𝖻𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗂 ☠︎︎

in all honesty, most of my fics come to me when i'm like daydreaming lol i also get a lot of inspiration from tiktok edits or like scenarios with a significant other that would work well with a character!

 it takes me about an entire day to fully write/plan because i haven't written a fic over 3k+ words in a while. since it takes me about a day, it's like an hour or two to edit. if i proofread, it takes about an hour (because i'm very picky about spelling and grammar). i'm currently in a writing/composition class where we write every single day for 10 minutes because it helps improve our writing! it's simply just practice and expanding your vocabulary.

 i also watch a lot of tv shows, which helps me a lot. i'm not a huge fan of romance, surprisingly, with my favorite genre being action or dramatic horror, so i'd say for sure those help my way of words. it took me a bit, but i've also found my style when publishing! you probably see that the structure of my fics isall the same. title, banner, trope, synopsis, words, and warnings (and recently an author note). i personally like this because it's straightforward and grabs the reader's attention. a guilty pleasure of mine fs is making the banners look super nice! seeing a colorful, well-decorated fic vs a long strip of text can def change your mind about a fic. another tip is don't give up!! my writing has changed so much and has definitely improved. reading also helps a ton because it helps you discover what you like as an author and an audience member. last thing: whenever i get an idea for a fic, i immediately jot it down, as well as adding key scenes or vocabulary i wanna include.

basically, my thought process

choose a character

pick trope (like character x college roommate!reader)

find the scene or scenario you want

figure out if it's gonna be fluff, crack, nsfw, etc.

write a mini overview, maybe ~100 words

get to writing!

reread and tie up loose plot points if there are any

edit

reread once more

change the styling of text ( i.e, i make most of my posts in lowercase type style, and i have spaces before and after a section of text)

add dividers or symbols for a break

make a title

make a banner

add your word count, warnings, and synopsis

tag everything that applies 

 every time you went out in public with your husband, you earned a significant amount of stares. i mean, who wouldn't? a grouchy, silver fox with his stunning girl, who seemed a little young for him, but still clung onto him regardless.

you never asked for anything outrageously lavish. sure, there were small things like overpriced hair appointments, boutique dresses, and new makeup drops. but that’s just how it was in your relationship! and of course, dex never cared. he would spend endlessly on his girl without hesitation.

you paused in front of the new boutique that had just opened downtown. your soft fingers that laced through dex’s calloused ones slipped through for just a moment to move towards the glass display. a mannequin wearing a soft, pearl slip dress that would be perfect for a night on the bayou. the straps were thin, and no padding was in sight.

you could imagine dex’s hands masquerading all over your figure before he shed the winded silk. you peeked at the price tag and turned back to dex, lacing your hand back together with his. 

you kept walking, but dex did not. 

“go try it on,” he urged.

“it’s okay, dex, ‘s too much.”

“you ain’t the one buying it, doll,” he simply said before gently pulling you towards the entrance. 

you bit the flesh of your cheek to hold back your cheeky grin. 

the dress looked like it was sculpted around you, fabric spilling in all the right places. when you came out of the dressing room, dex was sitting on the chaise with arms crossed, legs spread wide, and curved lips. 

“spin for me, princess.”

you did a little twirl, looking behind you in the mirror. the posterior side of the dress was open-backed and quite low-cut. thank goodness you wore a thong.

“do you like it, dex?”

“looks beautiful on you, baby. c’mon.”

you silently squealed, rushing back inside the dressing room to change back.

once you came out, dex took the dress from you and pulled out his card. you held onto his bicep with a bright smile, pressing a quick kiss to it. dex handed the cashier his card without looking at the white plastic tag.

on the way home, your legs were propped up with a gift bag and the sparkliest tissue paper possible. you leaned across the center console to lay a kiss on dex’s cheek, leaving a little shine of pink lip gloss.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

sunday mornings may have been your favorite part of the week. everyone was gone for church in the neighborhood, so it was just you, dex, and the sunrise of the south. golden light came through the bay window where you sat, reading a new romance novel your friend had recommended to you. the record player was spinning Tanya Tucker at a low hum.

your hair was loose, not bothering to style it until later, when you went to the farmer’s market. around you, dex’s shirt draped over, as well as a pair of his old boxers. 

dex came into the kitchen and put down his cup of coffee before making his way to you. he sat at the edge of the window seat. he was still in his sweatpants and an old shirt from quantico that he wore last night. 

dex stared at you like you hung the moon, never getting tired of you. his beautiful north star.

you looked up and smiled, seeing dex stare shamelessly at you. “what?” a giggle escaped.

his cheeks warm, “nothing.”

dex now put his legs up, facing across from you.

you looked up from your novel, “whatcha thinking about?”

“just you.”

you put your thumb between the pages you were between and climbed into dex’s lap, resuming your slow sunday morning.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

you had a decent amount of followers on your instagram, mainly because of your old sorority sisters and your aesthetic. you never posted anything too dramatic, just lifestyle, some things you found cute, and your husband. last night, you posted a photo of you two at dinner. you were leaning into dex’s arm, with his other hand on the back of your chair. it was candlelit and golden, just like the natural glow of your town. 

dex had instagram, but it was the most plain and boring account you’ve seen since you stalked your professor from your freshman year. he had a profile picture that consisted of you and him, no posts, like a hundred followers at most, and a bio that consisted of your handle with a heart next to it.

you read him the comments on your post, lying your bare legs across his lap on the couch.

“this one says, ‘the age gap is a need’.”

a pause, “what does that mean?”

“it means she wants a relationship like ours!”

“here,” you said, showing him. “thus one says ‘he definitely carries all her shopping and grocery bags.’”

“i do carry all your bags.”

“that’s why i love you. anyways, this one says ‘my roman empire.’ aw, karen commented that!”

“why?”

“‘cause we’re cute and i guess matt isn't from her roman empire, i don’t know,” you laughed with no ill intent. 

he looked down at you with raised brow, but he wasn’t displeased by the comments on your posts. his old man self just didn’t understand the new slang. 

realizing you never showed dex the original post, you faced your phone towards him. he took the phone and squinted, yet looked at it from far away, something you noticed older people did a lot. 

“you look gorgeous, angel.”

“we both look good.”

“you do,” he doubled down, stroking your thigh.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

you knew it was summer in the south when it started raining while the sun was still shining brighter than ever. you didn’t look at the weather beforehand, causing you and dex to stand under the awning of the shop. you also decided to make dex park all the way at the end of the street, even though he advised against it.

you frowned, upset that you did a full face today and now it was going to be ruined. dex removed his coat before you could even look up at him and put it around your body.

“dexy, you’re going to get soaked!” you whined, pulling the coat tighter anyway. it smelt so much like him, like stained mahogany wood and engine oil.

“don’t worry about it, princess. you got all dolled up. don’t wanna ruin your look.” 

you smiled, silently thanking him with the flutter of your eyes. 

you both walked to the car as quickly as possible. you looked up at him, and he was gazing ahead, completely undisturbed. you grabbed onto his hand, but soon let the jacket just fall onto your shoulders.

he immediately reached to put it back over your head to avoid your hair getting wet, but you jerked back. 

“it’s okay, honey, gonna shower anyway. and, the rain feels good.”

dex nodded, understanding that you wanted to let loose a little. the cold rain washed the sticky sweat and cream that clung to your body. you held onto his hand and skipped along the sidewalk, splashing your kitten heels into puddles.

your husband was just happy you were having a fun time, not minding a little water either.

both of you got into the car, soaked as can be, but laughing joyfully. your hair was damp and starting to stick up as dex’s graying strands flattened. your mascara was slightly running, and your lip gloss was mixed with rainwater, but neither of you cared.

dex looked at you and said you were still beautiful anyway, and drove you home.

you walked onto the driveway holding your face in his coat lapel to avoid the nosy old ladies next door.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

the bullfrogs croaked on the logs and fireflies soared as the night settled. you were tucked into bed with dex, your head on his chest and his arm around you. his strong legs tangled with your soft ones. you were drifting off to sleep, tired from a long day of shopping.

he stroked your head and pressed a kiss on your forehead. his voice slightly above a whisper, “you know you’re the best thing i’ve got, right?”

although you were already whisked away in wonderland, you leaned into dex more and found his hand in the darkness of your room and held it. he exhaled slowly and said no more.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

memorial day weekend was always a pleasure in your town. grandkids of the old ladies next door visited, causing the yearly ruckus that you forced dex to ignore. you were invited to a multitude of barbecues and bar nights. parades down the town hall and holding babies that you had no relation to.

you dragged an old cushion from a chair on the patio and fluffed it out before lying flatly against it on the porch swing. you were lying across it with your hair fanned out, sunglasses on, and dress pooling across your lower thighs. one arm was folded behind your head as the other dangled off the side of the swing. 

down the street, someone was mowing the lawn, creating a distant white noise. 

dex was sitting straight up against the swing, legs stretched out. his eyes were half closed, sipping on a sweet tea you made him. your legs were laid out across his lap, feeling the soft fabric of his linen pants.

you felt his hand loosely around your ankle, resting there. you didn’t open your eyes to study his fidgeting behind your oversized sunglasses. 

dex then lifted your ankle and pressed his mouth to it. his soft lips on your silky skin made you coo. he brought it back down and rubbed circles into your feet.

you softly spoke, “dex.”

he hummed in reply, and neither of you said anything, because there wasn’t anything to say. he then leaned over and kissed the curve of your knee that was propped up, feeling the soft stubble on you. 

you lifted your sunglasses for a moment to look at your husband and smiled, whispering a soft ‘love you.’

“love you more, doll.”

you pushed the shades back on and leaned your head back, basking in the domesticity of your life. 

──────────────────────────────

Monaco may be one of the most boring races out of the rotation to watch. You had been here numerous times, watching dad navigate the simplified turns that you could recreate with your eyes closed, and multiple times yourself. Monaco as a Ferrari driver, however, may be one of the singular experiences of someone's life.

There were red flags everywhere, but not the safety car kind. The venerable Prancing Horse paid homage to the streets of Monaco and along the French Riviera. Residents could wake up, drink their coffee, and watch 22 of the world’s most skilled racers drive their lives away all from their balcony. 

Charles' face on a billboard outside a hotel, which he didn't even bother to mention to you, made you scoff in humor. You took about eleven photos to show your dad later.

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Charles Leclerc's Monaco content montage began on Thursday for media day and wasn't stopping anytime soon. Ferrari’s social team had a whole thing planned. You and Charles were supposed to do a walking tour of the circuit on foot, stopping at each corner, and Charles explaining the history of each pinpoint. You walked next to him, hands in the pockets of your Ferrari jacket, asking genuine questions but also ones that would be considered “out-of-pocket.” Admin laughed along, knowing they would have to cut it out of the final post. 

“This corner,” Charles started, stopping at Massenet, looking at it like he had grown up right next to it. “I remember almost forgetting how to turn here when I was young. My godfather scolded me after.”

You looked at Charles sideways, your eyes beginning to slightly gloss over. You knew about Jules. God, everyone knew about Jules. You knew how much it pained Charles to speak or even mention him.

“Good teacher,” you replied.

Charles glanced over at you, something passing across his warm face. It wasn't really grief, but smooth and calm. “The absolute best.” A beat passed, “Although, I think I have gotten better in recent years.”

“Bold claim, Leclerc.”

“I am a very bold person,” Charles half-joked.

“You put a billboard of yourself outside the hotel!”

“Actually, Ferrari did-”

“Your face is like this big!” You said as you stretched your arms wide.

“This is very normal, you could say the same about Carlos in Barcelona!” 

Admin was losing it behind the camera, as were Charles and you. You were excited to see this clip in the reel later tonight. Charles straightened back up and stitched his face back into the usual smile as we continued walking to Casino Square.

“P3 minimum this weekend,” he said right next to you. It was more like a prediction, not an ask.

You looked ahead at the road that looped into the track, “P1 minimum, you mean.”

Charles smirked, “There she is.”

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Dinner was Carlos’ idea, which meant it was a great idea, but it just meant there would be way too much chaos. 

More than half the grid is at a restaurant downtown that required us to navigate three flights or stairs in warm yet ultra-dim lighting, and a doorway that Oscar had to duck through. A long table loaded with three plates per seat, a gold charger, and many more utensils than the average person should need. You ended up wedged between Oscar on your right and Kimi on your left, with Lando across from you. 

Lando wasted absolutely no time, grabbing a small loaf of brown bread from the basket, making Carlos emit a ‘hmph’ sound. 

“You have your own bread!” Lando said.

“This bread is better,” Carlos replied, deadpan.

“Same bread, dude.”

“It is not the same bread, Lando, look at the oats–”

“So? I don’t even eat the oats,”

“Look at the oats–!”

You blankly stared at the Brit and Spaniard fight over a palm-sized loaf of brown bread. 

“Every time,” Oscar sighed, not breaking eye contact with the menu.

“I remember when we were in Monza, they argued with Kimi about the shape of the pasta and how it changes the taste of the dish,” you replied, taking a sip of your water.

“It really doesn’t either,” he said, lowering the menu. 

“It does, Osc!" you rolled your eyes. 

“Kimi says otherwise. And even if they were right, I wouldn’t let them know that.”

George leaned over to look at Oscar and me, “Is this the pasta thing again? Not the shapes but the cheese thing.”

“We are not retelling the cheese story.” 

“The cheese story is a great story, Oscar!” George reminded me.

“George.” 

You leaned back into your seat, looking like a kicked puppy. George mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.” You smiled, mouthing a  “please!” back.

Lando, now spreading the butter on his second mini loaf, pointed to you with the butter knife. “Okay, P3 tomorrow, yeah? How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Scale from one to ten, ten being the best.”

“Seven and a half.”

Lando squinted, “And what’s the half?”

“The first sector. I’m losing two tenths somewhere, and I just don't know where,” you replied, rubbing your arm anxiously.

Oscar cut in after a good amount of silence, “It's turn two.” He was still staring at the menu, eyes darting between two dishes.

You turned, now at a three-fourths angle, “How do you know that?”

“I watched you onboard,” he said, turning a page. Guess he didn’t like those options. “Your exit speed is fine, it's just the entry. You’re being too cautious, which is surprising considering you're not anywhere else on the track.”

A brief pause, your lip curling into confusion.

“I watch everyone’s onboards,” he tries justifying. 

“That's–” you stuttered, a little flattered yet alarmed. “Okay.”

“You’ll find the two tenths,” Setting the menu down. Took him long enough. “Seven and a half becomes nine.”

Lando was biting his lip, watching the exchange with the same look he had fifteen years ago when they were young. He swallowed, eyes blank. You knew he was putting your and Oscar’s conversation in his mental filing cabinet. You ignored it regardless.

“Stop it,” you said, adjusting your salad fork so it’s straight again.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were about to.”

“I was about to ask if you wanted some bread, actually,” Lando said, holding the basket toward you, innocent as could be. He said your name, then, “Do you want some bread?”

You perked a brow before grabbing a small braided loaf of bread and reaching for the smooth butter. Your arm was prepared to throw it at him, but George intervened, and then Carlos started another pasta-like situation. The table dissolved in loud laughter, which would disturb customers if we weren’t in a private room, and a specific warmth that only we had. We spent most of our lives competing against each other, but we still loved and appreciated each other anyway.

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Race day was a half-bust, half-success. P3. Not P1, but it's a podium. 

Champagne could be smelled from a mile away, as well as the sight of foam. Charles had won, which I was ecstatic about; it was Monaco. It was Charles, all his. The crowd made noises that made your chest hurt with love. You laughed, spraying the oversized champagne at Charles, his face creasing with pride. 

You posted exactly one photo from the podium. Charles in the middle, you to the right, and Max to the left. The Monaco harbor below us, along with the gold and red all around.

Of course, the comments under your posts had always been a delight to watch. You checked them later, sitting on the steps of the Ferrari garage with your race suit half unzipped, munching on a bar because dinner wasn’t for another three hours, and breakfast wasn’t as pleasing as your dietitian promised. 

Lando appeared and dropped right beside you, stealing the other half of the bar. 

“Congrats,” he said, chewing the strawberries and oats.

“That was mine,” you pouted.

Lando ignored you, “You have two tenths back by the way, Osc was right.”

You had. You felt it on the fourth lap; the car responded differently than before. You thought about what Oscar had said about it, his eyes not even flickering to tell you. 

“He usually is,” you said.

“He will never say that about himself, so one of us has to.” Lando stretched his legs out, throwing his head so it gently hit the wall. “Good race.”

“You DNF’d, Lan.”

“I know, I was there.” A pause. “A good race for you.”

“Oh, thanks.” You knocked your shoulder against his as he did the same. You put your head on Lando's shoulder, neither of you saying anything. It was moments like this where you knew not to fill the silence, just taking in his presence. 

Oscar found you both five minutes later, coming around with two bottles of water and his blank expression. He finished P5, which you knew was great, but not optimal for Oscar. It never would be.

He looked at you, then Lando, then the empty bar wrapper.

“Did you eat?” he said to you.

“Half of that,” you said, motioning to the wrapper.

He held out one of the bottles, “Dinner is in about three hours.”

“I know.”

“Then eat something real.”

“Oscar–”

“I’m not telling you what to do, just giving advice.” He plopped on the other side and handed Lando the other bottle without being asked. “You get quiet when your blood sugar is low.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Lando said, his eyes closed. “We’ve talked about this.”

“You both are talking about my blood sugar? You've talked about my blood sugar, oh my days.”

“We're your friends,” Oscar simply stated. “We just notice things.”

You looked at the water bottle in your hand, condensation wetting your palm. You stared into the harbour, glimmering and blue. You felt something in your throat, but kept it down.

“You’re both so annoying,” you sighed, dragging your hand over your face.

“Of course,” Lando says, hearing a smile behind his snarky remark.

Oscar hums in reply.

─────────────────────

ynhamilton✓

❤︎⁠ 382k💬20,384 ↳↰ 7,043 ➢10K

ynhamilton my home away from home 

charles.leclerc.official ✓ next time you're on the top step with me

yn.hamilton ✓ ⤷ ＠charles.leclerc.official that's the plan leclerc

lewishamilton ✓ amazing my love👏

yn.hamilton ✓⤷ ＠lewishamilton love you dad 🥹

lando ✓ p3! very impressive, well done

yn.hamilton ✓⤷ ＠lando thank you lando

landonorris ✓⤷ ＠ynhamilton I still don't miss you

yn.hamilton ✓⤷ ＠lando 🙄🙄🙄

oscarpiastri ✓⤷ ＠landon you literally ran to find her after the race

lando ✓⤷ ＠oscarpiastri OSCAR I WILL MOVE TEAMS

oscarpiastri ✓⤷＠lando no you won't

landonorris ✓⤷ ＠oscarpiastri ok then fine

f1addicttt THE MCLAREN BOYS IN HER COMMENTS AGAIN I CANNOT

formulacrumbs ok oscar piastri just publicly exposed lando

pitlane.tea okay, so Lando "ran to find her" after the race, and Oscar is casually posting this in her Instagram comments..im starting a rumor

redbulladdicts ⤷ ＠pitlane.tea rumors have been around bb

ferrarifangirls, "next time you're on the top step with me," Charles Leclerc, you are her TEAMMATE not her HYPE MAN (he is also her hype man)

papayaenthusiast COMPUTAH..

─────────────────────

After a well-needed night’s rest, you and a few other drivers decided to stay in Monaco until Wednesday. Barriers were already coming down, grandstands dismantled, and the air was back to not smelling like burnt tires. As usual, yachts were still in the harbor but the paddock energy dissolved into something almost normal. Almost. 

You had been awake since eight for no reason besides the fact that your body refused to give in. Ending up on the balcony of your hotel room, you sipped your coffee that was overly sweet. It was just like the way you made it in the hospitality rooms when your dad dragged you along.

You left your phone beside your bed, face down, because today was a needed rest day. The light was coming off the water at a particular angle that brought you comfort. You grew up in hotels, motorhomes, and hospitality suites, and you still haven't gotten used to the beauty of water on a sunny day.

Your phone buzzed, which you ignored.

It buzzed again. 

You whipped your head over this time and sighed.

are u awake? We're getting brunch at mine, and osc is already here. he litch showed up without texting me, come over rn yn yn come now pls there’s pain au chocolat

You looked at the text, then your sugar-filled coffee, then the harbor.

fine, what floor

Lando’s room was three floors down and looked exactly like yours, except it was more him. More of him, meaning his past outfits were on the chaise as well as a half-eaten Kinder Bueno. 

The balcony wrapped around the corner of the building so you could see the harbour and the hillside, which was very posh of Lando. Someone, who definitely wasn’t Lando, set up a proper spread on the table. Pastries, fresh fruit, coffee, juice in a jug, and boiled eggs. 

Oscar was in one of the chairs with his legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. He wore a linen collared shirt that was the most beautiful shade of blue. It made his skin look softer than it already was. 

He looked up when you came onto the balcony, acknowledged you, and went back to his phone.

“And she’s alive.”

“Barely,” you groaned as you dropped into the chair across from Oscar. “Who did this? Because I know Lando didn't," you said, gesturing at the goods.

“I called down.”

“At eight?”

"Seven-thirty. I don’t sleep late.”

“I know, it's terrible. You need to rest more sometimes.”

The corner of his mouth perked up, “I’ll work on it.”

Lando now entered through the balcony door, curls a little awry. You could tell he was still waking up and texted you the moment he got up (or the moment Oscar made him wake up). He had a tart in his hand and pointed at you as a greeting.

“You came!”

“You said pain au chocolat.”

“There is pain au chocolat.” He dropped into the last chair, propping his feet up onto the armrest of your chair. “Good morning. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“You DNF’d yesterday,” Oscar reminded the poor boy.

“Why does everyone keep telling me this? I know!” Lando groans.

“I’m not saying negatively, I’m just saying that this ‘beautiful morning’ is–”

“Oh, shush, Osc, let us enjoy it,” you hushed, pouring a new, warm cup of coffee. After you put in two too many sugar cubes, you leaned back into your chair, taking a long sip of the sweetened drink.

Something you loved about the two of them was their great ability to fight, then go back to normal within seconds, somehow weaving you between it as well. They argued with little to no heat behind each remark, which was long-practiced. Settling, it was.

“P3, though,” Lando said, opening his eyes to look over at you now. “For real, how’d it feel?”

You considered Lando’s question and shook the sieve so your PR reply could fall through.

“It was alright,” you replied, breaking the pastry in half. “I know, I know, P3 in Monaco is a blessing. But I found the two tenths on the fourth lap and spent the rest of the race thinking about the other tenth.”

“There’s always another tenth,” Oscar sighed, understanding your agitation.

“I know, big issue."

He looked over to you over the rim of his glass of orange juice, “not a big issue.”

“Feels like it.”

“It makes you fast,” he said matter-of-factly. “Drivers who are satisfied at P3 will stay at P3.”

“Wow, that's almost a compliment, Osc,” you laughed, biting into the pain au chocolat. The flaky, brown-buttered puff pastry was warm as the chocolate oozed out, satisfying your long desire for something that wasn’t full of protein or vitamin C.

“It was a neutral observation.”

“Uh, no, it was a kind compliment. I felt it. ”

“You felt nothing.”

“Sure, bud.” 

“Lando,” Oscar said without breaking eye contact with you. “Stop taking photos.”

You turned over and saw Lando with his phone u, angled at Osar and you.

“I’m documenting!”

Your lip quivered, “Documenting what?”

“Our breakfast was very nice. And the fact that there’s no kinder buenos like I asked.”

“I told them to leave those out,” Oscar mentioned, cutting up a piece of sausage. 

“Are you serious–”

“Delete the photo, and I’ll give you them. They’re in my room.”

“No–”

Oscar reached across the table, and Lando pulled the phone to his chest like he had to protect it with his life. A couple of croissants and tarts were lost as collateral, but you laughed at their antics anyway.

The morning had now gone soft and slow, just like every other Monday morning. Lando was on his phone,e and Oscar had cracked open a book he still hadn’t finished from a year ago. You tucked your legs under your chair, on your second cup of coffee, and watched a boat cruise against the water. 

You didn’t have to be anywhere. Not until Wednesday at least. 

“Hey,” Lando said, glancing up from his phone. 

“Mm?”

“I’m glad you’re at Ferrari.”

You looked at him and your lip pouted, confused by what he meant. “As opposed to what?”

“Uh, like somewhere else, I don’t know. F1 Academy?” Scrolling still. “It’s better with you around. This year is already ten times better than my first.”

You looked back onto the water, humming in content and appreciation of Lando’s words. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Lando said.

“I didn’t make it weird.”

“He’s right,” Oscar finally said, flipping a page. 

“Whatever, you both suck,” you said, picking up the last pastry. You looked at them once more–Lando lay out and scrolled, Oscar, reading in the soft glow of the morning. You felt that knock on your ribcage. 

“So, lunch on me?” You asked.

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The cafe Charles recommended to me didn't really need directions. It sat on a narrow street about a block away from the harbour. It was small, yet homey considering it was Monaco. The brick was white and worn, but it smelled amazing.

The woman who took our order immediately clocked Lando as everyone did. She was subtle about it in the most Monegasque way possible, which you all appreciated. I liked her.

It was about half past twelve, and the sun was extra bright today, requiring you to bring a pair of the cutest sunnies. Fortunately, both of them remembered as well. 

“Lan, come here.”

He listened and leaned in right next to you, awaiting orders. You grabbed his cheek and rubbed it hard, earning a “The hell?” from him. 

You continued rubbing, “You didn’t blend your sunscreen all the way in, dumbass.”

“Oh. Oops.”

The food had arrived, dnd it was better than ever. It was delicately warmed, and the drinks were chilled to perfection. You treated yourself to an aperol for your victory. 

You were forking some arugula glazed with balsamic into your mouth as you were typing away on your phone, not even peering up towards the boys. 

“Okay,” Lando said, pointing his spoon at you. “You’ve been glued to your phone nonstop for the past like ten minutes.”

“I’m allowed to be on my phone.”

“You said today was a no-notification day,” he frowned.

“Did I? Do you remember that, Osc?”

“Nope,” he replied, spooning the parfait into his mouth. 

“Who are you texting?”

“No one.”

“Yn.”

“Hm?” 

“Please!”

You slipped a piece of bruschetta into your mouth and looked onto the near-empty street. You ignored the curly-haired boy, knowing he was about to throw a mini-tantrum like he did when you stole his helmet when you were young.

“Someone from the paddock?” Oscar asked, setting his phone down. Why are they so nosy?

You forgot that when it comes to drama, they were the ones who always ran to find it. Everyone knew this by now, because the last season of Drive to Survive included their backstage gossip about Horner.

“Maybe,” you let on, eyes still focused on your screen.

Lando sat up so fast his sunglasses fell back on his face. “Someone from the paddock–!”

“Hush, please–”

“Someone from the paddock, Oscar!" he repeated, now hushed. "She said maybe so that must mean–”

“Yes, I heard of her, Lan.” Oscar now had duck lips, thinking about who it could be.

They both were already ruling out drivers with girlfriends or wives, but they hadn’t considered the rest of the thousands of people in the paddock. 

“F1 or?”

“F2,” you said, giving in way too easily. You had to tell them eventually. “He’s in F2, and he's not.. anything right now. He's just nice to talk to.”

The table was silent for about a second until Lando’s eyes bulged. 

“He.”

“Well, yes, Lando. He.”

“Who?” he whined, already annoyed by the fact that he wasn't alerted the moment you began to text him.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re gonna make it weird and like to tell everyone.”

“I would never!”

Oscar said, “Don’t make her mention all the times she's tried talking to guys on the paddock and they got chased away by either you or Lewis.”

“That’s not fair!” Lando groaned, looking over at Oscar. “That’s not fair, right?”

“Neh,” Oscar shrugged, going back to his parfait.

Lando repeated Oscar’s name and pointed his fork at him, “You’re supposed to be on my side, y’know?”

He hummed, “You don’t have to tell us, yn.”

You sighed in relief, but that shortly ended when Oscar continued, “But Lando will ask for the rest of the week.”

“I know.”

“And perhaps the rest of the season.”

Another sigh came from you, “I know.”

“Just saying.”

You looked back up at Oscar, munching on his treat as if he didn’t just tag-team her with Lando. You were onto him.

You randomly blurted that he was tall to them. “Pretty face. Funny. He texted me after quali on Saturday and said-”

“He texted you?!” Lando gasped, face now resting in his hands.

“Am I really that unapproachable to you?”

“No, no, but he watched your qualifying and reached out first?”

“Yeah, it was a nice text.”

“What did it say?” This time, it was Oscar. 

“Uh, he said I was quick and impressive. And that I did well.”

Lando repeated what you said like a parrot in the most monotone voice ever, eyes rolling. 

“Yes, Lan. I’ve been texting him since, and he seems like a great guy.”

Lando looked at Oscar, and Oscar looked at Lando. A quiet conversation passed between them, but you couldn’t pick up on it. Frankly, you didn’t have the energy to inquire.

“And?”

“Nothing,” they both said simultaneously, which was never a good sign. 

Oscar nudged his bowl over with a perked brow to offer you some of the berries in his parfait. You gladly accepted, spooning the fresh fruit into your mouth as you heard that agitating, grating voice again. 

“What’s his name?”

“Not telling.”

He crossed his arms in defeat, and his eyes met yours. Under all the noise and terrible jokes, he was a sweet boy who barely had the vocabulary to voice everything he wanted to say. 

He looked away first.

“I just wanna make sure he’s, y’know, good enough or whatever.”

You raised your brows with a grin of disbelief, “Right, whatever.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, sipping on his Diet Coke like a bratty kid.

You still didn't tell him his name.

_ . ݁˖ . ݁. 🏎 . ݁˖ . ݁. __

About ten minutes later, two girls passed by, coming from the harbor. They were a bit younger than the three of you and were full of energy. Lando already turned towards them with a smile as one of them greeted him. “I'm so sorry to interrupt,” she stuttered.

“Don't be sorry, hi.”

The other girl was pink and hiding behind her friend, “Could we? Is it okay if we get a photo?”

Lando said of course, and you moved over to make space for them. Oscar shifted on the other side so you could move in. But, the other girl asked, “All three?”

You smiled and nodded, standing up with Oscar. Lando's arm went around yours, and yours went around him. OScars brought him to your hip, and the other was at his side next to the fan to respect their personal space.

After a couple of clicks, they asked for a quick signature, shakingly handing our driver's trading card to each of us.

You signed the card they had given you and drew a tiny heart in the corner, hoping they’d cherish it. 

After the girls had said goodbye, you sat back down in the cushioned chair and swirled your coffee, thinking about the f2 driver and his kind words.

But you kept drifting back to Lando and Oscar’s words and how they were a little too caring for ‘just friends’.

_ . ݁˖ . ݁. 🏎 . ݁˖ . ݁. __

f1gossip.daily✓

f1gossip.daily✓ yn hamilton spotted at lunch in downtown monaco earlier today with lando norris and oscar piastri — fans approached the table for photos and by multiple accounts both lando and oscar were, quote, "very attentive" during the whole thing. more details as they emerge 👀

pitlane.tea  ⤷@f1gossip.daily "very attentive" is doing a LOT of heavy lifting in that sentence and i need sources like rn

f1gossip.daily✓ ⤷ @pitlane.tea a fan account posted that when someone came up to the table oscar moved yn's chair slightly so she had more space and lando signed everything AND took the photos AND held the items while lando signed. 

formulachaos.f1 ⤷@f1gossip.daily hey so whens it my turn

gridwatcher ⤷ @f1gossip.daily or they're just friends who've known each other for years and you're all reading into nothing

pitlane.tea ⤷ @gridwatcherr yes and? the reading in is the whole point

asstonmardih ⤷i wish i was as delusional as f1 fans

─────────────────────

f1gossip.daily✓ UPDATE: multiple fans at the same lunch have now confirmed that when a fan asked for a photo of all three, lando immediately put his arm around yn's shoulders, oscar shifted closer on her other side WITHOUT BEING ASKED. They also mentioned Lando stealing a pepper from her??  this is not normal friend behaviour this is sum elseee

formulacrumbs ⤷ @f1gossip.daily why is he so boyfie omg

f1addicttt ⤷ @f1gossip.daily. i need the newcomers to understand the LORE

pitlane.tea  ⤷ @f1addicttt enlighten the new fans please we have time

f1addicttt ⤷ @pitlane.tea okay so they've known each other since junior karting. there are videos of them from when they were like 8 so cute omg. Lando has been stealing yn's food since the dawn of time. Oscar has been quietly judging Lando for it since approximately the same time. This is a fifteen year love story we are witnessing in real time

formulachaos.f1 ⤷ @f1addicttt fifteen years of lando stealing food and oscar judging him and letting it happen. this is a love story actually im not hearing otherwise

papayaenthusiast ⤷ @formulachaos.f1 im gonna be like 100 if yn and lando get tg bro ts is NOT happening 

papayasdontrule⤷ @papayaenthusiant girl who said it was lando

f1haswon⤷ @papayasdontrule wait i kinda fw oscar and yn

cadillaccruisers wait i have an idea but you guys HAVE to be open-minded 

───────────────────────────────

tags: @tabisswag @strawberrylov-er @jsprien213 @henna006

it was a normal routine without saying so. dex would pass through the tenth floor, which he didn't need to, yet did, and you would look up from whatever you were working on and give him the brightest smile. the same kind every time. it was toothy and looked like the white keys of a piano, and its eyes shut for a mere moment. the corners of your lip were pulled up to the point they looked forced, but they weren’t. you had always expected your daily greeting from the man.

dex knew it was irrational. he never made choices based on feelings, and definitely not personal feelings. he couldn’t even imagine feeling something just because of a co-worker's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed smile. 

you never said much. a “good morning dex” was the usual. sometimes it’d just be “dex” and you fluttered your lashes. the way his name left your lips made it sound like you were glad he was there, because you were. overly so. you went back to work immediately after your daily greeting, pink highlighter uncapped and moving along your twentieth file of the morning. 

dex’s stomach was always unsettled because you offered him nothing more and nothing less. he respected it.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

on thursday, you didn’t come in. your neatly and minimalistic cubicle was devoid from the pretty girl sitting there. your lucky bamboo had slightly less water than the day before, and your mini fan was shut off. 

dex passed by and noticed at 8:05 am that your highlighters were arranged by usage next to your monitor. your comfy, spinny chair was pushed in, which was a tell-tale sign because nobody else on the damn floor did that.

he asked agent reeves about it in the break room, keeping his tone low and disinterested, in hindsight knowing he was itching to find out.

reeves pressed the dispense button on the coffee machine and waited a moment for it to fill. “family affair. her cousin passed, i believe. she’ll be back monday morning.”

dex hummed in reply and returned to his office. he stared at the vanilla folder on his desk for exactly five minutes before resuming his work.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

dex was never a flower person. he didn't understand it. why get something that has pollen, a common allergy, and will die within a week or so? however, what he did understand was grief. he knew what it looked like when someone carried it quietly and how it's like a flame has been snuffed. 

he bought roses on friday evening from a stand down the block, asking the florist what would be best for someone like you. she replied with dark red roses. dex stared at the blooming flowers, the deep crimson looking familiar to something else he saw almost every night. the petals leaked out darkness, contrasting with the white wall behind them. he thanked the florist and tipped her well, with the tip being his own ‘knock on wood.’

dex knew where you lived because he drove you home one time after your car was in the shop. you insisted he didn’t have to walk you up to your apartment, but he insisted anyway. for the split second he saw the inside of your living space, he was already curious to know more.

it smelled like a warm baked good and was almost as minimalistic as your desk, keeping the essentials but decorating with intention. he spent the rest of his night thinking about what else could be inside your humble little abode.

dex left the roses outside your door with a small note. it was short, because dex didn’t really know what to say to someone who's experiencing a loss like yours. ‘sorry, that must’ve been hard?’ gee, he sucks.

heard about your cousin - b. poindexter.

dex didn’t knock because he assumed you were either not home or did not want to be disturbed. he also held back against letting himself inside, pushing down his ever-longing wonder for more of you. he left the way he came.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

on monday, at exactly eight, dex heard you before he saw you. the sound of the wheels of your chair being pulled out, and you pushing the ‘low’ button on your fan. he turned the corner of the glass wall and noticed you had immediately stood back up. closing the already short distance between the two of you, you pulled him into a hug.

dex didn’t register it at first and kept his arms at his sides before bringing them around you, the muscular biceps caging your figure. your cheek rested on his shoulder, but just as dex was about to pull you in tighter, you broke away.

you stepped back and smiled at him, this time a little less bright, but still signature nonetheless. 

“thank you,” you said. “for the roses.”

“it was no issue,” dex mellowly said. 

you smiled again, warmth emitting from your core, knowing that dex thought of you. you rubbed your thighs together, attempting to expel the feeling.

“they were beautiful,” you finally said, before turning back, uncapping your highlighter, and immediately starting on the ten files you accumulated on friday. 

he stood there watching you for a moment before turning to leave, whispering to himself, ‘attagirl.’

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

two weeks later, dex was out on his nightly patrol. it wasn't unusual, of course, but for some reason dex was extra tired tonight. he didn't take his medication, so it couldn't be that. he doesn't drink or smoke, so that's off the list too. maybe he felt queasy after seeing a shorter man laughing with a woman who had ivory for teeth as they were sipping wine.

what was relevant was that it was late, it was quiet, and his entire execution of mob bosses down the district was finished before midnight. but, he saw that the man scoffed and rolled his eyes after the woman had left him. “not even a kiss? what's with females these days?” he drunkenly mumbled.

he had begun to walk home, face glued to his phone. dex didn’t even let the man explain himself before a stem made of glass was lodged in his jugular. 

dex made it back home with only one injury, a cut on his palm. 

he showered, he slept, and he was at his desk by 7:45 the next day.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

the morning briefing on the mendez case ran longer, longer than usual. you, dex, and nearly everyone else in the room disliked it. dex wished that the director ran her session as efficiently as he would; no fluff, just objective and strategy. he sat at the back of the conference room, intently listening. 

you were two seats down, a curve mended in your spine. either you got your suit tailored, or you felt particularly different today by your posture, because dex could see the outline. after dex’s spinal surgery, he started noticing yours more. he imagined running his finger down yours, feeling every ridge if you arched enough.

he snapped out of thought when he heard your voice. you were walking the agents through an error found in the financial records. out of the five other advisors, you were the only one that noticed it. you pointed your manicured nail across the figures and graphs, asking an assistant to cross-reference dates kindly. half of the room didn’t follow fast enough, but dex did. dex always did.

after the briefing, the room slowly cleared. your coworkers gathered their things and promptly left as advised, and you said goodbye to your director. dex stayed seated and reviewed his notes, eyes darting across the page. 

you stayed as well, slipping your pen back into the pocket of your notepad. strolling over, you clicked the door shut and turned to face dex. 

his head lifted at the sound, making eye contact with you. your face was at rest as you walked over to dex, coming behind him. 

dex couldn't see your face, but felt your calm breathing and presence behind him. you leaned over and slowly ran your finger over a sentence he had written. your lips were at dex’s ear, and he could hear the soft rise and fall of your chest.

“i know what you did, dex,” you breathed into his ear, just slightly below a whisper. your finger now traveled up to his palm, digging your nail into the unhealed cut.

dex did not move. his body was stiff as a rock, but his heart rate skyrocketed. you lay both your hands on his shoulder, placing your own ear against the wide of his back. the heavy thumping you could normally hear with your friends was slightly muffled by dex’s muscles, but the drumming sounded nonetheless. 

you counted the beats out loud, still with a low tone, getting to ten then starting over. after completing that twice, you lifted your head and smoothed down the back of dex’s suit jacket. 

you tucked your notepad under your arm and walked to the door, still not looking at dex. 

he swallowed, heart rate now slowing as you left his space. “i’ll see you after lunch,” you stated, swinging the door shut behind you.

dex sat in the empty conference room and gazed at your empty space. perhaps for the first time ever, he understood someone else’s perspective. 

he spent the afternoon trying to solve what you knew. he reviewed everything logically, and ruled out the impossibles. however, no conclusion was determined that truly satisfied him, which made his bones itch.

you came back from lunch with a cup of tea and an unfaltering smile.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

wednesday, you spoke to him about another gênant , more so on his end.

it was late, and the majority of the floor was empty, because it was seven o’clock now. the warmly-lit desk lamps were now dark, and the monitors were no longer humming. you both were in a smaller briefing room, not seeing the need to use the larger conference room as there were only two of you. 

“how was your date?” you asked, eyes fixated on the page you were reading and scraping a nail against the buttons of your calculator. 

“it wasn’t a date,” he denied, not acknowledging or wondering how you even knew about his outing with julie. 

“with julie.”

“it wasn’t a date,” dex repeated, more stern this time. 

you looked up, and the expression on your face was one that wouldn’t agree with him. “you had dinner and chose the restaurant. you walked her to her car, poindexter.”

dex rarely heard you say his full last name, so he could tell you were upset. he didn’t know how to offer you comfort though.

“it was a professional dinner.”

you hummed, and went back to your file. dex watched as you turned a page. “it wasn’t.”

you didn’t respond this time, just uncapping your pen. he focused back on his own file, rereading the same sentence five times and didn’t retain it.

when he looked up again, you were looking at him. lip into a pout, and the light in you had dimmed. your eyes looked like they were shined over with taxidermy lacquer, capturing the dead look.

“why don’t you love me?” you had asked, lip now quivering. 

dex did not answer for a moment, dumbfounded by your question. he couldn't give a satisfying answer, but wanted to tiptoe around something that would make the epoxy fall from your eyes.

he said your name, but you cut him off with a laugh. “i’m just asking a simple question. why can’t you answer me dex? why?”

“you’re–”

“is it something i did?” you asked. the crack in your voice and tilt of your head made dex shuffle in his seat, his palms warming. “because i've been thinking about it, y’know. i’ve been through it all but i can’t find it. what i did, i mean.”

“you didn't do anything,” he warily replied, still avoiding the question.

“then why?””

dex parted his lips to respond, but nothing came out. 

“why?” you repeated, and this time the crack went deeper. you were smiling, the piano keys shining once more. you could plead to him if he let you, just wanting to know why. it unnerved dex, earning another slow swallow from him. “i’m always here. i show up. i know your coffee order. i know the exact placement of your cologne. i know that you tie your right shoe more than your left shoe, because the heel is worn more on one side.”

you rose from your chair, voice dropping low. “i know what you did dex. and i’m still here. so why don’t you–”

you stopped yourself, grinning from ear to ear with your eyes closed, catching your tongue. you pressed your index finger to your glossed lips, like you were physically stopping yourself from continuing your mantra.

your eyes opened, wide and wet, maybe a little too much. “sorry,” you said with a giggle. it was now genuine, because you found yourself hilarious, even like this. it pulled dex in, because you rarely ever laughed louder than you have now.

“there’s no reason,” dex finally spoke out, knowing what he said was certainly the wrong answer. but that’s not his fault, he just doesn’t know! of course, he does love you. he’s pushed it down forever, ignoring that his love was actually just obsessive and would become a liability (which he would override anyway).

you nodded, packing your bag as quickly as possibly, papers crumbling. you threw your coat over you and started to walk away, but then you picked an envelope slither on the end of the table. it was solid and held some weight to it, the cool metal stark with the warmth that's been eating you inside.

you tossed it up in your hand before throwing it like a dart right past dex. the slitter pierced the cork board behind him, right on his name on a piece of paper listing the agents for the operation.

dex didn’t move, but he felt the clip of the ear next to his ear and the ‘twang’ noise that went with it. you picked up his empty mug and your arm was already in motion as dex ducked instinctively to avoid the ceramic. 

the shattered mug fell into two on the carpeted floor, split almost perfectly in half. 

you stood there breathing, pleased with your stress relief. your composure had returned and your face was no longer warm, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“goodnight poindexter.”

this time, you slammed the door shut behind you, rattling the blinds against it. dex crossed his legs and stared at the mug for a long time.

 ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

dex drove home, his mind repeating “why don’t you love me?” flat and clear in his head. he also kept replaying your attack on him, wondering if you meant to cut him or just spook him. or maybe neither. he parked in the garage and took the elevator up to his small but pristine apartment. on the doormat, there lay a small gift bag. he looked left and right down the hall before opening it.

inside, an envelope slitter with an engraved “sorry” and a mug, his mug, with the cracks filled with a gold adhesive, the repair visible. it was kintsugi, something you showed dex in a magazine during lunch during your first month at the fbi. the last item was a rose. the thorns were trimmed and smoothed down, and the petals were still intact.

he unfolded the small notecard inside the mug. small, neat handwriting read, “sorry”

below, a small ps saying, “the mug works fine. i tested it.”

dex smelt the rose, expecting the usual pollen and floral smell, which was there, but it also smelt like you. his calloused finger thumbed against the layers of the petal, imagining it was you. it was sickly sweet, disgusting in the best way. the rose was set on the kitchen countertop where he could see it.

january had settled over manhattan the same way it had since you were able to see it. tokyo was a breath of fresh air, but that was five months ago. it was grey and foggy, and the chill of the window somehow gets through the triple-paned windows if you just barely sit close enough to them. of course, i was close enough, because the couch i claimed had the best lighting, and the cold was no dealbreaker.

the trifold was spread across the table with three panels that had not a single word written on them. there were colored tabs, two highlighters, and a copy of ‘to kill a mockingbird’ with the spine cracked at multiple different chapters. my laptop  was open to a blank document with a title labelled ‘ela project.’

peter was on the floor on the opposite end of the table, which i told him wasn’t very smart. he ignored my offer to switch but declined. he had his own copy of the book, which he brought from the queens in his bag. that probably meant he read the assigned chapters, which proved he was a better student than i, and i chose not to give him glory.

“okay,” i sighed, pulling my knees to my chest. “symbolism. we need three symbols, and we have one, the tree.”

“the mockingbird,” peter said, highlighting the page he was reading. peter’s annotations were like mine; pretty colors, bracketed sections, underlines, and little stars ( i did hearts). around two weeks into knowing him, i noticed how he wrote a tiny question mark when something confused him, but didn’t wanna answer himself. 

"obviously, by the mockingbird, that's the whole title," i said. "we need a third."

"boo radley's gifts in the tree."

i pointed at him. "that's the tree again."

"no, the gifts are separate from the tree."

"the gifts live in the tree, peter."

"boo lives in a house, but we'd count him as a separate symbol from the house," he said, finally looking up. he had a pen tucked behind his ear, and his face displayed his smartass self. he looked cute doing it, so i let him win.

i looked at him, then the tri. fold, then him again. “ugh, fine, gifts in the tree,” i didn't admit he was right, though.

“alright,” he said as he went back to the page.

i began to speak to myself, “we still need to do the theme section.” i pulled the trifold closer and stared at the middle panel.

“courage,” he said. “not like physical courage, but moral. atticus defended tom robinson, knowing he would lose the case. that could be our thesis.”

i looked up at him, and he was already back to annoying, as if he didn't basically do the entire project. 

“okay, great.”

“i know,” he said without any arrogance or ‘told-ya-so’ tone.

i wrote down exactly what he said in the doc before i could forget about it, and the comfortable silence came back in. being friends with peter for a while made me learn that silence wasn’t always a bad thing, especially if it was with him. september me would be so surprised by what we are now. 

outside, it was still grey, but the sun was slowly setting. it was flat and tired, and kinda perfect for reading. the volume of the music i put on was low and devoid of bass to the point it was airy. peter didn’t complain about the soothing sounds, which were good because they sounded like something he’d easily fall asleep to. 

i was in the middle of writing another thesis sentence that i was displeased with when i heard a familiar shuffling in the kitchen. a very familiar shuffling i knew as well as my own heartbeat.

dad appeared from around the corner in a dark suit jacket, which was the first red flag i noticed. it was a tuesday evening, and he told me he was working til nine.

he was not wearing a t-shirt and sweats, but a suit. 

“h8i,” i said with a questioning tone.

“hi,” he said, heading straight for the keurig. he hit the button, leaned against the marble countertop, and looked at his phone. 

“you look nice,” i noted, eyes narrowing. 

“thanks,” he replied, not looking up.

“where are you going?”

he didn’t reply, and the coffee machine hissed out with steam.

“out.”

peter looked up from the floor to see the two of us before i looked back at peter. we exchanged looks and non-verbal words, which happened quite often. 

“out?”

“yep, that's what i said.”

“you're in a suit.”

“i do own suits.”

“dad!”

he looked up from his phone in an almost innocent expression if you didn’t know him. unfortunately, you didn't know him. he took his mug and took a sip from it.

“is this a date?” i asked.

the pause before he answered me was way too long not to be a date.

“i'm meeting someone,” he replied before taking another sip. 

“that's a yes,” peter yelled from the floor, stating the obvious.

dad looked at peter. peter looked back with a small smile.

“i didn't say yes,” dad denied.

“you didn’t say no,” i pointed out. i sat up straighter now. something clicked in my brain. “wait. a couple of months ago, you came home late on a weekday, and happy wouldn't tell me where you were. i asked F.R.I.D.A.Y, and she said you had a personal engagement. that means nothing, though.”

dad set down his mug.

“is it the same woman?” 

he didn’t answer again, and i felt my eyes widen. “dad.”

“dad!”

“i didn’t say it was the same woman.”

“you never say anything!”

“i don't see how this is relevant to your english project,” he said, gesturing his mug at the trifold.

“it's very relevant to everything. peter, back me up.”

“i think,” peter carefully said, “that it's a completely reasonable question for a daughter to ask her dad.”

dad pointed at him, "you're supposed to be on my side, kid.”

“i'm on the side of information,” peter replied with a tight-lipped smile, which made me wanna bear-hug him. 

“who is she?” i asked. 

“nobody you need to worry about.”

“dad, that is the worst reply you could have given me since you once told me ‘because i said so’ when i was sixteen.”

“it worked two years ago, and it will work again now.”

“it didn’t work then,” you mumbled, not trying to bring up how you did what you asked to do anyway. “who is she? does she have a name? does she know about me? brief her? i feel like we’re a lot,,ot so she should have a heads-up–”

“she’s very much aware,” he said.

“aware, huh,” i repeated. “everything?”

“yep, everything. i’ll introduce her when the time is right,” he said, repeating what he said a couple of months ago. “finish the project, you two. there's food in the fridge, and nat made the pasta you both like. don’t let it go to waste. parker, the guest room is made up. and let your aunt may know you’re good here and that italy has the best gelato.”

“thank you, mr. stark, i will,” peter said.

“don't thank me, just keep her from setting the living room on fire or anything else while i'm out,” he said, nodding at me.

“i haven’t set anything on fire,” i whined.

“the incident of 2018 says otherwise.” dad came over to kiss the top of my head, mug still in hand. “be good, love you.”

“love you more.”

and just like that, he was heading for the elevator, probably waiting somewhere in the city. 

the doors closed, and i looked over at peter. “she’s aware.”

“i caught that,” he said. “we are not letting this go, aren't we?”

“absolutely not,” you agreed. i smirked, eyes darting back and forth.

“what?”

“give me ten minutes,” i said, already getting up.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ 

the thing about being a nepo baby was being extremely good at getting ready quickly. people assumed otherwise, which was a huge fault on their part. ten minutes means ten minutes only. 

pick something nice, and get ready quickly enough not to second-guess it. that's why it takes everyone forever to get ready. 

i was back in the living room within nine minutes in a black, fleece funnel neck jacket, dark wash jeans, and knee-high givenchy boots with my hair down. in my hand, a pair of blacked-out sunglasses that haven't been touched since cancun three years ago.

peter was standing by the couch where i had left him, and he hadn't moved at all, meaning he was wearing the same hoodie and sweats he had come in, which was fine, actually. he looked normal, probably more than me.

“okay,” i started. “she needs to follow him without him or happy seeing us, which means we need to take the service elevator and go through the parking garage–”

“this is a bad idea, yn,” peter said. 

“noted. parking level and then a cab.”

“a really bad idea. like, if your dad finds out–”

“peter, he won't."

“he absolutely will, and he will specifically tell me that this was ‘anything else’ of ‘ setting the living room on fire or anything else.’” 

“peter,” you pouted and looked at him. “do you wanna know who she is not?”

he bit his lip and sighed, “..yes,” he admitted.

“then let's go,” i said, already taking his hand and dragging him towards the service elevator. 

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ 

happy had taken dad to some mediterranean place in the west village, which we knew because peter looked it up on his phone and said he was using an ‘educated guess', which we pretended was what happened. "i genuinely just guessed," he said in the cab.

"peter."

"i'm serious. he mentioned the west village a call two weeks ago and —"

"you remembered a passing comment from a phone call two weeks ago?"

he looked at the window. "i pay attention."

i looked at the side of his face for a second. "yeah," i said in a curious tone. "you do."

“take these,” i said, handing him a pair of dad’s sunglasses. he never wore them because they were ‘bug-eyed’. 

the cab moved through the streets of new york, bright and busy. i kept my hands in my lap, fiddling with my cuticles. my knees rested against peter as they knocked now and then from the speed bumps.

we got out half a block down, and the restaurant had a warm light coming out the window. i know it had a short food menu and a wine list longer than the declaration of independence. it was intimate and was more of a secret spot than an influencer fan-favorite. 

“okay, “ i said quietly, pulling the funnel of my jacket up and putting my sunglasses on. “we are just walking past.”

“we are standing still on a sidewalk,” peter said beside me.

“we will walk past.”

he looked at me, his breath seen in the cold. he had his hands in his pockets in the hoodie beneath his jacket. the hoodie did nothing against the biting cold, which i chose not to comment on because i was freezing as well. 

“this is so unhinged,” he sighed.

“you decided to come,” i smiled.

“which may be worse,” he chuckled. 

we walked past the window slowly, looking in. the glass was slightly fogged at the edges, but clear in the middle from the warmth inside. it looked like a crafted picture frame.

there was dad. 

in a booth near the window, jacket off. he was leaning forward across the table the way he never did at diplomatic dinners and press conferences. he was relaxed, like how he was at home.

across from him was a woman with blonde hair, skinny, and quite beautiful. she was leaning into the conversation, fully tapped in. she was laughing at something he said, and he looked pleased that she was. like he intentionally did. 

i stopped for just a second, just enough. peter stopped beside me, close enough to the point i felt his near-nonexistent warmth. i felt him glance between me and the window and remained quiet.

“okay,” i quietly said. 

we kept walking around the block, out of sight. i stopped with my back against the cold white brick and exhaled.

“so?”

“he really likes her,” i said. it was way more straightforward than i meant, and no tone whatsoever.

peter was quiet for a beat and listened, not waiting for his turn to speak. “yeah, looks like it.”

i pressed my glossed lips together. it wasn't a bad thing, not at all. i wasn't upset, not exactly. but it was new, and changed. change was scary sometimes, especially if dad was serious about her. 

“she seemed good,” peter offered. “from what we could see. she didn't seem uninterested in him.”

“she was laughing at his jokes,”

“that's either a very good sign, or she has such low standards,” peter joked. “but either way, it’s good to get to know her at one point.”

a laugh emitted from my throat before i could swallow it down. he seemed to exhale in relief and was satisfied with it, a little smug even.

i looked up at the sky, now dark. the streetlight illuminated us and wasn’t helping me maintain homeostasis, which has been a recurring problem.

“thanks for coming with me,” i said.

“you would've gone alone,” he said, knowing it's a fact.

“it was optional, you made the right choice though,” i smiled. 

he looked at me, small and unguarded. it lasted less than a second, but i took a mental photo anyway. “yeah, i did.”

the wind blew harder for a moment, nearly toppling us over. the air was pressing in from all sides, which was most likely the reason why we were standing as close as we were. 

“we should go back,” i said, peering at my boots.

“yeah,” he agreed.

neither of us said anything after. i moved towards the street, and he fell into step next to me, where he was the entire evening.

we got back into a cab and didn't say much on the way back to the tower. we were in no rush to get there, and his shoulder was against mine. i looked out the window at the wet streets and bright lights and said nothing, which was completely fine. 

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ 

when we got back, we made no progress on the trifold. we were cold, hungry, and now back into comfortable clothes. the pasta was extremely good as expected,e,d and the project wasn't due tomorrow, so the stakes were low. at one point, we gravitated back to the couch, and neither of us acknowledged what was happening. 

between finishing the pasta and some movie we put on, the distance between us was no longer there. before, we sat next to each other, my legs up as his were stretched out. my eyes started to droop, but i was determined to stay up. 

the tv was on, but neither of us was really watching it. 

“what do you think her name is?” i eventually spoke, staring blankly at the undone trifold. 

"maybe something nice," peter said. "she seems like a nice person."

"what does that mean?"

"i don't know," he admitted. "she just seemed nice. that's all i got."

"you said that already."

"it held up on reflection," he said, and i smiled at nothing in particular, just the space in front of me and the low light.

“she knows about the whole thing,” i said. “she knows, which means he's serious about her.”

“the whole thing, considering he has a daughter and lives in the largest building in new york?”

“mainly the first thing, but yes. how do you feel about that?” he asked as she slightly shifted under the blanket we shared.

“it's an adjustment, for sure. i’m just like.. not sure, i know.”

“hm, i see.”

the movie continues. the city was quiet from where we were. manhattan was tucked in a little after the holiday, and the noise died down a little. this was one of my favorite times of the year, because everyone was getting back into their usual routines, wearing their new holiday gifts. 

my bracelet shimmered on my wrist, the one peter got me in tokyo. the camera charm caught light from the t, and i smiled at it. 

“peter,” i said.

“yeah?” he said.

i didn't really think about what i was going to say before i said his name, which was unusual. i knew the end of a sentence before i began it. i started this one with nothing at the end.  never mind, i said, adjusting my position to become more comfortable, eyes now blinking slower than ever. i forced peter to lie down, and i lay right after, spooning him without touching me at all. 

he didn't ask after i said nevermind. he never asked, which made me warm inside. he paid attention to every single thing and knew the difference between an unspoken thought and a false thought.

i got comfortable and nudged peter, not caring if it was odd for friends to cuddle up like this. if peter didn’t like it, he’d say something, and i know he would. he was always honest, even if it was a little mean sometimes. 

peter stopped breathing for a moment until he remembered the box breathing dad taught him. he slightly leaned over to look at me, my body rising and falling gently. he gently put an arm over me to pull me closer so i wouldn't roll off. he pulled the blanket up and turned down the volume of the tv. 

i fell asleep somewhere before the movie ended, which i didn't know about until i woke up in a dark and quiet living room. peter was still with me, very still. his breathing was slow and even, deep in sleep. 

i tucked up the blanket higher and closed my eyes again. some things just weren't for the city. just the couch, dark, and whatever peter and i were that we didn’t wanna talk about. 

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ 

peter was awake. 

he wasn’t sure when he stopped sleeping, but he knew he had, and it's been a while. it was probably as late as ever now. the tower was silently humming, regulating the systems and tech. 

she was asleep. he was aware that he acknowledged a lot of things about her without even trying. her breathing had slowed and evened out forever ago. she hadn't moved,d and the blanket was slightly adjusted, which he shifted involuntarily.

his legs were static,c and he had no plans of moving. 

he looked up at the ceiling, which had low, ambient lights of the city pouring softly through the huge windows. new york was never completely dark.

he thought about their little adventure. the moment she stopped on the sidewalk and went quiet, he watched her face go blank. she wasn’t upset, but changed her mental framework. he hadn't said anything and just stood there, close enough to him and close enough to the window. she didn't say thank you for waiting for her to keep walking, but instead thanked you for coming, which was really the same thing. 

he thought about her shoulder against his in the cab. she was almost always three steps ahead of herself. he thought about the bracelet, camera charm, and photobooth strip he had carried in his wallet since tokyo.

he thought about the trifold on the coffee table, which will get them scolded tomorrow by her dad ‘t, and each other, the unwashed tupperware in the sink, and the pastel pink highlighter she let him borrow that she never asked for back.

peter had known. he had always known. he knew the way you acted when he was around, when he wasn't, how you watched the tv when spiderman was mentioned, and him knowing that he still hadn’t told you, and how you hadn't brought up your interaction in tokyo. what he didn’t know was what he was going to do.

he knew he liked you. a lot. he also didn't know what he was waiting for. the right time? that's what people said when they didn't wanna do something, so it wasn't that. he wanted to be sure. not about his own feelings, because those have been clear for much longer than he was willing to admit. 

soon, he thought. not tonight. tonight, she was asleep, more specifically, asleep with him. the apartment was dark and cool, tech humming like white noise. there was no reason to complicate the perfect night, but it would be soon. he bit the inside of his cheek in anxiety, but a good kind. like butterflies in the stomach. 

he shut his eyes again, clinging to her a little closer. 

soon.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

I. You have been to Melbourne more times than you could count. A million times when your dad took you for karting and signings, and two more times during your F1 career. When you were nine, it was the teal-and-silver walls that said, "Mercedes." Now, they are red with the prancing horse.

“You’re staring again,” Charles chuckled, taking a swig of water.

You blinked, “Am I?”

“Yep. You do not need to be nervous; you’re not a rookie anymore. Please remember to be yourself when the paparazzi comes. Smile as well!”

“I always smile.”

“Sure, smiling like you were about to explode at the press conference in Abu Dhabi.”

“I was just focused!” you laughed in response.

Charles made a ‘hm’ noise like he didn't believe you whatsoever. Charles had been doing this media thing forever, and he barely ever paid mind to it as well. Except he looked good at every angle, effortlessly. He was too perfect, you swore.

You were trying your hardest to strive for that. Ferrari’s PR team had set up the garage, backdrop clean, and ringlights on. It looked like a dentist’s office. One of the members, Lyle, seemed like he had four shots of espresso with a dash of something from a flask. You and Charles were about to make Instagram reels for the next half-hour. 

“Okay, okay, okay!” he clapped to grab our attention. “So Charles, you're showing her the ropes, because you're like the mentor or whatever. You're the rookie,” he said, pointing to you.

I furrowed my brows, “I’ve been driving for this team for three years; been in the garage since I was 3 months, Lyle.”

“But like the narrative-”

“The narrative is I’ve podiumed six times,” you sternly replied. You were not here to be treated like a new student, because you weren’t. You and Charles were the head of the horse.

Charles said your name before putting a hand on your shoulder. He looked full of patience and looked at Lyle, “She is very teachable.”

After around twenty minutes of content consisting of ‘who knows Ferrari trivia better” (which you won by three points), name the track, and reaction to fan comments, you were pooped. One comment was about you, overtaking at Monza last year, and how ‘graceful’ it was, even though that was a near panic attack moment.

You had a good season. A great season, even.

Before all that, Dad retired, and Ferrari had called almost immediately after. You soon were in the garage with a red kit and ‘Hamilton 'stitched on a red leather jacket, which was probably just as expensive as your first kart. You were so, so focused.

“That’s a great comment,” Charles quietly said, nodding at the tablet Lyle held. He was being genuine and simple about it, as always. “You're quick. The car will love you.”

You side-eyed him, “We don't know that for sure yet.”

“I know what quick looks like. The genes carry on,” he smiled, now getting up. “Now come on, they want us next to the car for the announcement post.”

II. Your phone was already buzzing by the time they wrapped up. Tagged in at least three hundred posts, you didn't even bother looking at DMs and notifications. However, you did look at the comments from a dump you had your social media manager post literally five minutes ago.

ynhamilton

❤︎⁠ 293K 💬2K ↳↰ 7,939 ➢829

ynhamilton glad to be back x

ferrariforlife ok father feature

lewishamilton avid hat wearer

⤷ ynhamilton well yes

charles_lerclerc 👏

kimi.antonelli neigh

⤷georgerussell63 neigh x2

⤷ynhamilton neigh x3

─────────────────────

The paddock club was so disconnected from the rest of the track. Hospitality suites were stacked up, and catering was bliss. Your eyes were beginning to get tired of going from the bright red to the papaya orange. 

Lando spotted you from about thirty meters away and stood up so fast he nearly knocked over someone’s champagne flute. 

“She lives!” he announced to you. 

“Sit down,” Oscar said, without looking up from his phone.

“Hey! I'm expressing my very real human emotions, Osc.”

“What you're doing is causing a scene in the suite.”

“Same thing.”

You dropped onto the white couch across from Oscar and stole a cookie from the marble table, a habit you've instilled since you were able to grab onto things.

“Good media day?” Oscar asked, now shutting his phone off. 

“Charles told me that I have my dad’s genes, and it shows, so pretty good.”

“You do.”

“Thanks, Osc.”

Lando was lying sideways across the couch with his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. It was probably the only shut-eye he was going to get today. A big, fat smirk on his face with it.

“Sooo,” he started. “Ferrari.”

“Ferrari,” you repeated. 

“Big red and scary walls, innit.”

“Not that scary,” you laughed, picking up another cookie. You were prepared for your dad to pop out of nowhere and advise against snacking a day before a sprint.

Lando grinned again, which meant you knew he knew you were lying. You’ve known that grin for fifteen years and have gotten yourself in trouble more times than ever.

“You’ll be fine,” Oscar said, direct and simple. “You race extremely well, specifically during the warmer races. And your racecraft was better than ours in Abu Dhabi last year.” he paused for a moment. “Annoying.”

“How kind of you,” you proudly smiled at his half-compliment. 

“I noticed how annoying it was.”

You smiled anyway, “Wow, that should be my caption on my next dump. ‘81 thinks Ferrari’s strategies are spectacular.’”

Oscar just shook his head at my antics, while Lando cackled. Someone turned to look, and soon after, a couple of phones followed. You’ve always felt like phones and cameras should be banned here. 

“Phones, Lan,” Oscar warned, his eyes darting forward.

“It’s fine,” Lando insisted, taking a chug of water. “Let them.” Unbothered as ever.

Oscar’s face also slightly tightened up, the displeasure clear on his face. “We are just talking and having a snack in the paddock. There’s nothing to photograph.”

“You both have one of the most photogenic faces in motorsports," you said.

“First, wrong, your dad or Senna does. Two, this is boring compared to what we do on Sunday. They’ll get over it,” Lando rolled his eyes. 

By the time you three headed out forty-five minutes later, laughing of course, there were at least five people who posted and tagged you guys. Seriously, are you guys that interesting?

III. The thing about being Sir Lewis Hamilton’s daughter was the fact that people could have an opinion about the way you stir your tea.

They monitored what you wore, said, and sat next to at the conference because God forbid you chose a rookie over their goat Max (whom you love anyway). They surveillance if your helmet design was a tribute or just a sponsored ripoff. Whether you deserved that red seat compared to a friend who was with you in prema. 

You had a complex relationship with these facts. It was between ‘I don't care’ and the truth, being that it ate you up sometimes, even if you never showed it.

Friday nights during race weekend brought a warm buzz in your system, both figuratively and literally. Debrief, dinner at a local restaurant, and then, if deserved, a bright night out. The grid was small, but everyone ended up being in the same three places. 

Tonight, it was a rooftop bar that Charles had texted in your group chat at 9:00 PM sharp with no context or preamble. The red pin emoji and a map were all that it took to get you shoving your feet into heels a size too small. 

Charles and Carlos were arguing, or maybe talking with their hands in the corner, while Rebecca and Alexandra laughed beside them. George, Alex, and Kimi were giggling along with their gossip. 

Lando was on top of someone’s shoulder singing to the house song, while Oscar observed from the side. 

“You made it,” Oscar said, nudging his elbow gently at you.

“Well, when Charles sends a pin, you know I'm there.”

Oscar looks around the rooftop, watching the various grid members unwind in their own personal way. “Of course.”

Lando somehow was already off the person’s shoulders and shouted, "You're here!” before throwing an arm round your shoulder. He smelled like a foreign cologne and vodka. “Oscar bet me twenty quid you wouldn’t show.”

“I did not,” Oscar said, plain-faced as ever. You could bet you would never see this man shit-faced.

“Did too,” Lando whined.

“I said you might not come because of your late debrief. That’s just an inference.”

“Uh, so that’s basically you saying she wouldn't come.”

“That is just genuinely not the same thing I fear.” You held in your laugh, which soon followed. 

Your eyes skated between the two. This sheer moment was truly the entire basis of their relationship. Lando swam, while Oscar anchored. You’ve seen it evolve for two whole seasons, and you felt like you were nudging between it.

You brought yourself back to the present, “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Get me something immediately,” Lando said faster than light.

“You have something.”

He groaned, “This is basically water at this point–”

You began to walk off, “Then drink the water, Lando.”

“You need it...” you whispered to yourself as you walked towards the bar, which Oscar heard, replying with a stifled laugh.

Somewhere around midnight, Charles took control of the speaker situation, and the music became somehow better and more moody. You were three songs in and pretending you weren't having the time of your life. A phone came your way, which you immediately clocked. Thankfully, just a grid girlfriend you've seen around.

You mentally loosened up now, going back to singing your heart out.

Later that night, you posted pictures that you somehow had on your phone during the evening.

Oscar texted shortly after that he took your phone and airdropped it before your Uber came. 

─────────────────────

charles_lerclerc

❤︎⁠ 903K 💬10,290 ↳↰ 3,298 ➢7K

charles_lerclerc #surprise

formula1girlies losing my MIND omg she looks so good im gonna cry

f1addict FERRARI ERA STARTING ONCE MOREEE omg these two #ilove

forzaferrari best uncle and niece duo 

number1papayalover wait, she's out?? On a Friday night?? Before quali?? Omg the woman you are yn hamilton.. 

ynhamilton wouldn't miss it! 

gridwatch she's going out the night before qualifying… interesting..

paddockpulsebars literally every other driver on the grid was there too, mind you. Half the damn paddock at that. 

gridwatch ＠paddockpulsebars girl, I'm just saying 

gridgossipers wait what are we saying

─────────────────────

ynhamilton

♫ Friday • Riton, Nightcrawlers

❤︎⁠ 739K 💬8,483 ↳↰ 1,033 ➢5K

ynhamilton ily grey goose

lando you didn't say bye 💔

⤷ynhamilton ＠lando hi so you were fast asleep standing up

⤷lando ＠ynhamilton I was actually resting my eyes, thanks x

⤷alpinealpaca the sass gn

⤷oscarpiastri You were drooling. 

paddockchasers the way the McLaren boys are in her comments within 4 mins of posting BYEEE

lewishamilton home before 2 am next time, please

ynhamilton so you're in a different timezone x

lewishamilton I'm well aware. Home before 2am!

paddockaddict LEWIS IS FRYING ME WITH THE BEDTIMES

redderbulls the way he publicly commented that I'm dead asl

georgerussellstpose 7-time WDC winner btw

f1gossipdaily why is nobody talking about the fact charles sponsored this event

─────────────────────

pipingpitlanetea

❤︎⁠ 500K 💬20K ↳↰ 10,293 ➢10K

pipingpitlanetea Okay, so Yn Hamilton has been spotted with Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri THRICE this week. Media day, paddock club, and tonight, omggg. Our girl is getting cozy with the competition, and we are NOT complaining.

⤷pipingpitlanetea let's also note that the two papaya boys commented almost asap on the post. They're def all awake and still together. Ferrari-McLaren trio when.

ihateredbull the childhood friends to rivals to whatever this is now is sending me

nandotherookie ‘getting cozy with the competition’ as if they havent known each other since they were like fetuses is killing me

🏁…………🏎💨..

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