Eulaysalopes

You couldn’t remember the exact day you two had become friends. It was some day in middle school, you were sure of that. But the details had blurred over the years. It felt like you had always known each other.

Max had always been in your life.

You had always been in his.

Sitting in each other’s orbits just felt natural—though entirely platonic. That was the part others struggled to understand.

It was laughable the amount of times waiters had brought candles to your dinner table, 'for the mood', assuming the two of you were on a date. You'd stop correcting them after the third time it happened. Besides, it was fun to laugh about. To joke about how much you'd annoy each other if you really were a couple.

"You snore like a bear," you said, laughing over a glass of red wine, "I pity your future girlfriend."

"Doesn’t seem to bother you too much."

“For a free hotel room, I’ll put up with anything.”

He laughed.

After all these years of sporadically sharing hotel rooms, late night drives, unlimited paddock passesand crude jokes—you two had stayed simply good friends. He'd held you through bad break ups and you had held him through every DNF and every crash. You knew eachother like the back of your hand. Friends for life, that was what you always said.

Until things started to shift. Slowly. Subtly. So gently that neither of you really noticed.

It was Free Practice.

Rain had settled over the city days ago and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. The paddock was chaos—engineers scrambling to keep tires warm, trainers trying to keep drivers from catching colds.

Max stood calm in the middle of it all. You watched him, helmet in hand, exchanging quiet words with GP. It was always a strange sort of magic, how he could look so at home in the storm—like it was made for him.

You smiled to yourself.

He’d be fine today. You knew it.

“So, how long have you been together?”

The voice broke you from your thoughts.

You blinked, turning to find Marcus—one of the newer engineers—looming beside your seat. Tall, a bit cocky, but charming in a way that probably worked for him.

“What?” you asked, unsure if you’d misheard.

“You and Max. Been together long?”

You snorted. “Oh. No. We aren’t together. Just friends, y’know?”

It wasn’t the first time someone has misunderstood your relationship with Max. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time someone from Red Bull had made the mistake. Marcus glanced back toward Max, then returned his gaze to you with a slow smirk.

“Damn. And here I thought I had no chance.” He grinned. “You free tonight? I’d love to take you for a drink.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your brain fumbled for an excuse, but none came fast enough.

“Sure,” you found yourself saying. “Why not.”

Barely a few minutes later, Max is by your side, throwing a tyre blanket over you to keep warm.

“It’d be unfortunate if you died of hypothermia before you saw me win on Sunday.”

“Yeah, what would you do without your only supporter cheering in the crowd?” You joked, burrowing into the blanket and sighing from the sudden warmth.

“I’d be lost without you,” he said, mock-solemnly. But there was a warmth in his voice that caught you slightly off-guard.

Max had told you to wear an extra jacket this morning. You had ignored him. He was pretty smug about it, but it didn’t stop him from trying to warm you up—even going as far as to offer his own jacket. As if he wasn't also standing out in the cold.

“Dinner tonight?” He asked, sipping on his water bottle and moving to sit beside you.

“Uh, I’ve got plans actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Plans? With who?”

“Marcus,” you answered, feeling a strange knot form in your stomach. “He asked me out for a few drinks.”

“Oh.”

Max didn’t say anything for a moment, but his gaze flickered briefly to Marcus, cold and stiff, before returning to you. There was something unreadable in his expression.

“Well,” he said, his voice casual but slow, jaw tight and face still, “He seems… nice. I guess.”

You smiled slightly, though it didn’t feel true. You were unable to keep the small flicker of guilt from beating in your chest.

That night, as you found yourself in the dimly lit bar, nursing a glass of wine with Marcus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was... off. Not with Marcus, exactly. He was a decent guy—charming in that way that could probably win anyone over—but the whole time, you couldn’t stop thinking about Max.

Suddenly a text came through. You knew who it was before you even checked.

Going ok?

Marcus leaned over to see the message. He scoffed slightly, “I thought you weren’t together?”

“We aren’t.”

“Then why is he checking on you? Need his permission to go out?”

“Of course I don’t. He just…” you weren’t sure how to phrase it. “He just likes to know I’m ok.”

Another text came through, you angled your phone towards your chest so Marcus wouldn’t see:

I can pretend to be sick if you want to leave.

Then another:

I can see you reading these… is he that boring?

You laughed slightly and put your phone away.

It was ridiculous. You were here with someone else. Yet Max’s face kept slipping into your thoughts, his teasing smile, the way he always seemed to have your back without even trying. The way he cared so effortlessly. Always checking to make sure you were safe, you were happy.

When the evening ended and Marcus walked you back to your hotel, you could tell he wanted to kiss you. But a pit formed in your stomach at the thought of it. So you just smiled, thanked him for a nice night (not a great night, but a nice one) and quickly walked into your hotel room.

Being alone again was a breath of fresh air.

The next day, quali day, you found yourself wandering the paddock, watching the flurry of activity around you as everyone prepared. Max was in his element, once again, focusing completely on the task ahead. But when he saw you, that familiar, soft smile curved across his face.

“Survived last night?” he asked, walking over to you, his voice a mix of teasing and genuine concern.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the tiny smile that tugged at your lips.

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite your best effort. “Barely. I think I hit my lifetime quota of polite smiles. I can only listen to guys explain their workout routine for so long.”

Max let out a low laugh. “Sounds fucking borning.”

You bumped his arm with your elbow, the familiar rhythm of your banter helping smooth the awkward edge that had hung in the air since last night. “Maybe I just have high standards.”

He tilted his head, eyes steady on yours. “Maybe you just went out with the wrong guy.”

The words hit you in the chest harder than you expected. You opened your mouth—half to laugh it off, half to challenge it—but nothing came out.

Max seemed to catch himself, blinking once, then glancing toward the garages like he hadn’t said anything at all. “Anyway,” he said, softer now, “Glad you survived.”

“I always do,” you replied, your voice not quite as light as you meant it to be.

Another pause. A quieter one.

Then he asked, “Did he try anything?”

You looked up at him, surprised by the question—not because he asked, but because of the way he asked. Not teasing. Not brotherly. Just… careful. Like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“No,” you said. “It wasn’t like that. I don’t think I wanted it to be.”

Max nodded once, but didn’t say anything. His jaw ticked slightly. You noticed.

Before you could decide what it meant, one of the Red Bull crew called his name from across the paddock, breaking the moment in two.

He started to walk off, then hesitated. “You’ll be watching?”

“You even have to ask?”

He smiled at that, something warmer than victory flickering in his expression.

And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing there with a hundred unsaid things heavy on your tongue.

Max dragged the car to pole, of course.

By the time the final times were locked in, your voice was hoarse from cheering and your heart felt like it had been running laps alongside him. You waited until the press was done pulling him in every direction before slipping backstage near the motorhome.

He spotted you instantly, eyes lighting up under the brim of his cap. “There she is.”

You didn’t hesitate. You threw your arms around his neck and held tight, letting him feel the full weight of how proud you were. “You killed it out there.”

He laughed into your shoulder. “You think?”

“I know.”

When you pulled back, his hands lingered at your waist, grounding you. The smile on his face softened as his gaze dipped lower, hovering somewhere near your mouth.

You swallowed. He didn’t say anything else—just gave your hip the lightest squeeze. You thought he would step back, like he always did after a celebratory hug. But instead he stayed there. His eyes remained locked on yours.

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing.” His eyes flicked to someone behind you, then back to you.

“Nothing,” Max repeated, but there was a flicker of something in his voice. Something restrained. “Just… you’re here. That’s all.”

You huffed out a small laugh, though your heartbeat was climbing at a concerning rate. “Where else would I be?”

He didn’t answer that. Didn’t need to. You both knew where he was thinking of—across a bar table from a different guy, smiling politely, checking your phone too often.

Someone called Max’s name again—sharper this time. He blinked, like surfacing from deep water, then slowly stepped back. His hands dropped from your waist. You tried not to feel the loss of warmth too acutely.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, already backing away.

You nodded, watching him go. The moment, so suddenly, over. The warmth of his hands on your hips lingering after he had gone.

Later that night, you found yourself standing in the hallway outside Max’s hotel room, quietly debating whether or not to knock. He had texted earlier—Movie? My room? Just us?—like it was the most casual thing in the world.

But it didn’t feel casual.

Not anymore.

You knocked.

The door opened almost instantly. He must’ve been waiting.

He stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, barefoot, hair still slightly damp from a shower. Your gaze dropped instinctively to the nape of his neck, the clean skin of his collarbone and familiar freckles.

He stepped aside without saying a word, and you moved past him into the room.

It was quiet inside, dim and warm. The curtains were drawn, a movie already paused on the screen—some familiar, ridiculous action flick with explosions every other minute. You smiled.

“Got snacks,” Max said, moving to the side table. “But no wine. Sorry.”

“Guess I’ll survive,” you said softly, taking off your jacket.

He sat on the bed, remote in one hand, and gave you a small smile that was all shyness and something a little deeper. “You coming?”

You joined him, sitting close enough that your shoulders touched.

The movie played.

You tried to focus, really, you did. But the warmth of his leg against yours, the way his fingers occasionally brushed the comforter close to your hand—it was pulling all your attention away from the screen.

And then it happened. Slowly. Like everything else with him.

Your head dropped to his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let you stay there. Like he’d been waiting for it to happen. Hoping it would. You felt, more than heard, the breath he released. It ghosted across your hairline.

“I missed you last night,” he said, barely a whisper.

Your heart stuttered. “You knew where I was.”

“Doesn’t mean I liked it.”

You turned your head to look up at him. He was already looking down at you.

A beat of silence stretched between you. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

So you reached first.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him a little closer.

“I saw you walking back with him last night,” Max went on, his voice rougher now. “And all I could think about was how he got to be the one beside you. Even if it was nothing. Even if it didn’t mean anything. I hated it.”

The silence stretched out.

“I didn’t kiss Marcus,” you said, “because I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel if it were you.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering down to your mouth. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

Another breath. Then, finally, his hand rose to your cheek—tentative at first, almost reverent. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way. His thumb traced just below your cheekbone, and his eyes were full of something deep and aching.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t sudden. It was slow. Careful. Like he’d been dreaming about it for so long he didn’t want to get it wrong. His lips moved against yours with a kind of quiet desperation, like he was pouring years of longing into the space between you.

You melted into him instantly.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and heart thundering, Max rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispered.

“I know,” you whispered back, smiling. “Me too.”

He opened his eyes, and they were softer now. Unshielded. “Please tell me this isn’t just for tonight”

“It’s not,” you said. You knew then, as you think you knew years ago, that this was it for you. Max was always where you were meant to end up.

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. A creak of the floorboards outside their bedroom confirmed she wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was out there. But there were no signs of panic in her chest. No creeping dread. Only a bloom of curiosity.

She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet finding the cool wood floor. She grabbed one of Kimi’s sweatshirts—gray, oversized, still faintly smelling of his cologne—and pulled it over her head before padding out toward the kitchen.

He was there.

Kimi Antonelli stood at the stove in grey joggers and a black tee shirt, his back to her, his dark curls still damp from a shower. He was humming something under his breath. There were pancakes in the pan, a plate already stacked high beside him. A half-cut banana rested on the counter next to Nutella and a small jar of Y/n’s favorite strawberry jam.

She stopped in the doorway, the breath catching in her throat.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

Kimi turned at the sound of her voice, his whole face lighting up the moment he saw her. “Ciao, amore.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It never was with him. Not after the long years they’d spent figuring each other out, with time zones and circuits and days full of noise. What made Andrea special was this: the way he could make a simple thing feel like everything. Like standing barefoot in the kitchen, holding a spatula and smiling like she was the win he was proudest of.

“I thought your flight—”

“Changed it,” he said, flipping the last pancake with a little flourish. “Didn’t tell you. Wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” Her voice was still sleepy, soft with disbelief and something that felt like awe. “God, I missed you.”

Kimi crossed the room in three steps, wrapping his arms around her. She tucked her face into his neck and breathed him in—soap, coffee, something faintly citrusy. Her hands curled into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I was counting the hours,” he murmured against her temple. “Miami was hell.”

“You finished P6.”

“And I hated every second.” He leaned back enough to look at her, brushing his fingers over the curve of her cheek. “You weren’t there.”

“You know I wanted to be—”

“I know,” he cut in gently, thumb stroking over her skin. “It’s not about that. Just… nothing feels real without you.”

Her throat tightened. He said things like that casually, not to impress her, not to make her swoon. He just meant them.

She reached up to kiss him, soft and slow, and he leaned into it with a sigh like he’d been holding his breath since he left. The kiss deepened, then broke, and he smiled.

“Pancakes,” he said, stepping back. “Before they get cold.”

They ate at the little kitchen table by the window, where the plants she loved had grown wild and green. Kimi poured syrup like he always did—too much—and Y/n tried to pretend she didn’t find it endearing. He told her about the race, about a near miss with Turn 11, about how Max had nearly clipped Lando, and how no one on his team could figure out what Miami was doing with the tire strategy.

“And the hotel room had a leak,” he added with a grimace. “I woke up at 3 a.m. to dripping water. Thought it was a dream. Nope. Just Florida.”

She laughed, and he beamed like he’d just taken pole.

“What about here?” he asked between bites. “Did the plants survive?”

“Barely,” she said. 

“I knew it.”

They lingered over breakfast, letting the morning stretch out slow. Kimi eventually leaned back in his chair, full and content, watching her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

"I'm so proud of you Drea." She told him softly, before adding, "My champion."

He looked at her then, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. All that subtle restraint he carried with him, the careful balance between focus and modesty, slipped.

“You really think so?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I do.” She stood up, rounded the table, and slid into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do you have any idea how hard I cheered when I saw your name at the top of the timing sheet? I almost threw my phone.”

Kimi laughed, breath warm against her cheek. “Now I really wish I could’ve seen that.”

She pulled back enough to look at him. “I don’t want you to downplay this. You’ve come so far. I remember when you were finishing P14 and still calling it ‘a good learning weekend.’ Look at you now.”

His hands found her waist, holding her steady like he wasn’t quite sure she was real. “I think I just needed to hear it from you.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it.” She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then finally his lips. “I’m proud of you, Andrea. More than you’ll ever know.”

He kissed her back, and this time it wasn’t soft. It was full, deep, a little desperate—like the kind of kiss that came when someone finally let themselves believe they were worthy of being celebrated. She clung to him, hands tangling in his curls, and he held her like he didn’t ever want to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered.

“You’re here now,” she said, her voice barely audible. “And I’m not letting you go for at least two days.”

Andrea grinned. “Fine by me. But I might need a nap first.”

“I warmed the bed for you,” she said, sliding off his lap and tugging his hand. “Come on, pole sitter. Let’s make jet lag your co-pilot.”

Back in their room, they curled up together like muscle memory. Kimi tucked himself behind her, arms locked around her waist, their breathing syncing in quiet rhythm

═══════๑♡⁠๑═══════

“Alright, alright, I swear this is the last race,” he laughed, eyes flicking toward the live chat as messages scrolled faster than he could read. “If I win this, you all have to stop saying I'm washed, deal?”

“Yeah right, mate!” came Max Fewtrell’s voice through the headset. “If anything, you’re gonna rage quit before we even hit the third lap.”

Lando grinned. “Not this time.”

But just as the race loaded, a soft chime rang out—his phone, buzzing on the desk to his right. His hand twitched toward it instinctively before pulling back.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Focus. Except now he wasn’t focused at all.

The chat noticed.

"👀 not you checking your phone AGAIN" "who you waiting for, loverboy?" "she texted yet???" "just CALL HER YOU COWARD" "lando’s in his 'will she text me' era"

He blinked, trying not to smile. Tried and failed.

“You guys are so annoying,” he muttered, adjusting his mic. “Can’t a guy check the time?”

“Time?” Max said dryly. “Mate, your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree and you haven’t stopped sneaking glances since we started.”

Lando flushed. “It’s not—okay, shut up.”

The chat went wild again.

"GUILTY!" "he's so whipped and it's not even official" "bet it’s that girl from the paddock 👀"

And okay, maybe they weren’t wrong.

You’d met during the chaos of the last race weekend—some mutual friends, a few too many drinks, and the kind of conversation that left him grinning long after it ended. You weren’t a celebrity. Weren’t chasing fame. Just... smart, grounded, and funny in a way that disarmed him.

You’d left the next day for a work trip, but you’d been texting every day since. Nothing flirty, not exactly. But something was there. At least, he hoped so.

The last message had come a few hours ago—“Landing soon. Might be off the grid for a bit, but I’ll message you when I can! :)”—and he’d been low-key checking his phone ever since.

Just in case.

As the race ended (he came second, to Max’s eternal smugness), Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending not to care as he casually picked up his phone.

Nothing.

He dropped it again, face slightly warm.

“You know,” Max said, his tone teasing but not unkind, “you could just text her first. Say hi. Ask if she landed okay. You’re allowed to show interest, mate. It's not a crime.”

“I know,” Lando mumbled.

But still, he didn’t.

The chat rallied again, this time with emojis and messages of encouragement and chaos in equal measure.

"we believe in you 🫶" "text her or we riot" "lando, you’re literally a Formula 1 driver and you're scared to double text???"

“Alright, that’s it,” Lando said, throwing his hands up. “This stream is bullying now.”

He was laughing though, eyes crinkled in that way his fans loved, cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll text her,” he added under his breath, like it was a secret he couldn’t help but share.

And he did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.

“Hey, just checking in—hope your flight went okay :)”

He hit send, then instantly tossed his phone onto the sofa like it had burned him.

“I’m done for today,” he declared, stretching with a groan. “That’s enough emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” Max repeated. “You texted a girl ‘hi.’ Are you twelve?”

“I hate you.”

The stream ended not long after, fans flooding Twitter and Tumblr with screencaps and memes: Lando’s face mid-phone-check, the exact moment he blushed, the chat going absolutely feral.

But Lando barely noticed.

Because twenty minutes later, while he was lazily scrolling through delivery apps and wondering if gelato for dinner was socially acceptable, his phone buzzed again.

“Just saw your message—landed safely :) stuck in traffic now but excited to finally be home. Also, I missed talking to you. ❤️”

Lando stared at the screen, lips parting in a slow, dumb smile.

Then, with a quiet laugh, he typed back:

“Welcome home. Wanna come over later?”

And this time, he didn’t throw the phone away. He held onto it, just in case the reply came quickly.

Lando was the least surprised person to find his little sister was interested in the Williams driver who subbed in for Logan. The two had crossed paths last year a couple times but it never seemed to get anywhere as more than passing flirty banter than disappeared over the winter break and with him not returning as a driver, y/n wasn't sure what to do.

But then he got announced as Alpine's reserve driver.

Y/n returned this year more determined to get Franco's attention and keep it.

"Hey, Franco." Y/n greets as she passes by him in the paddock making his head whip around upon hearing her voice.

"Hermosa, I-where are you going?" Franco asks expecting her to stop for conversation. But y/n has a plan and it doesn't involve making his life easy.

Y/n slows her steps smiling as she turns to find Franco moving to catch up with her.

"I was going to grab something to eat at McLaren." Y/n explains as if she's none the wiser. "Unless you know something better to eat?"

"I could suggest one or two things." Franco smirks dragging his gaze up and down y/n's body which almost makes her stutter but she manages to maintain composure and maintain the energy he maintains with ease. "I think my ideas would fill you up very well actually."

"That's a very bold statement. You should really act on it rather than saying it." Y/n states watching his eyes widen for a moment.

"Come eat lunch with me. I will make sure you are well fed." Franco states making y/n internally celebrate that her mission is so far a success.

-

It didn't take long for Lando to realise his sister wasn't going to be spending more than the journey to the track with him so he just let her get on with it because he actually likes Franco and while he doesn't want to think about what the two might've got up to last night after being caught leaving together.

"Try this." Franco demands holding his fork out with some Korean BBQ chicken on it that he took from the Alpine catering which seems to be providing better than McLaren today. Y/n flinches away from the suddenness of the fork in her face and she hardly has a chance to process what he's trying to feed her before he speaks again. "You did not complain at what I was putting in your mouth last night you can trust me."

"I prefer what you were doing with your mouth last night too." Y/n comments earning a smirk before she leans towards the chicken and finally accepts the bite to try earning a smile while Franco shifts over and kisses her cheek while she chews and nods in defeat of the fact that his food is much better than what she'd been offered. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course, hermosa." Franco laughs nudging his plate towards her for her to have some more.

-

Franco visiting the Norris family home since y/n still lives under her parents roof is already beginning to be more and more of a norm, but Lando hadn't been home during one of his visits despite being a witness to them in the paddock.

"You two are all over each other. Please." Lando groans as he walks out into the garden where the two are "sunbathing" but really are a couple movements away from having sex in the garden with how far their tongues are into each other's throats.

Apparently that was all he came to say so presumably he'd looked out the window and felt the need to speak up, because he disappears back inside.

"I told you we should've gone to your place with Lando coming to visit." Y/n states while Franco hums, his mind very much elsewhere and the lust clouding his eyes is definitely not going to be easy to clear so she has to say something to snap him out of. "You know I like your last name."

"Thank you, mi amor." Franco mumbles slowly coming down from his thoughts while y/n smiles a little.

"Can I have it?"

"Of course you-my name? You want my-oh-OH you are very good." Franco laughs then pausing. "Do you really want my name?"

Y/n had really just stolen the pick up line and put it to use on the Argentine. But in truth neither had actually discussed their long term future, they've sort of been caught up in living in the moment that they just didn't think about the future much.

"I...I mean it would be quite nice to think we'll last that long together." Y/n mumbles earning a grin before she is almost head butted in an excited kiss.

"Amor, you leave it with me I will make sure you get my name and anything else you'd like." Franco smirks then biting his lip for a moment. "If your brother does not want to know what we get up to, I will get us a hotel to have fun in."

"W-Wait, leave it with you? What does that mean?" Y/n questions realising she might've just encouraged a very early engagement.

The apartment is cold, in that early morning way, where everything is quiet and still around the edges. The flimsy sleep shirt and shorts you’re wearing do nothing to protect you from the flat, air-conditioned chill. Your bare feet pad to Max’s closet, slowly rolling back the door and grabbing a flannel hanging on the rack. You’d bought it for him long ago, in a joint effort with Victoria and Sophie to get him to wear anything but that hideous Red Bull merch. But you should have known it wouldn’t work. Your Max is stubborn, and you end up wearing the button-down more often than he does — it’s soft and warm, and it smells like his slightly smoky cologne. It dwarfs your small frame, but with the sleeves rolled up it works just fine. 

You start the coffee on autopilot, measuring out the grounds carefully, methodically. The water bubbles inside the pot, gleaming in the pale light. You’re humming a song you heard the other day, something about a man slithering home to his lover’s door, and Jimmy is curling around your ankles in that familiar way. Max is home, and for the first time in two weeks the ache in your chest begins to lessen. 

“You look better in that than I ever did,” his voice sounds from behind you, still rough from sleep, and you smile to yourself, turning around. His blonde locks are messy, eyes still weary. But he’s real, he’s here in front of you, and your heart is swelling so much you think it might burst out of your chest. 

“You always say that,” you reply softly. 

“I always mean it,” he says, so matter-of factly, and extends his hand to you, palm up. 

You take it, because of course you do, fingers trailing over his. His fingertips are calloused, scratchy from years of slipping over steering wheels and bending the strongest machines in the world to his even stronger will. When you feel them, you understand how people speak his name with fear and awe. But his palms are soft, warm. This is the Max you know — the one who rubs your feet when you can’t fall asleep, who speaks with a softness reserved just for you, who smiles at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

Your fingers stay intertwined for just a moment. Then he pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you, holding you like he’s holding something precious he’s afraid to break. “Good morning to you, too,” you giggle as he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in the familiar clean scent of your shampoo. 

“Missed you, liefje,” he mumbles, his hands skating down your sides to rest on your waist, and not even the flannel can stop the goosebumps that erupt where his bare skin touches yours. 

“I’ve only been out of bed for five minutes,” you protest, but you’re smiling. 

“That’s five minutes too long,” he states, letting go and nudging you back to look at you. Something slow settles in his gaze, and his eyes gleam in the morning light as he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. 

“Max,” you protest halfheartedly as he settles in between your legs, his thumb grazing tenderly over your cheek. His lips meet yours, slow and soft, and you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs against your mouth, and you press yourself closer, closer, like you’re making up for two weeks of lost time.

The coffee is cold by the time you get around to pouring it, but it didn’t matter. You two had all the time in the world.

"Thanks," I said, voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

"Like... really good. The way you direct. The way you look at me." Another step. He was close now. "You see things other people miss."

I lowered the camera slightly. "I like seeing people for who they are. Not just how the world sees them."

His eyes flickered down to my lips. "And what do you see when you look at me?"

Dangerous question.

"I see someone who knows exactly what he's doing, but still carries a storm behind his eyes," I replied, voice soft. "Someone who lives in control... but wants to let go. Just sometimes."

The silence between us pulsed. Neither of us moved. The only sound was the quiet hum of the lights and my own racing heart.

"Let me take one of you," he said suddenly, gently sliding the camera strap from my neck.

My breath hitched. "I’m not..."

"Just one," he said, lifting it to eye level. His voice was velvet. "Come on. Let go, just a little."

So I did.

He captured me. Just like that. And I knew from the way his mouth twitched slightly, from the flicker of heat in his gaze that he saw something too.

He lowered the camera slowly. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Before I could respond, he stepped forward again, hands finding my waist, grounding me. My breath caught as his lips hovered just above mine.

"I’ve been thinking about this," he whispered. "Since the last time we met. At that launch party. You wore that red dress and made me forget my own name."

I let out a soft laugh, breathless. “You seemed composed enough.”

“Barely.”

His thumb brushed my hip. His touch was light but electric. I leaned into it without even meaning to.

When his lips finally met mine, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he planned to take his time.

The kiss deepened, slow and warm, and his hands slid up the sides of my body with careful precision. My own fingers tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between us.

He pressed me gently against the edge of the studio’s wooden table, the contact grounding and heady all at once. His lips trailed along my jaw, down the side of my neck, hot breath sending shivers over my skin.

“You feel incredible,” he murmured, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. My knees went soft.

My hands explored the planes of his back under the silk, the lean strength there making me ache in places I hadn’t thought about all week.

He paused, breathing heavily. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I’ll tell you when to stop,” I whispered, pulling him back in.

The rest was a blur of heat and sensation his hands lifting the hem of my shirt slowly, his mouth following the path of exposed skin. Every move was measured but unhurried, like he was memorising me with each kiss, each sigh.

When his lips moved lower, dragging over the curve of my hipbone, I gasped and threaded my fingers through his curls.

“Lewis,” I breathed. It was both a plea and a promise.

He looked up at me from where he knelt, his eyes full of mischief and hunger. “Still want me to stop?”

My only answer was a quiet moan as his mouth met skin, devotion in every touch, every press of his tongue. He was gentle but not shy. Thorough. Focused. Like this was its own kind of race and he knew exactly how to win.

Time lost meaning. The world outside the studio fell away. It was just the two of us, tangled in shadow and light.

And when we finally moved together when everything that had built between us found its crescendo it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. It was the kind of closeness that made everything else go quiet. The kind you don’t just feel in your body but in your chest, too. Deep and tender. Safe.

Afterwards, I lay draped across his chest, fingers drawing lazy lines along his ribs, the camera still abandoned on the floor near us. His hand slid through my hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

I nodded, not ready to speak yet. My heart was still catching up.

He smiled against my forehead. “Didn’t expect the day to go like this.”

“Neither did I,” I murmured. “But... I’m not complaining.”

He chuckled quietly, pulling the blanket around us tighter. “Same. Though we might have to reschedule that last outfit shot.”

“I think I got everything I needed,” I whispered, fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “You gave me more than I could’ve captured.”

He grinned and kissed me again slow, sweet, and full of promise.

The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the hotel room. The air was still quiet, humming softly with the calm before chaos.

You stirred awake to the steady rhythm of Lewis’s breathing, his body curled behind yours, arm slung over your waist, holding you like something he couldn’t afford to lose.

You didn’t move for a long time. Just laying there, pressed against him, listening to the world spin slowly outside while his presence grounded you. In these rare hushed moments, Lewis wasn’t the 7x Formula 1 World Champion, the activist, the fashion icon. He was just yours. And you were his.

A sleepy kiss pressed to your bare shoulder made you smile.

“You’re awake,” you whispered.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Been awake. Just didn’t want to let go.”

You rolled over gently to face him, fingers sliding between his multiple braids that framed his face. His eyes blinked open, warm and full of something deeper than just affection. Something heavier, quieter.

"Big day," you said, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone caressing it.

"Biggest," he replied. “But not because of the carpet. It’s because I get to walk in with you.”

He said it so casually, but the words hit you like a warm wave. You kissed him, soft and unhurried. Your hand sliding to rest on his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm. He rolled over you delicately, pinning you beneath him with a smile that was both teasing and reverent.

“Do we have time for” he trailed off, nuzzling into your neck, “just a little more?”

You laughed, pulling him down into another kiss, slow and languid. Time stretched and folded into itself. Even if the world outside demanded perfectly tailored tuxedos and curated appearances.

This moment was gloriously undone, just the two of you tangled up in sheets and skin. Whispering promises and breathless giggles between kisses that lasted too long.

When the knock at the suite door finally broke the spell, it was with an audible sigh that Lewis rolled away, mumbling, “Why can’t the Met Gala be tomorrow?”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The room buzzed with an intensity that almost felt electric. Stylists, assistants, and fashion press worked tirelessly to prepare the final touches for the Gala.

A mix of anticipation and excitement filled the air, but amid the controlled chaos, there was a quiet understanding between you and Lewis.

Both of you had decided to get ready separately, not out of superstition but because you wanted to preserve the sacredness of the moment when you saw each other for the first time. Fully dressed, in your Gala attire. No cameras, no flashes just the two of you. In a private world of your own. It would be a reveal just for you.

Your dressing room was a sanctuary of elegance. Soft, golden light filtered through the windows. Bathing the room in a warm, almost ethereal glow. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, freshly pressed fabric, and the soft sound of music playing in the background - classical, yet full of emotion.

You stood in front of a full-length mirror, a whirlwind of stylists and assistants working around you, their hands moving in rhythm as they made their final adjustments.

Your gown was custom, of course. It was everything you had imagined and more. The color was a stunning shade of bronze silk, so rich it almost seemed to glow under the lights. The fabric shimmered with every subtle movement, as though it had a life of its own. The corseted bodice fit your frame perfectly, hugging your figure with a sculpted precision that felt like second skin. The waist was cinched in just enough to create an hourglass silhouette, while the skirt billowed outward, its shape reminiscent of the regal gowns worn by queens of centuries past. The way it moved, catching the light and swaying ever so slightly made you feel like royalty.

But what truly set the gown apart were the intricate details. Geometric embroidery, inspired by African diasporic design, was woven into the fabric in rich metallic threads, glistening with every angle. The embroidery wasn’t just a decorative touch.

It was a bold statement, a celebration of culture, history, and tradition. It felt like the very embodiment of power and beauty, as if you were wearing not just a piece of art though a piece of your own heritage.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise the woman staring back. There was something about the attire that transformed you. It wasn’t just the design or the craftsmanship, it was the way it made you feel. Empowered. Strong. Confident.

Lewis had introduced you to the designer and you could see now why he had been so adamant about this specific choice. He wanted you to feel more than beautiful. He wanted you to wear something that spoke to your strength, to your identity and to who you were at your core. The designer had crafted a piece that was a perfect blend of tradition and rebellion, history and modernity, just like you.

"He's going to lose it when he sees you," your stylist whispered, her voice filled with admiration as she pinned the final piece of fabric into place. "You’re going to take his breath away."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a flutter of nerves mixed with excitement. The idea of revealing yourself to Lewis, of showing him what he had helped create felt almost surreal.

You could already picture his reaction. The way his eyes would light up when he saw you, the soft intake of breath, the way he always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But most of all, how everything else fell away when he focused on you.

For just a moment, the world outside your dressing room seemed to disappear. The buzz of the fashion press, the voices of assistants in the hallway and the chaotic energy of the event. Everything was muted. It was just you, this gown, and the promise of a moment that would belong only to the two of you.

You ran your fingers over the delicate fabric one last time, feeling the weight of its significance. It was the culmination of your journey with Lewis, of the moments you had shared, of the power and love you had found together.

And in that quiet sacred moment, as you prepared to step into the world of the Met Gala. You couldn’t help but think that this moment would be one you’d carry with you forever.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The moment finally arrived.

You knocked softly on the adjoining door between your suites. “Ready?”

There was a brief pause, then Lewis’s voice, warm yet playful, “Only if you are.”

You smiled to yourself and pushed open your door just as he opened his, and time seemed to stop.

There he stood, every inch the vision of class and style. He was dressed in a bespoke cream suit designed by Wales Bonner, tailored to perfection. The suit clung to his form with a sharpness that seemed almost sculpted, its rich texture telling stories of past generations while pointing toward the future. His accessories - gold pins gleaming against the cream fabric, stacked rings that caught the light, delicate chain links that added an elegant rebellion to the whole ensemble came together like a quiet revolution in fashion. It was a bold statement, one that demanded attention without shouting.

He looked like the future, wrapped in the finest memories of the past.

And there you were, standing before him in your custom bronze silk dress, glowing with an ethereal radiance. The gown hugged your figure and billowed elegantly, the intricate embroidery shimmering with a life of its own. The light caught your skin and for a fleeting moment, you were both in a world of your own an artwork brought to life.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath blinking rapidly, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe in the face of such beauty.

You couldn’t help but smile, your steps slow and deliberate as you walked toward him, savoring the moment. “Good wow, or too much?”

He laughed, his voice full of disbelief, still unable to tear his eyes away from you. “There’s not enough language in the world for what kind of wow this is.”

Your arms slid gently around his neck, drawing him closer as you leaned into him, your body fitting seamlessly against his. “You clean up pretty well too, Mr. Hamilton,” you teased softly, your lips brushing against his ear.

He grinned, his hands finding their way to your waist as he tilted his forehead against yours. The quiet intimacy of the moment hung between you two like a secret, just the two of you in this space. “You make me wanna skip the carpet, you know that?”

Your heart swelled at his words, a rush of warmth and affection flooding through you. You kissed him softly, lips lingering as if savoring the moment. The taste of him lingering on your tongue. “Let’s give them something to talk about first,” you whispered against his mouth.

And with that, you pulled back the connection lingering between you even as you straightened. The anticipation of what was to come humming in the air. Together, hand in hand you stepped into the world awaiting you - ready to turn heads and ready to be unforgettable.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The limo ride was a soft, velvet pocket of quiet between the chaos. You sat beside him hand resting on his thigh, your fingers intertwined.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, unable to stop himself. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

You turned to face him, blushing. “You say that now.”

“No, I’ve seen podiums, wins, thousand camera flashes. But this?” He lifted your hand to his lips. “This is everything.”

Your gaze softened. “I know tonight is huge for you. I just want you to be proud.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Deep, grounding. “I already am.”

Loud yells and cameras clicking could be heard outside the limo. The slick black car rolled up to the Met Gala before stopping.

When you stepped out of the car, the world erupted.

Flashes exploded like fireworks. Reporters screamed your names. The red carpet was transformed into a living runway, but you two walked it like you owned it.

Lewis kept you close, one hand on the small of your back with an expression proud and protective.

Everywhere you looked, people stared. Some with admiration while some with envy. You weren’t just guests. You were the couple. The moment.

@NYCFashionWatch: “Lewis Hamilton and his stunning girlfriend are the blueprint tonight. Tailored excellence and bronze royalty. #MetGala2025”

@F1InsiderBuzz: “They said power couple, and they meant it. Lewis Hamilton serving cream couture, his partner redefining grace.”

@BlackStyleArchives: “Lewis and his partner pay homage to Black elegance through tailoring and textile. This is more than fashion. This is narrative.”

@VogueOfficial: “We have to talk about the chemistry. The styling. The hands never letting go. The looks exchanged. The whispering smiles. It’s romance, but it’s also power.”

Backstage, stylists and other guests approached the two of you with warm smiles and hushed compliments.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” one editor whispered to you as Lewis stepped away to speak to a designer. “He’s softer. Brighter.”

You glanced toward him, watching as he laughed warmly with one hand still subtly reaching for you.

“He’s just himself,” you said. “All of him.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The theme Lewis had co-chaired “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”, was alive in every curated corner of the Met.

Lewis walked you through the exhibition with the quiet awe of someone who had helped build it from concept to creation. His hand rarely left yours, his voice dipping to a near whisper when he leaned in to share details about specific pieces.

“That one’s inspired by Dapper Dan’s original Harlem cuts,” he said, nodding toward a sharply shouldered double breasted jacket displayed in a glass case. “No label. No runway. But it turned the world upside down.”

He paused at a minimalist charcoal suit designed by Bianca Saunders. “She’s the future,” he said. “Structure, soul and softness too. I love how it folds, almost like origami.”

You looked at him then, not just at his words but the way he stood. Shoulders straight, fingers gently brushing the edge of a plinth like he was touching memory itself. His passion for what this night meant was written in the way he held space for each garment, each stitch.

Every few moments, he turned to you, eyes warm. “This one,” he murmured once, standing before a velvet frock coat hand embroidered with ancestral symbols, “this one I want to show my mum. She’d cry.”

People floated by, murmuring greetings and admiration. Journalists, designers, museum curators. But you and Lewis moved like the eye of the storm still, centred and deeply connected in the whirl of celebration.

And then came the cameras again.

Not the frenzied clicks of paparazzi, but the poised intentional elegance of Vogue, Getty and Vanity Fair. Followed by the host of other publications capturing the official portraits inside the Met.

“May we get the two of you here?” someone from the Cut asked politely, gesturing toward a marbled archway beneath soft amber light.

Lewis glanced at you with a subtle nod. “Let’s give them a show.”

He pulled you gently to him, one hand settling on your waist, the other holding yours just so elegant and firm. You tilted your head slightly toward him, the curve of your lips soft but confident. As the camera clicked, your eyes found his.

And that’s when it happened, the moment.

A brief flicker of something unspoken passed between you. Love, pride, history, maybe even a quiet rebellion. And the photographers caught it.

Lewis with his jaw slightly clenched, standing tall in his cream suit. You regal and glowing in bronze beside him, your hands perfectly clasped between you.

The next shot was a little more relaxed. You turned to him with a smirk as he dipped his head to whisper something only you could hear. You laughed softly, leaning into him.

Click. Flash.

You posed for more, shifting from classic to casual. One photo had you seated beside each other on a velvet ottoman. His hand resting on your thigh, your fingers loosely laced with his, your gown cascading in a pool of silk. Another showed Lewis fixing the single curl that had fallen near your eye while you watched him with visible affection.

@VogueRunway: “Tailored storytelling. Hamilton and his partner exemplify everything the 2025 Met Gala aimed to celebrate: legacy, craftsmanship, and unmistakable connection.”

@Essence: “The intimacy. The elegance. The statement. Lewis Hamilton and his partner didn’t just arrive. THEY embodied.”

As the Met wore on, the gala unfolded in waves of live performances, curated cocktails and speeches about representation in fashion. But no matter where you moved, Lewis always found you in the crowd.

Between poses, he kissed your knuckles. Between conversations, he leaned close to ask if you were okay. During the speeches, his fingers remained gently curled around yours.

At one point, a photographer caught you two standing alone in front of a towering black and gold tapestry that mirrored the patterns embroidered into your gown. The lighting framed you like royalty with Lewis whispering something in your ear, your eyes crinkled in laughter, the champagne in your hand forgotten.

That image would later go viral, dubbed by Twitter as - “The Met’s most iconic candid. Not just a look. A love story in motion.”

The rest of the evening blurred in art and elegance, but the thread never snapped between you. You were each other's constant, each other's mirror, muse and memory.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back at the hotel room, the atmosphere shifted. The bustling energy of the Gala had given way to a soft, intimate quiet moment of just the two of you in a world of your own. The luxury of the night was still present, but now it felt like a backdrop. Almost like a memory waiting to be tucked away as you peeled away the layers of opulence.

You started with your dress, slowly unzipping it. The fabric, once fitted perfectly to your body now slipped from your skin with a soft sigh. Pooling onto the floor in a heap of bronze silk and intricate lace.

The contrast between the elegant exterior and the warmth of your bare skin was almost poetic. You felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. No cameras, no lights, just you and him, as raw as it could get.

Lewis stood behind you, watching every movement. His eyes filled with a quiet admiration that made your chest tighten. As your gown fell, you turned to him, your gaze locking for a moment. His hands moved toward you, fingers grazing the curve of your waist.

He stepped closer, eyes never leaving you. Delicate lingerie covered you and that felt like the only real thing in the room, Lewis’s gaze never wavered. His breath caught in his throat as he took you in, your bare skin and every curve. He looked at you like he was seeing the most breathtaking masterpiece, yet with so much admiration and tenderness that it made your heart flutter.

You reached for him, gently slipping his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, fingers grazing the smoothness of his suit. The material felt cool beneath your fingertips as you undid his cufflinks one by one before finally removing the shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. When it fell to the floor, revealing the taut muscles beneath, you couldn’t help but admire the quiet strength in him. Everyone about him so sculpted, yet so unassuming.

With a soft gasp, you leaned forward your lips brushing against the smoothness of his collarbone, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His hands cupped your face, guiding you back to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker now, focused only on you, though softness was there, an affection so deep it made you melt inside.

He kissed you then, slow and deep. Lips moving against yours like they had all the time in the world. The kiss was full of everything you had shared tonight, the glamour, the adrenaline and the electric energy of the world watching. But it was also full of something so personal, something between the two of you that no one else could touch.

“I know we were dressed for the cameras tonight,” Lewis whispered between kisses, his voice rough with his lips trailing across your jaw and down your neck. “But every time I looked at you, I forgot the world was watching.”

His words sent a shiver through you, making your heart race. You pulled him closer, your bodies pressed together now. Fingers threading through his braided hair. You didn’t need to say it, but you felt the truth of it in every inch of your skin. Here, in this moment it was just you and him. No one else.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers trailing down his tattooed chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “That’s okay,” you murmured softly. “I only saw you too.”

He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours as if absorbing the weight of your words. The quiet tenderness in the space between you was so palpable. But Lewis’s hands began to roam over your back gently guiding you toward the bed, where the sheets awaited soft and inviting.

As you lay down together, everything in the room felt suspended. Like time had decided to slow down just for the two of you. Lewis’s lips found yours again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t rushed or eager, it was a slow lingering kiss, as though he was savoring every moment.

Your hands roamed over him, tracing the familiar yet always thrilling planes of his body. Feeling the heat radiating from his skin as if he was a flame that you couldn’t stay away from. The air around you was thick with the electricity of desire, but it wasn’t just physical it was the culmination of every glance, every smile, every word you’d shared. It was the connection, the intimacy that no spotlight or flashing camera could capture.

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing over your pulse point, kissing softly before moving lower, drawing delicate patterns on your skin. Your breath caught as his hands caressed your sides, pulling you even closer as his body hovered above yours. His warmth enveloping you completely.

In this space, there were no barriers. There were no cameras flashing. Just the two of you, skin and heart tangled in a dance that was yours alone.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Lewis whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. His forehead resting against yours as his hand caressed your cheek. “No matter what the world thinks, it’s just us.”

The words felt like a promise, a quiet vow. And in that intimate silence as his hands traced the lines of your body with so much care and love. You knew this was real. This moment, this connection, nothing else mattered.

When you told Oscar and Lily that you had a chronic illness, you expected him to break up with you, like your past partner had

But instead they took you in their arms and told you they weren't scared of your illness

They always make sure that you take your meds

It's part of your nightly routine

Whenever you have to go to the hospital, or doctor, they'll always go with you if you want

For any long term hospital visits they make sure that at least one of them is with you at all times

Hospitals are stressful, no matter how many times you've been to them

And after every appointment they'll pull you into bed to talk about it

They'll hold you close whether it's good news or bad news

Whenever you can't travel, Lily will stay at home with you

The two of you send pictures of you cuddled in bed watching quali and the race to Oscar

He always gets kinda jealous

When you do come to a race Oscar makes sure that his drivers room is as comfortable as possible

There is a replica of your chronic illness cart, the most comfortable bed imaginable, and a fridge stocked with feel good and healthy foods

Whenever you can't get around, they'll put all their focus into you

Making sure you can reach your mobility aids, bringing you anything you need so you don't need to get up and use excess energy

Oscar loves carrying you in bridal carry around the flat

Lily has gotten into cooking meals that can easily be reheated for the days were you don't have energy, and are very nutrient dense

All the calculations are kinda like engineering to her

Every time you get anxious about your illness, they'll hold you close and re-promise that they'll never leave you

In sickness and in health, even if you guys aren't married yet

Taglist: (Comment or DM to be added)

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

You're not sure who had set that hard boundary, but it was evident, because days like this remind you that you're not central in each other's lives, don't matter outside of your homes and bedrooms, don't exist to anyone else. You'd woken up alone in his bed like you always do with a sticky note stuck to his pillow that he was having people over later, so you should head out before four. It was normal enough, though it once wasn't - where before you used to rush to leave, you now spend your morning, eating and tidying up after yourself to leave no trace behind, like you didn't live just down the hall.

If people looked, really, they'd see it, but you'd both gotten so good at pretending that it was convincing enough even you couldn't decipher if it was all real. There was a time when you thought about defining what you were, making things more obvious, but that had been a year ago, and all your secrets were still tucked away in the back of each other's bathrooms, hidden toothbrushes and hygiene products just in case. If people looked, really, they'd see it, but there's no one to ever connect the dots besides you and him.

You had his favourite chocolate hidden at the top of your cupboard for late-night meetings, or just needing a reminder of him. He had your spare key in some junk drawer, attached with some gaudy tourist keychain he had tried to pawn off to you for your birthday, only for it to end up back at his. 

But it was nothing special. 

You were always last, because this was nothing special. He was rarely home to begin with, but he wasn't solely to blame. He knew you'd wait for him, something soft and unspoken between you where he'd find solace on your couch or you in his arms and within a few hours, no evidence of what happened would remain. 

4: 

you didn't have to clean

Not existing was a strangely easy task, names ignored in contact lists, paparazzi unaware, even when his fame picked up, and he had to admit to you who he was. Your total absence from his life doesn't take away from the fact that you were there, helping him practice for interviews, compiling your own secret list of stories he'd only ever told you, getting to ask personal questions without crossing your lines. You had never been to a single race, but that didn't stop you from watching every one, listening to him excel in the spotlight for hours on end as you sat in the dark of his apartment. 

5: 

you're welcome

You were better than him, he'd told you one of those long nights spent under his sheets, but only by a little bit. So you would be 5, when he was 4. It was a one-off joke, but his words had taken up more of your time than you're willing to admit. He could do that, turn seconds to hours and days to nothing. You could spend all the time in the world and it wouldn't matter, or you could exchange a glance in a hallway and have it feel like an eternity. 

But it was nothing special. You're not sure what you'd do at this rate, to be honest, if he tried to change that. You were so used to revolving around Lando's schedule you'd forgotten that you could exist with him beyond being a satellite. If he asked to be something official, you think you'd say yes, but that wasn't a dream or a fantasy, just simple delusion.

If anyone else asked what you were, you'd say neighbours. It didn't matter the routines you fell into, the bonds you shared, the yearning, the distance, the silence. What you and Lando have is, was, nothing special. 

Didn't matter how you felt about it. What you have is nothing special. 

"I feel bad." He appears at the door at some ungodly hour, curls ruined with sweat that makes his t-shirt cling to him. Outstretched is a singular cupcake with a few random letters on it, taken obviously from some birthday celebration. "You're not my maid." 

"If you want to feel better," You say as you accept the cupcake, "Then don't leave everything a mess. I'm trying to help you maintain those F1 delusions of grandeur." 

"You shouldn't." He responds, letting himself into your apartment and closing the door behind him. You take a bite from the cupcake, savouring the chocolate for a moment as he stares you down. "It'll inflate my ego. I'm trying to stay humble." 

"Tell that to the cars in the garage downstairs." His lips are on yours, cupcake abandoned on the kitchen counter beside you, knocked over and icing smeared across the marble. 

You don't know why you let him do this. Maybe it's the way he makes you feel, desperate to hold you like you're something he could actually lose, even when he could have anyone else. Maybe it's the gifts, maybe it's the humour, that stupid smile, but for the past year, you've let him rule your romantic life, kept single for the moments he'd decide to pay some attention to you, and you dumbly realize, hands woven through his hair as he lowers you onto your bed, that it's become your favourite passtime. 

With all the hours spent, you've been loving him to pass the time, because what else do you do? Move on to a worse smile and someone who doesn't understand you or your body the way he does? 

Someone else would be seen with you, your brain reminds you as his lips find your neck. Someone else would give you a title, take you out, show you off. Your entire life keeps moving forward around you, new jobs, new friends, new adventures, and then you return to him like you hadn't grown at all, and you let yourself spiral as he does what he does best, taking control, giving you just enough pleasure to stay. Making you feel like the centre of all his worship for the night, so that when he collapses beside you, it feels like he'll stay. He'll wrap an arm around you and press himself to your side, to your back, whatever way he likes, and you ask stupid questions back and forth about things like how your day went and the cute dogs you've seen in the building before dozing off, and expecting him to stay. 

He never does.  

"Isn't that a bit big on you?" Your friend pulls up the hood to your hoodie, laughing as it swamps your face, and you reach up to toss it back. 

"It's-" Lando's. He'd abandoned enough sweaters in your place to last you a lifetime, and to keep from mixing worlds, you return them to him diligently. This one must have slipped through the cracks, even as you savoured the smell of him all day. "It's supposed to be a boxier fit." 

He won't be back for two or three odd weeks, having managed to text this morning that he was off racing somewhere and had to wake early for his flight. It's almost honourable, you think, the way he tries to excuse his behaviour as if he hadn't disappeared every morning. As if he didn't just seek you out when he wanted. 

Then, like clockwork, like he can't even let himself go the 24 hours without finding you at night, he calls at 12:26, which is apparently 2 AM his time. He could have anyone else, you like to fantasize as you listen to him drunkenly drawl about a DJ. He could be with any other girl, but he's on the phone to you, like he's loyal, like this whole thing is something he could be loyal about, but it's nothing special. He just happens to call when he's drunk, because he can trust himself to say stupid shit to you and no one find out about it. 

That's how it all started, anyway. You heard someone knock at your door and then a loud, heavy fall outside at around midnight, and discovered a drunken Lando on the floor, the newest resident to the apartment building. He said something about needing help getting to his place, and you'd dragged him to his door, helped him with his keys, got him to bed. 

He'd returned the next night with cookies as an apology, and it felt like he never left after that. You were the one part of his life, he liked to say, that had nothing to do with fame or family or pressures. You would argue you weren't really part of his life, but it wasn't an argument you wanted to have. 

Not when, on the rare nights when he felt romantic, he'd get some fancy food delivered and order some nice wine and once, at the beginning of all this hell, he'd held your hand under the table like you could've been anything more than strangers in the night. The last truly romantic gesture was weeks ago, but you weren't counting. 

You never really counted on him to do much besides show up at your door, after another failed race that you claimed you didn't watch, because you didn't watch racing, because this was nothing special, even if you found yourself glued to your TV no matter the hour. He lets his aggression out in the healthiest way he can, letting you sit in his lap on his couch and venting about all the problems with his car in between breathless kisses, clothes abandoned at some point and dignity at another. 

He'd say things in the heat of the moment that he'd never mean, about how he wanted you, only you, wanted you to stay. You'd give in to every word, even if you weren't under him, because it's all you ever wanted. You wanted him, wanted it all, wanted more than you could ever reasonably ask and more than he could ever give you. 

And there, curled up for the hundredth time, you feel the world finally shift.

Time, once dictated by his arrival or departure, pushes forward without him as he turns to look at you in the dim moonlight. He's leaving, you realize, even if you knew it was happening. The whole reason he was here was the in-between until he was able to move to wherever he needed to go, and he'd told you back in those first, fateful days, it would be a couple months at most. You suppose those many, many months have finally caught up with you.

"Monaco, huh?" You breath out, and Lando buries his face into your neck, unable to say the words himself.

You were just loving him to pass the time, you remind yourself. It was nothing special, though it's impossible to act like this wasn't consuming both of you alive, only for him to extinguish himself. Maybe it was mercy, leaving you here to burn alone.

You gather your things that morning as you leave, ultimately needing a box to put everything in. You would make a joke about how much he'd kept over time, but he's not there, like every morning, like nothing could ever change, time pushing you forward, as if to tell you to move on. It's your tupperware, socks, a camera with your name on it, but with all his photos, a year summed up in a handful of random items. 

You do the same to yours, returning the sweaters, the shoes, the watch you've been holding hostage since he left. His oversized sweater remains in your drawer, your last souvenir of him, and unbeknownst to you, the random friendship bracelets you left behind one drunken summer night remain in his bag. 

If you cry over him for the first time that night, it's no one's business but your own. And if time slows to let you process it, no on else notices. 

What Lando and you had was nothing special.

It wasn't romantic, despite the flowers Lando knew were your favourite, it wasn't committed, despite the fact he hadn't sought out other women, considering you were right there, and just right. You never gave each other enough time for it to be anything special, though more and more often, it was Lando leaving you alone, in his bed, when he went to work out, when he ran to do his meetings. You didn't mind, Lando was almost entirely sure, because it was nothing special. It had ended as peacefully as it had begun, and Lando hadn't thought much of it until he found himself lonely in a life he had thought he was fulfilled in.

He saw the same people, tried making new friends, did the exact same routine, but he found himself stuck on the edge of something invisible, something he couldn't understand. 

He couldn't understand how his socks piled up so easily, or how long it took to put away all the dishes, like he hadn't already done them a million times before. He couldn't understand why his bed felt so cold in such a warm place like Monaco, why people kept asking him if he was alright when he'd never been better. 

What you and Lando had was nothing special. He was just indulging in the rare chance of normal, loving you to pass the time while he had it, because everything was such a rush around him. He couldn't understand how everything moved so fast, how nights moved so fast, when they used to stretch out so long for him. 

He couldn't understand why other dates weren't the same. Why they didn't understand what he'd want, predict his next moves, give him that extra space on the other side of the bed because he likes to splay about. He couldn't understand why even his groceries were different, because sure, he's in a new country, with new stores, but it was still the same chocolate, even if it wasn't stolen from ridiculously tall cupboards. He finds your favourite fruit in his basket before he questions it, something he always picked up for mornings he never witnessed, mornings that were not special, where he'd eat the leftovers, even if he didn't like them. 

He thinks of texting, but then again, you didn't text first. You didn't text often, actually. He only called when he was drunk, and despite his few escapades out at night, there were no new secrets he needed to share, because they didn't really matter anymore. It was nothing special, anymore. 

He finds himself scrolling through his phone at random hours of the night when time seems to refuse to slow down for him, and it was nothing special, so when he finds the only photo of you on his phone from some night where you both got tipsy and tried to play a minigolf course set up in his living room, he couldn't understand why he had to stare at it to fall asleep, over and over, your smile as you laid on his couch, hands clutched to your stomach in laughter, half of the course knocked over in his footsteps. 

After another race he loses, he realizes he doesn't have your social media. It doesn't matter, really, considering you didn't know anything about racing, as much as you played along that you did. He thinks he might find you among his followers, but you'd never cared for his fame. He finds your account anyway, private, and it makes sense. You always were private with your life, with what you did outside of the hours spent with him. He's not sure if he knows your job, even if he knows how much you hate his choice in soap, he's not sure he knows the names of any of your friends, even if he knows your aspirations, your dream pets, your first and second favourite colours. He tries to ask other people the same questions, but their answers don't sound the same, answered for the sake of answering, not for the sake of sharing. 

He goes home, and tries to ignore the draw of going back to his old building, to that door, but he's a man who acts on impulse, unable to keep himself from driving down your street, his street, thinking about what you'd be doing at this hour, and he doesn't understand it. You were just strangers in the night, really, people who found comfort in each other, so why was he so stuck on the thought of you? 

What you had didn't exist outside of apartments and memories, so how could it occupy every area of his life? The concert he's back home for is a band that he introduced you to, every song tied to some stupid moment nestled together, and as some romantic ballad starts up, he spots you in the crowd, the first time he's seen you outside his and your walls, the first time he'd seen you properly dressed up and not getting undressed. You're all but screaming along to the song, knowing the lyrics like knowing him, and you turn to beam at some friend beside you, and it wasn't anything special, but Lando was jealous of it. 

You used to smile at him like that, even when he never went out, even when he tried to keep things with you as secret and normal as possible, hidden away from anything that might ruin it, including himself. It was the most selfish, dickish thing he ever did, and you never mentioned it, never brought up your thoughts on it. Lando thought it was mercy, letting him have some normalcy with you. Now, he realizes, it was because he never gave you the space to say something, never gave you the time or the possibility to turn what you'd created into something more.

Now, he realizes, he wants you to look up from your seat and see him staring from the VIP section, and smile at him, and choose him again, because he realizes that's what he's been missing this whole time. He wants you to sing along to a cheesy love song, not because he taught it to you over a drunken night of karaoke, but because you want to say those words to him.

You were always there. He never had to make a choice, only had to show up at your door, but now? It wasn't his choice anymore. He didn't deserve one, anyway. You deserve to choose him, should you want, and god, the thought makes Lando realize how much he wants it. He wants you to choose him because you can, because he mattered to you outside of all the shit he put you through, he wants you to want him outside of the hours of night, because standing here, longing for something he didn't realize he wanted in the first place, maybe it was special. 

Maybe you made it special.

He buys the last two VIP tickets and gets some security guard to bring you up as he disappears out the back door, leaving behind the music he had once been so excited to hear, now reduced to background noise. His feet take him to your building, time sped up to get him there in what feels like minutes flat. He knows your code to punch into the building, has your spare key in his back pocket just in case, though he could never bring himself to use it. He used to let himself into your apartment like it was his own home, but now, he's forfeited that right. So he sits on the floor next to your door, head rested back against the wall, and wills the hours to speed up to bring you home to him. 

You get home with more questions than answers, but it doesn't matter. Why you were chosen out of a sea of fans for some random band your friend pulled you along to, with lyrics that haunted you more than you could ever explain, to go to the VIP section, you have no idea. Time had sped up, rushing you through the night faster than you've ever felt, over in just a second for the walk down your hallway to be the longest you've ever experienced, because Lando was at the end of it. 

Even if it wasn't anything special, you could always sense Lando from a mile away, knew he was here the moment you set foot in your building, having pulled strings and made your night better when he used to never see you out. You could sense him when you went on more dates, when life kept going, when nothing matched. You found yourself longing for things to do, seeking out friends when the silence was too obvious, longing for someone to ask you a question because they wanted to know everything about you, and not to just pass the time. 

But it was nothing special. What you and Lando had before and after he left didn't matter, even if you wanted it to. And even as you approach him, his eyes closed but not quite at peace, you try to convince yourself it doesn't matter. That he's just back in town for the night and wanted a place to crash, that he wanted one more night, but you were always more than that, even if it wasn't anything special. He always somehow chose you, even when it seemed like he couldn't care less about you. You were always better than him, always something he came back to, even hesitant, like he was afraid you wouldn't be there. 

But he knew, and you knew. You'd always be there, even if he wasn't. You'd always wait, even if you shouldn't. His eyes crack open to stare up at you, that ridiculous, soft smile instantly plastered over his face. 

"You're getting glitter on the carpet." He voices quietly, hand reaching out to undo your heel nearest to him, the smallest smattering of glitter falling from your dress to create a halo around you. It suited you, Lando would say if he could stomach it. He finishes one shoe before moving to the next, and you slip out of them easily, despite the fact you're now standing in your stockings in your apartment hallway. 

Then, you realize, he hadn't kissed you. For once, he doesn't surge up to bring you inside, to get your dress off, you don't plant yourself in his lap, you just stare, time stopped between the two of you. Nothing could move the silence between you, not now, likely not ever. What happened tonight was supposed to happen, whether either of you realized it or not. 

He wears a VIP bracelet around his wrist, the same as you. He'd given up the concert of some band he loved for you, and you, for once, let yourself read into it. You had been making love with him to pass the time, but by now, it was more than that. You weren't loving him to pass the time, to keep up with what you'd started, because it wasn't just a pastime, wasn't just a hobby. It wasn't just seeking pleasure, even if at times it was. It wasn't just something normal for him, even if at times it was. You were loving him because it had become second nature, outside of everything you did. It was the default, what you reverted back to, as if you had loved each other for years, and not just moments. 

You loved Lando, and there was nothing special about the thought.

He grabs your shoes as he rises, and you let him into your apartment. He fits like the last piece missing, an absence you'd tried to ignore. He tosses his own shoes off, landing where his dress shoes always used to be, and he drops your heels unceremoniously next to them by the door, cluttered like they were always meant to be side by side. His outstretched arm finds your waist, hesitant, and you don't blame him. Your usual territory was demanding touches, heavy and all-consuming. Coming home to each other like it was a normal night, like you were something domestic, wasn't exactly ever on the table, even if you had done his laundry a hundred times, even if he used to help with your groceries, even if you had kissed and embraced enough times to know exactly what the other person needed. 

Leaving space for each other was customary, but filling real spaces in each other's lives was not.

"Did you miss me?" His words are low, not quite ego-driven, even if you know he'd use them against you later.

"Of course." Your hand finds his curls, gently sorting through them, those two words the most open you'd been about how you feel about him. You don't ask the same, partially because you don't want to ruin the moment, partially because you already know the answer. He came back to you, but it was still the same, old patterns. It was the middle of the night, and he was looking at you like he could devour you whole, and you'd let him. 

"Can I kiss you?" He hadn't asked before. He didn't need to, considering the flurry of emotions, the desperation for each other, the limited time you were allotted. 

The words being spoken aloud stop time in its tracks completely, and you gently place a hand on his chest to feel his heart pounding, an anxiety you'd never experienced from him before. He wanted to kiss you, and he wanted to ask, and you let him. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, but rather than pushing you back against the door, of it being hot and heavy, it's nothing special. It's a soft, quick kiss, like coming home after a long day at work, a tender thing that never had to be spoken. It's normal, like you've always wanted it to be. 

There's still that old connection there, from the way his hands tighten on your hips, but he pulls away before he allows himself to indulge for reasons you're both not privy to and yet well aware of. It wasn't that absence had made you fonder of him, or he of you, but it had made you realize that your nights spent together weren't just passing the time, weren't just midnight affairs. Something had broken between you when he left, maybe long before that, and for the first time, you think you might survive the repairs.

"Do you want to stay the night?" You ask, another first, because you never had to ask before. He just did. The path to your bedroom is well worn, but this time, the flurry of clothes was not for each other, but rather to slip into pyjamas. Him tossing you onto the bed was not to get to you there faster, but rather to hear that laugh bubble out of you, wrapped in an old t-shirt he's pretty sure he gave to you. 

It's the fact that he collapses into the divet he'd created in his side of your bed, unchanged, unoccupied since he left, and you mould around him like you always knew how to, and nothing else happens, because tonight is nothing special. What you and Lando have is nothing special, nothing like the poems about star-crossed lovers, or some front-page headlines. It's just you and him in the bed you made. 

When your alarm goes off in the morning, he's still there, face hidden in your neck as he snores softly. 

It's the first time you'd ever heard the sound.