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In Another Life - F1 drivers

𖤓 where they look at you and realise they want to spend the rest of their lives with you or where they think: oh. this is it. this is everything.

𖤓 inspo: based on "I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you" - Waymond Wang (my favourite film ever)

𖤓 fem!reader x grid (ob87, ka12, gr63, cl16, lh44, ln4, op81, mv3, ih6, aa23, cs55)

𖤓 wc: 3,935

𖤓 Sunny radio! This one's for the EEAAO girlies. The ones who get that love isn't about grand gestures — it's about choosing someone in the small, boring, beautiful moments. Each driver, one moment where they realise forever doesn't have to be loud. It just has to be with you.

𖤓 note: Gang, I tried my best not to repeat the scenarios or wording, but if I failed, pls don't kill me it was hard to come up with a new context for 11 drivers 😭Any love would be appreciated.

𖤓 listen to: "Something About You" when reading this.

CHARLES LECLERC — The Grocery Run

The supermarket is almost empty at 11 PM.

Charles should be home. Should be sleeping. Should be reviewing data for tomorrow's sim session. Instead, he's following you through the produce aisle, watching you squeeze avocados like you're defusing a bomb.

"Not this one," you mutter, tossing it back. "Too soft."

"We've been here for twenty minutes."

"We've been here for twenty minutes because you keep putting back the good ones."

Charles laughs — a real one, the kind that used to come so rarely. You don't look up from the avocados, but your mouth twitches. You know what you do to him.

He leans against the shopping cart. Watches you debate the structural integrity of a tomato. Your hair is messy. You're wearing his hoodie — the old one, the one he almost threw away, the one you stole and never gave back. There's a smudge of something on your cheek. Flour, maybe. Or chocolate. He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to stop looking at you long enough to find out.

You're squeezing tomatoes like your life depends on it. Like this matters. Like getting the right one is the most important decision you'll make all week.

And Charles realises, standing in the fluorescent glare of a half-empty supermarket, that he wants every grocery run with you. Every wrong avocado. Every 11 PM debate about produce. Every single boring, beautiful minute of it.

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"You're staring again."

"Can you blame me?"

You finally look up. Your eyes are soft, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the kind of day that follows you home. You'd told him about it earlier — the bad meeting, the rude email, the way everything felt a little too heavy. He'd listened. He'd made tea. He'd suggested grocery shopping at 11 PM like it was a reasonable solution.

It was. Somehow, it always is with you.

"I love you," he says.

You blink. "I know?"

"No, I mean —" He stops. Shakes his head. Tries again. "I'd do this forever," he says quietly. "The grocery shopping. The bad avocados. All of it."

The words hang in the air between the avocados and the tomatoes. Your expression shifts — something soft, something surprised, something that looks like the first time you realised this was real.

"That's a weird thing to say in a produce aisle," you say.

"I know."

"You're so weird."

"I know."

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your face into his chest. The shopping cart bumps against his legs.

"I'd do grocery shopping with you in this life too," you mumble against his hoodie.

Charles holds you tighter.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go."

The avocados are forgotten.

They'll remember tomorrow. Right now, nothing matters except your heartbeat against his and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the way you fit in his arms like you were always supposed to be there.

LEWIS HAMILTON — The Kitchen at 2 AM

Lewis can't sleep.

This isn't unusual. He's spent most of his life learning to function on less rest than most people need. But tonight is different. Tonight, the silence is too loud. The city outside is too still. His mind is too full of things he doesn't want to think about.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You're standing at the counter, barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts. There's flour everywhere — on your hands, on your face, on the floor. You're trying to make bread. Or something that was supposed to be bread. It's not going well.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

You don't look up. "Baking."

"It's 2 AM."

"I know."

"You're covered in flour."

"I know that too."

He walks closer. Peers at the lumpy dough on the counter. You're completely unbothered by the disaster in front of you. Just kneading away, humming something under your breath, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. "Is that supposed to look like that?"

"No," you admit. "But I know you haven't been able to sleep recently. And I figured —" You shrug, finally looking at him. Your eyes are tired, but there's something else there. Something warm. Something that makes the silence in his head go quiet. "I figured if you were going to be awake, I might as well be awake with you."

And Lewis realises — standing in his kitchen at 2 AM, watching you fail at baking with the same determination you'd bring to anything else — that this is it. This is the rest of his life. Not the races. Not the podiums. Not the cameras.

This. You. Flour on the floor. Bread that won't rise. 2 AM and nowhere else to be.

Lewis doesn't say anything. He just steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. You smell like flour and vanilla and something that's just you.

"I can feel you staring," you say, your attention going back to the failed masterpiece in front of you.

"I'm admiring."

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect."

"I don't know how to make bread," you warn him.

"I don't care."

"We're going to have to eat this. Even if it's terrible."

"I don't care."

"We could order takeout."

"Y/N."

You stop. Wait.

"In every lifetime," he says, quietly, "I would choose this. "

You go still in his arms.

"Even if I am failing at making bread?" you say with a small pout.

"Especially then." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "It's better."

You turn in his arms. Your flour-dusted hands cup his face. Your eyes search his.

"You're a weird man, Lewis Hamilton."

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He kisses you — slow, soft, unhurried. The bread is forgotten. The silence is no longer too loud. And for the first time all night, Lewis thinks he might actually sleep.

LANDO NORRIS — The Takeout on the Floor

Lando's apartment is a mess.

Not the chaotic kind — the lived-in kind. Clothes draped over chairs. Dishes in the sink. A blanket fort in the living room that you'd built three days ago and neither of you had bothered to take down.

You're sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, eating takeout from containers balanced on your knees. Some reality show is playing on the TV — neither of you is watching. You're too busy arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

"It does not belong," Lando insists, pointing a spring roll at you.

"It absolutely belongs. You have no taste."

"I have excellent taste. I'm dating you, aren't I?"

You pause. "That's... actually smooth. I'm mad about it."

He grins — the grin, the one that makes you want to throw something at him and kiss him in the same breath. You're wearing his hoodie. Your hair is in a messy bun. You love him so much it makes your chest ache.

And Lando realizes — sitting on the floor of his apartment, takeout containers balanced on his knees, arguing about pineapple on pizza — that he doesn't need anything else. Not the wins. Not the attention. Not any of it.

Just this. Just you. Just the sound of your laugh and the way you steal his spring rolls when you think he's not looking.

"Lando."

"Mm?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches you. The way you're completely comfortable. Completely yourself. Completely his.

"I want this forever," he says. "The takeout. The floor. The stupid arguments."

You stop chewing. Look at him. "That's a very intense thing to say while you have sauce on your chin."

"I have sauce on my chin?"

"Right there." You point. He wipes the wrong side of his face. You laugh — that laugh, the one that makes his chest feel too full.

"I love you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's the only thing that matters.

You set down your container. Shuffle closer until your knee bumps his.

"I know," you say. "I love you too. Now eat your spring rolls before they get cold."

"Yes ma'am."

You grin. He grins.

The reality show plays on. Neither of you notices.

OSCAR PIASTRI — The Quiet Sunday

Oscar doesn't talk much.

You'd learned this early. He's not cold — just careful. He thinks before he speaks. He measures his words like they have weight. It used to unnerve you. Now it's one of your favorite things about him.

Today is Sunday. The apartment is quiet. You're reading on the couch. He's at the kitchen table, reviewing data on his laptop. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of his mouse.

This is what your life has become. Quiet Sundays. Shared silences. A love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

Oscar looks up from his laptop. Watches you read. You're curled up on the couch, your feet tucked under you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth the way it always is when you're concentrating. You haven't noticed him watching. You never do.

He thinks about all the Sundays he spent alone. Before you. The quiet used to be heavy. Now it's just... comfortable. Because you're in it.

He doesn't say anything. He just watches. Commits it to memory. The way the afternoon light hits your hair. The way you mouth the words sometimes, barely moving your lips. The way you look up, catch him staring, and smile like you know exactly what he's thinking.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not." He pauses. "I'm just happy."

You set down your book. "That's it? You're just happy?"

"That's it."

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat the couch beside you. He stands. Walks over. Sits down. You lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

"This is nice," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."

He doesn't tell you that he wants this every Sunday. Every quiet, boring, perfect Sunday. He doesn't have to. You already know.

GEORGE RUSSELL — The Folded Laundry

George is folding laundry.

This should not be a romantic moment. He is wearing an old t-shirt that has a hole in the collar. His hair is sticking up in the back. There is a suspicious stain on his shorts that he refuses to explain.

But he's folding your clothes. Carefully. Methodically. The way he does everything.

You're watching from the doorway. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's too focused on getting the creases right — on your shirts, your socks, the sweater you'd left draped over the chair three days ago.

He folds everything. Even the things you wouldn't bother with. Even the things you'd given up on.

George doesn't know why he's so focused on the laundry. Maybe because it's yours. Maybe because taking care of you — even in small ways — feels like the most important thing he could be doing.

He holds up one of your shirts. It's old. Faded. The one you wear when you're sick or tired or just don't want to try. He folds it slowly. Presses the crease with his palm.

"George."

He looks up. You're in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression he can't quite read.

"You're folding my laundry," you say.

"It needed to be done."

"At 11 PM?"

"The timing felt right."

You cross the room. Sit on the bed beside the pile of folded clothes. Pick up a shirt — one of yours, one he'd folded so perfectly it looks store-bought.

"You're staring at that shirt like it's precious," you say.

"It's yours."

"That doesn't make it precious."

"To me it does."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you set down the shirt and take his hand.

"You're strange, Russel"

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He squeezes your hand. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The laundry is forgotten. The late hour doesn't matter. He's exactly where he wants to be.

KIMI ANTONELLI — The First Rain of Autumn

Kimi doesn't believe in fate.

He believes in hard work. In data. In the things he can see and touch and prove. He's never been one for grand romantic gestures or sweeping declarations.

But then it starts raining.

You're walking back from the café down the street — the one with the good pastries, the one you'd dragged him to because you said he needed to "experience life outside the simulator." He'd complained the whole way. You'd ignored him.

Now you're both soaked. Your hair is plastered to your face. You're laughing — not at him, not at the situation, just... laughing. Like getting caught in the rain is the best thing that's happened all week.

"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling. He can't help it.

"You're boring," you fire back. "Live a little, Antonelli."

You grab his hand and pull him into a puddle. Water splashes up his jeans. He should be annoyed. He's not.

He watches you spin in the rain. Arms out. Head back. Rain dripping down your face. You look ridiculous. You look perfect.

And Kimi realizes — standing in the middle of the street, soaked to the bone, watching you dance in a puddle — that he wants every rainy day with you. Every unexpected storm. Every moment that makes no sense.

"Kimi."

"What?"

"You're staring again."

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one dancing in the rain."

You stop spinning. Walk toward him. Your shoes squelch. Your mascara is running. You've never looked better.

"Come here," you say, tugging his arm.

"I'm already here."

"Closer."

He steps closer. You wrap your arms around his neck. Your wet clothes press against his.

"I love you," you say. Like it's obvious. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

He doesn't say it back. He just pulls you closer. Kisses you. Right there. In the rain. In the middle of the street.

When he pulls back, you're both dripping. You're smiling.

"That was romantic," you say.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He takes your hand. Leads you home. The rain keeps falling.

He doesn't let go.

MAX VERSTAPPEN — The Simulator Break

Max is supposed to be in the simulator.

That's where his trainer thinks he is. Where his engineer thinks he is. Where everyone who needs him thinks he is.

Instead, he's in the break room, sitting across from you, watching you struggle with a vending machine.

"It's not working," you say, pressing the button for the third time.

"Hit it."

"I'm not hitting it."

"Then it won't work."

You glare at him. He shrugs. You hit the vending machine. The candy bar drops. You look triumphant. He looks smug.

"I hate you," you say, picking up the candy bar.

"You love me."

"Debatable."

He watches you unwrap the candy bar, break it in half, and hand him the bigger piece. You don't say anything. You just do it. Like it's instinct. Like taking care of him is as natural as breathing.

Max has won races. Championships. Things people dream about. But none of it feels as good as this. Sitting in a break room. Sharing a candy bar. Watching you wipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

He wants this. Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones no one else sees.

"Max."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."

"Maybe you are."

"Am I solved?"

He thinks about it. About the way you make him feel. About how he doesn't have to be anyone other than himself when he's with you.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

You smile. Break off another piece of candy bar. Hand it to him.

"Good," you say. "Now eat your chocolate. You have a simulator session."

"I'm skipping it."

"You're not skipping it."

"I'm skipping it."

"Max."

He takes the chocolate. He doesn't move.

He stays exactly where he is.

ISACK HADJAR — The Disaster Dinner

Isack is supposed to be impressing you.

That was the plan. He'd cook dinner — something nice, something sophisticated — and you'd see that he was an adult. A functional adult who could do things other than drive fast.

Instead, he's set off the fire alarm.

You're both standing in the kitchen, waving dish towels at the smoke detector, coughing. The windows are open. The fan is on. Whatever was in the oven is now a blackened brick.

"I'm sorry," he says, for the fifth time.

"Stop apologising."

"I ruined dinner."

"You didn't ruin dinner. You just... created a bonding experience."

He looks at you. You're laughing. Actually laughing, like this is funny, like this isn't a disaster, like you're not judging him for being a terrible cook.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? I can't cook either. I was going to order takeout the whole time."

"I spent three hours on that recipe."

"I know. It was very sweet. It was also very on fire."

He groans, dropping his head to the counter. You pat his back. Your hand is warm. Comforting.

Isack doesn't know why you're still here. Why you're not running. Why you're laughing instead of leaving.

Then he looks at you. Really looks. At the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. At the way you haven't let go of his arm. At the way you're looking at him like he's not a failure. Like he's just... him.

And he realizes: you're not going anywhere. You never were.

"Isack."

"Yeah?"

"You're very dramatic for someone who set off a fire alarm."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm passionate."

"Whatever"

You order takeout. Eat it on the floor. The smoke detector beeps every few minutes.

He watches you laugh. And he thinks: yeah. This is it.

CARLOS SAINZ — The Packing Night

Carlos is supposed to be packing.

He has a flight tomorrow. Another race. Another city. Another week away from you.

But he's not packing. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you fold his shirts. You're not his assistant. You're not his employee. You're just someone who loves him. Someone who's learned that his shirts wrinkle if you don't fold them a certain way.

"You don't have to do that," he says.

"I know."

"I can do it myself."

"I know."

"Then why —"

"Because I want to." You look up at him. Your expression is soft, patient, unbothered. "Because I'm going to miss you. And this makes me feel useful."

Carlos's chest aches.

He watches you fold. The careful way you smooth out the wrinkles. The way you stack them in his suitcase, like you're building something important. You're humming. Something soft. Something he doesn't recognise.

He thinks about all the times he's packed alone. The empty hotel rooms. The silent airports. The feeling of always leaving something behind. He doesn't feel that anymore. Because you're here. Because you're folding his shirts like it matters. Because you make everywhere feel like somewhere he wants to be.

He crosses the room. Kneels in front of you. Takes your hands — the ones holding his shirt — and presses them to his chest.

"Carlos, your shirt —"

"I don't care about the shirt."

You shake your head, but you're smiling. You fold one more shirt. Set it in the suitcase.

"I'll miss you," you say.

"I'll miss you too," he says quietly. "It's only a week."

"I know."

"It'll go fast."

"I know."

Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.

"Come here," he says. You lean forward. He wraps his arms around you. Holds on.

The suitcase stays open. The shirts stay folded.

He doesn't care. He'll pack in the morning. Right now, he's exactly where he wants to be.

ALEXANDER ALBON — The First Snow

It doesn't snow in Monaco.

That's what Alex had told you, when you'd first moved here. "If you want snow, you have to travel." You'd accepted this. Mourned it. Moved on.

So when it snows — actually snows, fat flakes drifting down from a sky that's never done this before — Alex is the one who finds you first.

You're standing on the balcony. Barefoot. In your pyjamas. Just watching.

"Are you crazy?" he asks, stepping outside. "It's freezing."

"Look."

He looks. The city is quiet. The snow is dusting the rooftops, the streets, the harbour. Everything is soft. Everything is still.

"It's snowing," he says.

"It's snowing."

"In Monaco."

"I know."

You're not looking at him. You're looking at the snow. Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You're shivering, but you won't come inside.

Alex watches you. The way your eyes are wide. The way you're smiling at something so small, so ordinary. Like it's magic.

He thinks about all the things he wants to give you. Big things. Important things. But right now, all he wants to give you is this. The snow. The balcony. The quiet.

"You're staring," you say, still not looking at him.

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one standing in the snow in your pyjamas."

"It's romantic."

"It's freezing."

"It is not."

You finally look at him. Your nose is red. Your lips are blue. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"I want this forever," he says.

"What, me in my pyjamas running in the snow like a fool?" you say with a small smile.

"Yes, and many more stupid snow days to come"

You smile. Step closer. Wrap your arms around him. He holds you tight.

The snow keeps falling. Neither of you goes inside.

OLIVER BEARMAN — The First Apartment

Ollie's first apartment is small.

Too small, probably. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work half the time.

But it's his. And you're in it. And somehow, that makes everything else irrelevant.

You're on the floor — there's no couch yet, not until next week — eating takeout from containers balanced on a cardboard box. Ollie is telling you about his day. About the engineers, the setup, the small victory he'd felt when something finally clicked.

You're not really listening to the words. You're watching his hands. The way they move when he's excited. The way he pushes his hair back when he's thinking.

Ollie stops mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"

"Not really."

"Rude."

"I'm listening to the important part."

"What's the important part?"

You set down your container. Crawl across the floor until you're sitting in front of him. Your knees touch.

"The important part," you say, "is that you're happy."

He blinks. His ears go pink.

"I'm always happy when you're here," he says.

"That's cheesy."

"I know."

"I love it."

He looks at you. At the cardboard box. At the takeout containers. At the whole ridiculous, imperfect, wonderful mess of his first apartment.

He thinks about all the things he wants. The races. The wins. The career he's building. But right now, sitting on the floor with you, he can't remember why any of that matters more than this.

"Ollie."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

"You are."

"That's very smooth."

"I'm trying."

You lean forward. Kiss him. He's warm. He's here. He's yours.

The ceiling leaks. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work.

None of it matters.