⛐ amy ᯓ★

Isack Hadjar has grown used to many bizarre things. Being recognized on the street, waking up and appearing in Twitter controversies, having childhood friends sending him thirst trap edits of himself. Ever since he started out on Twitch in the early months of the pandemic, it’s become his new reality. A steady drumbeat of everyday existence.

He didn’t expect that the one thing to catch him off-guard would be meeting with his online friends in real life.

“I think Isack should take us on a tour of Paris after TwitchCon,” Franco says, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet groan.

The five of you sit on whatever chairs and chaises you’ve managed to scrounge together from the Airbnb you’ve rented together. The second monitor of the stream scrolls by with a flurry of rapid-fire messages from the chat.

Isack isn’t exactly sure what time it is—all he knows is that it’s late, and timezones apparently don’t mean shit, because he’s still staying up and awake at some ungodly hours even when they’re all in France.

Arvid, Doriane and Kimi have each long since left to sleep in their bedrooms—a smarter choice. Though from the way Ollie’s eyes are starting to droop, Isack would be willing to bet that he’ll be the next one to duck out of the stream.

 “I’d be down for that,” you say, sitting next to Isack on the chaise lounge. “We could make a whole video out of it.” You lean closer to the second monitor, trying to catch any half-legible sentence from the chat. “A lot of people are here ‘cause of TwitchCon though,” you hum, thinking out loud. “Maybe it’s not the best idea—reckon we’d get recognized at every other place we visit.”

“Ellaaaa, la famosa,” Franco teases. It sparks a few responses in Spanish from the chat.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Gabi replies easily.

You roll your eyes, throwing a can you believe this guy? look at the camera. Isack matches your expression, leaning his head back. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says.

“Olha só quem fala!” Gabriel exclaims, leaning up from his slouched position on his chair. At Isack’s raised brow, he repeats, “Look who’s talking, Mr. I’ve-done-like-ten-shirtless-streams.”

Isack’s cheeks turn pink. He hopes it’s at least somewhat hidden by the shitty illumination of the room. “It wasn’t ten times! It was, like, barely twice,” he defends, voice cracking at the end, which promptly earns a laugh from Franco. “And it was a subgoal, asshole.”

“I’ve had subgoals,” Gabriel deadpans, though the amused curl of his lip gives him away easily. “I’ve never been shirtless on stream.”

“Fuck you,” Isack says, with no real bite.

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Gabi shoots back.

“Get a room you two, jeez,” you call out, holding back a laugh as you bite down the inside of your cheek. “And no one in chat’s complaining about Isack’s shirtless streams, by the way.” You tilt your head, typing something down that is obscured to the rest. “Maybe we should make it this stream’s subgoal.”

“If you want him to get naked just say so,” Franco quips, which earns him a swift smack with one of the cushions. Gabi watches Franco topple back from his chair and cackles loudly—which quickly pries the attention away from you.

“É, você devia ter previsto isso,” Gabi tells Franco in a mocking tone. Franco flips him off from his spot sprawled against the floor.

Isack glances at the chat, unsurprised by the comments he manages to catch. 

hadjarfan theyre both blushing AGAIN fork found in kitchen francosqt he should invite her to the next subgoal stream  ynlove francosqt lmao they are not surviving that bearmanfan pool stream w all of them WHO SAID THAT borboletobortoleto franco said CLOCK ITT idestroyedzecar HES SOOO BLUSHING 

He averts his eyes just as quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he clenches and unclenches his hands uneasily. His face still feels embarrassingly hot.

Ollie yawns, unusually quiet for a group stream. “I reckon if we’re gonna be taking a tour around Paris we should know at least a little French.” He shrugs, ignoring Franco and Gabi bickering off by his side. “We can’t rely on Isack and Dori for everything.”

“Fair,” you say, nudging your knee against Isack’s. You tilt your head towards him, lips curved up into a smile. “Are you up to teaching us a little French?”

Isack feels keenly aware of your knee against his—frustratingly so. Still, he can feel his lips mirroring your smile before he can help himself. 

He hums, a low sound at the back of his throat. “I would consider it.”

“Yeah, teach us French, Hadjar,” Franco says, straightening his chair and taking a seat. There’s something about his tone that feels pointedly dragged, like he’s making fun of him. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon. Say something in French,” Gabriel adds.

Isack scoffs. “That is such a bad—like, what would I even say?”

You nudge his leg again, and his eyes are already on you before he can help it. “Say something to me,” you say, and he wonders whether the microphone even manages to pick it up. “I like hearing you speaking it.”

Well. He’s definitely blushing now.

“Ah, I…” He clears his throat. Considers it for a beat, then shakes his head before he can convince himself otherwise. “Je passe un moment vraiment incroyable depuis que vous êtes arrivés,” he starts, words smooth and well-rounded, “C’était trop beau de t’avoir—de vous avoir ici.” As soon as he stumbles, Isack bites down his tongue and cuts himself off before he can ramble and give himself away.

He looks back to find all four of you staring at him. Blinking slowly. 

“Was that attractive or what?” Franco asks. Isack’s eyes widen unexpectedly. “Decímelo al oído y soy todo tuyo,” he says, earning a laugh and a shove from Gabriel.

You tilt your head at the boy sitting alongside you. “What did you say?”

Ollie shrugs with another yawn, ready to end the stream. He sighs tiredly. “He said he wants to eat your face.”

“I did not!” Isack sputters. “I did not say that,” he says, his voice bleeding with more panic than he would’ve liked. “I didn’t,” he repeats helplessly.

But Franco and Gabi are cackling like hyenas now, the former nearly slipping from his chair again. 

His ears feel burning hot now, and in an effort to avoid your gaze, he catches a glimpse of the chat once again.

kimitagliatelle CRYING isacklewisfan as a french person i can confirm isack wants to eat her face yep arvidlawson i was gonna go to sleep but my show is on!!!!!! gabibubbles isackyn? in this economy???? francopintacola ollie is their number shipper istg  doripocketrocket u dont have to be french to know that he wants her BADDD unfortunatelyyn not to be parasocial but the way she looks at him thoughhhhh

He should’ve gone to sleep and avoided all this. ‘All this’ of course, being his supposed friends.

“You can find your way around Paris yourselves,” Isack says, earning a combination of amused looks and pouts from the room. “I’m not showing you shit.”

It’s still late at night—or early in the morning, depending on who you’re asking—when the group decides to end the stream and get some rest. Ollie disappears at some point before the stream truly devolves into chaos, leaving just you, Gabriel, Franco, and Isack.

It’s around four in the morning when Franco suggests doing a drinking game before going to bed, though the cabinet filled to the brim with beer, wine, gin and vodka seems far too convenient to be a spur of the moment idea.

“Verdad o reto. What is that in English? Truth or… challenge. Or something,” Franco says distractedly, trying to open the bottle of gin with a bit of a struggle.

“Truth or dare?” you supply.

“Yeah. But you drink instead. So, y’know. Truth or drink.”

It’s how the four of you wind up inside Gabi’s room, sprawled between the floor and the foot of his king-sized bed.

You spin one of the empty gin bottles. It lands squarely on Franco, who gives you a sideways grin from his spot on Gabriel’s bed. 

You drum your fingers against your knees, thinking. Franco rolls his eyes, curls muzzed against the navy bedspread. “Okay—Have you ever found another streamer from our circle attractive?” 

Franco huffs disappointedly. “That is so… like a livestream question. It’s late enough that you could ask me anything.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. “So boring.”

“Answer the question, coward.”

“Easy.” Franco shrugs. “Antonelli.”

“Kimi?” Isack repeats, brows raised.

Franco twists his body around to look at Isack. “Don’t act so surprised. Es re lindo, boludo.” He waves his hand, like the choice is obvious. “We all know he is pretty. And Italian.” 

“I’m telling him you said that.”

Franco rolls his eyes again, unbothered by the thought. “Is it my turn now?” At the groups’ nods, Franco reaches out for the gin bottle and spins it. As soon as it lands back on you, his amused smile stretches into a grin. “Oh, finally.”

The Argentinian shares a brief look with Gabriel, and something uneasy curls in Isack’s gut. Because he’s grown all too familiar with those dumb-shit expressions on their faces.

Ever so casually, Franco props his chin against his open palm. “Be honest. Did you watch one of Isack’s shirtless streams?”

Isack watches as your face heats up, the tips of your ears reddened as your jaw goes completely slack. You reach across from you to slap Franco’s arm, who starts laughing. “Fuck you, I told you that in confidence!” 

“You should be glad I didn’t expose you on stream,” Franco says, finally capturing your wrist. “Thought about it, too.” 

“Asshole.”

Gabriel glances at Isack, amused smile spreading across his lips. Knowing.  “You have to answer or drink. Rules are rules,” Gabi says solemnly. “Though you’ve basically given it away, so…”

You hit Franco’s forearm one last time for good measure. Begrudgingly, you settle back into your spot, and this time Isack doesn’t miss you averting his eyes. He perks up at that, heart beating unsteadily inside his ribcage. 

“Yeah, fine, sue me,” you mutter, hiding your face behind your palm. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about!”

He blinks once. Twice. Watches as you stammer your way out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself. His throat feels dry when he swallows. “You—what?”

Because Isack is many things—a little loud, a little short-tempered, but he’s not an idiot. He did two shirtless streams—technically three if you count that pool one he was invited on. 

(They were all for charity, by the way! Not that anyone ever seems to remember that.)

He’s read the comments. Seen the edits. Scrolled through posts of him until late at night from his private spam account. He’s not been shy about doing sports. He’s mentioned it offhandedly during different streams; enjoying boxing, being a brown belt in judo. Then again, people in his line of work are not exactly known for being physically fit. 

It wasn’t a secret that he worked out. It still took his fans by surprise that he was quote, ‘reaaally fucking ripped’. And it’s not like he’s not aware of it—he knows he’s fit. He’s even been cocky about it in the locker rooms after last year’s Twitch charity football match. 

He just hadn’t considered the possibility that you’d been paying attention. That maybe you enjoyed watching.

You finally meet his gaze, and his heart flips and jumps inside his chest. 

Gabriel leans in. “Did you like what you saw?”

You stammer, shaking your head. “That’s two questions, Bortoleto.”

“Fine,” the Brazilian shrugs. He reaches for the bottle and, without spinning it, points it at you. “Did you like watching our dear, innocent friend Isack here get naked for money?”

“You’re making him sound like a whore, dumb shit.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Isack nudges the bottle away with his knee, shooting a glare at the two of them. “Stop it,” he says, accent thicker now with a combination of lack of sleep, alcohol and whatever the hell these two idiots think they’re pulling. “You’re being pushy.”

Franco groans. “No puede ser. Have you ever heard of wingmanning?”

But Isack simply glares at him, eyes narrowed. “Ça suffit. Enough.” Franco arches a brow in response, but raises his hands innocently.

“You’re no fun.”

There’s a loud knock at the door followed by Doriane opening the door with squinted eyes. All four of you peer at her as she rubs her hand over her face. “Si j’entends encore un seul cri dans cette pièce, je commets un crime,” she says, voice rough with sleep. “Allez au pieu, bordel.”

She closes the door behind her with an annoyed yawn. Franco tilts his head at the rest of you.

“Did you guys catch any of that?”

“Yeah,” Isack says, already on his feet. “Bedtime.”

It’s eleven in the morning when you wake up. Unsurprisingly, for a house full of streamers, you’re the only one awake—other than Arvid and Doriane, who have apparently gone out early.

Your head feels like lead—a French hangover, if you try to find the nonexistent silverlining. It gets worse when last night’s game debacle finally resurfaces in your head.

Fucking Colapinto. Fucking Bortoleto. You’re not trusting either of them ever again.

It was ages ago—a year, maybe more, when you went to Argentina for a week with Franco. It was a slip of tongue, a mistake. A horribly-timed edit of your mutual friend on your For You page, followed by a clumsy explanation from you. The jig was up, and Franco was endlessly amused.

“So, you think he’s hot,” he’d told you, and you hadn’t admitted it. Not verbally, but in every other way that mattered.

And here’s the thing: Isack is attractive. Objectively speaking. That’s a fact that sort of sneaked up on you somewhere along the line. You can’t pinpoint when, exactly—not when you’ve known him for over six years. Six years where, at some point, he went from an awkward teenager to… well.

You’ve seen the videos of him— or more like they’ve found you. Slow-motion frames that repeat over and over as you sink deeper into the covers of your bed, unable to look away. And when your job consists of being in front of a camera, none of your fans ever make it easier.

Somedays, it feels like Isack Hadjar is trying to ruin your life.

A door by the end of the hall creaks open, and the devil himself steps out. Curls mussed, eyes blinking slowly as he stretches his arms over his head.

His shirt rides up. Your hand gets burnt by your coffee mug.

“Shit!” you exclaim, yanking your hand away and accidentally spilling hot coffee over the counter. 

Isack’s still-sleepy eyes flit over to you with a start, straightening. He blinks once, twice, before he makes his way over to the counter.

“Sorry,” you say, embarrassed. Isack simply reaches for a dishcloth and wipes down the stain. “Did I startle you?”

He dodges your question with pinched brows. “Did you burn yourself?”

“No, I—” you trail off, clearing your throat. “I was just… I wasn’t paying attention. It’s fine.”

He nods, and you can already feel an awkward tension seeping in through the cracks. Wordlessly, Isack gently reaches for your wrist, and guides it under the steady stream of cold water.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately, anyway. Not until you meet his gaze. You watch Isack’s throat bob before releasing your wrist. 

He clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest. “They were way out of—”

“So, about last night—”

The two of you stop at the same time, words catching in your throat. The corner of your lips pull up into a half-smile that Isack mirrors.

“Sorry. You go,” you say apologetically.

“They were out of line last night,” he starts. You turn off the tap and dry your hand with a washcloth. Something else to focus on. “Franco and Gabi, I mean. I am sorry if they made you feel...” he inhales, exhales, as if bracing for a crash. “You know. Awkward.”

You furrow your brows. “You are apologizing… for making me feel awkward?”

“Yes?” he says, hesitation dripping from his voice. “I know it was mostly them leading the charge and all but… I know it was about me. And it kinda feels like my fault that you got dragged into it.”

You blink at Isack. Frown. “What are you talking about?”

Isack swallows, staring back at you like he’s dreading spelling it out for you. “You know.”

“I really, really don’t,” you respond slowly. “I was gonna apologize to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can feel warmth climbing up your face. “Because I told Franco something and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

Isack tilts his head, heart skipping a beat. “What did you tell him?”

You’re closer now than you were before. His knuckles nudge against your fingers on the counter. His breath catches in his throat.

A yawn comes from behind you. “That she thinks you’re hot.”

The two of you jolt apart, faces blushing furiously. Behind the counter in his pajamas is none other than Franco Colapinto. You throw the dirty washcloth at his face with murderous intent. 

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, your frustration a poor attempt at hiding your flustered state.

“You were talking in circles,” Franco says with a tired shrug. “Someone had to say something.”

“I despise you.”

“Whatever,” he yawns again. “You owe me.”

“I owe you?”

Franco arches a brow. Pointedly glances at Isack before turning back to you. Nudges his head towards him. “Yeah. Obviously.”

You stare at him, your disbelief momentarily outweighing your embarrassment as he takes his leave. You turn back to Isack, who is already looking at you with slightly parted lips and a pink blush on his cheeks. 

You suppose there’s no use denying it now.

“You think I’m—”

“Yeah,” you say, heart thudding in your ears like a drum. The corner of his lips curve upward. Your face feels unbearably hot. “Maybe. On occasion—”

The way Isack kisses you is quick—lasts a second, maybe less, but you feel it. The warmth of his mouth on yours. The electricity it shoots through your body.

“Sorry.” His pupils are blown wide, his lips slightly parted. You can’t help yourself. “I couldn’t—”

You tug him closer by his hand, swallowing his words as your lips meet his again. This time, it lasts longer. He can feel you smiling against him—you’re sure. His hand settles around your waist, unwilling to let you go now. 

Isack licks into your mouth, and the thought crosses your mind that he’s been doing this on purpose—driving you insane and pretending otherwise.

When you finally pull away, you do so reluctantly.

“So,” Isack starts, breathless.

“So,” you repeat, face flushed.

His palm settles along the side of your waist. He still looks flustered—the cocky smile playing on his lips does nothing to hide that. “So, you did like watching me shirtless, huh?” Isack hums, leaning closer to the shell of your ear. “Petite voyeuse.” 

Your words dry in your throat as you blink at him owlishly. A grin tugs at his mouth, amused. You’ve seen Isack being confident—at times overconfident—before. But something about the way he’s looking at you now makes your brain short-circuit.

You lean into him again, bringing his mouth to yours. You drag your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling away. Isack still chases your mouth, ever the overachiever. 

“Eager,” you murmur, and you can feel his heart pounding in his chest. It shoots a light, giddy feeling in your gut.

“Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Very.”

You bury your face into his shoulder, biting down your smile. You don’t think then—not really. You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“C’mon,” you hum, and lead him down the hall to your room.

hadjarfan has gifted you 20 subs! where are y/n and isack?? feels like we haven’t seen them :(((

Kimi watches as the donation is read out loud on the stream, ignoring Ollie and Franco bickering behind him. The chat scrolls by with variations of the same question. He tilts his head.

“I… don’t know, actually,” he responds, apparently the only one paying attention to the stream anymore. He nudges Doriane. “Where are they?”

Gabriel snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about them, chat,” he says with a casual shrug and a devious smile. “They’re both right where they wanna be.”

f1 ✓

f1 welcome yourusername to the main stage! catch clips of her performance at COTA live now on our youtube, including her new single 'Manchild' played live for the first time 👀✨

♥️ liked by taylorswift , f1academy and 1,483,797 others

mrpiastri MANCHILD LIVE WE WONNNNN

swiftie81 her outfit fits the vibe of cota so well

albongirlie im so in love with her

yourusername ✓ thanks for having me ;) ♥️ liked by author ⤷ f1 ✓ our pleasure. come back again soon! 😉

yt22retribution her playing after oscar won was absolutely the cherry on top this weekend needed

prideguy her releasing the video and then performing it live in the same week ?!!?!?! ♥️ liked by author ⤷ yn.stanner she is absolutely blessing us rn!!!!

izzys.puppies big big fan of her singing live, her vocals are insane

aurafarmer yourusername is there an album coming soon 😫 ⤷ yourusername ✓ ... 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ ;)))) ⤷ f1fanatic WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS MEAN OMG OMG

medicalmarvel did she sing hopelessly devoted to you ??

buckybarneswife absolutely obessed with this outfit and her stage presence!!!!

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f1.wag.gossip

f1.wag.gossip yourusername and her new puppy walking around the COTA paddock before her performance after the race - and interestingly, posted a photo of Oscar's garage: could there be a friendship (or more?) budding between these two? what do you guys think?? #wag #f1 #Y/NL/N #oscarpiastri

♥️ liked by batman.real , ofmicenwomen and 11,394 others

bonradstan body is so tea

martin.fam I can't believe she adopted the puppy for the manchild video 😭😭 bless her

hamiltonian44 specifically at oscars garage?? hmmm....

yns.wife.real OR mclaren were just hosting her? lol ⤷ piastea but specifically oscar's garage? not just mclaren hospitality? ⤷ tatertot32 maybe she doesn't like lando LMFAO

pitt.santos she's honestly more famous than any of the drivers would ever be

sdmnsundays big fan of her music!!

nytgamerr does she actually like f1? or just another boring influencer they invited instead of a fan 🙄 ⤷ rapunzel.rapunzel she literally headlined the music performances lmfao

formula1fan33 the dog is so cute omg

sarcastic.kitty her and osc would be so good together

ukbaddie y/noscar I can see the vision !!

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yourusername ✓

yourusername manchilddddd why you always gotta be so pretty and dreamy and treat me so well...

♥️ liked by oscarpiastri , magui_corceiro and 981,234 others

batchild holy fucking hard launch

drwhittaker.fr wow she is so gorg. like drop dead drop panties ⤷ user DROP PANTIES LMFAO

landoscar481 okay... okay I don't know how to respond. my brain just did a full reset from her hotness!

ari.grande111 omg this made my hole weak... I mean my whole week

mamdanistan pretty sure those aren't the lyrics hahahaha

madeleinecwhite ✓ you are glowing girlfriend x

ynsbiggestfan omggg that is DEF OSCAR!!!! ⤷ womensworld i've never seen two faceless photos that look exactly like him until right now... that is soooo him oh my god 🙊🙊

motorsport.gal omggg the photobooth photo 🥹

grammy.winnerz YNOSCAR FANDOM WE RISEEEE!!

oscar.p81 guys check on your local bisexuals I guarantee they aren't doing well or they are extremely horny

alexandramelenaleclerc ✓ my girll 💐💐

rosanovrose the songs we are going to get from this >> ⤷ user they are going to be the freakiest yet sweetest ever

leclercian16 I wonder how charles leclerc feels about this

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yourusername ✓

yourusername got myself a muse. new album 'Man's Best Friend' out next sunday 🐾🐾💋💋 (p.s. do we rate the album cover or the alt... I couldn't decide x)

♥️ liked by oliviarodrigo , bensonboone and 7,814,333 others

jantanoff.is.king HOLY FUCK WHAT

jackantonoff ✓ a pleasure, an honour 🫡 ♥️ liked by author

I.heart.miniminter WITH LESS THAN A WEEKS NOTICE?

wickedista omg it's the oscar effect omg omg

pinkpantheress ✓ can confirm its the best album of all time x ♥️ liked by author

ynswifeylicious LETS GOOOOO!!!!!!!!

formula.1.fandom why does the guy look so much like oscar holy fuck ⤷ oscars.big.one it probably is lmfao

yns.best.friend is it all from a new muse yourusername ?? ⤷ yourusername ✓ yes, new muse is so pretty it had me in my feels

wifeto.f1drivers I wonder what the vibe is going to be... freaky or sad or innocent or sweet ?!?!?!

grindr.user113 oh this is going to go triple platinum in my house

zaralarsson ✓ YESS DIVAAA WE LOVE TO SEE IT!! ♥️ liked by author

jorja.f1fan this is potentially the best day of my life ⤷ baby.ynn69 wouldn't it be the day it comes out 😭

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Y/N L/N Takes a Lie Detector Test | Vanity Fair youtube.com/vanityfair

3.5m views | 97k likes | 7,681 comments sort by MOST POPULAR

user694 the first five minutes essentially just being about oscar lmaooooo

user363 oh so the album is def oscar. they are sooo confirmed by this

user695 the fact that this was filmed before the album came out and yet the rumours where still existent back then hahahaha

user805 never thought I would see the day of Y/N on a lie detector test

user811 the part about the quick turn around from sns to mbf?? aww I love that for her

user485 I would let her take me to bangladesh

user814 she is suspiciously good at dodging questions

user333 I looove when she talks about sns. my baby!!

user921 she looks so yummy here omg. I love this hair on her

user034 whoever created those questions was not messing around LOL

user201 "is he the muse?" "he is very handsome" THAT ISN'T DENIAL Y/N

user859 whoever PR trained her to dodge questions needs a raise bc this was a masterclass. we did not get one straight answer outta her lmaooo

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yourusername

yourusername album out today yayyyy let’s celebrate!! drinks and a hard launch. love you all sm, stream mans best friend 🐾🐾 xx

♥️ liked by charlesleclerc, taylorswift and 13,814,333 others

christiandiior LETS FUCKING GOOO

manchild.girl GUYS ITS MY BIRTHDAY THEY DID THIS FOR ME

oscarpiastri ✓ 🧡🧡 album is outstanding, couldn’t be prouder of you ♥️ liked by author ⤷ yourusername ✓ couldn't do it without my pretty muse 🖼️

dk.bazza.f1 this isn't real. oh my ogd this is real

ukytslut what a day. a new rodds flavour, new Y/N album, and oscar piastri has a girlfriend?? my kids will be hearing ALL about this

f1 ✓ our favourite power couple 🤭✨ congrats on the album! ♥️ liked by author

thgfangirl okay who is this? he kinda cute but is he famous? ⤷ mv33lover legendary f1 driver oscar piastri, known for his dry humour and bottling of championships

rachelzegler ✓ my royal wedding 🙂‍↕️ ♥️ liked by author

barbiegal huge fan of whatever this is

clubz.ddearie my good close personal friends oscar and Y/N!! ⤷ f1fanatica like yess I orchestrated this (in my dreams)

oliviadeano ✓ you are THAT girl babe ♥️ liked by author ⤷ italianfann she is barbie. he is ken. ken only has a good day when barbie looks at him

world.of.series you have no idea how excited I am about this

sarahmargaretqualley23 ✓ I personally would love a house tour!! ♥️ liked by author ⤷ yourusername ✓ i'd love to show you around sometime xx ⤷ booktokreqs MV APPEARANCE?? WHJAT DOES THIS MEAN

mansbestfriend81 its 8am and I just spat out my coffee at work HELLOOOO!!!!!!!

liviesgirl juno is nawt at all what I was anticipating. the entire album is freaky lmaoaoaoao

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2026 Abu Dhabi Media Day | Driver Reactions youtube.com/formula1

781k views | 11k likes | 1,353 comments sort by MOST POPULAR

user281 ooohhhh kay im so normal about oscar there omg

user923 sorry what was that question about Y/N??

user898 max's nonchalance just radiates

user633 big fan of oscyn crumbs omggg

user569 I know italianbach is screaming rn

user094 does lance even want to be here anymore

user859 can't wait for the race, hoping for a Y/N appearance!

user912 was isack drunk bc what the hell does he mean by that omg

user554 vcarb needs to keep lawblad together at all costs

user768 Y/NOSCAR CRUMBS LFG

user364 do we think lewis actually enjoys being at ferrari lmfao

user239 awww the comments oscar made are soooo sweet!

user779 lowk the hottest oscar has ever looked. Y/N just has that affect I swear

Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.

For one awful second you could only stare at him waiting for something else, a flicker of regret, a sign that he had spoken out of frustration rather than meaning it, but nothing came. His expression remained unreadable, already turning back towards the monitors as though the conversation was over.

You blinked twice and gave a small nod, because pretending to agree felt safer than letting him see how deeply he had cut you. Then you walked past the engineering desk without speaking, keeping your shoulders straight and your gaze fixed ahead until you were safely out of sight, where no one could see the tremble in your chin or the tears gathering behind your eyes.

You didn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

You avoided him for the rest of the weekend.

During team meetings you took the seat furthest from his. In briefings every answer you gave was clipped, addressed to your engineers never to him. You didn’t look his way once even before FP3 when you caught him watching you through the reflection in the garage mirror as you pulled your balaclava over your head. You saw the way his gaze lingered almost as though he wanted to say something, but you turned away before he could.

Then qualifying came and everything got worse.

You locked up into Turn 12, the front tyres protesting as the car skidded just wide enough to cost you two tenths through the final sector. Two tenths that might have been enough to save you. Instead your name dropped to sixteenth as the clock ran out, leaving you stranded in the garage and eliminated in Q1.

By the time you had climbed out of the car the headlines were already writing themselves.

RED BULL’S LATEST RISK FAILS TO DELIVER.

MAX’S NEW TEAMMATE CRUMBLES UNDER PRESSURE.

It didn’t seem to matter that you weren’t actually his teammate, not yet at least. You were still only a junior driver, loaned out for unknown period of time during Isack’s injury, a slight test for the future so you could find your feet without the full weight of Red Bull pressing down on your shoulders. The media had already decided what you were supposed to become though and every mistake was treated as proof that you would never be ready for it.

Max’s comment had only lit the match.

Now the entire paddock seemed determined to watch you burn.

Over the next couple of weeks you began to notice a change in Max, it was easy enough to dismiss at first. He no longer offered unsolicited advice over the radio or hovered beside your engineers while they picked apart your laps. Instead he kept his distance, watching from across the garage whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You did notice but you just simply refused to acknowledge it.

In the hospitality tent you kept your headphones on and your head lowered over a sheet of telemetry, pretending to study the same sector analysis you had been staring at for nearly twenty minutes. The numbers had blurred together long ago, but concentrating on them was easier than looking around and risking another encounter with him.

The chair beside you scraped against the floor and your shoulders tightened before you could stop them. Max sat down without asking, close enough that the edge of his knee nearly brushed yours beneath the table. For a moment, he said nothing, then a Red Bull energy bar slid across the page, covering the corner of the graph you had been pretending to read.

“Eat something.”

You pulled one side of your headphones away from your ear and stared at the bar. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

His answer came quickly, but there was none of the coldness or impatience you remembered from the last race. Only a quiet certainty that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine. You moved the energy bar aside and returned your attention to the data sheet. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, settling between you like wet concrete. Around you the hospitality suite carried on as normal cutlery clinking against plates, team members laughing near the coffee machine, someone discussing something as mundane as the weather two tables away, but the space between you felt strangely separate from all of it.

Max leaned back in his chair and released a breath, it wasn’t the irritated sigh you had grown used to hearing from him, he sounded tired, defeated, almost. When you finally glanced at him guilt sat heavily in the slope of his shoulders. His elbows rested against his knees, hands clasped loosely together as he stared down at the floor.

“I saw the headlines,” he said at last.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.

“And I know I made them worse.”

You looked away before he could see the flicker of hurt cross your face. “Forget it.”

Before he could reply you pushed your chair back and stood, Max reached for your wrist, calling your name as though he could stop you, but you pulled away without looking at him and walked out.

Max stopped keeping his distance after that.

At the next debrief he walked into the crowded conference room passed several empty chairs and took the seat directly beside you. You told yourself it was nothing, but when he did the same thing at the following session and again the day after that it became impossible to dismiss as coincidence.

Each time he arrived he would set his tablet down beside your notes and settle into the chair as though sitting anywhere else had never crossed his mind. While engineers filled the room and sector times glowed across the screens, Max remained at your side, listening more closely when your laps were discussed and quietly following every piece of feedback you were given.

He never tried to force a conversation, he simply listened, occasionally leaning closer to point out something on your screen or quietly asking one of your engineers to bring up a different lap comparison.

Then he began appearing in your garage after his own sessions. He would arrive with the sleeves of his team shirt pushed up to his elbows and an sheet of telemetery tucked beneath one arm, walking straight past the cameras and curious mechanics. Sometimes he had barely climbed out of his own car before he was asking for your telemetry.

It was strange, watching him study your laps with the same fierce concentration he usually reserved for his own. He replayed your onboard footage, compared steering traces and questioned your engineers until every small inconsistency had been pulled apart.

One evening, long after most of the paddock had begun to empty he stood beside you at the engineering desk, scrolling through a comparison between your fastest lap and the one that had been abandoned after a lock-up.

“This isn’t a braking issue,” he muttered.

You glanced away from the screen. “That’s what they keep telling me though.”

“They’re wrong.”

His tone was so blunt that one of your engineers looked up from the opposite end of the desk. Max either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He enlarged the tyre data and tapped the front-left trace with his finger.

“It isn’t coming up to temperature quickly enough. Look here.” He dragged the laps side by side. “You’re turning in expecting the grip to be there, but it isn’t. Then you’re compensating by braking later on the next lap which makes the lock-up worse.”

You studied the graph, following the lines he had highlighted. Once he pointed it out, the pattern seemed obvious.

“You’re chasing grip that the car isn’t giving you,” he continued. “You could drive the corner perfectly and still lose time.”

You looked at him instead of the screen.

Max noticed after a moment, his hand still hovering over the tablet. “What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

The question came out more quietly than you intended.

His expression closed slightly, and he turned his attention back to the data. “Because someone needs to.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited, unwilling to let him escape behind another graph or technical explanation.

Finally, Max lowered the tablet onto the desk. “Because I should have said something useful that day.”

You said nothing.

“I knew you were struggling with the car,” he continued. “I knew the balance was wrong, and I knew you were already blaming yourself for all of it.” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as though looking at you would make the admission harder. “I could have helped and instead I made you feel like you didn’t belong here.”

The familiar ache returned beneath your ribs.

“And now you think fixing my setup will make up for it?”

“No.” His answer was immediate. For the first time since you arrived he met your gaze fully.

“But it’s something I can do.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you still wanted to be angry. Anger was usually easier. It created distance between you, kept his words sharp enough in your memory that you wouldn’t risk trusting him again.

But Max was making it difficult to hold on to, especially when he kept showing up. Every evening, once the media duties ended and the garage began to quiet, you would find him waiting near your engineering station. Sometimes he had two coffees balanced in one hand. Sometimes he had already loaded your onboard footage before you arrived. He never asked whether you wanted his help anymore, but he never acted as though you owed him anything for it either.

On Friday evening, you returned from a meeting to find him leaning against the desk, your more recent data already open in front of him.

He glanced up as you approached.

“Come on,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Get your notes. We’re going over Turn 4 again.”

You folded your arms. “We went over Turn 4 yesterday.”

“And you’re still losing a tenth on entry.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as you noticed it. He picked up the laptop and started walking towards the back of the garage, clearly expecting you to follow.

For a moment, you remained where you were. Then you reached for your notebook and went after him.

It wasn’t until a media scrum a few races later that you understood just how much things between you had changed.

You stood behind the taped barrier beneath the harsh paddock lights, waiting for your turn while three different press officers attempted to keep the restless crowd of reporters moving. Your helmet bag hung from one shoulder, and you had already arranged the usual answers neatly in your head: the car was improving, the team was working hard, and you were taking everything one session at a time. Each response was measured, harmless and carefully constructed to give the journalists nothing they could twist into another headline.

A few feet away Max was halfway through his own interview when one of the reporters asked him about you.

“What do you make of her recent improvement? She seems to have found something over the last few races.”

You lowered your gaze, preparing yourself for the usual vague endorsement. Something about promising pace or needing more time. The sort of harmless answer drivers gave when they didn’t want to say anything at all.

Instead, Max tilted his head and squinted at the reporter as though the question had irritated him.

“She’s quick,” he said. “People forget how steep the learning curve is at this level. She’s had to learn a new car, a new team and tracks she’s never raced on before within a few weeks with everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. Give her time.”

Your grip tightened around the strap of your bag.

The reporter glanced down at his notes, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “It was a fairly rough start, though. You must have had doubts after the opening rounds.”

Max’s expression changed immediately.

“You ever driven a car at three hundred and twenty kilometres an hour while half the world watches your onboard and waits for you to get something wrong?”

The reporter’s smile faltered. “Well obviously not, but—”

“No?” Max interrupted, his voice still measured even as his eyes narrowed. “Standing here criticising her is easy. You’re very comfortable judging something you’ve never had the ability to do yourself.”

A murmur moved through the press pack, cameras shifted towards him, microphones lifting higher as everyone sensed the possibility of a headline. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t soften it with a laugh or look towards the press officer for rescue he simply handed back the microphone and stepped away from the barrier. He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, but he never looked at you.

You remained frozen in place, staring after him while the reporters around you whispered to one another and your press officer called your name for the second time.

For weeks Max had been helping you quietly, behind closed doors and dimmed garage screens where no one else could see, this was different, there had been a hundred cameras pointed at him, and he had defended you anyway, you wondered briefly whether guilt was still the only reason he kept showing up for you.

You found him alone at the back of the Red Bull motorhome after the race. The celebrations had already begun downstairs, your engineers opening bottles and passing around plastic cups because eighth place ordinarily meant very little, but today it meant everything. Your first Formula One points. A small mark beside your name on the championship table that proved, at least for one weekend, that you belonged there.

Max had disappeared shortly after the podium ceremony.

You found him slumped into the corner of one of the black leather sofas, still wearing his team kit, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His phone was in his hand, but he didn’t appear to be reading anything. His thumb moved aimlessly over the screen, his expression distant in a way that made you think he had come there precisely because he didn’t want to be found.

He looked up when you entered.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him. “Your first points.”

You stopped a few feet from the sofa. “Thanks.”

Max studied you for a moment. “You don’t look very happy about it.”

“It’s not really enough still.” You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, reluctant to let yourself feel proud of a result that had fallen short of what you wanted.

“You scored your first points,” Max continued. “That should be celebrated. It isn’t easy and you shouldn’t act like eighth means nothing just because you wanted the podium.”

“I wasn’t planning on celebrating eighth.”

“No?” The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping I might finally get a smile out of you.”

Your eyes met his, and the warmth in them caught you off guard. “You’re not that charming.”

“I didn’t say I was.” His gaze dipped briefly down before returning to your eyes. “But you’re still trying not to smile.”

You looked away before he could see that he was right.

“You drove well,” he added, the teasing fading. “You stayed out of trouble, managed the tyres and took every chance when it came.”

The praise should have felt good, but it left a strange pressure beneath your ribs because you could still remember when his opinion had been the one you cared about most, before his words had hollowed you out and taught you not to look for his approval.

You nodded, unsure what else to offer him. “The changes helped.”

Max understood what you meant, the hours spent studying telemetry, the late evenings dissecting corners and the coffees left beside your laptop before early briefings.

His mouth tightened faintly. “They helped,” he agreed. “But you still had to drive the car.”

You could hear the muffled celebration below you, bursts of laughter rising through the floor whenever the doors opened. You considered leaving. You had already started to turn when Max placed his phone face down on the cushion beside him.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near your feet. There was tension in the movement, as though the words had been sitting inside him for weeks and he still hadn’t worked out how to say them.

“I meant what I said that day,” he began.

Your entire body went still.

“Not like that,” he corrected quickly. “Not in the way it sounded.”

A humourless laugh escaped you. “Is there another way to interpret ‘maybe this isn’t the place for you’?”

He looked up then.

There was no anger in his expression and none of the defensiveness you had expected. He looked exhausted in the way someone looked when they had been carrying the same regret for too long and had finally realised there was no painless way to put it down.

“No,” he admitted. “There isn’t.”

You folded your arms over your chest, more to protect yourself than anything else.

“I was frustrated,” he continued. “With the car, with the team, with myself. Everything had gone wrong that day and then you walked into the garage looking so…” His voice faltered, and he glanced away. “You looked completely crushed.”

The memory returned with painful clarity, the heat beneath your race suit and the silence from the engineers. Max’s voice following you through the garage.

“And so you decided to make it worse?”

“I knew that feeling,” he said. “I knew exactly what was going through your head because I’ve been there. I know what it feels like when everyone is watching, when one bad session becomes proof that you’re not good enough and when every person around you has an opinion about whether you deserve to be here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had begun to pale.

“I knew how much you were already blaming yourself and instead of helping you I gave you another reason to.”

You looked down because holding his gaze had become too difficult.

“I told myself I was trying to warn you,” he continued. “That maybe you needed to understand how brutal this place could be before it swallowed you but that isn’t what I did. It isn’t how it came out.”

“Why?” you whispered.

Max inhaled slowly.

“Because I was scared for you.”

You looked at him again.

His gaze remained fixed on his hands. “I know what this place does to people. I know what it did to me when I was your age, everyone tells you that pressure makes you stronger, but sometimes it just makes you believe you’re only worth something when you’re winning.”

His jaw tightened, the words becoming more difficult with every sentence.

“I could see you starting to disappear into it, every mistake or headline, every time someone questioned you—like it proved something. I wanted to tell you that it didn’t. I wanted to say that you’re allowed to struggle and that one bad session doesn’t mean you don’t belong here, you’re allowed to question whether you want to be here and that doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

A broken breath left him.

“But I didn’t know how to say that… in fact I said the exact opposite.”

The tears came before you could stop them, stinging at the corners of your eyes. You blinked quickly, but one escaped anyway, slipping down your cheek before you could turn away. His expression crumpled so briefly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him. He swallowed hard, eyes shining as he looked down at the floor again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice shook now, stripped of every trace of the certainty he carried in front of cameras. “I know saying it doesn’t undo anything. I know helping with the car doesn’t make it better, but I am so fucking sorry for making you feel like that.”

You stood there for a long moment. Part of you had imagined this apology countless times. In some versions, you shouted at him. In others, you told him exactly what his words had done to you and walked away before he had the chance to answer, but now that the moment had arrived, anger wasn’t the strongest thing you felt.

It was relief. Relief that he understood. That he hadn’t forgotten it the moment the words left his mouth, that every evening he had spent beside you had meant something more than obligation.

You crossed the room before you could overthink it and lowered yourself onto the sofa beside him. Max watched you carefully, almost warily, as though he didn’t trust himself to hope.

You shifted closer and gently rested your head against his shoulder.

For several seconds, Max didn’t move. Then his body softened beside yours, and he released a long, unsteady breath as though he had been holding it since that first Friday afternoon.

His head tipped carefully against yours.

You never said the words I forgive you, but when Max’s hand settled beside yours on the sofa, his little finger brushing tentatively against your own you didn’t pull away.

By the time the paddock reached Austria Max had become woven so thoroughly into your routine that neither of you seemed capable of remembering when it had happened.

He was there during the quiet hours before briefings, leaning against the counter in hospitality while you waited for your drink, and again late in the evening when the garages began to empty and the conversations around you softened into the tired murmur of engineers preparing for the following day. What had begun as Max helping you understand an unpredictable car had become something far less structured. Some evenings you still spent hours studying telemetry and comparing onboard footage and on others the laptop remained open and almost entirely forgotten while he told you stories about his early years in the sport or tried to convince you that his terrible movie recommendations were somehow your fault for listening to him.

Whenever you climbed out of the car after a session your eyes would drift instinctively towards his garage. At dinner you saved the seat beside you before you had consciously decided to do it. When something went well Max had somehow become the first person you wanted to tell, even when he had already been watching the entire thing unfold.

The team had started to notice and the reporters had certainly noticed, but neither of you acknowledged it.

After qualifying seventh in Austria you found Max near the back of the garage, studying the final timing screen. He had claimed pole by less than a tenth and should have been preparing for the media pen, but his attention shifted towards you the moment you approached.

You stopped beside him and folded your arms, allowing a deliberately smug smile to form.

“You’re welcome.”

Max glanced towards the screen and then back at you. “For what?”

“Pole.”

His eyebrows lifted. “My pole?”

“You were losing time through Turn 6 yesterday. I told you the wind was pushing the rear around on entry.”

“You said it felt like it ‘might be windy tomorrow’.”

“And then you went faster.”

A smile spread slowly across his face. “So now you are taking credit for my qualifying?”

“Only the successful parts.”

“What about the rest of the lap?”

“That was acceptable too.”

Max laughed, a warm sound that caught the attention of one of the nearby mechanics. A few months earlier you would never have spoken to him like this, you would have analysed every word before saying it and waited anxiously for some indication that he approved. Now you simply enjoyed the way his eyes brightened whenever you surprised him.

“Well,” he said, turning his body fully towards you, “thank you for securing my pole position.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And congrats on seventh.”

Your smile softened. “Thank you.”

There was no joking qualification attached to it. Max did not point out where you had lost time or suggest that you might have placed higher with a cleaner final sector. He had never treated your progress like something he had created, even after all the hours he had spent helping you, when you did well the achievement remained entirely yours.

“You looked confident out there,” he said.

“I felt better.”

“I could tell.”

Something in his tone made warmth rise beneath your skin. “Were you watching?”

“I’d finished my lap.” Max’s gaze travelled over your face, amusement softening into something more intent. “You make it very difficult not to watch you.”

Your press officer called your name from the entrance to the garage before you could decide how to answer. You glanced towards her and then back at him, reluctant to let the moment end.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moved immediately.

“Try not to lose the lead tomorrow. I would hate for all my coaching to be wasted.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You should, I have a reputation to protect now.”

Max shook his head, still smiling as you turned away and you could feel his eyes following you until you disappeared into the corridor.

The race unfolded more perfectly than anything you'd allowed yourself to imagine.

You gained a place before the first corner and emerged from the opening lap in sixth, the car balanced beneath you in a way it rarely had been at the beginning of the season. Max led several seconds ahead, but for once you weren't thinking about him or the expectations attached to being part of the same programme. Your focus narrowed to the car in front, the gap on your steering wheel and the calm instructions coming through your radio.

During the first stint you remained close enough to fifth to force the driver ahead into using more of his tyres than he wanted. Your engineer suggested extending the stint, trusting that you could maintain the pace while the others began to struggle.

It worked. You emerged from the pits later with clear air and tyres fresh enough to attack. By the time the strategy settled you were running fifth with fourth place less than three seconds ahead.

There had been a point earlier in the season when fifth would have felt too valuable to risk, you would have protected the result, terrified that wanting more might cost you everything. That instinct still whispered at the edge of your concentration, but it no longer controlled you.

With eight laps remaining you began closing the gap. The car ahead defended into Turn 3, forcing you to abandon the first attempt, but you stayed close through the middle sector. On the following lap, you positioned the car more carefully through the final two corners and pulled alongside before the braking zone.

For a fraction of a second your front-left threatened to lock.

You kept your foot in and trusted the car to hold.

The two of you swept through the corner together, but you had the inside line for the next turn. By the time you accelerated fourth place was yours.

Your engineer’s voice erupted through the radio.

“That’s P4! Great move. Absolutely fantastic.”

A breathless laugh escaped you inside your helmet. “That was close.”

You crossed the line three laps later in fourth, with Max taking the victory several seconds ahead.

The result registered slowly as you completed the cooldown lap. It wasn’t a podium, although you could almost touch one now, only three drivers had finished ahead of you and for the first time that knowledge felt exciting rather than cruel. You hadn't inherited the position through retirements or luck. You had raced for it and taken it.

When you returned to parc fermé your team were waiting against the barriers. Hands reached towards you as you climbed from the car, mechanics cheering loudly enough to be heard over the engines still arriving behind you.

You'd barely removed your helmet when someone caught you around the waist.

A startled laugh left you as your feet lifted briefly from the ground. You knew who it was before Max could set you down, his arms still loose around you and a victorious grin covering his face.

“Fourth,” he said.

“First,” you replied, looking up at him. “I suppose you managed without too much trouble.”

“I had excellent coaching.”

His hands remained at your waist and yours had settled instinctively against his shoulders. Around you cameras clicked continuously, but Max appeared entirely unconcerned by the attention.

“That overtake was brilliant” he said.

“Wha-How?”

“Because I was watching.”

“You were leading.”

“I had a gap.”

“You used it to watch my race?”

Max’s eyes moved over your face, his voice lowering despite the noise surrounding you. “I told you. You make it difficult not to.”

In the garage you had been able to blame the electricity between you on adrenaline from qualifying. Here, with his hands still resting against your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you there was nowhere for either of you to hide.

A member of the podium crew called for Max, he glanced reluctantly towards the stage and then back at you.

“You need to go,” you told him.

“Stay for the podium.”

“I usually do.”

“Stay where I can see you.”

Your heart stumbled, you tried to cover it with a smile. “Planning to dedicate the win to your coach?”

“Maybe.”

Max gave your waist one final squeeze before stepping away. The absence of him felt immediate although his gaze remained on you until someone placed a cap in his hands and steered him towards the podium.

When Max lifted the trophy he found you beneath the stage almost instantly. Champagne had dampened his hair and darkened the shoulders of his race suit, but his attention settled on you with such certainty that several photographers turned to follow his line of sight.

You raised your eyebrows and mouthed, You’re welcome.

Even from a distance you saw him laugh.

It was much later before the two of you managed to escape the celebrations.

The paddock had begun to quiet when you found Max on the terrace behind the motorhome, he had changed into a clean team shirt although his hair was still damp from the champagne. His trophy sat on the table beside two bottles of beer, catching the last of the evening sunlight.

“You abandoned your own party,” you said as you stepped outside.

Max turned towards you. “I was waiting for someone.”

“Your coach?”

“She’s becoming very demanding.”

You walked towards him and accepted the bottle he offered. “Success changes people.”

“So does finishing fourth apparently.”

You leaned beside him against the railing. “I was delightful before.”

“You barely spoke to me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I did.”

The ease with which he accepted it removed any sting from the exchange, he looked out over the paddock for a moment, his shoulder resting against yours before turning his bottle slowly between his hands.

“You should be proud of today.”

“I am.”

Max glanced sideways at you, checking for any sign that you were only saying it for his benefit.

You smiled. “I really am.”

His expression warmed. “Good.”

“I wanted the podium.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t leave feeling like fourth was a failure.” You looked down at the bottle in your hands. “That’s new.”

“You’ll get one soon.”

The certainty in his voice made you laugh. “You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

“What happens when I do?”

Max’s gaze shifted towards you. “When you do what?”

“Get a podium.”

He considered the question with exaggerated seriousness. “You stand on the stage. They give you a trophy. Usually there’s champagne.”

You turned until your hip rested against the railing, facing him properly. “I meant what happens afterwards.”

Understanding flickered across his face.

“Are you asking me to plan your celebration?”

“I’m asking whether you intend to be there.”

Max’s smile became more private replacing the teasing expression he'd worn moments earlier. “I intend to be there for all of them.”

The answer caught you off guard.

“All of them?” you repeated.

“Your first podium. Your first win.” His eyes remained on yours. “Whatever comes after that.”

The future opened quietly between you, carried in words that could still have been about racing if either of you needed them to be.

“You’re planning quite far ahead,” you murmured.

“I spend a lot of time looking at data. I can recognise a trend.”

“And what trend is that?”

“You keep getting closer.”

“To the podium?”

Max stepped nearer, leaving only a narrow space between you. “That too.”

Warmth climbed into your cheeks, but you resisted the instinct to look away. The confidence you had found in the car seemed to follow you here allowing you to hold his gaze and enjoy the rare moment in which Max appeared to be the less certain one.

“So,” you said, stepping slightly closer, “when I get my podium how exactly are we celebrating?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re still pretending you don’t know what I want.”

Your pulse quickened, but you managed to keep your expression composed. “Perhaps you should explain it to me.”

Max laughed under his breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“This was much easier when you were nervous around me.”

“You hated it when I was nervous around you.”

His expression sobered. “I do like this version better.”

Months earlier his opinion had shattered something in you. Now he looked at you as though your growing confidence was not merely something he had witnessed, but something he treasured.

“You helped.”

“You did the difficult part.”

He moved closer until his shoulder brushed yours and lowered his voice.

“Get the podium.”

“And then?”

“Then you won’t have to ask whether I’ll be there.”

You smiled. “Still avoiding the question about the celebration.”

“I already told you. It depends.”

“On whether I know what you want?”

“Yes.”

You tilted your face towards his, leaving so little distance that you felt his breath catch. “I think I’m beginning to work it out.”

For one suspended moment you thought he might kiss you.

Instead Max reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing lightly along your cheek. The restraint in the gesture made it feel more intimate than rushing forward would have done.

“You drove beautifully today,” he said.

There was no joke to hide behind now, you let the praise settle without dismissing it.

“Thank you.”

His hand lingered against your cheek before falling slowly.

When you eventually returned inside Max placed his palm against the small of your back and guided you through the doorway. Several team members looked up, one of them smiled knowingly before returning to his conversation.

The podium felt close now.

Whatever waited after it felt closer too.

Max’s best friend. His best man. The human equivalent of a migraine wrapped in a tux.

He was somehow still laughing, still talking, still managing to irritate you from across the room without even opening his mouth. It was a talent, really. You thought he was smug, insufferable, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to society except chaos and a few podiums.

As for what he thought about you?

You didn’t care. Truly. Deeply. Profoundly.

(And if you repeated that enough times, maybe one day it would even feel true.)

The only downside to Pietra marrying Max was the unfortunate, unavoidable reality that Lando Norris was now a permanent fixture in your life. A recurring character. A long-term problem. A headache with a lifetime warranty.

The thought alone made your skin crawl in a way that felt almost personal.

The weirdest part wasn’t the disappearing guests or the suspiciously pale groomsman who nearly face‑planted into the cake. No, the weirdest part came when you realized you hadn’t seen Pietra in… a while.

At first, you brushed it off. She was a newlywed. Newlyweds vanish. It’s practically a wedding tradition. Maybe she was touching up her makeup. Maybe she was having a moment with Max. Maybe she was hiding from Lando, which would be completely understandable and honestly relatable.

But something felt off.

Pietra wasn’t the type to disappear without a word, especially not from her own reception—the event she’d planned down to the color of the napkin rings. And the longer you went without seeing her, the more that uneasy little knot twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t panic yet, but it was definitely panic‑adjacent.

So, for your own peace of mind, you pulled out your phone and called her.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then it connected.

“P? Where are you? Are you okay?”

There was a pause—the kind that immediately tells you the answer is no.

When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and shaky, nothing like the glowing, ecstatic bride you’d been celebrating with an hour ago.

“Can you come to our room?”

That was it.

No explanation. No reassurance. No “don’t freak out.”

Just those six words.

The call ended a second later, leaving you staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

And suddenly, that uneasy feeling in your stomach sharpened into something much closer to full‑blown panic—the kind that makes your heart thump too hard and your brain start listing every possible worst‑case scenario in alphabetical order.

Because if Pietra sounded like that on her wedding night, something was very, very wrong.

You hurried through the hotel hallway, moving as fast as your heels would let you—which, unfortunately, was not very fast at all. Your phone was still in your hand, screen glowing with the last call, and you were so focused on Pietra’s shaky voice replaying in your head that you didn’t even look up when you turned the corner.

Which is exactly why you slammed straight into someone.

“Ow!”

You stumbled back, clutching your phone like it might soften the impact. And then you looked up.

Of course.

Of course it was Lando Norris.

Because why wouldn’t the universe add insult to injury.

He steadied himself, then gave you a once‑over that somehow managed to be both annoyed and judgmental, like you’d personally offended him by existing in his path.

“Watch it,” he said.

“You watch it,” you shot back, because you refused to let him have the last word. Not tonight. Not ever.

You pointed a finger at him, ready to continue the argument you two had apparently been having since the day you met—but then you both reached for the same door handle.

Pietra and Max’s room.

You froze.

He froze.

“What the fuck are you—”

Before either of you could finish, a voice croaked from inside the room. Weak. Miserable. Dramatic in a way only one person could manage.

“Stop flirting and come in! Both of you!”

Max.

Or, more accurately, whatever was left of Max. 

Lando grimaced so hard it looked painful. “If he says that again, I’m going to be sick.”

He shot you a look—the kind that said this is your fault somehow—before pushing the door open.

Honestly?

You felt the same way.

Instead of dignifying him with a response, you rolled your eyes so hard it was practically a workout and followed him inside.

Whatever was happening inside the room looked like something straight out of a low‑budget horror movie—the kind where you already know half the cast won’t make it to the sequel.

The wedding? Completely forgotten. Pietra’s dress was crumpled in a sad little heap on the floor, like it had given up on life. Max’s tux jacket was draped over a chair in a way that suggested he’d either thrown it or collapsed out of it. Hard to tell.

Pietra was curled up on the bed, pale and miserable, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Max sat hunched over at the table with his head in his hands, breathing like someone who had seen things. Terrible things. Things he would never emotionally recover from.

“For newlyweds, you two look horrible,” Lando observed, because apparently he felt the need to narrate the obvious.

As if the scene didn’t already scream we are dying.

“You have no idea,” Pietra groaned, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Never eating seafood again,” Max muttered into his palms.

You frowned, stepping further into the room. “What happened?”

“The seafood happened,” Pietra said weakly, like the words themselves were painful.

Max lifted his head just enough to confirm it. “It was bad. Everyone’s sick.”

“Everyone?” you repeated, because surely this couldn’t be as dramatic as it sounded.

“My parents are sick. Pietra’s cousins are sick. Half the wedding is sick.” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I think I’m gonna thr—”

“Okay, mate, we get it,” Lando cut in quickly, hands up like he was warding off a demon.

Neither of you needed the visual.

A heavy silence settled over the room—the kind that comes right before someone admits something truly stupid.

And then Lando, because he physically could not help himself, added,

“I told you seafood was a terrible idea.”

Max slowly lifted his head, eyes dead, soul gone. “Not helping.”

“Just saying.”

Of course he was.

Suddenly, a thought hit you—sharp and obvious, like the kind of realization you really should’ve had ten minutes earlier.

You turned to Lando, narrowing your eyes.

“If everyone ate the seafood… why aren’t you sick?”

He looked at you like you’d just accused him of kicking puppies for fun. His whole face twisted, offended on a spiritual level.

“I hate seafood,” he said, dripping with disgust. Like it was common knowledge. Like it was printed on his passport. Like you were personally stupid for not knowing his dietary preferences.

Before you could roll your eyes hard enough to sprain something, he pointed right back at you.

“Could ask you the same. Why aren’t you sick?”

“I’m on a diet,” you said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

His eyebrows shot up, and he looked far too pleased with himself as he looked toward Max.

“See? This is what happens when you order seafood even though half your guests don’t even eat it.”

“You two don’t mean half the guests,” Pietra muttered from the bed, rolling her eyes so weakly it was almost impressive she managed it at all.

“Well—but that’s not why you’re here,” Max started.

The tone in his voice shifted. Instantly. Like someone had dimmed the lights and added ominous background music.

This wasn’t a joke anymore.

Even Lando went quiet—which was honestly the most alarming symptom in the room.

“We can’t go on our honeymoon,” Max said weakly. “We literally can’t even stand, let alone fly to the Maldives.”

Pietra raised a shaky hand from the bed, like she was giving sworn testimony. “Also… it’s non‑refundable.”

As if that somehow made the situation more tragic.

Which, unfortunately, it did.

“And?” you asked slowly, because you already didn’t like where this was going. “What does that have to do with us?”

Max glanced at Pietra.

Then at you.

Then at Lando.

Then back at you.

“Since you’re the only ones who are able to go…”

No.

No, no, no.

Absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

Did they just—

Did they seriously just—

“Absolutely not,” Lando cut in immediately, shaking his head so hard his curls bounced.

For once, you agreed with him.

Violently.

Because there was no universe—none—where you and Lando Norris should be sent on a romantic, luxury honeymoon together.

Which, of course, meant that was exactly what was about to happen.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast you felt it in your toes. They weren’t actually suggesting this. They couldn’t be. This had to be a fever dream caused by secondhand seafood fumes.

For once, you were perfectly aligned with him. A rare, terrifying moment of unity.

But Max wasn’t done.

“It’s a private villa,” he said, voice wobbling. “Some newlywed activities—”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Did you hit your head while eating the seafood too?”

Because that was the only explanation. Truly. The man had lost brain function. You were going to wake up any second now. Maybe you’d fall off a chair and snap back into the correct timeline. Or maybe you should hit your head and skip straight to the part where none of this was happening.

“It’ll go to waste if you don’t go,” Pietra added, sounding both tragic and dramatic, which was impressive considering she looked like she might faint at any moment.

Lando let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Then let it go to waste. Problem solved.”

“Good thing we’re not asking you,” Max said, ignoring him completely. “We’re telling you.”

Silence fell over the room.

Not the normal kind.

The bad kind.

The kind that meant decisions had already been made without your consent.

“I already called the resort,” Max continued, like he was ripping off a Band‑Aid. “We told them we’re sick and can’t go. But our—also freshly married—friends will go instead of us.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

No.

No.

Absolutely no.

What the actual fuck.

This had to be illegal. Or a prank. Or a shared hallucination brought on by the cursed seafood poisoning half the hotel.

Max was clearly too exhausted to keep talking. Pietra, unfortunately, was not. She pushed herself up just enough to finish his sentence, her voice thin but determined.

“We just changed the names,” she said, like that explained anything at all.

You stared at her, waiting for the part where she clarified. She didn’t.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Pietra smiled—weakly, proudly, and completely out of touch with reality. She looked like she might faint at any second, yet somehow she still had the nerve to look pleased with herself.

“From now on, you’re Mr. and Mrs. Norris!”

The words hung in the air like a bomb that hadn’t decided whether to explode or not. Too cheerful. Too final. Too insane to process.

For a moment, nobody reacted. The room went still, like even the walls were trying to understand what she’d just said.

Then everything reacted at once.

“I hope you’re fucking kidding,” Lando said, voice flat and sharp.

“No,” Pietra replied immediately, not even blinking.

“I’m not going anywhere with her,” he snapped, pointing at you like you were the problem.

“I’m not going anywhere with him,” you shot back at the exact same time, because if he was pointing, you were pointing too.

Silence fell again—heavy, miserable, the kind that made you want to walk straight into the ocean.

Max didn’t even lift his head. He just groaned into the table like he’d accepted his fate and yours.

Pietra sighed, sounding far too calm for someone who had just detonated your life. “Well,” she said, “good thing it’s already done.”

And just like that, your nightmare didn’t just have a name.

It had a reservation.

A villa.

A flight to the Maldives.

And a husband you didn’t even like.

When the realization finally settled between you and your apparently new husband, all you could do was let out a long, exhausted groan—the kind that came from deep in your soul, the kind that said I did not sign up for this. It was the only reaction your brain could manage. Your thoughts were basically just static and disbelief.

Lando, on the other hand, had plenty of energy left to complain.

“Mate, I love you,” he said, turning toward Max with the dramatic flair of someone delivering a eulogy, “but right now I hate you so much.”

Max didn’t even lift his head. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just sat there, hunched over the table like a man who had accepted every bad decision that led him to this moment.

Pietra gave a weak little wave from the bed, like she was blessing a doomed union. “You’ll thank us later,” she mumbled, which was bold for someone who looked like she might pass out mid‑sentence.

Lando exhaled sharply, then looked between you, Max, and Pietra with the expression of a man who had lost all hope in humanity. “Enjoy your free honeymoon,” he said flatly. A beat. “Lovebirds.”

You and Lando turned to each other at the exact same time.

“No.”

It came out perfectly synchronized—same tone, same disgust, same absolute refusal. If you weren’t so horrified, you might’ve been impressed.

And for the first time all night, even Max looked slightly amused. His mouth twitched, just barely, like he wanted to smile but didn’t have the physical strength to commit to it.

Which was great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

At least someone was enjoying the beginning of your shared nightmare.

────────────

The moment you stepped off the boat, you regretted not eating the seafood too. Honestly, at least then you’d be back at the hotel, curled up on a bathroom floor, dramatically begging for death like everyone else. Instead, you were here—in paradise—with the one person who could make even the Maldives feel like a punishment. You were at that stage of life where you would genuinely prefer food poisoning over spending any time alone with Lando Norris. And that said a lot.

The Maldives were gorgeous, of course. The water was so turquoise it looked fake, the sand was blindingly white, and the palm trees swayed like they were performing for a commercial. Everything around you was warm and soft and perfect, the kind of place people saved up for years to visit. It should have been paradise. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic.

But then there was the idiot standing next to you.

Lando looked around with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, somehow managing to look annoyed despite being surrounded by literal postcard scenery. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. You hoped he was regretting this as much as you were. Preferably more.

A pair of resort employees approached with bright, excited smiles—the kind of smiles people only have when they have no idea what kind of disaster they’re dealing with.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Congratulations on your honeymoon.”

Your eye twitched so hard you were surprised it didn’t fall out. If one more person called you that, you might actually swim back to the mainland.

“Thanks,” Lando said smoothly, flashing them one of his signature smiles like he hadn’t spent the last 48 hours insisting he wasn’t going anywhere with you.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

What happened to I’m not going anywhere with her?

He caught your glare and shrugged, all innocent and useless.

Traitor.

Not wanting to be rude to the only people here who hadn’t personally ruined your life, you forced a polite smile. Before you could correct them—or scream—one of the employees picked up your suitcase with cheerful efficiency.

“Come with us,” she said brightly. “We’ll show you your villa.”

The walk to the villa was painfully, almost comically silent. Not a single word passed between you. You stared straight ahead like you were being marched to your doom. Lando did the same, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he was being forced to attend his own funeral. The two resort employees leading the way kept glancing back at you both, probably wondering what kind of honeymooning couple walked like they were on their way to court.

Eventually, one of them cleared her throat, clearly trying to break the tension before it swallowed all four of you whole.

“I’m sorry about your friends.”

You blinked, pulled out of your internal spiral. Right. Max and Pietra. The actual newlyweds. The ones currently dying in a hotel room.

“Yeah,” you said. “It sucks.”

“They were very upset when they called,” she continued gently. “But they seemed happy that you two could still enjoy the honeymoon.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

Happy.

That was certainly one way to describe it. Delusional was another. Criminally optimistic was a third.

Beside you, Lando made a noise—something between a laugh and a strangled groan. Honestly, it could’ve been either. Or both.

“And how long are you two married?”

You froze.

Well.

Eh.

You didn’t exactly have a script for this. You didn’t know whether to lie, tell the truth, or throw yourself into the ocean and let the fish sort it out.

Before you could decide, Lando spoke.

“Two months.”

You whipped your head toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Lando didn’t even look at you. He just kept walking beside you like he hadn’t casually invented an entire fake marriage timeline out of thin air. No hesitation. No shame. No warning. Just two months tossed into the universe like it was a normal, reasonable answer.

The employee beamed at the both of you, completely fooled.

“How lovely! Newlyweds.”

“Yeah,” Lando replied smoothly, slipping into the role like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Still getting used to it.”

You stared at him, your brain short‑circuiting.

Still getting used to it.

Still. Getting. Used. To. It.

Was he insane? Was he actually insane? Because that was the only explanation for the confidence with which he delivered that line. You caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smallest hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of your suffering.

The bastard was enjoying this.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile so stiff it could’ve cracked. “Every day is a surprise.”

Lando finally glanced at you, and for a split second, you saw it—the spark of amusement in his eyes, the quiet little I’m having fun and you can’t stop me glint.

You hated it.

You hated him.

The villa was ridiculous.

Not just nice—insultingly nice. The kind of nice that made you question every choice you’d ever made in your life. The terrace stretched out over the water like it was showing off. There was a glass slide straight into the ocean, an infinity pool that blended into the horizon, an outdoor shower, two separate bathrooms (mercifully), and enough space to host three families, a wedding, and maybe a small cult.

It was paradise.

And you hated that you were seeing it with him.

The second the employees left, you spun toward Lando.

“What the hell was that?”

Lando dropped his bag onto the floor like he owned the place. “What was what?”

“‘Two months’?” you repeated, voice rising. “Where did you even get two months from?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Sounded believable.”

“Believable?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “‘Actually, we’ve known each other for years and can’t stand one another, but our friends got food poisoning and sent us on their honeymoon instead’?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it. and opened it again.

“…Well, maybe not like that.”

“Exactly,” he said, like he’d just won a debate on national television.

“That doesn’t mean you get to invent an entire marriage!”

“Oh, come on,” he said, already wandering deeper into the villa like a man on vacation. “It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“Yes.”

“You made me your wife.”

Lando paused mid‑step and turned, looking genuinely confused.

“You already were my wife.”

The room went still. You stared at him. He stared back.

Three long, painful seconds passed.

Then something flickered across his face—realization, horror, embarrassment, all at once.

“Oh.”

Your eye twitched. “Oh?”

“Okay,” he winced, “that sounded worse out loud.”

“You think?”

“I mean she called you Mrs. Norris first. She made you my wife,” Lando tried to defend himself.

Before you could continue tearing him apart, a knock interrupted you.

Both of you froze.

The door opened immediately—because apparently privacy was optional here—and one of the resort employees peeked in with an apologetic smile.

“Oh! Sorry, one more thing.”

You instinctively stepped away from Lando like he was radioactive. He noticed. Of course he did. The employee didn’t.

“Your first romantic dinner is at eight tonight.”

Silence.

“What?” you said.

“Romantic dinner,” she repeated cheerfully. “On the beach. Just the two of you.”

You slowly turned your head toward Lando.

He turned toward you. Then both of you turned back to her.

“We don’t need—”

“Wonderful!” she cut in. “See you at eight!”

The moment she left, you pushed open the bedroom door.

And immediately stopped. Of course.

Of course there was one bed. Not just any bed—one large, perfectly made, aggressively romantic bed positioned directly in front of the ocean like it was trying to prove a point. Rose‑petal energy without the actual petals. The kind of bed that practically whispered consummate something.

You just stared at it, frozen in place.

Lando leaned against the doorframe, peered inside, and let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “There’s really only one bed in this big‑ass villa?”

“Well obviously,” you snapped. “It’s a honeymoon villa, dumbass.”

“Right,” he muttered, like the universe had personally wronged him.

Silence settled between you—thick, awkward, the kind that made everything feel ten times worse. You could practically hear the ocean outside judging both of you.

Then Lando nodded toward the bed with the seriousness of someone offering a noble sacrifice.

“I’ll happily take the floor,” he announced.

You blinked.

Once. Twice.

“Wow,” you said. “Generous of you.”

Then you turned fully toward him, crossing your arms. “I’m going to be kind and let you take the couch in the living room. You’re absolutely not sleeping in the same room as me.”

“Right,” he said slowly, glancing toward the living room. “The couch.”

He nodded like he was processing a complicated mathematical equation.

“I should’ve thought about that earlier.”

────────────

The restaurant was somehow even more ridiculous than the villa—which felt almost impossible, but here you were, living proof that the universe had a sense of humor and it wasn’t a kind one.

A table for two sat directly on the sand, candles flickering in the warm evening breeze while waves rolled onto the shore like they’d been hired for ambience. Fairy lights hung from the palm trees overhead, glowing softly against the darkening sky. Music drifted through the air, gentle and warm, the kind that made everything feel softer than it actually was.

And you…

You looked beautiful. A yellow summer dress, light and easy, catching the breeze just enough to move with you. Your hair had settled into soft waves, brushing your shoulders every time you turned your head. You definitely hadn’t taken extra time to get ready because of your “husband.” Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.

It looked like a scene from a romance movie.

Unfortunately, you were starring in it with Lando Norris.

The hostess smiled as she pulled out your chair, glowing with the kind of joy only people who believe in love have.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris. We hope you have a magical first dinner as newlyweds.”

You forced a polite smile, the kind that felt like it might crack if you held it too long.

“Thank you.”

Lando matched your expression perfectly, like he’d been trained for this exact moment.

“Very kind of you.”

The hostess practically melted on the spot.

“Oh, you two are adorable.”

The second she walked away, both of your smiles dropped so fast they might’ve left dents in the sand.

“She called us adorable,” you muttered.

“She also called us married,” Lando replied, sounding personally offended.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

And for a moment, the two of you sat there in the middle of paradise, united only by mutual suffering.

You reached for the bread basket.

At the exact same moment Lando did.

Your hands collided in the middle of the table, a sharp little smack that made you both freeze. You pulled yours back instantly, like touching him might give you a rash.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back, just as fast.

Before either of you could escalate, a waiter appeared beside the table carrying what looked like a tropical explosion in a glass—flowers, fruit, colors that didn’t exist in nature.

“For the honeymoon couple!” he announced proudly.

He set it down between you.

One glass.

Two straws.

A crime.

You and Lando stared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“No,” you both said at the same time.

“Oh, it’s complimentary!” the waiter beamed, completely missing the mutual horror, and vanished before you could protest.

Silence settled over the table again, warm and heavy like the night air.

“Well?” Lando said.

“Well what?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“So am I.”

Another long stretch of stubborn quiet passed—thirty seconds that felt like a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.

Finally, you both leaned forward at the same time.

And immediately bumped foreheads.

“Ow!”

You rubbed the spot, wincing, while Lando leaned back with a glare sharp enough to cut through the candlelight.

“Could you be any more dramatic?”

“You literally ran into me.”

“You ran into me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

The argument fizzled out only because you both leaned in and took a sip of the drink at the same time—careful this time, no forehead injuries—and neither of you dared admit it tasted incredible. Sweet, cold, perfect. A tiny piece of heaven in the middle of your personal hell.

The appetizers arrived a few minutes later, carried by a waiter who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life to serve a honeymoon couple. Every time he or anyone else walked by, you and Lando transformed instantly into the world’s most convincing romantic pair. It was almost impressive how fast the switch flipped.

“So, darling,” Lando said with a smile so bright it could’ve powered the fairy lights above you, “would you like the lobster?”

“No, sweetheart,” you replied just as sweetly, matching his tone like you’d rehearsed it. “You know I don’t eat seafood.”

The waiter’s face lit up.

“How lovely.”

The moment he walked away, your smile dropped. You kicked Lando under the table.

“Ow!” he hissed, jerking his leg back.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me darling.”

“You started it.”

“You kicked me.”

“Good.”

Another waiter approached, moving carefully across the sand as if he were carrying something sacred. He placed two plates in front of you with a soft smile.

Steak and fries. Finally.

Separate plates.

Thank God.

You sat up a little straighter, almost relieved enough to forget who you were sitting with.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her smile warm and hopeful, like she genuinely wanted your night to be perfect.

You returned it, stretching your own smile so wide your cheeks started to ache. “Everything’s perfect.”

Beside you, Lando nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had fully committed to the bit. “Best honeymoon ever.”

The waiter beamed, delighted. “We’re so happy to hear that. Enjoy your evening!”

She walked away, leaving the two of you alone again—candles flickering, waves rolling in, the whole scene soft and romantic in a way that felt almost cruel.

The second the waiter disappeared, your foot shot out under the table and connected with Lando’s shin again. Maybe you were provoking him. Maybe you weren’t. Maybe the universe was simply guiding your leg. Either way, you weren’t about to admit anything.

He jerked back, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his life.

“Can you fucking stop?”

“Stop lying.”

“You’re the one smiling.”

“I’m being polite.”

“You look psychotic.”

“Because of you.”

Lando stabbed another fry with his fork, then looked up at you with a confidence he absolutely did not deserve.

“You know,” he said, leaning back slightly, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you’ve been looking at me all evening.”

You scoffed, loud and sharp.

“Could say the same about you.”

And that was the first time since arriving that he actually went quiet.

Because you had noticed.

The little glances he kept sneaking across the table.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long before he looked away.

The absent-minded way he wet his lips whenever he was thinking.

The way he kept shifting in his seat like he was trying not to stare at you too openly.

None of it meant anything.

Obviously.

You weren’t delusional.

Still, something flickered across his face—something quick, something he tried to hide—before he straightened again.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

“Am I?”

He held your gaze for a beat too long.

“Trust me,” he said, voice low and annoyingly confident. “If I was staring, you’d know.”

Your heart did something incredibly inconvenient—a tiny jump, a tiny skip, the kind of reaction you immediately wanted to throw into the ocean. You grabbed your glass instead, lifting it like it could physically reset your brain.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replied, reaching across the table to steal one of your fries like he had every right to, “you haven’t left.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was my fry.”

He took a slow, deliberate bite. “Tastes better when it’s yours.”

You kicked him under the table. Hard.

He hissed, jerking his leg back. “Jesus—are you trying to break my leg?”

“Debatable,” you said, taking a calm sip of your drink like you hadn’t just committed violence.

Lando rubbed his shin under the table, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his evening. “You’re a violent wife.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “You’re an annoying husband.”

A beat passed—warm, tense, too quiet.

Then he leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“You realize if you break my leg, you’d have to take care of me, sweetheart?”

You didn’t even blink.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

His smirk widened, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And the worst part?

Your heart did that inconvenient little jump again.

────────────

The morning started peacefully. Too peacefully. The kind of peaceful that made you suspicious, like the universe was holding its breath before dropping something heavy on your head.

You and Lando sat at the breakfast table like two people who had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. No shin‑kicking. No dramatic sighs. No sarcastic comments sharp enough to cut through the tropical air. Just quiet eating, the soft clink of cutlery, and the occasional scroll through your phones.

Almost normal.

Almost comfortable.

Then Lando opened his mouth.

“We’re going golfing,” he said casually, not even looking up, biting into a pastry like he was reading the weather report.

“No.”

That one word snapped his attention up instantly. He blinked at you, confused, like he’d never heard the word before.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I hate golf.”

“That’s not a valid reason.”

“It’s a very valid reason.”

He sighed dramatically, like you had personally ruined his entire morning, his week, and possibly his life.

“I can’t play alone.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was lying. Badly. A man who drove cars at terrifying speeds for a living could absolutely survive a solo round of golf.

“You race cars for a living.”

“And?”

“You can function independently.”

He ignored that completely, like you hadn’t spoken at all.

“We’re going. It’s already booked.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You’re my wife,” he said flatly.

You froze.

Slowly lifted your head from your plate.

Stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

“I’d rather swim back than be your wife.”

“From the Maldives?”

“Especially from the Maldives.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something smug, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“And I’d make it.”

He snorted. “You’d get eaten by a shark.”

“Better than golfing with you.”

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the golf club lobby anyway. You still weren’t sure how it happened. One moment you were saying no, the next you were being dragged into a shuttle like a hostage. Against your will, obviously. Completely against your will.

Lando was at the counter, talking to the staff like he owned the place, arranging equipment and carts as if this was his idea of a perfect morning. He looked relaxed, confident, annoyingly at his element.

You slipped away toward a small souvenir shop tucked beside the path.

Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

Inside, everything was glossy, overpriced, and aggressively tropical. Shelves full of shell necklaces, handmade bracelets, tiny carved wooden animals, and bright fabrics that probably cost more than your entire suitcase. The kind of things tourists bought when they were sun‑drunk and sentimental.

Then you saw it. A necklace.

A simple one—a thin cord with a small carved turtle pendant hanging from the center. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… cute.

You picked it up, letting the pendant rest in your palm. It made you smile before you could stop yourself.

You flipped the tag over and your smile died instantly.

You frowned. Hard.

“You like it?”

Lando’s voice came from behind you.

You jumped slightly, turning to see him leaning in the doorway, holding two golf clubs in one hand and the cart keys dangling from the other. He looked annoyingly casual, like he hadn’t just snuck up on you.

“It’s cute,” you said, “but the price is not cute.”

“How much?”

You held it up for him to see.

He squinted, leaned in a little, then let out a laugh—loud, surprised, real.

“Jesus Christ. That’s the price of the whole honeymoon.”

You huffed. “Exactly.”

You placed the necklace back carefully, almost gently, like it had personally betrayed you but you didn’t want to hurt its feelings. Way too expensive for something that would end up tangled in a drawer anyway.

“Be right back,” you said, already backing away from him. “Bathroom.”

“Don’t get lost,” he muttered without looking up.

“Try not to choke on your ego,” you shot back, turning before he could respond.

The bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place like this—unnecessarily fancy, spotless, and scented with something soft and expensive you’d never be able to justify buying in real life. You lingered longer than you needed to, letting the quiet settle over you. It wasn’t the bathroom you needed. It was the break from him.

When you stepped back out, the sun was brighter, the air warmer, and Lando was still near the shop.

Except… something was off.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. He wasn’t pacing or fidgeting or causing chaos. He was just standing there, a little too still, a little too focused on nothing. And the second he saw you, his eyes flicked up fast, scanning you like he was checking for something.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you walked toward him.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

That was worse. Lando never said nothing quickly. If anything, he usually dragged it out just to annoy you.

You frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, already turning away, heading toward the golf carts like the conversation bored him. “Nothing.”

You watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what that tiny shift in his expression had been. Something flickering behind his eyes. Something he clearly didn’t want you to notice.

But you decided you didn’t care enough to dig into whatever weird Lando thing this was.

Probably just him being annoying.

You followed him anyway, even though you told yourself you weren’t following him at all—you were just walking in the same direction.

Coincidentally.

Obviously.

The golf course looked like it had been designed specifically to humiliate you. Endless stretches of perfect green, artificial lakes sparkling in the sun, and way too much open space for you to miss shots in front of strangers. It was beautiful in a smug, taunting way.

Lando, unfortunately, looked right at home.

“Okay,” he said, handing you a club like he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. “Just don’t hit anyone.”

“I’m going to hit you.”

“You’re not strong enough.”

That alone made you swing harder than necessary.

The ball went approximately nowhere. It hopped. Maybe. Barely.

Silence.

Then Lando clapped once.

Slowly.

“Fantastic.”

“It moved,” you said defensively.

“Barely.”

“It moved.”

He shook his head, stepping up beside you with the confidence of someone who had been waiting all morning to show off.

“Okay, watch and learn.”

You crossed your arms. “Impress me.”

He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk. It stretched across his face, warm and smug, like he’d been born for this moment.

“One day you’re going to have to admit I’m good at something.”

“Not likely.”

He swung.

Perfect form. Perfect sound. Perfect shot.

The ball sailed clean across the course, cutting through the air like it had been personally trained by God.

Of course it did.

You hated that. You hated how easy he made it look. You hated the way his shoulders relaxed after the swing, the way he exhaled like he’d just done something casual instead of showing off in front of you.

“Show-off,” you muttered.

Lando didn’t even look at you. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not jealousy. It’s disappointment.”

“In me?”

“In the universe for letting you be this confident.”

He finally turned, leaning on his club like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t actively ruining your morning.

“You know, for someone who keeps insulting me, you’re very invested in my performance.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he said easily. “Just observing.”

“Stop observing. It’s creepy.”

“You started it.”

“I did not start it.”

“You literally tried to hit me ten minutes ago.”

“That was character development.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“A perfect match, then.”

You shot him a sharp look.

“Don’t get delusional. This is a forced golf situation, not a personality assessment.”

He stepped closer—not much, just enough to make the air feel warmer—lowering his voice like he was letting you in on something you didn’t want.

“Careful,” he said. “Keep talking like that and people might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

You rolled your eyes. “In what world?”

He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“The one where you’ve been watching my swing for the last ten minutes.”

“That’s because I’m hoping you fall into one of those lakes.”

“Sure,” he said, smirking wider. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—

But he cut in, casual, careless, like he wasn’t dropping a verbal grenade at your feet:

“Relax. I promise I’m not trying to get you into bed over a golf lesson.”

You froze.

Then stared at him.

“…What is wrong with you?”

Lando blinked, like he genuinely didn’t understand the problem.

“What? I was being nice.”

“That was not nice.”

“It was honest.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Gimme the keys. I’ll drive,” you said, holding out your hand like you were doing him a favor he didn’t deserve.

“Absolutely not.”

“You race cars for a living,” you reminded him, already leaning toward the ignition with far too much confidence for someone who had never driven a golf cart before. “And you’re scared of a golf cart?”

“I’m not scared of it. I’m scared of you driving it.”

“You should be,” you said with a small, satisfied smile as you climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get your ass in there or walk.”

Lando let out the kind of long, dramatic sigh that suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment. “Do you even have a driving licence?”

“I do.”

You absolutely did. Unfortunately for him.

He hesitated for a beat too long before climbing in beside you, gripping the side of the seat like it might suddenly eject him into the bushes. The second you pressed the pedal, the cart lurched forward—not dangerously, not wildly, just enough to make him tense like you’d launched a rocket instead of a glorified toy car.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, steering them down the path with what you considered perfect control. The breeze was warm, the sun was bright, and the cart hummed along peacefully. “You’re sitting in a golf cart, not a missile.”

“I’m observing risk factors,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead like he was preparing for impact.

“That’s exactly what someone driving like you would say.”

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

He was absolutely not relaxed. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, and he kept shifting like the seat was made of spikes. You took a slightly sharper turn—not reckless, not even fast, just sharper—and the cart tilted a little to the side.

Lando jolted.

His hand shot out without thinking, grabbing your thigh to steady himself.

Both of you froze.

The warmth of his hand lingered for a second, heavy and unexpected, before he snatched it back like it had betrayed him. His face was tight, his voice too quick.

“…That was balance,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I was balancing.”

You looked down at his hand, then back at him, unimpressed and far too aware of the moment. “Put that away.”

“I didn’t mean to—it slipped.”

“Sure it did.”

“It did.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t even look at him again. You just kept driving, eyes on the path, pretending the moment hadn’t happened. And you definitely didn’t mind that it had.

Not that you would ever admit anything.

────────────

The boat rocked gently over the turquoise water, sunlight bouncing off the surface so brightly it almost hurt to look at. It should have been peaceful, the kind of morning people wrote postcards about. But unfortunately, part of the honeymoon package included couples snorkeling—something that would have been lovely if your “husband” wasn’t Lando Norris.

You sat beside him with your legs tucked under you, still mid‑argument from the pier, still annoyed, still refusing to let him win even a single point.

“No, I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at him like you were presenting evidence in court, “you cheated yesterday.”

“I did not cheat,” he replied flatly, not even blinking. “You just don’t understand basic physics.”

“I understand physics perfectly fine, actually.”

“Clearly not.”

“You literally aimed your ball into a bush and called it strategy.”

“It was strategy.”

Before you could continue, another couple sitting nearby—around your age, relaxed, sun‑kissed, clearly enjoying their vacation—turned toward you with amused smiles. They had that look people get when they stumble into entertainment they didn’t pay for.

“Are you two always like this?” the woman asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even a breath.

“Yes.”

You cut in immediately, shaking your head. “No.”

That earned you a side glance from him, sharp and quick, like he couldn’t believe you’d contradict him in public.

The couple laughed, clearly delighted.

“You’re on your honeymoon, right?” the man asked.

Silence.

A very suspicious silence.

Lando nodded slowly, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. “Unfortunately.”

You kicked his foot under the seat, not gently.

The man looked between you both, still smiling, clearly enjoying the chaos you and Lando brought with you like it was part of the entertainment package. The boat rocked gently beneath you, warm wind brushing your face, but the question he asked cut straight through the easy atmosphere.

“So… why did you get married then?”

It hit a little too directly. A little too cleanly. You didn’t even think before answering.

“Because he’s rich.”

Lando’s head snapped toward you so fast you genuinely thought he might fall off the boat. His eyes were wide, offended, and a little betrayed.

“What?”

The couple laughed, assuming it was a joke—because of course they did. No one sane would say that seriously on a honeymoon boat.

You waved your hand quickly, trying to soften it. “I’m joking.”

“Mostly,” Lando muttered under his breath.

You elbowed him, but the couple didn’t seem to notice. They were still smiling, still entertained, still convinced they were witnessing some adorable newlywed banter instead of two people barely holding their fake marriage together.

“Fair enough,” the man said with a shrug, still amused. Then he leaned forward Lando slightly, curiosity bright in his eyes. “So what do you do, then?”

Your eye twitched at the word husband. It felt too heavy, too sharp, too wrong in your ears.

Lando answered before you could even inhale.

“I drive.”

The man blinked. “Like… cars?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat—a tiny pause where the man’s face went blank, like his brain was flipping through a mental Rolodex. Then his eyes lit up all at once.

“Oh! Formula 1?”

Lando nodded once, calm on the outside, but you saw the tiny shift in his shoulders. The man’s expression changed instantly, excitement blooming across his face like someone had just handed him front‑row tickets to something huge.

“No way—Lando Norris? My brother is a huge fan! He never shuts up about you.”

Lando froze for the briefest second. It was small, barely there, but you noticed. Of course you noticed. You always noticed the little things he tried to hide.

“Oh,” the man continued, grinning even wider now, “I didn’t know you were married, mate.”

The silence that followed could’ve sunk the boat. It stretched between you and Lando like a rope pulled too tight. You both turned to look at each other at the exact same time, eyes locking in a silent, panicked conversation neither of you wanted to have out loud.

Then, without missing a beat, Lando smiled.

“It was a small wedding, y’know. Kept it private. I like keeping some things to myself.”

The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly it was almost concerning. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t hesitate. He just… said it. 

The man nodded approvingly, buying every word, then turned to you with a warm smile.

“Well, you’re lucky. Having a world champion at home.”

Pardon?

Absolutely not.

You smiled sweetly, matching his tone with practiced ease. “He’s the lucky one.”

Lando glanced at you, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, amusement, maybe a hint of something softer—but you didn’t give him time to process it.

“He’d be hopeless without me,” you added, completely unfazed.

“Oh, absolutely,” Lando replied, his grin returning, though it was a little tighter this time. “I’d forget where I left my trophies.”

The couple laughed, delighted, convinced they were witnessing a charming, playful honeymoon moment.

They had no idea you were both lying through your teeth.

Five minutes later, another problem appeared—one that had nothing to do with fake marriages or curious strangers. The snorkeling mask refused to cooperate. You adjusted the strap once, then again, then a third time, each attempt somehow making it sit even more crooked against your face. The elastic kept slipping, the plastic pressed awkwardly against your cheek, and the whole thing felt like it had been designed specifically to test your patience.

“For God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap like it had personally wronged you.

Lando looked over from where he was already wearing his own gear, mask perfectly fitted, snorkel in place, looking like someone who had never struggled with anything in his life. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to make this stupid thing fit,” you snapped, still wrestling with it.

He watched you for a few seconds—long enough to be annoying, long enough to make you feel judged—before letting out an exaggerated sigh that carried across the entire boat. “C’mere.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Clearly.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the ocean breeze. “I said I can do it myself.”

“Just come here,” he said, already holding out his hand like he’d made the decision for you. “I want to look like a decent husband while I’m apparently married. The last thing I need is gossip pages saying I abandoned my wife before she even got in the water.”

“How embarrassing,” you muttered, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

He ignored the comment completely. Instead, he reached out, gently catching your wrist with warm fingers, pulling you the last step closer before you could protest again. The movement was soft, almost careful, and your argument died somewhere in your throat before you could shape it into words.

He reached behind your head with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed he knew what he was doing. His fingers brushed your hair as he tried to fix the loose strap, and within two seconds you felt a sharp tug at your scalp.

“Ow! Stop pulling my hair!”

“I’m not pulling your hair,” Lando said immediately, like the accusation offended him on a personal level.

“You are pulling my hair!”

“Then stop moving!”

“I’m not moving!”

“You’re literally flinching.”

“Because you’re yanking it!”

A couple of snorkelers nearby glanced over, clearly wondering if they needed to intervene. You forced a bright, strained smile, teeth clenched so tightly it almost hurt.

“Everything’s fine,” you said, voice pitched a little too high. “Totally fine.”

Lando didn’t even look up. He was still tangled in the straps, still muttering under his breath like you were the problem and not his complete lack of technique.

“It is not fine,” he grumbled. “You have the coordination of a broken GPS.”

You stared at him, offended on a spiritual level. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He tugged again.

“Ow—Lando!”

“Relax, I’m fixing it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Yes, you are.”

He paused, leaning back just enough to look at the mask like it was a failed engineering project he’d been assigned against his will. His brows pulled together, his mouth flattening into a line that told you he was already blaming you for whatever he saw.

“…Okay, I see the problem.”

“You are the problem.”

He ignored that completely, like he’d trained himself not to hear your insults anymore. Instead, he shifted closer again, this time slower, more careful, his fingers brushing your hair aside so he could get to the strap properly. The boat rocked gently beneath you, and for a moment the world felt strangely quiet—just the warm air, the soft slap of water against the hull, and his hands working behind your head.

“Stop moving,” he said again, but his voice was quieter now, less irritated and more focused, like he was trying not to mess it up this time.

You went still.

Not because he told you to.

Definitely not.

It was just easier than arguing while he was this close, while his fingers were sorting through your hair with surprising gentleness, while the sun warmed the back of your neck and made everything feel a little too noticeable.

After a few seconds of concentrated effort—the kind where he muttered something under his breath that you pretended not to hear—he tightened the strap properly and stepped back, letting his hands fall away.

“There,” he said, sounding far too proud of himself.

You tested the mask with a small tug.

It didn’t move. Not even a little.

“…Huh.”

“Yeah,” he said, smugness blooming across his face like he’d just solved world peace. “Miracles do happen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned, bright and unbothered, the wind catching his hair as the boat rocked again.

“No promises, wife.”

The boat slowed to a stop, the engine cutting out until all you could hear was the soft slap of waves against the hull. It rocked gently over the open water, turquoise stretching in every direction, sunlight so bright it turned everything into glitter. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic. It should have been the kind of moment people remembered forever.

But you were here with Lando.

A guide stepped forward with an easy smile, gesturing toward the water. “Alright everyone, this is one of the best spots. Coral reef just below, lots of fish. Stay in pairs, enjoy yourselves, and don’t wander too far.”

“Stay in pairs,” Lando repeated under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Heard him, wife?”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

But he was already smirking, already enjoying himself far too much for someone who’d spent the entire morning annoying you.

Before either of you could argue, the guide clapped his hands. “Okay—snorkeling time!”

You turned to adjust your mask one last time, fingers brushing the strap—

And Lando shoved you. Hard.

There was no time to react. No time to yell properly. Just a sharp gasp and the sudden, shocking drop as the world tilted.

You hit the water with a splash that swallowed the sound instantly. Cold, bright blue wrapped around you, rushing over your head, filling your ears, stealing your breath for a moment. The ocean felt huge, endless, everywhere at once.

You resurfaced seconds later, coughing, hair plastered to your face, mask askew.

“Lando—!”

He was already in the water beside you, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. The sun caught the droplets on his face, turning him into something annoyingly golden and carefree.

“You were taking too long,” he said, still grinning.

“I hate you!” you yelled, already swimming toward him with more force than necessary.

He only laughed harder, kicking away just enough to stay out of reach, the water rippling between you.

You made it exactly two strokes before something brushed your foot again. It was light, barely there, just a soft flick against your skin—but it didn’t matter. Your entire body locked up instantly, every muscle going stiff like you’d been hit with electricity.

“Nope—nope—nope—” you sputtered, kicking upward in pure panic.

“Relax,” Lando called, still laughing, still floating like this was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s just fish.”

“I don’t care what it is!”

Another brush—this time against your ankle, quick and cold.

That was it.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. You didn’t even breathe. You just launched yourself forward on instinct, arms flailing, legs kicking, heart pounding so loudly you could hear it in your ears—

—and you basically jumped straight into his arms.

Lando caught you automatically, the impact pushing him backward a little in the water. His hands came up around you without hesitation, steadying you, holding you up as you clung to him like the ocean was trying to drag you under.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stood there in the water, arms half‑raised, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure what version of reality he’d just stepped into.

Then he looked down at you.

“…Are you hugging me right now?”

“No.”

“You are literally attached to me.”

“I am stabilising myself.”

“Against my chest?”

“Shut up!”

His laugh came immediately—bright, loud, helpless—the kind that shook his shoulders and made the water ripple around you. He tilted his head back, still laughing, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

And even though your heart was still racing, even though your legs were still wrapped around him more than you wanted to admit, even though you were absolutely not letting go yet…

You felt something warm slip into your chest.

Something you refused to name.

────────────

By the time the snorkeling trip ended, you had decided—very calmly, very rationally—that you deserved a drink. Preferably several. The kind that came in tall glasses with too much ice and not enough sense. The resort bar overlooked the ocean, the sky turning soft shades of gold and pink as the sun dipped lower. Music drifted through the warm evening air, blending with the sound of waves and the low hum of guests laughing around candlelit tables.

Lando stood a few steps away, somehow already deep in conversation with his new friend from the boat. They were talking with their hands, laughing too loudly, probably bonding over Formula 1 or golf or whatever else inflated his ego. You didn’t care enough to find out. You just wanted something cold, something strong, something that would make the memory of fish touching your legs fade into the background.

You leaned against the counter and ordered the strongest cocktail on the menu. The bartender slid it toward you with a practiced smile, the glass sweating in the warm air. You wrapped your fingers around it, grateful for the chill, ready to take the first blessed sip—

When a voice spoke from beside you.

“Try smiling a little.”

You turned your head slowly, already tired, already annoyed. A man stood there, a few years older, wearing a shirt that tried too hard and a smile that tried even harder. He looked at you like he’d just delivered the most charming line in the world, like he expected you to melt on the spot.

You looked at him. Then at your drink. Then back at him.

“Try minding your own business a little.”

“I’m just being friendly.”

“Then be friendly somewhere else.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh men use when they think you’re playing hard to get instead of trying to end the conversation. His elbow slid onto the bar, his posture loose, confident, practiced.

“That attitude won’t get you very far.”

“I’m already exactly where I want to be,” you said, lifting your drink like a shield.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning in just a little. “You look lonely.”

You opened your mouth—ready to shut him down properly this time—when a warm hand settled lightly on your waist.

Not gripping.

Not pulling.

Just… there.

“Everything okay, baby?”

Lando.

You turned so fast you nearly sloshed your drink over the rim. For what might have been the first time since this entire ridiculous honeymoon began, you felt something close to relief wash through you. His presence cut through the moment like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

The stranger blinked, looking between the two of you, confusion flickering across his face.

“And you are…?”

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even for a breath.

“Her husband.”

He said it smoothly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand stayed on your waist, warm and steady. The stranger’s expression shifted, surprise tightening his mouth before he stepped back a little.

“Oh,” the man said after a moment, blinking like he’d just been handed information he didn’t know what to do with. “Didn’t know she was married.”

Lando offered a small, polite smile—the kind he used in interviews when he was pretending to be patient.

“She is.”

The conversation should have ended there. It should have drifted off into the warm evening air and disappeared like every other awkward bar interaction on vacation.

Instead, the man chuckled and looked right back at you, like he hadn’t learned a single thing.

“You should teach her some basic manners, man.”

The easy smile vanished from Lando’s face so fast it was almost impressive.

“What?”

The stranger shrugged, casual, careless, like he was commenting on the weather. “She’s got quite the attitude.”

“And so what?” Lando shot back, voice sharper now. “She doesn’t owe you a shit.”

The man lifted a brow. “Doesn’t mean she can act like a bi—”

“Hey!” Lando stepped forward so quickly the man actually leaned back. “Don’t talk about my wife like that or I’ll beat the shit out of—”

He was too close now. Way too close. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be an act. You didn’t even know if he was pretending anymore.

“Lando,” you said quietly, reaching for his wrist. Your fingers brushed his skin, warm and tense. “Drop it.”

He didn’t look at you right away. He stayed there for a heartbeat longer, breathing hard, anger still simmering under the surface.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

Not because the man deserved it. But because you asked. The irony wasn’t lost on you—the one time he actually acted like a husband was the moment you needed him to stop.

“You okay?” Lando asked.

You blinked, because the question caught you more off guard than the argument ever had. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the way he said them, low and tight, like he’d been holding them in since the moment he stepped between you and that guy at the bar.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I had it handled.”

Lando let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t even come close. “Yeah. I could tell. You were doing a great job being harassed at the bar.”

Your jaw tightened, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t need you to save me like that.”

“Right,” he said, nodding once, sharp and clipped. “So next time I should just stand there and let him keep going?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“I didn’t ask you to play my husband.”

That one landed differently—you felt it the second it left your mouth. Lando went quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t defensive or angry, just… wounded. He exhaled through his nose, looking away toward the ocean like he needed a second to reset whatever expression had almost slipped through.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Fair.”

You took a sip of your drink, more out of habit than thirst, trying to steady yourself, trying to find the right words before the wrong ones kept spilling out.

“I can handle myself,” you added, quieter now, softer, because you meant it but you didn’t want it to sound like a wall.

“I know you can,” he replied immediately.

That made you pause.

He looked back at you then, the sharpness in his expression easing just enough that you could finally see the truth sitting underneath it—not anger, not irritation, but something quieter. 

“I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” Lando said, voice low, steady, almost too honest.

You scoffed lightly, because that felt safer than acknowledging whatever was happening in your chest.

“Since when do you care?”

That earned you a small, humorless smile—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, the kind that told you he’d already had this argument with himself long before you opened your mouth.

“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”

A beat.

“But he was being a dick.”

You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t as strong as you wanted it to be. It felt flimsy, thin, like you were trying to hold onto a version of the conversation that had already slipped away.

“And you decided that made you responsible for the entire situation?”

“I decided,” he corrected, leaning back slightly, shoulders tense, “that I didn’t want him standing there talking to you like that.”

You studied him for a second—the set of his jaw, the way he kept glancing at the ocean like it might give him an escape route, the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stilled them. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t trying to win. He was just… telling you the truth.

“Still didn’t need to act like that,” you said, quieter now.

“Neither did he.”

Another pause—heavier this time, stretched thin between you like a wire ready to snap.

Then Lando tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looked at you.

“You’re really going to stay mad at me for this?”

The question wasn’t defensive.

It was something else entirely—something that made your breath catch, because suddenly it felt like he wasn’t asking about the bar anymore.

He was asking about him. About you. About whatever the hell had been simmering between you long before tonight.

You opened your mouth again, still riding the leftover adrenaline from stopping him.

“I just think you don’t get to—”

“Shut up.”

You stopped. Blinking. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up.”

“I’m literally in the middle of talking.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, stepping a fraction closer, eyes locked on yours, “I noticed.”

You frowned, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t tell me to—”

He cut you off. Not with words.

He just kissed you.

Quick. Firm. Completely unexpected. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t planned, and it definitely wasn’t something either of you had agreed to in any universe where you were still pretending to hate each other properly. It hit you like a spark—sharp, bright, over before you could even process it.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Then he pulled back like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just short‑circuited your entire brain.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then, very calmly, he said, “I said shut up.”

Your brain lagged, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the moment, the heat still buzzing on your lips.

“…Norris, what the fuck?”

He didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell once, slow, steady, like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t affected at all.

But his eyes told a different story.

A very different one.

Lando didn’t even blink. “What?”

“You just—” you gestured wildly between the two of you, your voice climbing without your permission. “You just kissed me.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Yeah’?” you repeated, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

He frowned slightly, like you were the one being dramatic. Like you were the unreasonable one here.

“You were overthinking it,” he said, tone maddeningly calm. “Overthinking’s bad for you, baby.”

That made you pause. You hated that it made you pause. You hated the way the word baby slid under your skin like it belonged there.

“…Right,” you said slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you can just kiss me.”

“Pretty sure I can,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms, trying to rebuild whatever dignity you had left.

“Hm. Don’t think this means anything though.”

“I would never,” Lando said immediately.

Too immediately.

The kind of immediate that wasn’t casual at all. The kind that sounded like he’d rehearsed it. The kind that made something warm twist low in your stomach.

You studied him, searching his face for even a flicker of something he didn’t want you to see.

He held your gaze without flinching, jaw set, eyes steady, like he was daring you to call him out. “…Good,” you said finally, lifting your chin. “Because it doesn’t.”

“Of course not.”

His voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. And the worst part? You weren’t convinced either.

────────────

The villa was suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that made every thought in your head sound louder. You sat on the edge of the outdoor couch with your legs pulled in, staring out at the dark water. The waves moved in slow, steady lines, catching bits of moonlight and breaking them apart. It should have been calming.

It wasn’t. You were trying not to think. Which, of course, only made you think more.

About Lando. About the kiss. About the way he’d looked afterward—too calm, too steady, like he hadn’t just scrambled your ability to act normal around him. About how everything had been… different since then. Not worse. Not better. Just different in a way neither of you had dared to name.

And about how today was the last day. The last night of this ridiculous honeymoon.

Behind you, the sliding door opened.

You didn’t turn. “Go away,” you mumbled.

“I live here too,” Lando said, dropping onto the couch beside you. He didn’t look at you. He just stared out at the ocean like he’d been doing it long before he walked outside.

Silence stretched between you, warm and heavy.

Then, after a minute—

“Well.”

“Well,” Lando echoed.

You exhaled slowly, eyes still on the water. “At least tomorrow we can go back to normal.”

He finally glanced at you. “Normal?”

“You know,” you said, still refusing to look at him. “You hating me. Me hating you.”

“Right.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

And the worst part? Neither did you.

The breeze moved through the villa again, soft and warm, brushing over your skin like it knew something you didn’t want to admit. Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement, not enough to call it anything.

Normal. You said it like you wanted it. But the word didn’t sit right anymore.

The silence fell again, stretching out between you like a thin thread. But this time, Lando was the one who spoke first.

“This trip wasn’t that bad.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Hm.” You looked back at the water, the moonlight breaking across the waves. “At least we survived.”

A beat.

“Now we’ll just go back to avoiding each other like before.”

“Yeah,” Lando said.

Then, after a pause that felt a little too long—

“Yeah,” he repeated, quieter. “That’s the problem.”

You finally turned your head. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the horizon like he didn’t trust himself to look at you. The warm breeze moved through the villa, brushing over your skin, but it didn’t soften the moment. It only made it clearer.

For the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Or if he meant it.

And the way he sat there—shoulders tense, hands still, breath a little uneven—made something in your chest shift in a way you weren’t ready for.

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat.

“…Lando?”

He didn’t look away from the ocean. But his voice was low, honest in a way that made your heart stutter.

“I don’t want to go back to that.”

You looked at him, confused.

“What?”

Lando kept staring out at the water. And for the first time since you’d known him, he looked nervous. Actually nervous. His shoulders were tight, his jaw working like he was trying to choose the right words and failing.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he said quietly.

“I noticed.”

“I thought it’d be the worst week of my life.”

You smiled faintly. “Again, noticed.”

A small laugh escaped him—soft, almost embarrassed.

Then—

“But somewhere between you nearly killing me with a golf cart…”

“You grabbed my thigh.”

“Not helping.”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter despite yourself. “Continue.”

Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

A beat passed—warm, heavy, stretching between you like a held breath.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

“It stopped being annoying.”

Your smile faded a little. “…When?”

Lando shrugged, like the answer wasn’t important even though it clearly was. “Dunno.”

Silence settled again. The ocean kept moving, steady and calm, like it didn’t care that something between you had just shifted in a way you couldn’t undo.

Then he finally looked at you. Really looked.

“And now I don’t really want it to end. Us.”

Your breath caught—just a tiny, sharp inhale—but you masked it quickly with a scoff, like you could pretend the moment wasn’t sitting between you, warm and terrifying.

“Somewhere between pushing you into the ocean and kissing you to shut you up…” Lando said, his voice quieter now, steadier in a way that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or that stupid confidence he wore like armor. He was just looking at you—really looking—and it stripped away every layer of distance you’d been pretending still existed.

“I think I fell in love with you.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, your brain simply refused to cooperate. The words sat there in the air, warm and heavy, like a language you almost understood but couldn’t quite translate. You blinked once. Then again. Your heart thudded in your chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to catch up to something your mind hadn’t processed yet.

“…That’s actually really embarrassing for you,” you managed, because your mouth was apparently determined to save you from sincerity at all costs.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t roll his eyes or shove your shoulder or call you dramatic. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said that. Like you’d knocked the air out of him.

“Are you serious?” he asked, voice flat, almost stunned.

“A little.”

“I just told you I love you.”

“I know.”

“And that’s your response?”

You exhaled softly, something nervous and warm and terrifying settling in your chest all at once. You felt it rise up, felt it push against your ribs, felt it spill into your throat before you could stop it. And then your mouth betrayed you—not with sarcasm this time, but with a smile.

A real one. A soft one.

The kind you didn’t give to people you hated.

“Good thing I love you too.”

The words left you before you could second‑guess them, before you could hide them behind a joke, before you could pretend you didn’t mean them. They hung there between you, gentle and impossible to take back.

Lando’s breath caught—just barely, just enough for you to notice. His eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders loosening like he’d been holding something in for days.

Lando didn’t move for a second.

Just stared.

Like he was waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. Like he was bracing for you to laugh or shove him or turn everything into a joke the way you always did when things got too close.

Then, quietly—

“…What?”

You let out a breath, half‑laughing, half in disbelief at yourself, because you couldn’t believe you were actually saying this out loud. “I said I love you, idiot.”

His expression shifted immediately. The shock didn’t disappear, but it softened into something raw, something unguarded, something he clearly wasn’t used to showing anyone. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right.

“You can’t just say that like it’s—”

“What? A prank?” you cut in, shaking your head. “No. Unfortunately for both of us, it’s real.”

Silence again.

The ocean kept moving. The wind didn’t care. The whole world stayed exactly the same while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. You looked down at your hands, then back at him, because avoiding his eyes wasn’t helping.

“You were pissing me off the entire trip,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

That got a faint, incredulous laugh out of him—the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. “Cheers.”

“It’s true,” you said quickly, pointing at him like it helped your argument. “You were annoying. Arrogant. You shoved me into the ocean. You called me a violent wife.”

“I was right about that one.”

“Shut up.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It wavered slightly, like the truth underneath it was pushing its way through.

“And I really did hate you at the beginning,” you added, quieter now. “Like, properly.”

Lando’s gaze didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

“But?”

You hesitated.

That part was the hardest one. The part that felt like stepping off a ledge and hoping he’d catch you.

“But…” you exhaled, looking away toward the water like it might make this easier. “I think it started changing when you defended me at the bar.”

He went still.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap, the memory hitting you harder now that you were saying it out loud.

“That guy was being an asshole,” you continued, your voice softer, steadier. “And I was handling it, or trying to. And you just… stepped in.”

A small pause.

“And I remember thinking you were so angry,” you said, almost like you were discovering it again. “Like actually angry. Not joking, not teasing. Just… protective.”

You glanced at him again.

“That confused me more than anything you did on this entire trip.”

A faint breath left Lando, like he didn’t know what to do with that. His shoulders dropped a little, the tension easing in a way that made him look younger, more open, more real.

Then he finally spoke.

“I just hated the idea of somebody talking to you like that.”

His voice was quieter than before. Not defensive. Not playful. Just honest in a way that made your chest tighten.

A beat passed.

He gave a small shrug, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.

“I don’t know,” he added. “It pissed me off.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It didn’t feel sharp or heavy or awkward. It was just… full. Like something had finally settled into place between you, something neither of you could pretend wasn’t there anymore. The air felt warmer. The night felt closer. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the moment to break.

You swallowed slightly, still looking at him, still trying to understand the way your chest felt too tight and too light at the same time. “…Thank you,” you said quietly.

Lando gave you a small, almost confused glance, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “For what?”

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something else. “For… all of it, I guess.”

That earned you a look from him you weren’t used to—soft, steady, not trying to twist into a joke. He didn’t hide behind anything this time. He just looked at you like he was letting himself be seen.

Then he shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

You blinked, watching as he pulled out a small silver chain. A turtle necklace. The same one you’d stared at in the shop. The same one you’d pretended you didn’t want.

Your breath caught. “…You bought it?” you asked, taking it carefully from his hand.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You said it was cute.”

“But it was so expensive!”

“And?” he said simply, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Do I look like I care?”

Your fingers closed gently around the necklace, holding it like it might slip away if you weren’t careful. The charm felt warm against your skin, like it had been waiting in his pocket for this exact moment.

“…You didn’t have to,” you said again, quieter now, the words almost slipping out on their own.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

“But I wanted to.”

That was it. No joke. No smirk. No dramatic line to cover the truth. Just him. Just honesty. Just the kind of softness you never expected from him and didn’t know how to handle.

You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to—long enough to feel something shift in your chest, long enough to feel your breath catch again.

Then you moved before your brain could talk you out of it.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss was softer this time. Not rushed. Not defensive. Not a reaction to anything. Just real. Just warm. Just the two of you finally letting something happen that had been building all week. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle in a way that made your heart stutter, and for a moment the whole villa felt still.

When you pulled back, you were both slightly breathless, and for once neither of you pretended it meant nothing. You stayed close, your forehead almost touching his, your breath mixing with his in the warm night air.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words brushing against his lips.

Lando let out a quiet breath of a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. Then, after a beat—one that felt like it stretched forever—he added, “I love you.”

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stared at him, like you were making sure you hadn’t imagined it, like you needed to see the truth in his eyes before you let yourself believe it.

Then your mouth softened into a small smile, warm and helpless. “…You’re so annoying,” you murmured.

He frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

You exhaled, still smiling, still feeling that strange, steady warmth spreading through your chest. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—completely sure this time: “I love you too.”

And this time, neither of you joked your way out of it. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you pretended it didn’t matter. It mattered. And you both knew it.

© verstarris 2026

babsie radio ! had so many problems while editing this 🫩 I hit the damn 1000-block limit way too soon!!! I literally wanted to write one more last scene where they come back and P and Max are so confused because they don’t hate each other anymore 😩 I’m so annoyed! I might write a short oneshot of that if you guys want. I hope you enjoy this! This story is so dear to me <3 first fic of summer 2026! 💗

yourusername

yourusername officially his 💐🧡 (first date kinda nervy !!)

♥️ liked by landonorris , maxfewtrell and 16,900 others

landonorris 🧡🧡 ♥️ liked by author

maxfewtrell when did this happen ?? landonorris why didn't you tell me?!?!? ⤷ ninaaaa.rs I knew before you LOLOLOLOL ⤷ landonorris sorry mate 🤷‍♂️

user9 oh my god they are my parents now!

user10 I love this omg

alexalbon he's so down bad it's humbling for him, honestly ♥️ liked by author

user11 they are both glowing!!

ninaaaa.rs can't believe my wife has been stolen from me. wtv. ⤷ yourusername forgive me babe, you'll always be my number one xx

user12 I hate seeing two pretty people happy and in love 😒 (just jokes congrats!)

georgerussell congrats landonorris for finally building up the courage, only took you three years! ⤷ yourusername landonorris do you want to tell him or should I? ⤷ landonorris actually george she asked me out. ⤷ georgerussell I KNEW YOU DIDN'T HAVE IT IN YOU. HA!

user13 can't wait to see them on the grid together 😝

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landonorris

landonorris recent snaps on the digi 📸🎞️ prep for aus coming 🔜

♥️ liked by ninaaaa.rs , alexalbon and 31,600 others

user14 oh your honour they are DEEPLY in love

maxfewtrell alright pack it up. the pda is overwhelming ⤷ yourusername god forbid a girl likes her man 🙄 ♥️ liked by author ⤷ landonorris you're just jealous of us!

mclaren we love to see it 🧡

yourusername couldn't ask for anyone better 🧡 ♥️ liked by author

user15 are they potentially looking for a third?

user16 I know that other girl who said they were a couple a few weeks ago is thriving rn

ninaaaa.rs can you at least tell her to message me back. I miss my wife ⤷ yourusername i'm literally sitting next to you rn...?

user17 hottest f1 couple ever? ⤷ user18 you clearly don't know about this niche couple in 2016. brocedes?

georgerussell yourusername I hope you know he constantly spams our gc saying how he can't believe he gets to be with you. its disgusting. ⤷ landonorris SHUT UUUPPPPP ⤷ alexalbon I can second this. I have to mute it sometimes ⤷ yourusername AWWWWW BABY ⤷ user19 not the rookies calling him out 😭

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one week later...

landonorris

landonorris round one, australia. let's do it mclaren 👊

♥️ liked by mclaren , georgerussell and 37,400 others

user20 no y/n? uh oh ⤷ user21 not in the likes or comments... I fear they are over ⤷ user22 we got one good summer with them at least 😔 ⤷ user23 guys chill im sure shes just busy

mclaren going to kill it mate 🏆 ♥️ liked by author

alexalbon 🏎️ ♥️ liked by author ⤷ user24 TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW

user25 I know the tea is piping hot someone pls spill

maxfewtrell long time coming mate! lots to be proud of! ♥️ liked by author

yourusername so proud 🧡 ⤷ user26 he hasn't interacted with her... guys its so over ⤷ user27 right like where is his silly comment in reply 💔

user28 GUYS CHECK DEUXMOI'S NEWEST POST

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deuxmoi

deuxmoi 🚨 EXCLUSIVE: YOUNG F1 COUPLE SPLITS BEFORE THE SEASON BEGINS. Rumours of rookie Lando Norris and childhood best friend Y/N breaking up have been rampant on social media after the two have stopped interacting online. One blind item reads: "Young F1 rookie has gone no contact with girlfriend after she cheated on him. The Brit refuses to acknowledge what happened, even to friends." This is all alleged information. For the full story, click the link in our bio. 🔗

♥️ liked by carlossainz , user29 and 10,100 others

user30 no way would she cheat on him I don't believe this!!

user31 my close personal friend y/n would never wdym 💔

user32 carlos in the likes ohhhhh they are MESSY

user33 they were literally so in love how could they have broken up ⤷ user34 did you miss the part where she cheated?? ⤷ user35 ALLEGEDLY. not confirmed

user36 I knew something was off about her. he's better off without her anyway. ⤷ user37 pack it up lil bro he doesn't want you LMAO

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from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: Lando Norris [email protected] subject: reply to me.

I told you I would email you.

You probably won't even read this (Hi Melissa!). If you do, please, just reply Lando. I'll try my best to put it into words for you, but I just wish we could talk face to face.

When your dad reached out to me originally, I thought it would be harmless, just a means to an end for me to have a car. I figured it would be innocent, not much more than how our relationship already was. I realise now how completely wrong I was, and how much of an idiot I am. You didn't deserve to be lied to.

I know what I did was wrong, but I hope you can find it in you to forgive me. I don't expect anything from you.

But, please, you have to know that I never lied about my feelings, not once.

I love you Lando.

Please give me the chance to make it up to you.

Yours, Forever and Always,

Y/N L/N

from: Lando Norris [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: No Subject.

Hi Y/N, Melissa here.

He read it.

He isn't ready to admit it, but he wants to see you. He won't reach out first.

There is a sponsor event at Mclaren HQ (the MTC in Woking), tomorrow evening. It starts at 7.

Don't mess this up.

Signed,

Lando Norris (Melissa).

f1wags.gossip

f1wags.gossip BREAKING! rookie Mclaren star Lando Norris and long time friend / girlfriend Y/N L/N spotted talking outside the MTC during a sponsor event hosted by the British team. are the two in hot water, troubled by the beginning of the season?? no photos were taken out of privacy for them, but multiple sources claim the driver was shocked to see her there. (photos sourced from both of their instagrams.)

yourusername landonorris #f1 #wag #controversy

♥️ liked by user37 , user38 and 7,900 others

user39 tagging them is MESSYYYY

user40 i'm glad no one took photos, they at least had a shred of privacy

user41 carlos isn't in the likes this time... hmmmmm ⤷ user42 im sure he has better things to be doing than perusing wag gossip pages 😭

user43 not at the mtc!! I wonder was the sponsors think of them ⤷ user44 right!! like is the team principal mad rn ⤷ user45 im sure someone in there is fuming

user46 my parents! at least they are in public together again 💔 ⤷ user47 yeah I don't think lando had a choice lololol

user48 they are so bad for each other. he needs to focus on his career.

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landonorris and yourusername

landonorris proud to have you by my side. onwards and upwards 💪🏆

♥️ liked by maxfewtrell , yourusername and 48,600 others

yourusername so proud to rep you, baby 🧡 ⤷ landonorris you look good with norris written on your back x ⤷ user49 don't take this out of context

user50 STILL TOGETHER CONFIRMED YAYAYAYA

maxfewtrell photo creds pls! ⤷ alexalbon me too 🙋‍♂️ ⤷ georgerussell me three 🙋‍♂️ ⤷ ninaaaa.rs me four 🙋‍♀️ ⤷ user51 damn they got MULTIPLE personal photographers. my dream

mclaren best couple around! 🧡 ♥️ liked by author

user52 what a time to be alive

user53 2019 rookies are peak imo !!

user54 them squashing any rumours>>>>> ⤷ user55 I knew my girl wasn't a cheater!! ♥️ liked by author ⤷ user56 oh this double confirms lfg!!

Your hair was messy, falling across your cheek. Your feet were tucked under his thigh for warmth. You were wearing those ridiculous holiday pajama pants covered in tiny Christmas trees despite the fact that it was April because you claimed they were your comfiest pair.

Max had smiled when you came out wearing them.

He was still smiling now. It was such a small thing, so ordinary, and so painfully normal that it shouldn’t have meant anything at all and yet as he looked at you curled against him, your breathing soft and even, your hand resting loosely on his stomach like even in sleep some part of you can’t be apart from him. The thought came before he could stop it.

I could do this forever.

It settled inside him with a strange kind of weight. Max had never been the sort of man who dreamed about weddings. He had spent his entire life chasing speed, control, precision. His future had always been measured in lap times and contracts, in championships and calendars, in the next race, the next season, the next thing he needed to prove.

Marriage had been something distant and abstract, something other people thought about. Something that might happen one day, maybe, if life ever slowed down enough for him to consider it, but with you asleep in his arms, in Christmas pajamas in the middle of spring, mumbling something unintelligible when you shifted closer, it did not feel distant anymore.

It felt terrifyingly close.

His throat tightened.

Max Verstappen was also not afraid of much. He’d spent his whole life staring fear down at three hundred kilometres an hour, daring it to blink first, he knew pressure and he certainly knew risk. He knew what it was to carry expectation so heavy it could crush someone weaker, but this was different. This was not fear of losing a race. This was fear of wanting something so badly that losing it would break him.

You sighed softly in your sleep, your fingers twitching against him.

“Max,” you murmured, barely audible.

He froze.

Then, slowly, his arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he whispered, though you were not awake to hear him. He pressed his lips to the top of your head and stared at the TV.

Yeah.

He could do this forever.

The second time the thought came it was less gentle. It was a random Tuesday evening, the kind neither of you would ever remember for any obvious reason. There was no race or event to attend, a quiet weekend just the two of you in his kitchen, music playing quietly in the background and Max stubbornly insisting he actually could cook.

He could not.

That much became clear twenty minutes later when something in the pan began sticking in a way that looked permanently damaging. You stood beside him, arms crossed, watching with open delight as he attempted to scrape whatever he had made from the bottom.

“Max.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s smoking.”

“It’s not smoking.”

“Well it literally is smoking.”

He glanced down at the pan, then back at you. “A little bit.”

You burst out laughing and took the spatula from his hand before he could make it worse. “You're actually useless,” you teased, nudging him aside with your hip. “How do you drive an F1 car but can’t flip a pancake?”

Max leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “The car does not stick to the pan.”

You scraped at the burnt mess, shaking your head. “You’re lucky you’re good at other things.”

He smirked immediately. “Like what?”

You glanced at him, ready to tease him he could see it in your face, you were going to say something smug, something ridiculous, something designed purely to annoy him, but then you paused and your expression shifted. It softened in a way that caught him off guard, your smile fading into something quieter.

“You’re good at making people feel safe,” you said.

It's not what he expected.

Not even close. People had called him a lot of things throughout his life. Fast. Relentless. Arrogant. Aggressive. Brilliant. Difficult. Champion. They had analysed him, criticised him, praised him, turned him into a headline and a debate and a weapon depending on who was talking.

But safe?

That word had never belonged to him. At least he had never thought it did, but you said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like there was no doubt in your mind that when you thought of safety, you thought of him. His fingers twitched against the counter.

“You think that?” he asked, quieter than he meant to.

You looked back at the pan, suddenly shy, as if you had not expected the words to come out so sincerely.

“Yeah,” you said. “Of course I do.”

Of course.

Max didn’t know what to say so he said nothing. He just watched you rescue dinner from his failed attempt, still teasing him under your breath, still moving around his kitchen like you belonged in every corner of his life.

Later that night when you were curled beside him on the sofa, one hand absentmindedly tracing patterns across his arm while the television played in the background he pressed a kiss to your temple and lingered there longer than usual.

You hummed softly. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” he murmured.

But it wasn’t nothing, it was the first time he understood that loving you was not just about wanting you. It was about the version of himself he became around you. A man who could be gentle, who could be trusted and a man who could be someone’s safe place.

The third time there was no escaping it.

Austria had been awful.

The kind of race that left frustration burning under his skin long after he had climbed out of the car. A mechanical issue had thrown everything off instead of fighting where he should have been fighting he had spent the afternoon managing damage, swallowing anger, forcing himself through interviews while every question felt like salt in an open wound.

By the time he got back to the apartment he was exhausted, he was worn down, irritated, and in no mood to talk to anyone… but then there was you.

You were on the couch with a blanket over your legs, a cup of tea in your hands, the lamp beside you casting a warm glow across the room. You looked up when he came in and you didn’t flinch at the expression on his face, you didn’t rush toward him with pity and you didn’t launch into some rehearsed speech about how it was okay, how there would be other races, how he had done his best.

You just looked at him.

Knowingly.

Max sighed and dragged a hand over his face, and dropped onto the couch beside you. You set your mug down without a word and shifted closer, tucking yourself into his side, your fingers found his hair threading through loosely.

“Want to talk about it?” you asked.

He stared ahead. “Not really.”

“Okay.”

That was it. No need for him to explain the anger sitting heavy in his chest when he barely understood what to do with it himself. Max closed his eyes and you rested your head against his shoulder, thumb brushing slow, soothing lines over the back of his hand and in the quiet, with the city outside and the race behind him and you beside him it hit him so clearly that he almost couldn’t breathe.

This was forever love.

The kind of love that didn’t demand he become easier to handle before it stayed or the kind that sat beside him in the aftermath. The kind that knew when to speak and when to be quiet and the kind that made forever feel nothing like a trap and more like a promise.

Max turned his head slightly, looking at you. You were still watching the television pretending not to notice the way his emotions had shifted beside you.

I’m going to marry you he thought.

The certainty of it should have scared him.

The truth was it did scare him a little, but not enough to make him run from it.

You glanced up. “You okay?”

Max looked at you for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “More than.”

He bought the ring two weeks later.

That part should've been simple.

It was not.

Max spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at rings online, then decided online was useless because the photos all looked the same, then went to an actual jeweller and immediately regretted not bringing someone with him. His mother would have known what questions to ask. His sister would have told him if he was picking the wrong style. His friends would have been unbearable but probably helpful in the way people were when they were too nosy for their own good.

Instead Max stood in front of a glass display case, staring at diamonds while the jeweller patiently asked what style his partner liked.

Max opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then realised he knew everything and somehow nothing.

He knew how you took your tea. He knew which hoodie of his you stole most often. He knew the exact face you made when you were pretending not to be annoyed. He knew how you liked your toast, which side of the bed you slept on, the films you watched when you were sad, the songs you played when you were getting ready, the way your voice changed when you were trying not to laugh.

But ring style?

He could hear your voice in his head, teasing him.

You should know this Verstappen.

So he tried.

He looked at delicate ones. Bigger ones. Classic ones. Modern ones. Ones that looked too much. Ones that looked too plain. He frowned at every single option until the jeweller must have started to wonder whether he was trying to plan a robbery.

Then he saw it and all the noise stopped, it wasn’t the biggest ring in the shop or the flashiest, but it looked like you. Elegant, warm, unique, quietly impossible to look away from.

Max stared at it.

“That one,” he said.

The jeweller smiled. “Would you like to see it?”

Max nodded, but he already knew.

The moment the box was placed in his hand, the future became more real, not a thought on a sofa or a feeling in a kitchen or a promise made silently after a bad race.

A ring.

A question.

A life.

He kept it in his jacket pocket for three days before he worked up the courage to do anything with it and then, because he was Max and he had overthought it so much he decided he needed more information.

Which was how he ended up suggesting a shopping trip.

You stared at him from across the kitchen like he had announced he wanted to take up ballet.

“You want to go shopping?”

Max kept his expression neutral. “Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“On a weekend?”

“Yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you dying?”

He rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“No.”

“Are you about to do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then why are you willingly stepping into a mall?”

Max grabbed his car keys before you could interrogate him further. “I just think we should look around.”

“Look around?”

“See what’s new.”

“You want to see what's new?”

“Maybe get you something nice.”

Your suspicion deepened. “You're being very weird.”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“Are you coming or not?”

Of course you came, you were too curious not to.

Max tried to be subtle once you got there.

He was not good at being subtle. He steered you past clothing shops too quickly, pretended to be interested in shoes for approximately thirty seconds, and then somehow found himself pausing outside every jewellery store you passed, glancing at the displays like a man attempting espionage with no training.

You noticed. Still you played along at first, mostly because watching Max Verstappen attempt at casual behaviour was one of life’s greatest joys.

At the first jewellery store he stopped in front of a display of bracelets.

“These are nice,” he said, too stiffly.

You looked at him. “Are they?”

“Yes.”

“You wear the same three things every day.”

“For my mother,” he said quickly.

“Your mother.”

“Yes.”

“You’re buying your mother a bracelet?”

“Maybe.”

“Max, her birthday was months ago.”

“I can buy her things at other times.”

You hummed, looking back at the display. “That is true.”

He relaxed slightly.

Then ruined it immediately by saying, “What about rings?”

You almost laughed.

“Rings for your mother?”

He froze.

You watched the panic flicker across his face and had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“Maybe not for my mother,” he muttered. “Just generally.”

“Generally,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

You let him suffer for another few seconds before smiling sweetly. “Sure. We can look at rings generally.”

Max exhaled like he had just survived a near Q3 miss.

He asked what you liked and tried to sound indifferent. Failed. He asked whether certain shapes were nice. Whether yellow gold was better than white gold. Whether you thought some rings were too much or too simple, at one point he even made you try one on, claiming he was just curious how it looked on a hand.

“A hand,” you said.

“Yes.”

“Any hand?”

His jaw tightened. “Just try the ring.”

So you did and the second it slid onto your finger something changed in his face. His eyes softened, his mouth parting slightly as if the sight had knocked the words out of him. For a moment he forgot to pretend this was casual. Forgot the shop and the weak excuses, the ridiculous cover story about hypothetical jewellery.

He just looked at your hand.

At the ring.

At you.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

Then he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Looks fine,” he said.

Fine.

You nearly kicked him.

By the time you stopped for coffee, Max was tense enough that you were starting to wonder whether he might propose in the middle of the café out of sheer panic.

Instead he got distracted by at a football merch store opposite and wandered over to look at something in the window after leaving his jacket draped over the back of the chair beside you.

His phone buzzed in the pocket. You glanced at it instinctively, more to stop it vibrating off the chair than anything else. You reached for the jacket intending to push it more securely onto the seat. That was when the small velvet box slipped from the pocket and landed in your lap.

For a second you didn’t move.

You stared at it and your whole body went still. There was no mistaking what it was, no possible other explanation or bracelet-for-my-mother lie that could save him now.

A ring box.

Max had a ring box.

Max had bought a ring.

Yes he had been almost blindingly obvious all day but part of you hadn’t truly believed it yet. Max was going to propose to you.

Across the café Max was still looking at the merch display, completely unaware that your entire world had just tilted on its axis. You picked up the box carefully like it might explode.

You didn’t open it. You wanted to. God, you wanted to, every part of you was screaming to see it, to know, but you didn’t, because as much as you wanted to see the ring, you wanted Max to show it to you more. So you slipped it back into his jacket pocket just as he turned around.

He came back to the table, suspiciously pleased with himself for doing absolutely nothing and dropped into the chair opposite you.

“What?” he asked, frowning at your face.

You blinked. “What?”

“You look weird.”

“I look weird?”

“Yes.”

“Really after today?”

His brow deepened. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, lifting your coffee. “Absolutely nothing.”

And so began the longest month of your life.

At first it was funny. Max had a ring. Max was going to propose. Max who could overtake anyone around the outside without blinking apparently could not ask one question without nearly short-circuiting.

You found it sweet… for about three days. After that it became torture, because once you knew you couldn’t unknow it.

Every time his hand brushed his pocket your pulse jumped. Every time he looked at you a little too long you thought, this is it. Every time he suggested dinner, a walk, a drive, a quiet night in, your entire body went on high alert.

And every time he didn’t do it.

At dinner he would reach into his jacket and then freeze when the waiter appeared with the wine list. At home he sat beside you on the sofa, unusually quiet, his knee bouncing, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles as if he was trying to memorise the shape of your hand. You thought he was going to ask then. He looked like he was going to ask then.

Instead, he swallowed and said, “Do you want a tea?”

You stared at him. “Tea?”

“Yeah.”

You wanted to scream.

Then there was the scenic overlook. That one nearly ended you. He drove you out at sunset, which was already suspicious because Max wasn’t one for spontaneous scenic drives unless there was food or a race car involved. The sky was all pink and gold, the air warm, the view beautiful enough to make your chest ache.

He stood beside you, one hand in his pocket looking more nervous than you had ever seen him.

Your heart pounded.

You waited.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

The moment stretched.

Then he said, “Nice view.”

You almost shoved him off the overlook.

By the end of the month you were ready to explode.

He kept checking his pockets like he expected the ring to have vanished. He kept staring at you like he wanted to say something and then stopping himself at the last second. The worst part was that he seemed genuinely distressed by his own inability to do it, like he wanted it to be perfect so badly that every ordinary, lovely, perfect moment became something he could ruin by overthinking.

You understood.

You really did.

But you were also losing your mind.

That night you were sitting on the balcony of your shared apartment, pretending to read while actually watching Max pace back and forth inside through the glass doors. He looked ridiculous. Beautiful, but ridiculous.

His hair was messy from how many times he had dragged his hand through it. His mouth was set in that focused line he usually wore before races. His hand kept going to his pocket, then away from it, then back again.

You narrowed your eyes.

No. Not again.

Absolutely not.

You had given him time, you had given him romantic lighting, you had given him silence, privacy, sunsets, dinners, sofas, soft mornings and calm evenings.

You stood up, slid the balcony door open and walked inside.

“Max,” you called.

He froze mid-step.

Then he turned slowly, eyes wide. “Uh. Yeah?”

He watched you approach like you were race control about to hand him a penalty.

You planted yourself in front of him. “Are you going to propose to me or not?”

His mouth fell open. For a second, nothing came out.

“I—”

“Because I know you have a ring,” you continued, throwing your hands up. “I found it in your jacket last month.”

Max looked horrified.

Then betrayed.

Then horrified again.

“You found it?”

“Yes.”

“In my jacket?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I wanted to be surprised!”

“You wanted to be surprised,” he repeated, incredulous. “So you decided to confront me?”

“I wanted to be surprised when you actually did it,” you laughed. “But you keep not doing it.”

His face flushed. “I was going to.”

“When? When we’re eighty?”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

Your frustration softened slightly, but only slightly.

“Max,” you said, quieter now. “I don’t need perfect.”

He looked at you.

The room went still around you both. You stepped closer, your voice losing its edge.

“I don’t need some huge speech and I don’t need a perfect view or perfect timing or whatever version of this you’ve built up in your head. I just need you.”

All the panic, all the tension, all the overthinking seemed to loosen at once. His shoulders dropped and his eyes softened. Then, before you could say another word, he reached into his pocket.

Max dropped to one knee right there in the middle of the living room.

Just him.

Just you.

Despite all your impatience, despite the fact that you’d known for a weeks, despite the fact that you had literally forced the moment into existence your eyes burned with shock and awe.

Because there it was.

The ring.

The question.

The future you had been waiting for.

Max looked up at you and for once the man who always seemed so sure of himself looked completely undone.

“I had a speech,” he said.

A laugh broke out of you, wet and shaky. “Of course you did.”

“I did,” he insisted. “It was good.”

“I’m sure.”

“I forgot all of it.”

You covered your mouth, smiling so hard it hurt. Max huffed, but his eyes were bright too.

“So I’ll just say this.” He took a breath, his voice roughening. “I love you. I love you when you make me watch shows I don’t understand. I love you when you wear Christmas pajamas in April. I love you when you call me useless in my own kitchen. I love that I make you feel safe. I love you because you make my life feel quiet in the best way. You make me feel like I have somewhere to come home to no matter what happens.”

Your chest tightened. He swallowed.

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “You’re the biggest pain in my ass. You’re the person I look for after every race, good or bad. You’re the person I want beside me when everything is loud and when everything is normal and when nothing important is happening at all.”

Your tears slipped before you could stop them.

Max’s hand tightened around the ring box.

“I don’t know how to make this perfect,” he admitted. “I've tried all month and I kept messing it up because nothing felt good enough, but maybe that’s because it’s not about the place or the timing or the speech.”

His voice softened.

“It is just about you and me and the fact that I want forever with you.”

You pressed a hand to your chest.

“So,” he said, looking up at you with a nervous, crooked little smile. “Will you marry me?”

For one second, you let him wait, only one. Mostly because after the month he had put you through he deserved at least that much.

Then you grinned.

“Yes.”

Max blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, of course Max.”

The relief that crossed his face was so immediate and so overwhelming that you laughed through your tears.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“Very romantic.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

“I noticed.”

He took your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger, the second it settled there both of you looked down. It fit perfectly. Max stared at it for a moment then looked back up at you. “You really found it last month?”

You nodded.

“And you didn’t look?”

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Really?”

“I wanted you to be the one.”

His thumb brushed over your ring finger and his mouth parted slightly before he stood. Then he kissed you, deep and relieved and full of every word he had been too nervous to say before. His hands came to your waist, pulling you close, and you smiled against his mouth because he was still trembling slightly.

“You took so long,” you whispered.

He groaned, dropping his forehead against yours. “Don’t start.”

“You took forever.”

“I was trying to make it special.” He pulled back enough to glare at you, though the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at his mouth. “You're engaged to me for two minutes and already bullying me.”

“I was bullying you before.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing you again. “I know.”

You looked down at the ring once more, twisting your hand slightly so it caught the light, it was so beautiful, but more than that it was his too. Chosen by him, carried around nervously by him, hidden badly by him, almost offered so many times by him. You loved it more for every failed attempt.

Max watched your face carefully. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

His shoulders relaxed. Then you added, “Almost as much as I love the fact that you tried to pretend you were buying rings for your mother.”

His face dropped. “I panicked.”

Max held your hand, thumb brushing over the ring like he needed to keep checking it was real, you leaned into him resting your cheek against his chest, after a moment he wrapped both arms around you.

“I could do this forever,” he murmured.

You just smiled, because now he would.