FORMULAFICS

currently inactive on this account </3

walk the track ! my masterlist

yabba dabba do ! tips on writing/creating smau’s

the hum of the car, the music playing lowly throughout the vehicle, his hand occasionally rubbing your thigh or lacing itself with yours.

I AM SO SORRY

i haven’t been on this account in a minute

SCENARIO: in which reader experiences nighttime anxiety, and finds solace in their best friends brother.

STARRING: GN!Reader, LN4, OP81, CL16, LH44, GR63, MV1, FC43, LS2, & MS47

WARNING(S): anxiety mentions, anxiety traits (such as fiddling or skin picking, self doubt, etc.)

AUTHORS NOTE: self indulgent fic who cheered? also maybe the start of a series; just a variety of scenarios regarding drivers as your best friends brother? 👀 And, as per always, shoutout to @renarots for always supplying the ideas when my brain refuses to 😼

Conversations with Lando have always been frequent, and you’ve always had chemistry, the two of you.

Lando knew he was too far gone when he realized he was thinking too much about the way you clearly had a crush on him, that went beyond the line of simply being amused by your infatuation with him. He knew he was no longer just basking in the confidence boost of that when he began unintentionally thinking of you in his room, on his bed, in his arms—

He’d recalled your anxiety. You mentioned it once during a late night talk with him, fueled by sleep deprivation. He could relate to it. Maybe he didn’t have the same anxiety, but his mind always raced at night, too loud for him to sleep at a decent time.

He’d often hoped you’d come to him, that maybe he could be a safe place for you. So, when you finally come knocking on his door…

He was fast asleep. His feet carry him groggily to the door, because for once, he’d been able to sleep. However, when he sees you, he’s wide awake.

Lando smiles, just slightly, then his brows furrow with concern and said smile falls when he sees your distressed expression. “What’s wrong?” Asks his raspy, sleepy voice, and your heart flutters, mind momentarily distracted from worry. However, his question then processes, and you sigh.

“Anxiety.” You respond simply, and he nods understandingly. You watch as he yawns, lifts his hands to his eyes to rub them, before he steps back to let you into his room. It’s cleaner than you’d expected, his cologne wafting faintly through the air. LED lights line his bed frame, a dim red glow surrounding his large, incredibly inviting bed. It’s nice in here, and you almost feel guilty for finding so much solace and intrigue in Flo’s brother, but you also know she’s contently asleep in her room. She needs her sleep, you decide, pushing away your guilt.

Lando lets you explore, watching from his doorway. He quietly shuts the door, then walks to his bed, plopping down on the edge.

“What’s got you worked up, then?” He asks, after a few moments of quiet, and when you turn to see his hazel eyes staring at you, sleepy and soft, but also concerned, your heart sinks in a way that’s somehow overwhelming and delightful at once.

So, you explain your anxieties. The rational and irrational fears, the thoughts that keep you up — and when he realizes you’re actively spiraling, he gets up and steps towards you, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles against your arm.

“Hey,” he hushes you, smiling warmly when you look at him. “You’re okay,” he assures you. “It’s okay to be anxious,” he adds, rubbing your arm now. “What makes it better?” he asks gently, and you huff a small laugh.

“You.” You say, a small, amused grin on your lips, as your cheeks warm. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, as he lets his fingers gently grasp your hand. “Be serious,” he retorts, though there’s a glimmer in his eyes that assures you that he liked the flirty comment.

“I don’t know what makes it better,” you say honestly, gently grabbing his hand, looking down at your hands. His fingers rub your palm, yours caressing his in return, as he slowly laces your fingers. He hums quietly, acknowledging your words.

He looks down at your hands, too, as they intertwine, and he squeezes yours, his other hand finding your free one. He guides your arms around himself, and then lets go of your hands, wrapping his own arms around your shoulders.

The sigh you let out, and the way you relax into him says it all. He smiles, resting his cheek against your hair.

“Let’s start with this, hm? If it doesn’t work, I have other ways I can help you,” he says. You both realize the unintentional suggestive tone in his words, and it makes the pair of you laugh.

Shaking your head against him, you squeeze him gently. “Yeah. Let’s start with this.”

“Worst case, there’s always Oscar.”

That’s what Hattie told you, regarding your anxiety. If all else failed, you could go to Oscar…yeah, no. You’d thought about it more than you’d like to admit.

You liked to imagine that he’d hug you and console you. You could hear his soft voice assuring you that it’s okay, that you can always come to him, but you’d also conjured up a more harsh alternative, being that he would think of you as dramatic or a burden.

Which is why you currently stand outside of his door, in the hallway, reluctant to knock on his door. He’s asleep. You’re certain. The lights are off, none seeping through the cracks of his door. It silent in his room, safe from the very faint sounds of his breathing.

The longer you stand there, the more you spiral. Tears brim your eyes, and just as you turn on your heel to walk away, you hear rustling. His feet hit the ground, and you hear the click of what you’re assuming is a lamp. You glance back, seeing a soft golden glow peek through the cracks of his door, and your heart leaps, the tears still in your eyes.

Then, his steps are quiet, but near, and before you can properly scurry off, his door opens. His eyes are squinted, brows furrowed. His hair is tousled in a way that makes you yearn to run your fingers through it. Then, you meet his gaze.

By the time you lift your hands to wipe your eyes, Oscar’s already noticed your distressed, near-tears state.

His brows furrowed even closer, and his lips part to speak. “Are you alright?” he asks lowly, accent deliciously coating his sleepy voice.

You blink a few times, before responding, your tongue spilling the words before you can stop them.

“I’m just really anxious and Hattie wouldn’t wake up, so I was gonna see if you were up, but obviously you were asleep, so I was just gonna leave, and I mean, you scare me a little bit anyways—“

“I scare you?” He asks, interrupting your ramble. He chuckles breathily, shaking his head slightly. “I’m laid back, not mean.” He says, making you laugh nervously.

Oscar just smiles, a small one, as his eyes scan your features. He sighs softly, not an irritated sigh, and looks over his shoulder, perhaps checking the time. “I can’t promise to be a good helper, but you’re welcome to my room and company anytime.”

Oscar, in that moment, knows you’re not just his sister’s friend. Not when he’s quite content with losing sleep, if it means helping you in any way.

Days are fine. Days are fun. Especially with Arthur Leclerc dragging you around Monaco, but then comes nighttime. The anxiety had been rolling in since dinner, waves of dread regarding the battle that is yourself against sleeping. You’d been sure that you’d be comfy in the Leclerc home. You’re very close with Arthur, his family is always welcoming, but as you lay on the couch in his living room, your heart thumps against your ribcage.

You stare through the sheer curtains of the window, seeing moonlight seep through them, illuminating the room just slightly. You glance at the TV — perhaps the distraction would help, but you choose against it, too worried about disturbing others.

By the time your breathing is fast, and you feel your eyes burn as they do before tears come, footsteps sound. They’re faint, soft. Then, you hear the sound of a chair on the floor, a quiet scraping sound. Then, a padding sound. *Leo.*

The small, golden-haired puppy scurries across the floor, and if that wasn’t confirmation enough as to who the other footsteps belong to, the sound of the piano in the music room is all you need.

You sit up, letting your feet hit the floor, as you lean down to pet Leo’s small head, running your fingers through his silky coat. Despite the anxiety you felt moments ago, the soothing sound of the piano, and the overwhelming cuteness of the dog under your hand is enough to distract you.

When Leo wanders to his water bowl, you watch, then look to the door of the room that you know Charles is in. You hadn’t taken him for an insomniac, but you can definitely imagine him now, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, likely in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, slender fingers dancing over white and black keys…

Charles is a sweetheart. He’s always been incredibly kind to you, in a way that makes you wonder if it’s special treatment. It is.

As you think about *that*, rather than your anxiety, you find yourself slowly standing, and walking to the music room. Pushing the door open, you’re met with Charles’ backside. watching as he plays the piano. It feels too domestic for a moment, too peaceful, and when he looks over his shoulder, the jolt of his body implies you’d startled him.

Laughing quietly, you smile apologetically. “I’m sorry,” You say quietly, and he shakes his head, spinning around on the bench.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks, and you tilt your head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. Maybe he just made an educated guess, but there’s a certain look on his face, like maybe he knew you were anxious— did he?

“Arthur told me,” Charles says, as if he could read your thoughts. He smiles sheepishly, avoiding your gaze. “He mentioned it, when he told us you’d be coming with him,” he clarifies, and you nod understandingly.

“What about you?” You ask, meeting his gaze. He holds yours, long lashes casting a faint shadow onto his cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep either,” he muses simply.

If only you knew he was planning this, that he was seizing an opportunity to gain your attention.

Lewis rarely stays up late. He prioritizes his performance on track, and no one works well under a lack of sleep. That being said, the man is still a night owl, so when his schedule allows, he happily stays up a bit later than usual.

It’s past midnight as he sits on the leather couch in the spacey living room, his heels propped on the coffee table, and his laptop rested on his thighs. His eyes are narrowed with concentration— and the inevitable sleepiness washing over himself — as his fingers move across the keyboard, quiet clacks sounding with each word typed out.

His airpods are in, and Roscoe is curled up next to him, sleeping contently. The house is quiet, but your mind is far from that.

You lay in the spare bedroom, eyes fixated on the ceiling, watching the fan go round-and-round. You’d always figured you’d ’grow out of’ your anxiety, and in some ways, you had learned to manage it better, but you still have those moments where it drowns you, and you can feel yourself slowly slipping into that.

Your chest is heavy, and each moment of calm in your brain is combatted by a rush of worry.

Letting out a soft breath, you sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed you’d been nestled into. You slide your hoodie over your head, grab your phone, and head to the door. Maybe fresh air and a different view would help your mind relax. Everyone’s asleep, you could just have a moment to yourself, right?

Lewis may be immersed in his work, but he doesn’t miss the movement within his peripheral vision. He looks up just in time to see you scurrying into the kitchen, your sock clad feet quiet on the smooth, hardwood floor.

You hadn’t expected the man to be there, so when you made it to the bottom of the stairs, finding him on the couch, you immediately went for the kitchen. Standing in the somewhat private space, you sigh, shaking your head at the way your heart is racing for a reason unrelated to anxiety now.

Who doesn’t find Lewis Hamilton attractive, at least a little bit? You figured your “crush” on him was just because he’s conventionally attractive, but being in the same vicinity as him, you’ve always felt a pull towards him.

You grab a glass from one of the cupboards and pour yourself a glass of water, gulping it down. He wouldn’t mind if you sat with him, would he? Your brows furrow as you debate that— would he let you in his company just to avoid being seen as rude? Would that be worse than being flat out told no?

Meanwhile, Lewis is wondering if it’s his place to check in on you. He’d been amused at the way you seemed startled by his presence, but also didn’t miss the nervousness you seemed to exude.

Before he can make any further decisions, you come out of the kitchen. His brown eyes flicker to you, following your form as you walk back through the living room. He cocks a brow as you slow, as if to stop, then keep walking, then pause again at the stairs.

“I don’t bite—“

“Can I sit with you?—“

He laughs with you, as you’d both spoken at the same time. You meet his eyes, and his warm smile makes your heart skip a beat.

“You wanna sit with me?” he repeats your words, and you nod slowly. “I just…get anxious, at night, and company might help,” You explain.

Immediately, a look of understanding washes over his face, and he nods. “Come on,” he encourages gently, and he can’t help but just grin when you choose to sit on the floor in front of the couch, just next to his legs. He has to resist the urge to reach out and pet your hair, his fingers twitching over his keyboard.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks you, partially to distract his own mind. He meets your gaze as you look over your shoulder, his eyes staring into yours in a way that makes it hard to maintain eye contact.

“It’s a lot,” You muse, and he shrugs, taking out his airpods, a smile gracing his lips.

“I have time and patience.”

George is pretty serious about his schedule. From what he chooses to snack on (*cough* him asking “would an athlete snack on chocolate?” *cough*) to his workouts, and right down to his sleep schedule, he rarely goes off that.

So, George isn’t your best option, you rule out, as you sit on the air mattress next to your best friend’s bed, trying to control your shaky, uneven breathing. He’s fast asleep, probably has some busy day tomorrow, and even if he’d be polite enough to give you his time, he’d definitely steer clear of it in the future. Anyone hates the idea of being a bother to another.

Looking up above your friend’s bed, you find her asleep, curled away from you, shoulders shifting as she melts further into the bed.

With a heavy sigh, you grasp your phone and get up, quietly leaving the bedroom. If nothing else, some fresh air might do you some good.

You find your place in the almost luxurious lounge area of their home, curled up on a small couch, staring down at the ground as your mind races. However, the sound of a door opening, and footsteps following, makes you look up.

George.

He sees you as he rounds the corner, and even on his sleepy way to the bathroom, he still looks well put together.

He gives a friendly, playful smile. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite, am I right?”

Of course this man would make a dad joke.

You manage a breathy laugh, more of a huff, watching as he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Meanwhile, George can’t help but think a little harder than he might need to about your reaction. Typically, you’d banter with him, be it by making fun of his stupid jokes, or telling one that’s just as bad, and tonight, you’d just seemed off. Not to mention, he’d found it odd that you weren’t in the bedroom…not that it’s his business, but he can be a nosy man at times, and suddenly, he’s worried.

As he comes out of the bathroom, his gaze lands on you, and then meets yours when you look back up.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowing. You figured he wouldn’t pick up on your state, especially with you trying to mask it for his sake.

“You alright?” He asks, accent clear as day, as if he hadn’t most likely been sleeping peacefully moments ago.

“Uhm,” you pause. Should you tell him, or just let him be on his way? Is it more annoying to leave him wondering? He probably doesn’t even care that much—

“We may not be close, but I’m always here if you need anything,” he says, voice kind, the smile on his lips equally as polite. After all, you’d been friends with his sister for years now, and it’s not like you’d never spoken to him.

So, you give in. With a reluctant sigh, you watch as he walks down the stairs and stands in front of you, tilting his head, as if to encourage you to go on.

“…I get anxiety,” you finally say, feeling a bit ridiculous to be keeping him up for this. “Anxiety?” he echoes, “about?”

“Everything,” you laugh, shrugging. “My brain just gets really active at night, and I tend to spiral into bad thoughts, but most of it’s irrational, and i’ll be fine—“

“What can I do?” he asks, as he looks at you with worried eyes. “To help, I mean,” he expounds.

You blink a few times, a bit taken aback at how eagerly he’s jumped to that. “I feel better talking to someone,” you admit, and he hums in acknowledgment, nodding.

“Is it alright if I sit, then?” he asks, gesturing to the space on the couch next to you, and takes a seat when you give him permission.

While it takes a few minutes of silence, he eventually gets talking, and you find that despite how you imagined a situation like this going, it’s vastly different. He’s patient, talkative in the right way, and a good listener.

So, when you eventually drift off in your spot, after George was rambling about something you truthfully didn’t have much interest in, he smiled to himself, laid a blanket over you, and took himself back to bed.

Safe to say, you weren’t a bother to him. At least, you can’t imagine you were, when he brings you breakfast the following morning, and offers to take you out for coffee.

Max frequently stays up later than he should. He likes how peaceful and quiet things are at night. No one’s awake to be in his space, he feels most comfortable by himself, and it’s a great time to invite himself to the driving simulator without being interrupted, or forced to share.

He doesn’t bother to check the time. It’s late, he knows that much, as well as the fact that he doesn’t have any reason to be up early later. His hands grip the steering wheel of his sim, eyes fixed ahead on the screen, as he seamlessly takes corner after corner of a track. He’s got a headset on, and no more light than one lamp next to the couch, just enough for him to see his surroundings, but not so much that it’s glaring on the screen.

He’s so focused that he doesn’t notice when you watch him from across the room, peaking out of the hallway. You’d initially been coming out to refill your water, and use the bathroom, trying to power through your anxiety, but now, you’re finding that this is working wonders to soothe your brain. Your eyes flicker from the screen to his face, watching his expressions shift, the way his brows furrow and lips purse slightly…or the way the veins in his forearms move under his skin-

He also doesn’t notice when you set your phone down, then leave, and return with a blanket, and make yourself cozy on the couch. You don’t really want him to know you’re there, anyways. Is this an invasion of his privacy? You briefly wonder, but eventually decide that it’s not like he’s doing anything scandalous, and he’s in the main room of the house anyways.

Max eventually finishes a handful of laps and exits out of that particular track, then leans over the arm of the chair to grab his water bottle, only to then realize that you’re lying there.

His eyes widen, then his brows furrow, and he pulls his headset off, taking in your form. Your stretched out on the couch, blanket laying neatly over your form, and your hands are laying on your stomach. He can tell you didn’t just sit down, and mentally backtracks, trying to remember when he last knew he was alone.

“Well,” he starts, staring at you, looking over the edge of the chair. “What’s this about?” he asks, and you smile slightly. You’d become rather comfortable with Max. He’s a nice guy, always been polite to you, and you always end up sitting next to him when you go out to eat with his family, anyways, so it’s only natural that you learned how you can talk to him.

“Anxiety,” you shrug. “I just like watching you play, and tonight, i’ve learned that it helps my brain quiet down,” you explain.

He hums, nodding slowly. He can understand that, in some way, he supposes. He looks back at the screen, then at you. “Do you want to try?” he asks, gesturing to the sim. “…It would help, maybe? Take your mind off of things?” he suggests.

It always shocks you how considerate he can be, and every time, your heart warms.

Max has good intentions, he does, but fuck does he hate watching other people drive the sim. As he explains (maxplains) the driving to you, and tries not to cringe too hard at the way you handle the car, you find that this is a fantastic distraction. You’re well aware that you’re driving him to insanity, and before you can tease him, your eyes get heavy, and you slowly drift to sleep.

When the car first starts going off track, straight for the barriers, Max thinks you have to be fucking with him…and then he realizes your head is tilted to the side, and you’ve somehow fallen asleep in the damn driving seat.

He spends a lot longer than he’d like to admit being baffled at your actions, before he comes to carefully take apart the arm of the sim, and scoop you out of the seat. He’s a strong guy, and for some reason, the only rational way to go about this, in his mind, was to carry you to bed.

Halfway down the hall, he realizes how much of a hassle it would be to open Victorias door and put you back on the air mattress without waking you and her up, so he just pushes into his own room, lays you in his bed, and tucks you in.

He stares down at you in his bed, a sigh leaving his lips. He wants to be irritated, but more than anything, he’s relieved that you’re clearly in a better state.

Safe to say, he finds it very hard to focus on the sim when he goes back to it.

Franco Colapinto is one of those people that can get along with anyone. He’s fun, talkative, usually good at reading the room, and it’s rare that he doesn’t get on well with someone.

So, it’s only natural that you and him had been well acquainted. However, you’re also one of the lucky people that gets to experience his flirtatiousness. In fact, he’s been flirting since day one, and you’ve been matching his energy the whole time. He loves it, and so do you.

That being said, even though you’re relatively close, and consider him a friend, your anxious mind has convinced you that he flirts with you because it’s fun, rather than because he likes you, even as just a friend. He flirts with everyone, and thus, your brain uses that against you.

Which is why you walk past his room, and down to the living room, where you sit on the couch, looking out of the window, into the beauty of Argentinian greenery that’s currently illuminated by moonlight. You practice your breathing, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your chest only feels a little lighter when you hear footsteps, and look over your shoulder to see Franco there, staring at you with mischievous curiosity, like he’s ready to pop off a flirtatious joke. In any other moment, you’d be just as ready, but right now, you’d rather not.

You don’t speak, unable to curate the correct words to express your feelings in a way that feels right. Fortunately, Franco seems to understand by the look on your face that now isn’t the time to flirt. He holds your gaze, then walks into the kitchen. You refrain from watching him, not wanting to give away your interest in literally anything he does, simply because it’s him.

You hear him grab a glass…then another? Then, it sounds like he’s pouring water into one, before a click sounds, like a kettle.

Within a few minutes, he’s bringing you a mug, and has a glass of water for himself. You raise a brow at him, taking the mug despite your skepticism.

“Franco, I don’t really want to be hopped up on maté right now—“

“Not maté,” he assures you, with a wave of his hand, “it’s to help you relax, amor. I promise.”

You trust him, and the sincere twinkle in his pretty eyes is enough that you’d be convinced even if you didn’t trust him already.

He watches you bring the mug to your lips, and reaches out to guide it slower to your mouth. “It’s hot,” he murmurs, aiding you in taking a sip, watching so attentively. Your chest warms, and you know it’s not just the tea. You’ve seen Franco be gentle, obviously, but this is different, and oh, so divine.

“Why are you still up?” he asks you softly, fingers brushing yours as he retracts his hand.

“Anxiety,” you muse simply, and he nods understandingly, reaching out to rub your arm. He’d only experienced your anxiety once, some time ago when his sister mentioned you were having a hard time, and he’d noticed your shaky hands at the dinner table.

His hand trails up to your hair, and he pets the back of your head, as if to brush away your worries. Rather than fixating on your anxiety, he starts talking about how nice it is to have you around again, and his excitement for the upcoming season. You and him grew up together, in a way, even if you’d been “closer” to his sister.

By the time your tea is half finished and cool, you’re leaning into his side, and he’s gently taking the mug from you, setting it down on the coffee table. He guides you further into his hold, and you comply, letting yourself melt into his warmth, and the sound of his voice continuing to talk to you.

“You think I flirt with you for no reason?” Franco asks, laughing quietly, as if that’s unbelievable. “Franco, you flirt with anything that has legs and speaks a language you understand,” you grumble into his shoulder, making the man huff quietly. “Ay, dios mìo,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on your head. “Maybe it doesn’t seem that way, but I flirt with you differently,” he explains quietly, “and I flirt with you because I want to, because I like you.”

If you weren’t half asleep, you’d pry into that response. Instead, you let yourself heart feel content with the knowledge that you’re more than what you’d managed to convince yourself of.

Throughout the night, you learn that banter isn’t the only thing that comes easy to you two. You talk and talk, various topics coming naturally, and by the time you’re both drifting to sleep, the sun is peeking through the window. And, in due time, you’d be found curled up on the couch together, confirming everyone else’s suspicions.

Logan’s schedule is all over the place. Some nights, he’s out by 9 pm, and others, he’s unable to rest until early morning. Tonight is one of those insufferable ones where he’s tossed and turned, and not one position is comfortable enough to stay in for more than five minutes, his bed is getting too warm, even though he’s thrown off the blankets and stripped his shirt off, and he’s tired, but not sleepy.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to clear his mind enough to relax. As he lowers them, his head begins to throb, and he sighs heavily. Of course he’d get a headache now.

As he sits up and reaches for his water bottle, a timid knock sounds on his door. “Just a sec,” he says just loud enough for you to hear, and takes a few gulps of water, before he gets up. He slides his shirt back on before opening the door, and even though it’s not necessarily crazy that you’re at his door, it still takes him aback. He hadn’t really thought about who it would be.

“Shit, are you okay?” he asks, when he notices your distressed features, immediately dropping his own frustration.

“Not really,” you murmur, fiddling with your hands, picking at the skin around your nails. “I’m just having a really anxious night, and I can’t sleep,” you explain.

Logan had always been a sweetheart. He’s polite and respectful, always the type to open doors for you out of habit, the kind of guy you could always go to if you needed it. Which is why you’re coming to him now. You’d known he was up, after hearing him shuffling in his room, and the opportunity seemed to present itself to you.

The man stares at you for a moment, pressing his lips together as he contemplates how to go about this predicament. He looks back at his room. It’s not messy, but it’s not clean either. He needs to do laundry, has a few pairs of shoes here and there that should be in their rack in his closet, and of course his bed is a clear representation of his inability to rest. He doesn’t exactly want to invite you into his space. If it’s stressing him out, he wouldn’t want to have you there, and risk making your troubles worse.

“Would a drive make you feel better?” he asks, looking back to you, blue eyes meeting yours. “A drive?” you echo curiously.

“Yeah, like…the suns gonna be up in a few hours,” he shrugs, “we could go to the beach, grab some breakfast or something,” he thinks aloud, and he speaks almost hesitantly, like he’s scared that he’s suggesting the wrong thing.

Meanwhile, your heart skips a beat with excitement, and you nod. “Yeah, yes— if that’s not an issue for you?” you ask, brows knitting with a new concern that this is an inconvenience for him.

“No, no,” he shakes his head adamantly, grabbing his car keys off of his dresser. “I can’t sleep either,” he assures you, offering a small smile, and the tiredness in his eyes says it all.

Thus, you join him for a long car ride. He drives smoothly through Floridian streets, giving you the time to talk about your struggles, should you want to. He shares his own, as if to help you feel more comfortable, and after some time, he offers you the aux chord.

As the sun starts to come up, he drives to the beach, and you both sit down on cool sand, shoulders together. Waves roll just to your feet before retracting, the sound soothing. The sun slowly arises, shining down on the both of you.

You let your instincts take over, and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you soak up the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Logan sighs contently, and rests his cheek against your head, as if to assure you that you’re fine where you are, with your head on his shoulder.

You grew up on the Schumacher ranch. Being family friends and having a love for the work, you’ve been helping since you were a child, and now spend a majority of your time as a ranch hand, helping take care of things. You were best friends with Gina as a child — still are — and likely would have been just as close with Mick then, if it weren’t for him being away for races most of the time.

Now that he’s back home more often, you’ve been able to get closer with him, your relationship bordering on more than friends, but not quite a couple. Everyone else sees it, though, and you think about it too often to not want it, truthfully.

You’ve also always struggled with anxiety. You’ve got an active mind, and working yourself from sun up to sundown has always kept the irrational worry at bay. However, recently, for whatever reason, it’s kicked back up, and tonight has been particularly bad — the worst in a while.

So, after tossing and turning, you get up and head out to the stables. You check on the horses, even if you know they likely don’t need to be checked on, and as you round the corner, you find Mick sitting on the ground, hand on the mane of a foal.

Huffing a small laugh as he meets your gaze and smiles, you tilt your head playfully. “It’s past your bedtime, Micky,” you hum, making the man laugh gently.

He checks his wrist, an imaginary watch, and raises his brow, looking up at you, “it’s also past your bedtime,” he teases back. “What’s up?” he then follows up, making you sigh.

“Just anxiety. Nothing fun, unfortunately,” you muse, taking a seat in front of him. You admire the young colt next to Mick, a small smile forming on your lips as the cool air greets your skin, and you feel momentarily comforted by surroundings you’re so fond of. The ranch, nice weather, the horses, and undeniably, Mick.

“Awe,” he frowns sympathetically, nudging his boot against yours as if to comfort you, and it works. He’s not sure what to say, how to make it better, but the fact that you’re smiling, even if only a little, makes him feel better. “How have things been?” he asks, leading you to walk him through just that.

He’s stared at you as you rundown the ranch gossip, the ranch hands that have come and gone, some wanting to stir up drama, some wanting to put their nose where it doesn’t belong. You tell him that you’ve been following his races, that you and Gina watch them together.

“Gina misses you more than she’d ever admit to you,” you hum, making Mick chuckle, smiling fondly at that thought. They’d always been fairly close, close as siblings can be. “Not to make it about me, but i’ve missed you too,” you add, making Mick’s smile wider.

“Yeah?” he inquires, nudging your boot once again. “You can always text me, or call, you know that, right?” he asks, and you honestly hadn’t thought about that.

“I want you to, actually,” he adds. “It would be good to hear from you more…I miss you too.” He muses, and by now, you’re not so worried about anything, and far more focused on the knowledge that your feelings for Mick are definitely not one sided.

THANK YOU FOR READING! requests are open for any drivers written above, and i do headcanons, written fics, text fics, and smaus, as well as any reader.