stole her breath. But it wasn’t enough—not anymore. She needed more. She needed him. “Lando, please… I need you. Your fingers… they’re not enough.” Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she pulled him closer, her hips arching off the mattress in a desperate plea. “I need your cock. Please, I need to feel you inside me.”

Lando’s eyes darkened, desire blazing in them as he looked down at her, his chest heaving. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rough, strained with restraint. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or the baby.”

She shook her head, her hands moving to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You won’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “I need you, Lando. Please… fuck me. I’ve been waiting… dreaming about this. I need to feel you, all of you.”

His jaw tightened, a low groan escaping him as he leaned down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “God, Y/N… you have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands moving to grip her hips. 

“I’ll give you everything. Always,” Lando whispered, his voice a low, gravelly promise that sent shivers down her spine. He leaned down to press a searing kiss to her lips before pulling back, his eyes locked on hers as he slowly, deliberately reached for the waistband of his boxers. He tugged them down, his gaze never leaving hers, the heat in his eyes enough to make her heart race and her breath catch.

She lay there, watching him, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as he moved closer, his hands now on her pajama bottoms. “Let’s get these off,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His fingers brushed against her skin as he slid the fabric down her legs, his touch deliberate and teasing, sending waves of anticipation coursing through her. She lifted her hips to help him, her body trembling with the intensity of the moment.

Once she was bare before him, Lando’s hands moved to her hips, his touch both possessive and tender. “Turn on your side for me, love,” he said softly, his voice gentle but laced with urgency. She nodded, her breath hitching as she shifted onto her side, her back now pressed against his chest. His hand rested on her thigh, his fingers tracing slow, maddening circles as he adjusted behind her, his hips aligning with hers.

His hard length pressed against her entrance, and she gasped, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through her body. His hand tightened on her thigh as he rocked his hips forward, rubbing himself against her, the friction teasing and torturous all at once. “You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his voice roughened with need. His breath was hot against her neck, his lips grazing her skin.

But then—“Ow—wait, wait, babe—cramp!” she gasped, her body tensing as she reached for his hand to stop him.

He froze instantly, pulling back slightly. “Shit, sorry! Is it your leg or…?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

“No, no—it’s the bump,” she explained, grimacing slightly. “It’s just squished.”

They paused for a moment, their heavy breaths filling the room as they both laughed softly, the tension easing for a second. “Okay, okay,” Lando said with a grin, his hands moving to help her shift onto her back.

“Okay, let’s try something different,” she suggested, her breath still uneven as she pushed herself up from the pillows. Her hands slid over Lando’s shoulders, her touch lingering as she shifted her weight, her movements slow and deliberate. She swung one leg over him, her belly pressing gently against his thighs as she positioned herself above him, facing away. Her back was to him now, the curve of her spine and the swell of her bump exposed, the dim light of the room casting soft shadows over her skin.

Lando’s hands immediately found her hips, his fingers gripping her possessively as she lowered herself onto him. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire as he felt her warmth hovering just above him. His cock strained against her, hard and aching, and he couldn’t help but rock his hips upward, a silent plea for her to take him in.

She felt him nudge against her, the tip of him brushing against her entrance, and she shuddered, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she sank down, inch by inch, her body stretching to accommodate him. The sensation was overwhelming—warm, tight, and electric, a mix of pleasure and a deep, aching fullness that made her toes curl. She gasped, her hands gripping his thighs for support as she felt him fill her completely, the pressure and heat of him sending sparks of pleasure radiating through her body.

For Lando, it was pure bliss. Her wetness enveloped him, her warmth wrapping around his cock in a way that made his head spin. The tightness of her, the way her body seemed to cling to him, was almost too much to bear. He let out a low, guttural groan, his hands tightening on her hips as he fought the urge to thrust up into her. “You feel fucking incredible,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “So tight, so warm… like you were made for me.”

She moaned softly, her hips rocking slightly as she adjusted to the feel of him inside her. But then, the strain in her thighs became impossible to ignore, and the weight of her belly pressed uncomfortably against her lungs. “Oh god,” she wheezed, her hands trembling as she tried to hold herself up. “Lando, I’m either going to pass out or fall over.”

He chuckled, though his voice was thick with lust. “Let’s not have that happen,” he said, his hands moving to help her shift her weight. Gently, he helped her move off from on top of him, guiding her down until she was lying back on the bed. He grabbed every pillow within reach, stacking them beneath her hips as she lay back. The angle was better this way—less strain, more focus on them. His hands lingered on her thighs, his touch possessive but tender, as he positioned himself between her legs.

She could feel the heat of him against her, the tip of his cock brushing her entrance, and a shiver ran through her. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, thick with desire. She nodded, biting her lip as he pushed into her slowly, inch by torturous inch.

He felt divine. The way her body welcomed him, warm and wet, was almost overwhelming. She gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as he filled her completely, the stretch and fullness sending sparks of pleasure radiating through her core. His name spilled from her lips in a breathy moan, and he groaned in response, his hands tightening on her hips.

But then—of course—the pillows began to shift. She felt herself sliding down awkwardly, the angle changing as gravity betrayed them. “Okay, so gravity is not on our side tonight,” she mumbled, her voice tinged with both amusement and frustration.

Before she could adjust, Lando’s cock slipped out of her, leaving her feeling strangely empty. She let out a soft whine, her body craving the heat of him again. He chuckled, his hands moving to steady her hips. “Let’s try that again,” he said, his voice rough with need.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. He guided himself back to her entrance, the tip nudging against her folds. She gasped as he pushed in again, the sensation of him sliding inside her for the second time even more intense. The initial stretch was sharp, almost too much, but then it melted into a deep, aching pleasure that spread through her entire body. Her walls clenched around him instinctively, drawing a low, guttural groan from his throat.

For Lando, it was pure bliss. Her tightness enveloped him, her warmth wrapping around his cock in a way that made his head spin. The wetness of her, the way her body seemed to cling to him, was almost too much to bear. He let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping her thighs as he fought the urge to thrust into her with all the pent-up desire he’d been holding back. “You feel fucking incredible,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “So tight, so warm… like you were made for me.”

She moaned softly, her hips shifting slightly to take him deeper. The sensation of him filling her completely, the pressure and heat of him, was overwhelming. It was as if every nerve in her body was on fire, every touch, every movement, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “You’re so perfect, Y/N. Every part of you.” His thrusts were slow and deliberate, each one drawing another gasp from her lips. She could feel the rhythm building between them, the tension tightening like a coil ready to snap.

But then—again—the pillows slipped, and she felt herself sliding down. Lando cursed under his breath, his hips stalling as he tried to adjust. She let out a frustrated laugh, her body trembling with the effort to hold itself up. “Okay, so maybe this isn’t going to work,” she said, her voice breathless.

Lando chuckled, though his voice was thick with lust and a hint of exasperation. “Let’s not give up yet,” he said, his hands moving to help her shift her weight. But as she tried to prop herself up again, the pillows beneath her slid completely out of place, and she collapsed back onto the bed with a frustrated groan.

They both froze for a moment, staring at each other, before bursting into laughter. His deep, resonant laugh mingled with her breathless giggles, the sound filling the room and easing the tension that had been building between them.

Lando leaned down, his forehead resting against hers as he caught his breath. “It’s not about the sex anyway,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender, his thumb brushing her cheek. His tone was sincere, but the teasing glint in his eyes betrayed him.

She rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched into a smile. “Speak for yourself,” she grumbled, already leaning in to kiss his jaw, her lips brushing against the stubble there. Her hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the firm muscles beneath his skin. “I’m the one who’s been craving you all night,” she murmured against his neck, her voice low and needy. “I’m desperate, Lando. I need you. I need your dick.”

He groaned, his hands tightening on her hips as she shifted closer, her belly pressing against his side. “Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “You’re killing me here.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes filled with want. “Then stop teasing me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Lando. I can’t wait anymore. I need you inside me.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching hers, before letting out a shaky breath. “Okay, okay,” he said, his voice gentle but laced with urgency. “Let’s try this again. Slowly. Just… let me take care of you.”

She nodded, her breath hitching as he moved back between her legs, his hands guiding her hips into a more comfortable position. Their laughter had eased the tension, but now, as his cock brushed against her entrance, the urgency returned full force. She whimpered, her hips lifting slightly, silently begging him to take her. “Please,” she whispered again, her voice breaking. “I need you so much.”

And this time, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed into her slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as the overwhelming sensation of him filled her completely. For a moment, they both just stayed like that, suspended in the intensity of the moment, before he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, drawing gasps and moans from her lips.

But then—again—the pillows slipped, and they both collapsed onto the bed, tangled in each other and laughing breathlessly. Lando shook his head, his chest heaving as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’re a mess,” he murmured, his voice warm with affection.

She grinned, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “Yeah, but we’re our mess,” she whispered, already feeling the warmth of his body seeping into hers. 

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh, her hands tugging at the hem of the oversized t-shirt she was still wearing. “This fucking thing,” she muttered, her voice laced with irritation as she tried to adjust it for the umpteenth time. It was bunched up awkwardly around her belly, the fabric clinging in all the wrong places. She glanced over at Lando, who was watching her with a mixture of amusement and desire in his eyes. “What?” she snapped, though there was no real bite to her tone.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You’re just… adorable when you’re annoyed.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. “Help me get this off,” she said, tugging at the shirt again. “It’s driving me insane.”

Lando didn’t need to be asked twice. He leaned in, his hands sliding up her sides under the fabric, his touch warm and electric against her skin. Slowly, he pulled the shirt up and over her head, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. And there she was—finally completely naked, her pregnant body bathed in the soft glow of the lamplight.

Lando’s breath caught in his throat as he took her in, his eyes roaming over her with a hunger that made her shiver. Her breasts were fuller now, her nipples peaked and sensitive, and her belly was a beautiful, rounded curve that he couldn’t resist touching. His hand rested gently on her bump, his fingers tracing the smooth skin there before moving lower, teasingly close to where she needed him most.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. Her hands reached for him, pulling him closer, her nails digging into his shoulders as she kissed him hungrily. “Please,” she murmured against his lips. “I need you. I need you so bad.”

He groaned, his cock twitching in response to her desperation. “Let’s try this,” he said, his voice rough with desire. He helped her shift to the edge of the bed, her legs spread wide to accommodate him. He stood between her legs, his hands gripping her hips to steady her as he positioned himself at her entrance.

For her, the sensation of his cock brushing against her was almost too much to bear. She was wet—achingly so—and the thought of him filling her again sent a wave of anticipation crashing through her. When he finally pushed inside her, the sensation was electric. The initial stretch was sharp, almost overwhelming, but then it melted into a deep, aching pleasure that spread through her entire body. God, he felt so good. Her walls clenched around him instinctively, drawing a low, guttural groan from his throat.

For Lando, it was pure bliss. Her tightness enveloped him, her warmth wrapping around his cock in a way that made his head spin. The wetness of her, the way her body seemed to cling to him, was almost too much to bear. He let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping her hips as he fought the urge to thrust into her with all the pent-up desire he’d been holding back. “You feel fucking incredible,” he gritted out, his voice strained. 

She moaned softly, her hips shifting slightly to take him deeper. The sensation of him filling her completely, the pressure and heat of him, was overwhelming. It was as if every nerve in her body was on fire, every touch, every movement, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “You’re so perfect, Y/N. Every part of you.” His thrusts were slow and deliberate, each one drawing another gasp from her lips. She could feel the rhythm building between them, the tension tightening like a coil ready to snap.

She was desperate for him, her body trembling with the need to feel more of him, to be closer to him. Her hands gripped the edge of the bed, her nails digging into the mattress as she arched her back, offering herself to him completely. “Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please… don’t stop. I need you so much.”

He groaned, his thrusts growing more urgent as he felt her desperation. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “I’ll always take care of you.” His hands moved to her breasts, his fingers brushing over her nipples, sending shivers of pleasure through her. She gasped, her head falling back as the sensations overwhelmed her.

“Your tits,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he leaned down to take one of her nipples into his mouth. She moaned, her hands tangling in his hair as he suckled gently, his tongue teasing her sensitive skin. The combination of his cock filling her and his mouth on her breast was almost too much to bear. She could feel herself teetering on the edge, the pleasure building to a crescendo.

“Lando, I’m close,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Please… I’m so close.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with hers as he continued to thrust into her, his movements steady and deliberate. “Come for me, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice laced with urgency. “Let go. I want to feel you come around me.”

His words were all it took. Her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her body trembling as pleasure radiated through her. Her walls clenched around him, milking his cock as she moaned his name, her voice breaking with the intensity of it.

For Lando, it was too much. The feeling of her pussy squeezing his cock, pulling him deeper into her, was unbearable. He let out a low, guttural groan, his thrusts growing erratic as he felt his own release building. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice rough. “I’m going to… I’m going to come.”

She moaned softly, her body still quivering with the lingering waves of her climax as she felt Lando’s thrusts grow erratic, each one driving deeper into her. His hands—which had been gripping her hips with such possessive intensity—now roamed over her body, one sliding up to cup her breast while the other traced the curve of her belly. His fingers moved with a mix of reverence and desperation, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, even now.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his voice ragged and thick with need. “You feel… so fucking good.” His thumb brushed over her nipple, the touch sending a jolt of pleasure through her already oversensitive body. She gasped, arching into his hand as he leaned down to capture her lips in a messy, heated kiss.

She could feel him trembling above her, his control slipping as his thrusts became shallow and unsteady. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice low and gravelly, his breath hot against her skin. His hips stuttered, and then he was spilling inside her, his cock pulsing as he filled her with his warmth. The sensation was overwhelming—intimate, possessive, and so fucking good. She clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he buried himself to the hilt, his release flooding her completely.

“Fuck, fuck,” he panted, his forehead resting against hers as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm. His hands roamed over her body, one cupping her breast while the other slid down to her hip, his touch grounding and possessive. “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough and awed. “Every inch of you… I can’t get enough.”

She felt him softening inside her, but he didn’t pull away, instead staying connected to her, his hands continuing to explore her body with a tenderness that made her heart swell. His fingers traced the swell of her belly, then slid up to graze her nipple again, his touch feather-light and teasing. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her temple. “I love you so fucking much.”

She sighed, her hands moving to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “I love you too,” she murmured, her voice soft but filled with the same intensity that had been between them all night. She pulled him closer, her lips brushing against his in a slow, tender kiss that spoke of everything they’d just shared—and everything they still had yet to discover.

[lazysoulwriter]

pre-race problems - lando norris.

---

You didn’t mean to start anything. Honestly.

You were just excited to see him before the chaos of the grid, the cameras, the helmet, the race. So when Lando leaned down for a quick kiss, you tugged him back by the collar of his fireproof suit and kissed him a little harder.

And okay, maybe you added a bit of tongue. Maybe your hands slid down to his hips. Maybe you bit his bottom lip, just a little. Maybe he made that low sound in his throat that always makes your knees a little weak.

But still—not your fault.

You pull away with a grin, eyes flicking down as he shifts on his feet like a guilty teenager. And there it is. Clear as day. Pressed against the ridiculously tight material of his race suit.

“Lando,” you whisper, trying—and failing—to hold in a laugh. “You’ve got… a situation.”

“I know,” he hisses, hands fluttering uselessly over the waistband. “You started it!”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you have zero self-control?”

“You kissed me like that before a race, what did you expect me to do—recite lap times in my head?”

You snort, trying to muffle your giggles into his chest. He’s warm, smells like fresh gear and that cologne you like, and he's very much panicking.

“Babe, I have to go on the grid in five minutes,” he groans, burying his face in your neck. “I can't walk out like this. They'll put me on TV.”

“I mean,” you tease, lips brushing his ear, “you are the main event.”

He whimpers dramatically. “Not helping.”

With a sigh that’s more amusement than sympathy, you glance around the small room—no one’s coming in. Quick hands reach down to adjust the waistband of his suit, tugging the fabric just right to help him angle it in a less... obvious direction.

“There,” you say, smug. “Crisis averted.”

“I love you,” he breathes, eyes wide with gratitude and affection. “Marry me.”

“After the podium, lover boy.”

He grins, leaning down for another kiss—and you have to shove him away, laughing.

“No! You’ll make it worse again!”

He groans but backs off, hands raised in defeat, cheeks flushed red—not from embarrassment, but from trying not to burst out laughing.

“You’re evil,” he says.

“You’re easy.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“And yet,” you grin, walking him toward the door, “you’ll drive like a menace just to impress me.”

He shoots you a wink. “Damn right.”

And with that, Lando walks off to the grid, flustered but glowing. Because even with a full race ahead, nothing gets his heart racing quite like you.

---

[23victoria]

just friends…right?

pairing: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

word count: 1.4𝒌

synopsis: 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔...𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕?

warnings: 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆,

authors note: 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒎𝒌 𝒊𝒇𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕! 𝒊 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒃 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈! 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚!!!

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕?! CLICK HERE!

✰ F1 MASTERLIST ✰

You’ve been to plenty of races, but there’s something about coming home to Melbourne that feels different. It’s the first race of the season, and the familiar skyline, the smell of eucalyptus trees in the breeze—it all reminds you of when you and Oscar were just awkward teenagers in boarding school, dreaming big.

Now? He’s living his dream. And you’re standing trackside with a Paddock Pass clipped to your belt loop, his spare McLaren jacket drowning your frame because you forgot your own.

“Hydrate,” you say, pushing a cold bottle of water into Oscar’s hand as he’s pulling off his helmet after FP1.

He takes it, and without thinking, leans forward to press his forehead against your shoulder for just a moment—just a breath of stillness. It’s instinct now, the way you wrap an arm around his waist without blinking.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles into your shirt. His voice is muffled, but it sends butterflies into full flight.

Lando walks past, smirking. “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were secretly married.”

Oscar pulls away, rolling his eyes but grinning. “We’re not.”

You’re already used to this. Everyone assumes. How could they not? You’re always there—making sure he eats, making sure he sleeps, fixing his collar, hugging him before every quali.

You and Oscar in the same sentence always sounds like a love story.

And maybe… maybe you’re starting to wonder if everyone else knows something you don’t.

You’re pressed into a hug by Alexandra when Oscar appears at your side. He’s glowing—P3 today, his first podium of the season—and you beam as he walks up to you like you’re his finish line.

His hands immediately go to your waist like they always do when he lifts you up after a good result.

“I told you!” you shout over the noise. “P3! I called it this morning!”

Oscar spins you around like you weigh nothing and then sets you down, too close, forehead nearly touching yours. “You’re officially good luck,” he grins.

Ollie's nearby with Kimi, the two of them laughing as they watch the interaction unfold.

“Just friends, right?” Kimi teases, nudging Ollie who tries to look innocent.

“Very convincing,” Ollie snorts. “If my best friend looked at me like that, I’d be questioning everything.”

You shoot them a glare, cheeks hot, but Oscar doesn’t even look flustered. He just shakes his head with a tiny smirk.

“You guys are unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

But you see the way he’s still holding your hand.

It’s pouring rain. The race is delayed. You’re wrapped in Oscar’s spare hoodie because your suitcase got lost in transit, and you’re curled up in a hospitality room on the floor, your legs over his lap as he scrolls through his phone.

Outside, the track is flooded. Inside, it’s warm. Safe.

He taps on a post and shows you.

It’s a fan edit. Of you and him.

Clips from the paddock, your hugs, the way he looks at you when you’re not watching, a slow-motion shot of him tucking your hair behind your ear.

“‘Just friends’ my ass,” the caption reads.

“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in a pillow.

Oscar just chuckles, low and fond. “They have better footage of us than F1TV.”

You peek up at him, suspicious. “You’re not embarrassed?”

He shrugs. “Nah. It’s kind of flattering.”

“Kind of?” you tease.

Oscar looks down at your legs draped across his and then gently squeezes your ankle. “I mean, I don’t blame them.”

Your breath hitches.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You’re wearing that black silk dress he once said made you look “dangerous.” You’ve forgotten about the comment—until you catch Oscar staring across the dinner table a little too long.

“So,” Lando says, raising a glass, “how long have you two been secretly dating?”

You sigh.

“For the hundredth time,” you say patiently, “we are not dating.”

“That’s what all secretly dating people say,” Charles jokes, grinning into his wine.

Even Max leans back with a raised brow. “You spend every weekend together, wear his clothes, and you call each other before every quali. But sure. Best friends.”

Ollie raises a hand. “I’d just like to point out she kissed his helmet before Quali in Hungary last year. You’re telling me that’s not love?”

“It’s tradition,” you protest.

“Your face was red for an hour,” Kimi deadpans.

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. “You’re all insane.”

But his voice is too fond. Like he doesn’t actually hate the teasing.

And his hand brushes yours under the table for a second too long to be accidental.

It’s scorching, and Oscar’s nearly melting in his race suit. You show up to his garage with a small handheld fan and his favorite electrolyte drink, holding them up like a peace offering.

“You’re going to owe me foot rubs for this.”

He chuckles. “Foot rubs?”

“I’ve walked, like, four kilometers today.”

Oscar takes the drink and the fan, then grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the garage. “Come sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N.”

He gives you that look—the one he only reserves for you. Stern, sweet, worried.

So you sit, and his hand doesn’t leave yours for at least ten minutes.

When Andrea, his engineer, comes by, he raises a brow. “You’re attached at the hip. One day I’m going to find you two fused together.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “We’re just friends, mate.”

“Right,” Andrea replies dryly. “And I’m Batman.”

You can’t sleep.

The hotel room next to yours is Oscar’s. You knock lightly, and he opens it almost immediately, like he was waiting for you.

“Can’t sleep,” you whisper.

He nods, steps aside.

You both lie on his bed in the dark, facing the ceiling. Eventually, you roll to your side to look at him. “Do you ever think about how long it’s been?”

He turns to you, brows raised. “What?”

“Us. Being like this.”

Oscar’s quiet for a moment. “Since we were thirteen, yeah?”

“Boarding school. The cracked dorm windows. You stealing my notes.”

“Hey, you stole my snacks.”

You laugh quietly, and he’s watching you now, really watching.

“You were always there,” you murmur. “Every big moment of my life, you’ve been there.”

Oscar nods. “Same.”

The silence is thick. Heavy.

“You ever think about what that means?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly. “All the time.”

It’s raining again. Because of course it is.

You’re in the back of the garage, watching the screen, heart in your throat. Oscar’s fighting for P2. You’re squeezing a McLaren stress ball so hard your fingers hurt.

When he crosses the line in second, you scream. Literally. Everyone around you cheers, but you run.

You’re there before he even pulls off his gloves. You wait until he’s past media, past team debrief, and then you throw yourself into his arms, nearly knocking him off balance.

“You were incredible,” you whisper, voice breaking with pride.

He holds you tighter than he ever has before.

“You always believe in me,” he says quietly.

“I always will.”

And when you pull back, his hand finds your jaw like it’s second nature. His eyes flick down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

Neither of you says it. But you both know.

It’s late. Everyone’s left dinner. You and Oscar are walking towards his car.

You’re laughing about something—the memory of some dumb joke that Ollie and Lando were bickering over dinner—when Oscar suddenly stops walking, going quiet.

You look at him. “What?”

He swallows. “Do you ever wonder what would happen if we stopped saying we were just friends?”

Your breath catches.

“What if we stopped pretending?” he continues, voice low. “What if we just… told them they were right?”

You stare at him. “Oscar…”

“Y/N. I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen.”

The world stills.

And then, before you can panic or think or overanalyze—

You kiss him.

It’s soft, warming, familiar, and long overdue.

When you pull back, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Took you long enough,” he whispers.

You smack his shoulder, giggling, with slight tears in your eyes. “Shut up.”

His fingers are laced with yours. And you don’t let go. You rest your head on his shoulder, looking up at him lovingly—like he’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

✰༞𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!࿎✰@ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @Ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @Formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @Blakesbearblog @cel-b @perfumejamal @aykxz98 @pandora-08 @teti-menchon0604 @bxtosa @fadingcloudballoon @whatevenisthisxxxxx @anamiad00msday @luula @tellybearryyyy @exotic-iris13 @magixpracticality @eoduuung @eternoangel @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @flowerpetalk @oledoledoffen @jimcarreyfann42 @revolutionsingingintherain @acesbakery @oliviah-25 @matcha—-matcha @unkownmystery_22 @sophienorris18-blog @armystay89 @paucubarsisimp

[starryflix]

Chapter 9 is up now!

you can find it here

[81pastrys]

Sleepy Solution

Summary— Max had a morning problem and she compromised, but he couldn’t hold back

Warnings— morning sex ; ‘just the tip’ ; overstimulation ; no aftercare (she falls back asleep)

A/N— why hello, I’m back

Max One Shots

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— Hi! I have a new idea. Max and his girlfriend in the morning, in bed under the sunlight. His girlfriend is really tired while Max wakes her up with sweet, insistent kisses. He has the morning problem, so he wants her terribly and insists. But his girlfriend, still half asleep, wants to rest, so she offers him "just the tip." Max accepts, but as time goes on, he can't hold back any longer and he ends up putting everything in.-🫦

Mornings were usually calmer with Max. He was usually tired from gaming all night and she was usually tired from being such a housewife.

Max had been home from a break a few days and she loved the fact she could get cuddled to sleep again. He’d hold her tight and all her muscles would relax and she’d let out a sigh of content.

She was a peaceful sleeper, especially with Max holding her. Otherwise she would toss and turn all night. Max had less calmer ideas when he woke up hard though. “Schatje.” He murmured in her ear.

She hummed and he kissed her, non-stop. Her cheeks. her hair, her neck, anywhere he could reach without disturbing her too much. “Morning.” She grumbled tired.

“So cute when you sleep in me like this.” He hummed. He smiled and she wriggled her body to get more comfortable and brushed a leg against his ‘issue’ his breath hitched. “Can we fix that? Please?”

She groaned, her eyes already shut but creasing from her closing them more. “Just the tip?” She offered. “I’m too tired Max.” He chuckled but nodded at her.

“Okay, we can do just the tip.” He whispered back, in between his insistent kisses. They were already half dressed, so he pulled his boxers off and moved her panties to the side.

He reached and hand down to her and felt her arousal. She moaned at the touch and he smiled again. He lined up his tip and breached her entrance just the slightest, only the head of him inside her. He groaned, feeling her tight walls getting tighter at her muscles trying to get more of him.

They stayed how they were for a minute and he whined, he needed more than just the tip, he needed all of her around all of him. “Het spijt me schatje.” (I’m sorry baby) he whispered before he pushed all the way inside her.

She moaned loud as he did. She gasped a took a few bigger breaths at how much he filled her in this angle. “Fuck Max.” She arched her back, the feeling too much for the morning haze. Her body shook as he held her close.

He ran his fingers through her hair, shushing her as he stayed where he was. She whined from how full and overstimulated she was. “Do you want me to move?” He whispered in her ear. She whined again and pushed at his hip.

“No, but I might cum if you pull out.” She strained in her tired and raspy voice. Her breath shaky as he slightly twitched inside her. He hushed her again and stayed as still as he could.

What got her to climax wasn’t just the slight twitches, but when he got deeper by pulling her closer. She gasped and he let her body shake from the pleasure. “Too much?” He asked.

She shook her head in disagreement and they stay connected for a while longer, his dick slowly softening inside her. “Never again.” She panted. He chuckled after pulling out, her body wracked from the intensity of it all.

“No morning sex, got it.” Max noted. “Thank you.” He pecked her cheek and she groaned, still overly tired from not just the previous day but now from the orgasm he quickly pulled from her. “I didn’t know you were that sensitive in the morning.”

She rubbed her face on her pillow, now lying on her belly. “I told you just the tip.” She grumbled into the pillow. He chuckled again and let her be. They never had morning sex before now and he now knew why.

“Are you going to shower or do I have to manhandle you to clean up?” He asked from their shared bathroom. She was already claimed by sleep again and he chuckled to himself. Clean up can wait apparently.

Apologies for the absence. Easter kicked my ass and then my ex decided to break no contact SO!

@il0vereadingstuff @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @justaf1girl @kallanfiona

[luvstappen]

pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: oscar and y/n enjoy some time alone

warnings: SMAU (no written parts), swearing, mature themes, fluff, angst, self-doubt, use of y/n

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a/n: uploading this chapter nearly broke me. my wifi gave up like 23 times and there were too many pictures, i actually had to cut it short lmao

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liked by ynfewtrell and 687,258 others

oscarpiastri Little midseason recharge 🇵🇹

view all comments

user this feels like a soft launch 😭

user OH MY GOD THEY’RE THERE TOGETHER

ynfewtrell 😮

oscarpiastri 😮

maxfewtrell 😮

user this is so cute

nicolepiastri Lovely ❤️

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TAGLIST: @harrysdimple05 @milkysoop @charlesgirl16 @wosof1 @illicitverstappen @back-on-my-bullsh @revrse @skepvids @screamingwines @a-beaverhausen @l-vroom4 @wildflowerhuggy @meglouise00 @formulaal @smithieandy @sltwins @awritingtree @colmathgames2 @org12 @alice-went-away @grovelingmen @taasgirl @anotherapollokid @d3kstar @gnarlycore @leclercdream @skeleton-elly @verstappensrealwife @seonghwaexile @hellowgoodbye @samantha-chicago @delululeclerc @5sospenguinqueen @riverxsq @s0meth1ngs @silentreader128 @cheer-bear-go-vroom @sarahsobsession @raweceekk @willowsnook @nxlx96 @saythename-sm @lesliiieeeee @landopoet @blushmimi @neferaskingdom @oikarma @mayax2o07 @obxstiles @speeedybaby

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

[leclerc-hs]

off the record! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x race engineer!reader (fem) summary: in which you and charles don't correct the headlines OR you and charles are fake dating...key word: FAKE...right? warnings: language, some smut, NOT PROOFREAD (there's prob typos sorry), angst??? word count: 9.1k author's note: hiiii angels! I hope you like this one <3 let me know what y'all think!! hearing from you all is what gives me motivation to keep writing. xoxo. HAD THIS ONE SITTING IN THE DRAFTS FOR SOME TIME

Charles is good at pretending. Almost too good.

He’s too swift in front of the cameras, too convincing when his hand always manages to find the small of your back as you both walk through the paddock like it’s second nature. Like you belong there, belong to him. Too natural in the way he leans toward you in interviews, voice low and warm, muttering things that sound and look intimate even when they aren’t.

Except sometimes, when it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Because no one’s watching when it’s just the two of you in the garage after hours, both of you bleary eyed and sore from leaning hunched over the data too long. He’s still like that. Still standing too close. Still reaching for your wrist when you ramble off, his thumb brushing over your pulse like its nothing. Or when he still calls you amour and cherie in that voice, like he doesn’t remember that it’s all fake.

And you let him. You always do.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That you’ve started memorizing the sound of his laugh. Or the shape of the vein in his throat when he’s super focused. That your stomach twists into knots whenever his eyes crinkle from a smile that feellike its just for you. That you’ve memorized the shape of his mouth when he says your name, whether it’s joyful, annoyed, or exhausted, it’s always gentle. Like he cares. Like he means everything.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Not the way he touches you when people are watching. Not the photos or the constant headlines.

It’s the way he looks at you when no one else is around.

Like it’s not pretend at all.

-

It starts in the most ridiculous way.

One stupid photo, taken from the wrong angle at the wrong moment, and suddenly you’re everywhere. 

LECLERC’S SECRET FLING???? MYSTERY WOMAN OR HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

You outright groan when you see it. You’re still in the motorhome, alone with the hum of the mini refrigerator behind you and the harsh morning sun streaming through the tinted windows. Your laptop is wide open, untouched, but all you can do is stare at your phone.

Your face is angled slightly toward him. His head tipped just enough to suggest something intimate briefly between FP1 and a strategy meeting, your hand grazing the curve of his back as you both maneuvered through the crowd. He laughed at something you said, probably something dumb, but the photo caught that too. His mouth curved upward, eyes crinkled in your direction. Like something romantic, private, real.

Your stomach churns.

A knock sounds, soft and almost polite, before the door opens anyways. You don’t have to look up to know its him. His scent hits you first. Clean, something warm and familiar that always lingers too long.

“Did you see the news?” Charles asks, closing the motorhome door with a soft click.

You turn the phone screen toward him, “What do you think?”

He glances at the screen for a mere second and huffs out a soft laugh. Not surprised, not even irritated. Just amused, like this is a game.

“Didn’t know you were considered a mystery woman. Let alone my mystery woman,” he says, stepping closer, a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Didn’t know I needed PR clearance to walk beside you,” you reply, brows raised. Your voice is sharp, not in the mood to be flirted with, even if its playful.

His smile dims, just a fraction. “I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s beyond annoying,” you drop the phone beside you. “They don’t even bother to use my name! Just ‘female engineer from inside Ferrari’. Like I’m nothing.”

His gaze softens while he leans against the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he sighs, “They’ll get bored anyways.”

“Will they?” You meet his eyes. “Or are they going to spin this until I’m some mystery girlfriend hiding in plain sight?”

Neither of you speak for a few moments.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you as he says, “They’re going to write the story either way. Maybe it’s better if we control the narrative.”

You lean back, studying him. “Control?”

Charles finally looks up, and when he does, its with that expression he only wears when he’s working through something dangerous. That soft stillness thats half strategy, half vulnerability.

“They think we’re together already,” he says. “What if we just…let them?”

The silence stretches and you just a stare at him, waiting for the joke, the amused smirk, the cocky laugh. But it doesn’t come.

Because he’s serious.

“You want to fake date me,” You say flatly.

“I want to stop giving them something to chase,” He corrects you, his voice almost a whisper. “If they think we’re together, they might back off.”

You begin to shake your head slowly. “That’s insane.”

He exhales through his nose, not denying it. “Think about it. A few appearances, some hand holding. A smile or two when cameras are around. No one gets hurt.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right…no one.”

He stands then, crosses the room and leans against the counter next to you, too close like he always is. His gaze skims your face.

“You wouldn’t have to change anything,” his voice is soft. “You’re already next to me most weekends. You’re already in photos. You already…” He pauses. Swallows. Breathes. “You already look at me like it could be true.”

Your heart drops. You open your mouth. Close it again.

He’s not joking. He’s asking.

And the worst part is, part of you wants to say yes.

You study him for a long moment. The way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks. The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, sweaty and messy.

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nods. “Only if you are.”

You reach for your phone again, staring at the photo, before putting it face down.

“When do we start?”

-

You feel him before you see him.

There’s a palpable shift in the air…familiar. And he’s there. Just standing outside the hospitality suite, dressed from head to toe in Ferrari red, with his sunglasses slipping on the bridge of his nose as he gives a small nod to someone you don’t recognize. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Regardless, your pulse spikes.

Your grip on the tablet in your hands tightens, a poor attempt at grounding yourself. You’ve walked beside him before. Done this dance dozens of times. But never with eyes on you like this. Never with your face wrapped up in headlines and edits that call you something you’re simply not.

Charles falls into step with you as if its the most casual thing in the world. As if the press haven’t been breathing down your necks. His scent hits you first, like always, clean and expensive and something so him that it unsettles something deep in between your ribs.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, and he still isn’t looking at you.

You nod, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you before you mutter a soft I suppose in his direction.

The paddock is nothing but a storm of noise and motion by the time you step out. The sun is shining blindly, heat simmering off the asphalt while other workers buzz around between the garages. Photographers and fans hover like flies on a horses back. 

Your heart is already fluttering in your throat, but you manage to keep your face composed. Neutral. As if there aren’t dozens of cameras fixed on you. Waiting.

His hand brushes against yours…barely. It seems like nothing at first, just the back of his hand brushing your fingers as you walk side by side.

But then it happens again. This time on purpose.

And then you feel it. His fingers curling, slipping through yours with a care that feels almost too fucking intimate.

You freeze. Not noticeably. Your steps don’t falter. But something inside you, burns. 

The cameras go wild. 

You hear it in the shouts, in the constant click click click as people realize what they’re witnessing. Voices shout from nearly every direction. Some screaming his name, others screaming yours. Your heart thuds like a drum behind your ribs.

And then, he stops.

Right there in the middle of the paddock, with the crowd pressing in, with reporters angling their mics and cameras, he fucking halts. His grip tightens around your hand, not painfully, but enough to make you stop walking too.

You turn, confused and startled. But he’s already facing you.

The sun glints off his sunglasses, casting shadows across his face, but its his stillness that steals your breath more than anything. His thumb brushes once, slow and grounding, along your hand as he speaks.

“You okay?” He asks, voice quiet and nearly lost in all the surrounding noise.

Your throat constricts. “I’m fine.” But it’s not convincing. Not to him at least.

He leans in slightly, and for a second, you think he might say something but instead his hand squeezes yours again, then slowly his fingers move. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your knuckles, the exact curve of your wrist, the shape of your hand against his.

And quickly, so quickly that no one but you could catch it, he tilts his head and lowers his sunglasses just enough for his eyes to peek over the top. 

And that is what undoes you. Its not a look for show. His green eyes are dark and searching. He just looks at you like he’s reading his favorite book. Like he wants to consume every single written word of yours.

“You sure?” He says, like the answer actually matters.

You nod.

And within a millisecond his sunglasses slide back into place with one push of his fingers. Mask on again. But his hand never leaves yours.

And you start walking again. Casual, composed, fake.

-

You don’t even bother knocking. Just push the door open with your shoulder and shuffle in like it’s your room. Your shoes are already off before the door fully shuts, mumbling something about your spine being broken as you toss your team jacket over the back of a chair.

Charles doesn’t even look up. He’s on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re late,” He says, voice muffled by the few bites of pasta in his mouth.

“You’re alive,” You shoot back.

“Barely.”

You collapse beside him, shoulder knocking into his as you groan and sink into the carpet as if its the best thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah, well. Next time, try not to scare me half to death on lap 52,” You mutter, pulling your hair out of its pony and letting it fall. “I don’t need to explain to the FIA why I dropped dead.”

He chuckles. It’s low, tired, and warm.

“I’ll  try to keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You traumatize me daily.”

His head turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he places his dish onto the ground. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it.”

“Do you want my pasta?” He pushes the bowl towards you like a peace offering.

You stare at it. “You’re so romantic.”

“Not romantic,” he softly smiles. “Just generous, cherie.”

“You’re luck you’re pretty.”

“You’re lucky I don’t care to fight right now.”

The room is dim, only one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the room and his face. His hoodie’s rumpled, socks mismatched, and hair still damp from the shower he rushed through.

It’s stupid how at home he looks right now. Not the polished version. Just Charles, the boy who can’t sit still and lets you steal his hoodies whenever your room gets too cold.

“I’d let you win,” You shrug your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. “Win what?”

“A fight.”

His grin spreads slowly across his lips. “Oh, so you’re feeling soft tonight, hm?”

“Soft. Exhausted. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I like you like this,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make your chest cave in.

“Like what? Emotionally unstable and half-asleep?”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile breaks through anyway. 

You both fall into an easy silence.

Comfortable.

-

You’re sitting sideways in the too-small balcony chair, legs draped over one arm, glass of wine in hand, with your head tilted back as you laugh. Charles is sitting on the floor beside you, his socked foot nudging the edge of your chair every now and then like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

“You were so fucking smug,” you say, pointing your glass at him. “And the audacity on lap 37?”

He smirks, leaning his head back agains the sliding glass door. “You were on the radio sounding like you were about to reach through the headset and strangle me.”

“I was! You kept ignoring the delta!”

“I did not-“

“You definitely did! You lifted once in turn ten and then just fucking sent it.”

He’s laughing now. Its full bodied and messy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And in this moment you decide, you love this laugh. This laugh is yours.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Maybe I did ignore. Just a little.”

“So I was right?”

He takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on yours over the rim of his glass. “Don’t push it.”

You nudge him with your foot. “I’m always right.”

“You’re always loud,” he counters. “I’ve never met someone who could make an entire briefing feel like a personal attack.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he’s still looking at you like there’s something about this moment that he wants to memorize.

-

The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, the sound low enough that you have to lean in to catch some of the lines, not that either of you really care.

The rain outside has been tapping against the windows since dinner, soft and steady, with the curtains half-drawn. It smells like shampoo and hotel linen and the candy bar you split earlier, the wrapper still crumpled on top of the nightstand, forgotten beside two water bottles and a single sock that might be his or might be yours.

Your lying on your stomach, head propped up on a pillow, legs bent at the knees with your feet swaying as you scroll through the Netflix menu for, what feels like, the seventh time. Charles is stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lying between you, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket like he’s unsure if he wants to move them closer.

“Pick something,” he groans, his voice thick with tiredness. “You’ve been scrolling for ten years.”

“I’m feeling out the vibe,” you reply. “You don’t understand.”

“You picked Spaceballs last time.”

“And you loved it.”

He groans, dragging a pillow over his face. You laugh, loud and bright, and Charles turns just enough to look at you. The screen casts you in soft light.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long. And then like it’s normal, he reaches for the back of your shirt and tugs it down where the fabric has ridden up, his knuckles grazing warm skin as he smooths it into place.

“You’re always doing that,” You mumble, slightly dazed.

He doesn’t deny it.

“It just bugs me when you’re not covered,” he says, almost to himself only.

You want to tease him, want to say something clever, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not ready to think about.

So instead, you settle on a movie. Some stupid, forgettable rom-com, and throw the remote between you with a sigh.

At some point, maybe around the third scene of the movie, you shift. Not deliberately.

Just a slow, natural thing. One of those absentminded movements made out of comfort and sheer exhaustion. You start leaning into him, just slightly. Your head dipping forward, shoulder brushing against his arm, and your elbow resting a little closer to his ribcage than it was twenty minutes ago. You don’t even realize it at first. It just happens.

Charles, on his end, doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t tense. Instead, he shifts too.

It’s not much. The way his body tilts just slightly toward yours. The way his hand, once resting flat agains the mattress, curls upwards so that the back of it now brushes against the edge of your waist whenever you breathe.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your cheek rest against the slope of his shoulder, his cotton hoodie soft beneath your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something warm. Something you’ve begun to associate with home. 

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You both just let it happen.

-

It starts with a spoonful of cereal to the face. 

Not yours. His.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie that’s definitely not yours (it’s his and he’s already made a hoke about it), one hand deep in a box of granola, the other scrolling on your phone, when Charles makes the mistake of saying something smug about your snoring.

“I don’t snore,” You say almost immediately, without looking up.

“Oh, yes you do,” he counters from where he’s standing near the little counter, pouring milk into a bowl. “You sound like a chainsaw.”

You blink at him.

Then, silently, reach for the complimentary spoon, dip it into your bowl of cereal, and flick it directly at his chest.

It splatters against the front of his t-shirt, clinging to the cotton.

He looks down and simply stares at the damage. Then up at you.

“You did not just-“

“I warned you!”

“You did not-“

And then its absolute chaos as he lunges.

You shriek, laughing, cereal long forgotten as you scramble to the far side of the bed, but he’s faster…years of sharp reflexes working unfairly in your favor as he reaches out and grabs your waist, tackling you into the pillows.

“No, Charles…Charles, please!”

“You did this to yourself!”

“Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.”

His hands are gentle, even as he’s tickling you. Even as you flail and laugh and grab at his wrists like you could stop him. Which you can’t, because his grip is ridiculously strong and the room is already echoing with your wheezing.

Eventually, he stops.

Maybe because he’s laughing too hard. Maybe cause he notices the way you’re curled beneath him, face flushed and eyes shining. 

And for one very long moment, he goes still

You both do.

Both frozen. Smiling.

But it fades a little because suddenly there’s this change that feels heavier than it should. A shift in the air that neither of you meant to invite in, but it’s here, demanding.

He clears his throat and rolls off of you with a soft groan.

“You’re the worst person ever ever,” he says, falling onto the mattress beside you.

“You started it.”

He throws the nearest pillow at you. “You cereal bombed me.”

“You deserved it.”

Another moment of silence passes.

Then casually, almost too casually, he says, “You can keep the hoodie, by the way.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Looks better on you.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you.

No. He’s just lying there, arms folded behind his head, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t just light a very dangerous fire.

And you don’t say anything. You just tug the hoodie a little closer around you.

-

The paddock is mostly empty by the time you finish up. The sun is low, and you’re walking a few steps ahead of him on the track, laughing at something he said. Not the polite kind of laugh people give him in interviews. But a real, loud laugh.

That’s the first mistake.

Because Charles is watching you. Not in the casual, friendly way he always has, but really watching you. And for the first time since this whole thing started, something in his chest pulls.

You glance back at him, smiling. “What?”

He blinks once, caught. “Nothing,” He starts to shake his head, trying to shake off the feeling. “You’re just…in a good mood.”

You slow down so that you’re walking beside each other again. “What? I can’t be happy?”

“No, you can. You just…” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re just different today.”

You laugh, softer this time. “Maybe I like being your fake girlfriend.” You say it as a joke. It’s always a joke.

But Charles’s smile falters, just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Right there. That’s when he realizes he doesn’t want it to be fake.

You keep walking, your eyes scanning the track like you’re picturing tomorrow’s data in your head already. Charles tries…really, really tries, to slip back into that same rhythm. The one where you’re just his engineer, just his best friend, just the person he trusts most in the world as of lately.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because you’ve always been that person.

And now there’s a weight in his chest every time you smile at someone else, a hum under his skin every time you say his name, and suddenly your laugh isn’t just nice to hear. It’s necessary. Like a drug. A song he never wants to stop playing.

The breeze picks up a little, carrying the light scent of rubber, and a strand of your hair blows across your face, rubbing against your cheek. You tuck it back without thinking. The motion is small, but it somehow feels intimate. Stupidly intimate. Like something only someone in love would take notice of.

Charles swallows and looks away.

“You good?” You ask, noticing the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just got a wave of exhaustion.”

You don’t press. You never do. You let him have his silences, even if they stretch too long, like right now. 

You’re talking again, about strategy or the tires, but he’s not really listening anymore. 

He’s thinking about your hands. The way you rested them on his chest during the last media stunt, your fingers spread flat over his heart like you didn’t know what you were touching.

He’s thinking about the fact he didn’t even flinch.

He’s thinking about how he liked it.

You say something funny and laugh, and Charles lets out one too. But it’s small, only half there.

Because it’s not funny anymore.

Because he’s beginning to look at you like he’s already lost you, and you don’t even know that he wants you yet.

And when you reach over to gently tug at his elbow, teasing him about being such a slow walker today, he knows it will only take one moment. One moment to fall completely, stupidly, in love with you.

And you’re just smiling like it’s all a game.

-

It’s late in the afternoon, just after FP2, and the air inside the motorhome has a tired kind of warmth. The kind of energy that once pulsed throughout the room has now dulled into a low murmur. 

You’re curled into he corner of the bench, tablet in hand, thumb swiping purposely through the sector times that begin to blur because you’ve been staring at numbers all day. Your back aches, neck’s tight, and you’ve probably read the same stats of numbers three times while retaining none of it.

All while trying your best to not acknowledge Charles across from you.

Charles. Sitting relaxed, legs stretched out, legs lazily crossed over one another at his ankles. You don’t look at him, not directly at least. But you always feel him.

You can sense his movement more than you see it. The soft pull of gravity as he crosses the room with such ease that no one bothers to notice. His body finds its way beside you, his thighs pressing into yours, his shoulders against your arm.

You don’t look up because you don’t need to.

He leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath at your temple, his faint scratch of stubble barely grazing your skin.

“What are you changing?” His voice curls its way into the space between your ear and your neck, and it settles there. Warm. Lingering.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, something that doesn’t sound like he’s unraveling you. “Playing around with the rear balance,” you say almost too quickly. “That first sector was a mess.”

He hums in agreement, half thoughtful, half amused. And he’s so close that it vibrates through you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t pretend this was just about data.

He stays close, too close, almost always. His body angled towards you, shoulders brushing against your arms, thighs pressed against yours with ease. Familiar. Like he knows exactly how far he can lean into you.

And then his hand rests on your thigh. It lands softly, just above your knee, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. His thumb brushes once. Barely.

Then again. 

You don’t flinch. You don’t correct him. You don’t glance around to see if anyone notices because you don’t care. 

It’s normal.

-

He hadn’t said much on the flight back. Hadn’t looked at anyone after the race either. Not to the media, not the engineers, and not even the fans who were leaning over the barricade chanting his name like he hadn’t lost the entire race from a single lock-up.

You watched him in the garage, helmet on too long, gloves clenched in his lap like he didn’t trust his hands to open.

You waited. You always did.

Now it’s past midnight and the hotel is silent. You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A soft knock, barely audible. You lie still, unsure if you’re imagining it.

Then again.

Three quiet knocks.

You pull yourself out of bed slowly, dragging the blanket around your shoulders, padding barefoot to the door with sleep covered eyes.

You peep through the hole before unlocking it.

Open it. And Charles is there. Barefoot.

Sweatpants and a hoodie thrown on like he couldn’t care less what he looked like. His eyes are tired. Not the good kind. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And you don’t ask why he’s here.

You step back wordlessly and let him in, closing the door behind him as he moves past you like he’s on autopilot.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because the way he’s looking at you, his eyes heavy and rimmed with pain that he doesn’t let anyone else see, says everything.

He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s unsure if he should sit or speak or leave.

“I fucked it up,” he finally says, voice flat. “We had it all right. All of it. The pace, the tires. I fucking had-“ He stops mid sentence, his jaw locked so tight as if it hurts to talk.

“I saw,” Your voice is soft, soothing.

But he shakes his head once, harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes flick up then. Guarded. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head.

You cross the room toward him slowly, barefoot, the hotel blanket still draped around you like a gown, and stop just in front of him. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, close enough to see the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Come here,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain outside.

He hesitates, for a mere second, but then he’s moving. Softly.

He steps into you and lets you fold your arms around him. Lets his forehead press into the skin of your shoulder, lets his hands settle on the dips of your waist that makes your chest ache, because for someone so fierce, Charles has always touched you like you’re something fragile.

You hold him. 

You feel his breath against your neck, feel the way his body is barely trembling beneath your arms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, your lips brushing the softness of his hair. “You can just be.”

He nods against your collarbone.

He just stays there, wrapped in your arms. You slide a hand into his hair, fingers combing through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You’re the only place I don’t have to be anything,” He says quietly. “Just me.”

And even though it makes your heart ache, you just nod.

“You never need to be anything else.” You whisper. “Not with me.”

And when you pull him toward the bed, when he lies down with his face partially hidden in the crook of your neck, neither of you speak. You both lay in the silence. 

-

The mirror is fogged up. 

You’ve both been back for less than five minutes, barely kicked off your shoes, and he’s already standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom with his shirt half off, brows furrowed, rotating his shoulder like he’s pretending it doesn’t ache.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say from the doorway.

He glances toward you. “What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He exhales. Stubborn. And looks away.

“You’re a shit liar,” You mutter, brushing past him to grab the icy-hot gel from the counter. “You’ve been favoring your other side since the second stint.”

He shrugs, or tries to at least. Winces instead. “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

You roll your eyes, flicking the cap off and motioning for him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He does. He knows better than to argue with you…most of the time.

You lean over him and start working the gel into his shoulder with slow, careful fingers. You don’t even think about it. It’s not weird. It’s not intimate.

It’s Charles.

You’re draped in his hoodie. Oversized, soft from too many washes, sleeves falling over your hands, and your breath hitches as he leans forward so you can dig deeper into his muscle.

His skin is hot under your fingers. He groans quietly, head dropped forward, and you laugh.

“So dramatic.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles.

You press harder, just to make him squirm. And he does, a hiss through his teeth, and then he laughs.

Charles’s eyes are fixed on the floor.

You press your fingers into the tight knot just beside his collarbone, and it takes almost everything in him to not lean into you. Not to bury his face into your neck and tell you.

Tell you that your hands feel like home. Tell you that he can’t pretend anymore.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re just smiling at him like this is nothing.

Because when you finish, you wipe your hands against the nearby towel, and pat him gently on top of the head. “Good as new.”

You move past him, leaving the bathroom with a soft laugh. And he stays there. Seated. Motionless.

Hands gripping his knees like it’s the only thing keeping him from following you and pressing his mouth to yours.

-

The ballroom is gold. Actually gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold trim, light reflecting off champagne glasses and sequined gowns. The kind of place that exudes pretentious luxury. And you can’t help but think just how fucking ridiculous it all is.

You stand near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine, the other tucked into Charles’s arm.

You’re both surrounded by easy conversations and polite laughter. But none of it sticks. Because Charles can’t focus on any of it.

Not with you standing beside him like that. Not in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard, but the minute you stepped out of that car, it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

You in black. Hair pinned up. Shoulders bare. A tiny sliver of skin exposed at the base of your spine whenever you turned.

You’re laughing at something some journalist is saying, not performative, just a soft amused laugh as you bring your wine glass up to your lips.

Charles shifts closer. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. But because he wants to. Because he wants, no needs, to feel your body against his just for a second longer, to press his fingers lightly against your skin in a way that says you’re here, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it.

You don’t move or flinch, you just lean into him with that subtle softness you always do. Like your body knows his.

And that’s what kills him. The ease. The naturalness.

Because this, whatever this is, has bled into nearly everything. This has crept up beneath the edges of what was supposed to be a casual lie, and now he can’t tell where pretending ends and begins.

Still he watches as another man approaches.

Someone older. Wealthy. Someone who looks at you like you’re not already standing beside someone, like you’re available.

Charles sees the way the man’s eyes skim the lines of your body, the curve of your mouth. He watches the moment that man reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says something that makes you smile.

And in that exact moment, something sharp and awful coils low in his chest. Hot and unfair, and deeply fucking stupid.

Because he doesn’t have the right. Not actually, at least.

He’s allowed to touch you. Allowed to whisper in your ear. Allowed to look at you. But one thing he isn’t allowed to do, is want you like this.

-

He’d stepped away for barely fifteen minutes.

Just long enough to take a photo with some of the sponsors, shake hands, and exchange polite thank you’s. 

And when he came back, you were laughing. Not at him. Not with him.

Charles’s steps falter as he spots you across the room, standing near one of the tall round tables tucked near the corner, your wine glass cradled in both hands, your smile warm.

And beside you, someone unfamiliar.

Someone tall, in a tailored navy suit, hair too perfectly styled, hand resting on the table like he owns the conversation. Charles watches, as this stranger leans in, says something low near your ear, and you tilt your head back and laugh. That real laugh. The one that makes your nose crinkle.

He feels his stomach twist.

He tries not to show it. Tries to keep walking. Because this isn’t supposed to matter. It’s all pretend.

He doesn’t get to be jealous. 

But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head from seething when he watches the man’s eyes drop to your chest. When he see’s your smile linger just a little too long for his liking.

Charles can feel it in his chest. Tight and bitter. 

And when the man reaches out, whether it was innocent or not, it doesn’t matter. Because Charles is already crossing the room.

He doesn’t rush. No, that would draw attention. But his steps are purposeful and the space between you and him disappears quickly.

You see him first.

“Hey,” you say, easy. “You remember-“

Charles cuts in smoothly. His voice even, just loud enough to interrupt, like he isn’t burning from the inside out. He doesn’t even look at the man standing next to you. Only looks at you.

“They’re asking for us,” he says. “Need more photos or something with the sponsors.”

It’s a lie. And you don’t even need to ask to know.

You can tell by the way he says it. It slips from his mouth like a reflex. Like he didn’t need to think twice before pulling you away from someone else.

But it’s Charles. And you trust him.

So you nod. “Okay. Just give me a sec-”

You don’t even finish the sentence before his hand is at your back, firm and warm. Possessive. 

There’s a pressure to his touch that makes your spine straighten, makes the uncovered skin his fingers graze buzz. Like he’s reminding you, and anyone else watching, that this is his right.

He walks beside you, closer than normal, not speaking as he steers you away from the man.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering an apologetic smile to the man, but it wavers, just slightly, when you feel Charles’s hand tighten.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to say don’t.

The twist in your chest is unexpected. And when you’re both finally out of an earshot, you nudge him lightly with your elbow. 

“Really?” You say, eyes meeting his. “Photos?”

You try to sound amused. Like it’s all some joke. Like nothing has changed.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he keeps walking. And you can’t help but notice just how tight his jaw is clenched. And when he finally glances back down at you, you forget how to breathe for a second.

Because there’s something in his gaze that doesn’t belong to the version of Charles you normally know.

It’s too real. Too unguarded.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” His voice quiet. 

You blink, lips parting. “Charles…”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before he meets your eyes again. “I know I’m not supposed to care. I know what this is.”

He sighs, slow and quiet, as his fingers flex against your back.

“But you’re mine tonight,” He says.

And he doesn’t ask.

He’s warning. And that’s when you notice it for the first time. But you bottle it up, lock it tight, and push it into that imaginary little box of yours.

Because there is no way.

-

You’re sitting, more like slouching, on the bed in your gown, a half-empty bottle of champagne bottle still loosely gripped in your hand. Charles is slouched in the armchair across from you, suit jacket thrown somewhere in the room, white shirt rumpled, top buttons undone. His bowtie is still hanging around his neck…loose, forgotten.

The two of you are flushed. Fuzzy. Not wasted, but tipsy.

Tipsy enough to remember.

Drunk enough to stop pretending.

He gets up slowly, walking over to you with such ease, before dropping down beside you on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, his voice edged by too much champagne and restraint.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand, then back up at him, giving him a faint smile. “So are you.”

He lets out a small laugh, almost a huff, “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Like what?”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger, then look back at your eyes. “Like kiss you.”

The room tilts, just a little bit. You set the bottle down on the bedside table without taking your eyes off of him, fingers trembling slightly. 

And then, you reach for him. Instinctively.

You allow your fingers to curve into the loose knot of his bowtie still hanging on his neck, tugging it as you tilt your chin up. And when your eyes flicker to his again, you whisper, “Then don’t try so hard.”

And he kisses you like the fight is finally over.

His mouth crashes into yours like you’ve both run out of time to lie. It’s heat…pure, consuming, and real.

The kiss is deeper, messier, his lips hungry against yours, your bodies moving in an unspoken urgency from holding back too long.

His hands are everywhere, dragging along your waist, the back of your neck, your ribs, your spine, tugging you closer at any given moment.

You gasp when he pushes you flat to the mattress, hovering over you as he kisses down your throat, tongue flicking against the skin right below your jaw. His teeth dragging like he knows it will make you shiver. And it does.

“Tell me you want this,” His lips brush against your collarbone. “That you want me.”

“I want this. I want you.” 

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing the zipper of your dress with shaky fingers, his breath catching as more of your skin is revealed beneath the palm of his hands.

Your bra is gone before you even realize he’s unclasped the back of it, and when his mouth meets your nipple, tongue slow, you arch into him with a soft cry that turns his green eyes, black.

He’s on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist, the other guiding himself to your slick cunt, shuddering against your folds.

And when he finally presses into you, thick and slow, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back and moan, you swear you never want to stop this from happening again.

“Christ,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours, trying to feel all of you. “Feel so good.”

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. “Then fuck me.”

And he does.

Harsh, deep, rhythmic thrusts that make the headboard creak and your breath escape in desperate, broken moans against his mouth. His pace is steady, hips snapping harder whenever your moans start to rise, when your nails claw into his back, when your thighs shake around him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s more hunger, more like need. He kisses you like he can’t stand not being inside of you in every way.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he groans. “Driving me insane.”

You whimper against him, tightening your arms against his neck. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

His pace doesn’t falter. His forehead presses to yours. “You’re all I think about,” he pants. “Every fucking night.”

You’re both close. And he knows it, because his mouth finds yours again in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. More claiming than comfort.

And when you come, crying his name out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, he follows. His hips pounding as he groans into your shoulder, holding you so tightly like you’ll disappear if he didn’t.

-

You’re still in your headset, arms crossed tight over tour chest as Charles climbs out of the car, pulling off his gloves with that sharp, frustrated energy that always festers under his skin when things aren’t working out the way he wants them to.

He tosses the gloves onto the seat, runs a hand through his hair, damp with swear, and gives you a look thats more of a challenge than a greeting.

You glance down at your tablet, even though you’ve looked at the data a dozen times.

“I told you to take more margin in turn six,” you say, voice calm but tight.

Charles laughs. It’s low, humorless, and bitter. “You think I don’t know how to drive my own car?”

You lift your eyes slowly, and the look you give him is sharp. “I think you’re letting your ego get in the way of your brain. Again.”

His jaw tightens and he takes a step closer. Like he wants to rattle your bones.

“You want to talk about my ego?” He asks, words laced with a dangerous edge. “You’ve been walking around like nothing happened. Like I didn’t have my tongue on your skin a few nights ago, like I wasn’t buried deep inside of you while you whispered my name like it meant something. Like I mean something.”

You inhale sharply but don’t flinch. This can’t happen here. Not in the garage.

“And you’ve been walking around like it didn’t mean something.”

He pulls off the top half of his suit, tying it around his waist in jerky, clearly annoyed movements.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice hoarse now. “Fine. But don’t stand here and act like I’m the only one who did this.”

You blink. 

“I can’t afford to lose you.” You whisper.

And he gets it. And he hates it. Because he knows you’re right.

“Yeah,” his voice is a low whisper. “I know.”

-

The lights are hot.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot. In the way that makes your skin feel too tight and causes your eyes to ache from squinting under the glare. 

You’re standing on your mark, back straight, hands at your sides.

Charles is standing right beside you. As always.

Exactly three inches away. At least you counted three.

It’s the closest you can stand without touching him, without the brushing of his arm, without creating that electric, dangerous feeling of his hand on your back, his voice in your ear, you’re mine tonight.

You’re both pretending that it didn’t happen. Neither of you have brought it up today.

Not since he texted you late last night, just one line saying sorry if I crossed a line.

Not since you replied with it’s fine, we were drinking and tired.

It’s not fine.

Now you’re standing under a harsh spotlight with your body angled slightly toward him like always.

You smile when the photographer tells you to. Charles does it too. And he’s good at it.

He turns to you mid-shot, leaning in as if he’s whispering something sweet and private for the camera. You feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your ear, and you fight the way your heart jumps.

“Are we okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said anything that close to something real in a week.

You keep smiling. Because the sponsor is watching. Because the cameras are still click click clicking.

Because the woman facilitating this shoot looks like she might cry if you didn’t sell this fake love story just a little bit fucking harder.

So you tilt your face toward his, press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart…and you nod, like you’re agreeing with some romantic phrase he could’ve said.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

The room echoes with praise. “Beautiful, you two.”

Your ears are buzzing and you barely hear the next instruction. Something about posing closer. Hands on waists. More intimacy. 

Charles moves first. He steps forward and wraps his arm around your waist like it hasn’t been a week since he nearly broke you open with one quiet, possessive sentence. 

You place your hand on his chest again. Because thats where it belongs now.

Because this is what you’re good at.

Pretending.

-

The elevator is quiet. And not a comfortable kind. No, this is the kind that makes your tight throat and chest heavy.

The numbers tick upward, each one feeling like a warning.

Charles stands beside you, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders pulled tight. You can feel the tension in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You speak first, voice too light. “Long day, hm?”

It’s pathetic, really. You hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, small and weak.

Charles doesn’t look at you, but his jaw clenches.

“You didn’t even look at me once today,” he says, and its not an accusation.

You blink, startled by how hurt he sounds. You open your mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance. 

“You didn’t even laugh,” he looks down at his feet. “Not a real one.”

You glance at him, and he finally shifts to face you. And the look in his eyes makes your stomach turn. Because he doesn’t look angry. No, he looks tired. He looks vulnerable. 

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the elevator noises.

“It was a long week. We were tired. Drinking.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You lean against the wall, holding your hands in front of you tightly.

“The problem is I didn’t say enough,” he mutters. “I meant what I said. At the gala. In the hallway. In your bed.”

And you flinch.

Not because you don’t remember, but because you do.

Every breath. Every touch.

“Don’t.” You swallow hard.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs, once. But it’s bitter. Hollow. “You think this is me making it hard?”

“We crossed a line.”

His eyes flicker, and his voice is so low when he speaks next.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’ve been standing on it for weeks. Maybe longer. Only difference is I let myself believe I wasn’t alone on it.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots and he takes a step toward you. Not touching, but close enough.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he says. “Tell me it was just sex. That it meant nothing to you.”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is there, dying to be let out. But you can’t.

So you remain still.

And when the elevator doors open on your floor, you step out with your stomach in your throat, your feet hitting the carpet with soft thuds.

You don’t look back.

But you hear it.

The sound of his hand catching the doors before they close, the sudden groan of the elevator stalling. And then, footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Angry.

You stop walking, but don’t turn around until he’s already there. His breath is quick and his jaw is locked tight.

“Are you really just gonna walk away?” He asks, his voice is sharp, but not loud. Not cruel. Just full of emotions he doesn’t know how to say calmly anymore.

You turn halfway, just enough to see the frustration etched on his face. His brows drawn tight, mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t, he’ll just reach for you again.

“What do you want me to do, Charles?” Your voice is quiet. “Pretend that night didn’t happen? Or pretend it did, and it meant nothing?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean everything,” he snaps, taking another step forward, closing the space between you both. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m asking you for something that isn’t already yours.”

Your skin buzzes.

“I know you feel this,” his voice is shaking now. “Because I see the way you look at me. I feel the way you hold me. The way you whisper my name.. So…don’t stand here and pretend like it was just sex.”

You feel yourself begin to shake.

And all you can say is, “I can’t afford to need you.”

His eyes flicker, anger giving way to something hollow. “Too late,” he says. “You already do.”

And then he turns. Walks away. And leaves you standing there.

-

The garage is nearly empty. Just you and Charles, still in uniform. Like clockwork. 

The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to the air while you sit, finishing up your notes. Or at least pretending to.

He’s leaning against the edge of the workbench, arms folded, gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Like he wants to say something. Like it’s burning him alive.

You feel it too. 

So, you set your tablet down. “Are you going to say something, or just keep staring at me?”

His jaw clenches. Then, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You look up at him. “And yet, you keep bringing it up.”

“Because you act like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”

You exhale slowly, “What do you want me to say, Charles?”

And he’s pushing off the bench, taking a few steps closer. “You’re angry because I meant it. And I’m angry that you’re still pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your pulse stutters and he’s close now. So close that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this again.” You say, quietly, like a whisper in the wind.

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because if I say it again, you’ll have to admit it’s real?”

He takes another step. “I think about you all the time. Touching you all the time. And not just when we’re in front of people. Especially when we’re alone. I wake up thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you when you’re not performing, when no one is watching, when it’s just us.”

Your hands tighten into fists.

“I want to hold you late in the night and tell you things I’m not allowed to say. I want to call you mine  and it actually be true.”

“And you think this is easy for me?” It’s the first time you’ve broken character.

He blinks, slightly shocked. Like he can’t believe he has you starting to talk.

“I go home at night smelling like you,” you whisper, like it hurts to say. “Wearing your clothes. Curling into bedsheets that still feel like your hands were on me only hours ago. And I pretend him fine.”

You look back up at him then, barely holding it together. He’s wide-eyed, not taking the risk to say one word, not when he finally has you speaking.

“I pretend I don’t notice how every part of me aches when you leave. That I don’t hear your voice even when you’re not around.” You swallow hard.

“I go through the motions. Tell myself that this is all fake, and it’s just something we signed up for. But then I catch you looking at me like that and it feels like my ribs might crack.”

His eyes are slightly glassy now. But you keep going, because there’s no going back from this. No way out of this, not with him being so persistent. Not when your emotions could swallow you whole if you hide them any longer.

“I come back to my room at night, wearing your hoodies, and pretend that it’s just because I’m cold and that they’re comfortable. I pretend I’m not holding it closer to me whenever I miss you.”

Silence.

“I love you. And it’s killing me, because every day I have to pretend that I don’t.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Please,” he begs. “Say it again. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”

Your throat tightens, but you do it anyways. “I love you.”

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking as he whispers, “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it feels like not to be.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his. And then he kisses you. 

Like it’s everything. 

Like he’s finally. Finally, fucking home.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | two string bathing suit

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1!boyfriend reacting to you showing him two strings as a bathing suit (tiktok trend - click for reference)

୨ৎ : genre : romance comedy ୨ৎ : tws : slightly suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 2073

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a rare wednesday post that isn't a solo story !! also i will be putting a pause on request bc my inbox is flooded, but once i have released a majority of the stories (within the next few weeks everyday there will be a new post in honor of 10k) they will open up again ty guys so much for the support <3

ʚ・max verstappen

“max,” you called from the bathroom, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “don’t freak out.”

he barely looked up from his phone. “that’s the worst way to start a sentence.”

you stepped out, deadpan. wearing… if you could even call it that… a “swimsuit” made of two threads, three knots, and maybe half a square inch of material. total. it looked like it was crocheted by a sleep-deprived spider. you posed with a straight face.

max blinked. then blinked again, slower.

“no,” he said, setting his phone down with almost religious care. “absolutely not.”

“what do you mean?” you said, fighting to keep a straight face. “it’s trendy. minimalist.”

“that’s not minimalist. that’s missing.”

you twirled, the strings shifting dangerously. “it’s high fashion.”

max stood up like he was about to perform an exorcism. “that’s not fashion. that’s barely science. you could sneeze and the whole thing would combust.”

“i think it’s cute.”

“i think it’s… illegal.”

you walked over slowly. he didn’t move, just looked absolutely offended by the garment clinging to your body with the hope and optimism of dental floss. “so… i can’t wear it on the yacht?”

he stared at you, stunned. “if you wear that on the yacht, i’m jumping into the ocean and letting nature take me.”

you burst out laughing, and he immediately buried his face in his hands. “who sold you that? who allowed this to exist?”

“i made it myself.”

his head snapped up in horror. “what.”

“yarn. patience. emotional damage.”

max grabbed the nearest towel and threw it around your shoulders like he was shielding your soul. “you need help. professional help.”

you leaned in, still grinning. “so that’s a no?”

he groaned. “i love you. but you’re grounded.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you stepped out slowly. wearing… well, calling it a swimsuit would be legally questionable. two strings of yarn tied together with the optimism of a third-grader’s friendship bracelet. honestly, it looked like you raided a kindergarten art bin and called it couture.

lewis lowered his sunglasses.

paused.

stared.

“be honest,” he said, slowly standing up. “did you lose a bet? or is this, like, a charity stunt i don’t know about?”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s my new swimsuit. do you like it?”

“do i like it?” he walked in a slow circle around you, studying it like a museum exhibit. “you look like someone gave a hamster a crochet hook and no supervision.”

“be serious.”

“oh, i am.” he waved a hand at the barely-there strings. “you’re out here dressed like a cursed macramé project.”

you pouted. “it’s artistic.”

“it’s traumatic.”

you posed dramatically. “but imagine this on the beach… champagne… sun setting…”

“yeah, and a full-blown scandal.” he crossed his arms. “you’re gonna flash everyone.”

you smirked. “so you’re saying it’s a little much?”

“i’m saying it’s one wardrobe malfunction away from me throwing my entire body over yours like a security guard.”

you grinned, stepping closer. “but you’d still let me wear it?”

he paused.

then? “yes. but only indoors. with the curtains closed. and a blanket.”

you laughed as he wrapped you up in the nearest hoodie and muttered, “i need a drink. and therapy. and maybe a glue gun.”

ʚ・george russell

you walked into the living room with the fakest innocent smile on your face and the largest box you could find on amazon. george was sitting on the couch, laptop open, looking like a ceo of something important.

“i got something for the trip,” you said sweetly.

he looked up. “that box is huge. did you order a tent?”

you beamed. “bikini.”

he blinked. “that’s not a bikini-sized box. that’s an appliance-sized box.”

you set it down and started dramatically peeling off the layers — tissue paper, unnecessary foam, even a fake ribbon — while george just watched in mild horror.

“is this an unboxing video?” he asked, deadpan. “should i film this for content? are we reviewing the manufacturer’s efficiency?”

you reached the final layer.

and pulled out the swimsuit.

or… the two lonely strings of yarn and a prayer that you were calling a swimsuit.

george stared.

and stared.

“…where’s the rest of it?” he finally asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.

“that’s it!”

he shut his laptop slowly. “that’s not it. that’s… that’s not a garment. that’s yarn.”

“it’s cute!”

“it’s nonexistent.”

you turned it around, holding it by the strings like it was a spider you weren’t sure was dead. “you don’t think it’s cute?”

he stood up like he needed to physically confront the reality of the situation. “how did you even find this? who sold it to you? did you blackmail someone? did it come with a warning label?”

“i packaged it myself.”

he blinked. “you what.”

“it’s a prank, babe.”

silence.

then, he slowly sank back onto the couch, covered his face, and mumbled, “you’re the reason i have stress dreams.”

you dropped the string bikini on his chest and smiled. “but you love me anyway.”

“i do,” he sighed. “i just… wish you loved fabric.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling his phone while you rifled through your suitcase.

“i got a new swimsuit for the trip,” you said casually, pulling out a folded towel to fake wrap the "swimsuit" in.

he hummed. “another one?”

you smirked. “this one’s special.”

he turned his head just in time to see you dramatically unwrap what could only be described as two strings of yarn connected by stubbornness and delusion.

carlos sat up.

paused.

blinked.

“…dios mío.”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s cute, right?”

he stood up slowly, like his body was moving while his brain was buffering. “that’s not a swimsuit. that’s—that’s a trap. you wear that, and i’m fighting everyone.”

you held it up by the strings. “it’s kind of artistic.”

“it’s kind of criminal.”

you twirled it once. “it’s technically wearable.”

“it’s technically two pieces of string and a death wish.”

you laughed, tossing it onto the bed. “so you’re saying you don’t want me wearing it at the hotel pool?”

“hotel pool?” he gave you an incredulous look. “you can’t even wear that in our apartment without risking emotional damage.”

“too much?”

“i’ve seen paper towels with more coverage.”

you walked over and looped your arms around his neck, grinning. “jealous?”

he rested his forehead against yours, sighing dramatically. “no. i’m concerned. for your safety. and my blood pressure.”

you leaned in close. “you’re just mad because you know i’d steal the show.”

he kissed your cheek. “i’m mad because i know i’d get arrested for public indecency by association.”

you laughed into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you like a man who had just stared into the abyss.

“i’m hiding that,” he muttered. “i don’t even trust you to prank me with it again.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

“charles?” you called sweetly, stepping into the hotel room with a mischievous grin and a suspicious little shopping bag.

he glanced up from the bed, where he was sitting with his ipad and airpods, one brow raised. “yes, amour?”

“i got a swimsuit for this weekend. want to see it?”

he smiled, setting the ipad aside. “of course.”

you pulled it from the bag slowly, two strings. only strings. it might have once been a swimsuit, but now? it was a scandal waiting to happen.

charles stared.

then blinked once.

then smiled. slowly.

“mon dieu…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “is that legal?”

“technically,” you shrugged, holding it up. “there’s a front. and a back. i kind of wish it was thinner.”

he tilted his head, eyes trailing the string in your hands with the fascination of a man watching his entire moral compass short-circuit. “and you plan to wear this in public…it's already thin enough?”

“maybe. why?”

he stood, crossing the room in three slow, measured steps. “because, chérie… if you wear that outside, i will never survive it.”

you smirked. “you hate it?”

he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “no,” he whispered. “i want you to wear it. but only where i can see you.”

you blinked.

“put it on,” he said, voice low, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “let me see everything.”

you burst out laughing, hitting his chest lightly. “charles!”

he laughed too, pulling you in by the waist. “you’re evil,” he said against your neck, voice playful. “you come in here with two strings and expect me to be normal?”

“you seemed pretty into it.”

“i am,” he said shamelessly. “but mon amour… if you wear that out, i’ll have to start swinging. and i don’t want to go to jail in monaco.”

ʚ・lando norris

you stood in front of the mirror, struggling to keep a straight face as you unwrapped the tiny bag you’d stuffed the “swimsuit” into. two strings. one knot. less coverage than a shoelace.

“baaaabe,” you called sweetly. “i got a new swimsuit. wanna see?”

“yeah, sure!” lando shouted from the other room. “wait—should i come in there or—?”

you opened the door slowly, string bikini dangling from one finger like it was a precious artifact. “no need. just look.”

he turned.

froze.

squinted.

then: “what is that?!”

you fought a grin. “it’s my new bikini.”

“that’s not a bikini,” he said, already walking toward you like he needed to inspect it up close for safety reasons. “that’s—that’s a joke, right?”

you turned it around like a qvc host. “front and back. simple.”

he gaped at you. “it’s a crime scene.”

“very fashion-forward.”

“it’s barely forward! it’s not even forward-adjacent!”

you were shaking with laughter now as he waved his arms in genuine disbelief. “where did you even buy that? why did you buy that? how did they ship it? in a matchbox?!”

“i thought it’d be cute on the beach.”

he took the swimsuit carefully, like it might bite him, and held it up with two fingers. “there is more fabric in a tea bag.”

“i think you’re being dramatic.”

“i think you’re being dangerous.”

you stepped in close, resting your hands on his chest. “so you don’t want me to wear it?”

lando looked at you. then at the strings. then back at you.

“i want you to burn it.”

you grinned. “too late. i packed it.”

“i’m not letting you leave the hotel room.”

“promise?”

his jaw dropped. “you’re the worst.”

you winked. “and yet.”

he groaned into your shoulder, muttering, “i need therapy. and a one-piece. for you.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

you didn’t warn him.

you just walked into the hotel room, holding what looked like a piece of yarn with a dream. no dramatic intro, no buildup — just straight chaos.

“new swimsuit,” you said casually, tossing it onto the bed like it wasn’t about to destroy him.

oscar turned from his laptop, expression as flat and unreadable as always… until he saw it.

he stared.

blink.

longer stare.

“…that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

he sat back in the chair slowly, arms crossed. “that’s not a swimsuit.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t like it?”

he took a very long pause. processing. buffering. internally screaming.

“i… don’t disapprove,” he said finally, choosing his words like they were part of a hostage negotiation. “but… i’m trying to understand where the rest of it went.”

you held it up by a single string. “it’s trendy. daring. very… cute.”

“it’s barely thread.”

you grinned. “so you do disapprove.”

he didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head, looking you up and down like he was trying to calculate structural integrity. “…if it makes you happy to wear that, then it’s fine.”

you squinted. “but you’re dying inside.”

he blinked. “a little.”

you walked closer, draping the swimsuit over his shoulder like a sash. “you don’t think i’d look hot?”

“that’s not the issue,” he said immediately, not even blinking. “the issue is physics.”

you burst out laughing, and that finally cracked a smile from him — soft, a little resigned, but full of affection.

“i trust you,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “i just… don’t trust gravity. or wind. or humanity.”

you kissed his cheek. “so private pool only?”

he nodded. “preferably with no windows.”

you leaned back, watching him eye the bikini like it was a cursed relic. “you’re kind of obsessed with me.”

he smiled again, this time without hesitation. “obviously.”

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