⋆˚♡｡ hi, i'm dean. writer. sports fan. currently making it everyone else's problem.
you'll find a little bit of everything here:
— formula one
— nba basketball
— playlists
— fanfiction
— late-night thoughts
join the taglist | request a fic | @courtsidearchive
formula one
lando norris °⋆ "and you too divine to just be mine" — mac miller
🏁 traitor
Y/N's French bulldog falls in love with a stranger outside a bookstore. Unfortunately for her, the stranger turns out to be Lando Norris, and her dog seems determined to choose him over her at every possible opportunity.
status: complete
🏁apartment #12
Your upstairs neighbor is unbelievably loud. One day he decides to leave you a note to apologize, but will that be enough?
status: complete
🏁quarterly reports & other disasters
When one of Wall Street's brightest rising stars leaves investment banking for a position at McLaren Racing, the entire business world is left wondering why. Lando Norris is wondering something else entirely: why the intimidating woman from the finance department suddenly makes him forget how to form complete sentences. What starts with spilled coffee and reluctant apologies quickly turns into a secret relationship neither of them expected - and one neither of them can hide forever.
status: complete
🏁 plus one
When your cousin's wedding invitation arrives, so do the inevitable questions about your nonexistent love life. Lando's solution is simple: he'll pretend to be your boyfriend for the weekend. The problem is that your family loves him almost immediately... and you might be starting to as well.
status: complete
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Lando would be like
status: complete
🏁emergency contact
After a minor accident lands you in the hospital, a nurse asks for your emergency contact. Half-dazed and unable to think straight, you give them the first number you know by heart: Lando's. The problem is that he shows up immediately - and suddenly, it's impossible to ignore what has been sitting between the two of you for far too long.
status: complete
🏁 yuzu melon
Lando discovers that your daily routine somehow includes an alarming amount of Monster Energy, and immediately decides he needs to intervene. Unfortunately for him, you're deeply committed to your caffeine addiction and refuse to be judged by a man whose profession involves driving in circles at 300 km/h. What follows is a battle of wills, hidden energy drinks, and one very concerned boyfriend.
status: complete
charles leclerc °⋆ "you're the only thing I like" — brent faiyaz
🏁 liked by charles_leclerc (smau)
pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 6 | pt. 7
What starts as a random comment under a photo of coffee and books slowly turns into something much harder to ignore.
status: ongoing
🏁 margin notes
A gossip columnist who dreams of becoming a book editor finds herself covering the Monaco Grand Prix and accidentally develops a mutual dislike for Charles Leclerc.
status: complete
🏁 language of flowers
Camille owns a flower shop in Monaco. She knows every flower's meaning. She knows every regular customer. One day Charles stumbles into her shop, and as it turns out he doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.
status: complete
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Charles would be like
status: complete
🏁 redbull gives you wings
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
status: complete
george russell °⋆ "'cause I make it so easy to fall in love" — olivia dean
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating George would be like
status: complete
🏁 brits
The public thinks you're an untouchable artist. Lando Norris knows you're the life of every party. George Russell is about to discover that both versions are real.
status: complete
lewis hamilton °⋆ "heaven can wait we're only watching the skies" — jay-z
🏁 pole position
Lewis Hamilton has a habit of appearing where he shouldn't. What begins with a spilled coffee outside a London café turns into months of friendship, missed opportunities, and feelings neither of them are brave enough to name. Unfortunately for both of them, everyone else notices first.
status: complete
max verstappen °⋆ "you're still the one I run to" — shania twain
🏁between shifts
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
status: complete
oscar piastri °⋆ "i can't help falling in love with you" — elvis presley
🏁what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
you were trying to text your friend about him. unfortunately, you sent it to him instead.
nba
victor wembanyama °⋆ "bitch, ça fait très très longtemps que j'y pense à comment se mettre bien, moi j'ai pas ton élan" — yamê
🏀 the fantasy section
Owning a bookstore means dealing with all sorts of customers. Y/N just didn't expect one of them to be a seven-foot-four French basketball player with a love for fantasy novels, Star Wars, and increasingly transparent excuses to keep coming back. Fortunately for Victor Wembanyama, she likes seeing him just as much.
status: complete
stephon castle °⋆ "we'll never be those kids again" — frank ocean
🏀 rookie mistake
Getting hired as a photographer for the San Antonio Spurs was supposed to be simple: take photos, stay professional, and avoid becoming the story. Unfortunately, Stephon Castle develops a very obvious crush on you almost immediately - and while the entire team seems to notice, you're the last person to figure it out.
status: complete
request rules
♡ be kind
♡ please specify the driver/player if you're requesting fanfiction
♡ i reserve the right to decline requests i'm not comfortable writing
♡ patience is appreciated - i'm a student, working two jobs and write for fun
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Hii I love your post of what its like dating george rusell can you do one with oscar piastri??
what it's like dating.... ♡ oscar piastri
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ thank you so much for the request anon! enjoy. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
Oscar's love language is acts of service before anything else. Your phone somehow always being charged because he notices it dying before you do. Him silently moving you to the inside of the pavement whenever you're walking together. Your coffee order becoming permanently stored in his brain after hearing it exactly once. Pretending not to listen when you ramble, only to bring up something you mentioned three months ago. Constantly having conversations like "I told you to bring a jacket." "Sorry, babe, I forgot." "You can wear mine." Rolling his eyes while draping it over your shoulders anyway.
Oscar never being overly dramatic about his feelings. Instead of saying "i miss you" every five minutes, he'll simply text, "when are you home?" and somehow it means the exact same thing.
Oscar treating you like you put the stars up in the sky for him and him only. You don't suspect a thing, but to him, it's like you actually have. You are the only person who consistently makes him laugh loud enough that everyone nearby turns around and he will be damned if he ever does anything to upset you on purpose.
Oscar being overly affectionate and clingy, when nervous pre-race. Lando pretending to throw up every time he catches the two of you being disgustingly cute. "Mate, get a room." "Shut up." "You lot are disgusting." "Shut up."
Oscar secretly loving you stealing his hoodies, because it means he'll eventually get them back smelling like your perfume.
Oscar loves taking youlate-night drives with no destination. It's all comfortable silence. Playlists instead of conversations. Your hand resting on the centre console until he reaches over without looking and intertwines your fingers with his.
Oscar never making a big deal out of anniversaries, because he knows you don't like it, but somehow always remembering them. Getting you flowers "just because", saying they simply reminded him of you while he was walking past a florist.
Oscar being surprisingly competitive over the smallest things. Mario kart becoming a genuine threat to the relationship. "You're cheating." "I'm winning." "Same thing."
Oscar's dry humour getting progressively worse the longer you're together. You eventually becoming fluent in Oscar, recognising that a tiny smile means he's ecstatic, that "not bad" means he absolutely loves something, that "yeah, alright" is basically a declaration of affection.
Hii I love your post of what its like dating george rusell can you do one with oscar piastri??
what it's like dating.... ♡ oscar piastri
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ thank you so much for the request anon! enjoy. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
Oscar's love language is acts of service before anything else. Your phone somehow always being charged because he notices it dying before you do. Him silently moving you to the inside of the pavement whenever you're walking together. Your coffee order becoming permanently stored in his brain after hearing it exactly once. Pretending not to listen when you ramble, only to bring up something you mentioned three months ago. Constantly having conversations like "I told you to bring a jacket." "Sorry, babe, I forgot." "You can wear mine." Rolling his eyes while draping it over your shoulders anyway.
Oscar never being overly dramatic about his feelings. Instead of saying "i miss you" every five minutes, he'll simply text, "when are you home?" and somehow it means the exact same thing.
Oscar treating you like you put the stars up in the sky for him and him only. You don't suspect a thing, but to him, it's like you actually have. You are the only person who consistently makes him laugh loud enough that everyone nearby turns around and he will be damned if he ever does anything to upset you on purpose.
Oscar being overly affectionate and clingy, when nervous pre-race. Lando pretending to throw up every time he catches the two of you being disgustingly cute. "Mate, get a room." "Shut up." "You lot are disgusting." "Shut up."
Oscar secretly loving you stealing his hoodies, because it means he'll eventually get them back smelling like your perfume.
Oscar loves taking youlate-night drives with no destination. It's all comfortable silence. Playlists instead of conversations. Your hand resting on the centre console until he reaches over without looking and intertwines your fingers with his.
Oscar never making a big deal out of anniversaries, because he knows you don't like it, but somehow always remembering them. Getting you flowers "just because", saying they simply reminded him of you while he was walking past a florist.
Oscar being surprisingly competitive over the smallest things. Mario kart becoming a genuine threat to the relationship. "You're cheating." "I'm winning." "Same thing."
Oscar's dry humour getting progressively worse the longer you're together. You eventually becoming fluent in Oscar, recognising that a tiny smile means he's ecstatic, that "not bad" means he absolutely loves something, that "yeah, alright" is basically a declaration of affection.
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
warnings: fluff
note: hello! ♡ this is request by @madiexuberant heavily inspired by my Lando Norris fic Yuzu Melon, except apparently we've traded melons for approximately enough caffeine to power a small city. please do not use this fic as medical advice. drink some water. unlike reader. enjoy! - dean.
The first time Charles makes note of your Red Bull addiction, he assumes it's an isolated incident. You're leaning against the Ferrari hospitality counter, quietly talking to one of the PR coordinators, a bright blue can balanced casually in your hand.
He doesn't think much of it, people drink energy drinks especially around Formula One. The weekends are long. The schedules are brutal. It's understandable. He promptly forgets about it until the next morning.
You're walking through the paddock. Same tote bag, same sunglasses, different outfit, same Red Bull. Charles blinks - coincidence, probably.
By Saturday afternoon, he has counted four separate cans, not flavours, cans consumed by the same person. You. He finds himself watching in mild horror as you effortlessly crack open yet another one while scrolling through your phone. He looks towards Carlos' old race engineer.
"Has she..." A pause. "...been drinking those all day?"
The engineer barely glances up.
"Since yesterday."
Charles laughs.
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"...Oh."
Sunday morning, Ferrari hospitality. Charles walks in determined to prove to himself that he's exaggerating. You smile politely as he passes.
"Morning."
"Morning."
His eyes immediately drift towards your hand, Red Bull, again.
"You know..." He begins carefully. "...they do sell water."
You look down at the can. Then back at him.
"They do?"
"Yes."
"Interesting
."
"You've... never considered it?"
"I have."
"And?"
"I preferred this."
You take another sip. Charles watches you with the exact expression of a man witnessing a horrific crime.
"How many have you had today?"
You think.
"...Including this one?"
"There are others?"
"Three."
"It is only nine in the morning."
You shrug.
"I woke up early."
Charles closes his eyes for a brief moment. Somewhere behind him, Fred walks into hospitality. He takes one look at the can in your hand, then at Charles.
"No."
You blink.
"What?"
"Not in Ferrari hospitality."
You glance around innocently.
"I don't see a rule."
"There is one now."
"You've just made it up."
"I have."
"You can't do that."
"I literally own the team."
"...Good point."
Charles has known Fred for years. He has never seen him look quite so personally offended by a beverage.
Charles' intervention begins approximately twenty minutes later. He corners you outside hospitality. You are, unsurprisingly, holding another can. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Listen."
"Hm?"
"I have accepted that I cannot stop you."
"Very mature of you."
"I'm not finished."
You raise an eyebrow.
"We are Ferrari."
"I know."
"We are not associated with Red Bull."
"I also know."
"So..." He gestures towards the can. "...could you maybe not drink those so... publicly?"
You look down at it, then back at him.
"So the problem isn't that I'm drinking it."
"The problem is where you're drinking it."
"Exactly."
"That seems manageable."
Charles leaves that conversation feeling strangely victorious.
The following morning, he cannot find you anywhere, which, in hindsight, should've worried him. Instead, he assumes you've listened. He should know better. He rounds the corner beside the Ferrari garage. There you are, crouched behind a tire trolley, drinking a Red Bull through a metal reusable straw.
"Y/N..."
You freeze.
"...Hi."
"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I can see that."
"So can you really call it hiding?"
Charles sighs.
By the afternoon, you've evolved. This time, you've poured the Red Bull into an entirely unlabelled reusable bottle. Charles almost walks straight past you, then he watches you take a sip. Your face immediately does the tiny little wince it always does after the first mouthful.
"You decanted it?"
"I adapted."
Saturday. You somehow acquire an iced coffee cup, Ferrari branding, lid, straw. Charles smiles. Finally, progress. Then you take a sip.
"That isn't coffee."
"No."
"You put Red Bull in a coffee cup."
"I wanted to blend in."
"You've become a criminal."
By Sunday, the situation has spiralled completely out of control. You are sitting beside Lewis, happily sipping from what appears to be a water bottle. Charles is almost proud.
Until Lewis quietly says, "You know that looks like piss, right?"
You both look down. The Red Bull is, in fact, visible through the clear plastic.
"...I forgot bottles were transparent."
That evening, Charles gathers you, Fred and two very confused Ferrari engineers around one of the empty meeting tables. Fred folds his arms.
"This is an intervention."
You look genuinely touched.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"I've never had one before."
Charles slides an entire case of bottled water across the table.
"We've made alternatives."
You stare at it.
"...Where's the Red Bull?"
"There isn't any."
"I don't understand."
Fred sighs.
"I'll be honest."
"We've tried."
Charles nods.
"We've really tried."
"You've hidden them."
"Yes."
"You've replaced them with water."
"Yes."
"You even made Carlos check my bag."
Charles looks mildly embarrassed.
"...Yes."
You smile sweetly.
"I had another bag."
Fred slowly turns towards Charles.
"I'm beginning to understand why you've looked so tired this weekend."
Charles drops his head onto the table.
"I can't win."
You reach over, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"You can't."
Finally, Charles lifts his head.
"Fine."
Your eyes light up.
"Really?"
"Drink your Red Bull."
"I will."
"But."
You stop.
"You are no longer allowed to drink it in Ferrari hospitality."
"Fair."
"Or within sight of Fred."
"Also fair."
"Or where photographers can see you."
"Reasonable."
"And preferably..." He points accusingly at you. "...not behind our tire trolleys."
You grin.
"No promises."
Charles groans. Fred simply stands.
"I'm going home."
As he walks away, he mutters just loudly enough for the two of you to hear, "At least she's not drinking Monster."
You beam.
"See?" You turn towards Charles. "It could be worse."
Charles looks at the can you've somehow produced from absolutely nowhere.
"...Please tell me you didn't have that in your pocket."
You crack it open with a satisfied hiss.
"A magician never reveals her secrets."
Charles sighs dramatically.
"I'm dating an energy drink smuggler."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He watches you take another sip. Then, despite himself, smiles.
I honestly wouldnt mind. Although it would be funny if it wasn't a redbull team. The s/o acting all "*gasp* betraying me for redbull I see!" I have no preference! Thank youuuuu!!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
warnings: fluff
note: hello! ♡ this is request by @madiexuberant heavily inspired by my Lando Norris fic Yuzu Melon, except apparently we've traded melons for approximately enough caffeine to power a small city. please do not use this fic as medical advice. drink some water. unlike reader. enjoy! - dean.
The first time Charles makes note of your Red Bull addiction, he assumes it's an isolated incident. You're leaning against the Ferrari hospitality counter, quietly talking to one of the PR coordinators, a bright blue can balanced casually in your hand.
He doesn't think much of it, people drink energy drinks especially around Formula One. The weekends are long. The schedules are brutal. It's understandable. He promptly forgets about it until the next morning.
You're walking through the paddock. Same tote bag, same sunglasses, different outfit, same Red Bull. Charles blinks - coincidence, probably.
By Saturday afternoon, he has counted four separate cans, not flavours, cans consumed by the same person. You. He finds himself watching in mild horror as you effortlessly crack open yet another one while scrolling through your phone. He looks towards Carlos' old race engineer.
"Has she..." A pause. "...been drinking those all day?"
The engineer barely glances up.
"Since yesterday."
Charles laughs.
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"...Oh."
Sunday morning, Ferrari hospitality. Charles walks in determined to prove to himself that he's exaggerating. You smile politely as he passes.
"Morning."
"Morning."
His eyes immediately drift towards your hand, Red Bull, again.
"You know..." He begins carefully. "...they do sell water."
You look down at the can. Then back at him.
"They do?"
"Yes."
"Interesting
."
"You've... never considered it?"
"I have."
"And?"
"I preferred this."
You take another sip. Charles watches you with the exact expression of a man witnessing a horrific crime.
"How many have you had today?"
You think.
"...Including this one?"
"There are others?"
"Three."
"It is only nine in the morning."
You shrug.
"I woke up early."
Charles closes his eyes for a brief moment. Somewhere behind him, Fred walks into hospitality. He takes one look at the can in your hand, then at Charles.
"No."
You blink.
"What?"
"Not in Ferrari hospitality."
You glance around innocently.
"I don't see a rule."
"There is one now."
"You've just made it up."
"I have."
"You can't do that."
"I literally own the team."
"...Good point."
Charles has known Fred for years. He has never seen him look quite so personally offended by a beverage.
Charles' intervention begins approximately twenty minutes later. He corners you outside hospitality. You are, unsurprisingly, holding another can. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Listen."
"Hm?"
"I have accepted that I cannot stop you."
"Very mature of you."
"I'm not finished."
You raise an eyebrow.
"We are Ferrari."
"I know."
"We are not associated with Red Bull."
"I also know."
"So..." He gestures towards the can. "...could you maybe not drink those so... publicly?"
You look down at it, then back at him.
"So the problem isn't that I'm drinking it."
"The problem is where you're drinking it."
"Exactly."
"That seems manageable."
Charles leaves that conversation feeling strangely victorious.
The following morning, he cannot find you anywhere, which, in hindsight, should've worried him. Instead, he assumes you've listened. He should know better. He rounds the corner beside the Ferrari garage. There you are, crouched behind a tire trolley, drinking a Red Bull through a metal reusable straw.
"Y/N..."
You freeze.
"...Hi."
"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I can see that."
"So can you really call it hiding?"
Charles sighs.
By the afternoon, you've evolved. This time, you've poured the Red Bull into an entirely unlabelled reusable bottle. Charles almost walks straight past you, then he watches you take a sip. Your face immediately does the tiny little wince it always does after the first mouthful.
"You decanted it?"
"I adapted."
Saturday. You somehow acquire an iced coffee cup, Ferrari branding, lid, straw. Charles smiles. Finally, progress. Then you take a sip.
"That isn't coffee."
"No."
"You put Red Bull in a coffee cup."
"I wanted to blend in."
"You've become a criminal."
By Sunday, the situation has spiralled completely out of control. You are sitting beside Lewis, happily sipping from what appears to be a water bottle. Charles is almost proud.
Until Lewis quietly says, "You know that looks like piss, right?"
You both look down. The Red Bull is, in fact, visible through the clear plastic.
"...I forgot bottles were transparent."
That evening, Charles gathers you, Fred and two very confused Ferrari engineers around one of the empty meeting tables. Fred folds his arms.
"This is an intervention."
You look genuinely touched.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"I've never had one before."
Charles slides an entire case of bottled water across the table.
"We've made alternatives."
You stare at it.
"...Where's the Red Bull?"
"There isn't any."
"I don't understand."
Fred sighs.
"I'll be honest."
"We've tried."
Charles nods.
"We've really tried."
"You've hidden them."
"Yes."
"You've replaced them with water."
"Yes."
"You even made Carlos check my bag."
Charles looks mildly embarrassed.
"...Yes."
You smile sweetly.
"I had another bag."
Fred slowly turns towards Charles.
"I'm beginning to understand why you've looked so tired this weekend."
Charles drops his head onto the table.
"I can't win."
You reach over, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"You can't."
Finally, Charles lifts his head.
"Fine."
Your eyes light up.
"Really?"
"Drink your Red Bull."
"I will."
"But."
You stop.
"You are no longer allowed to drink it in Ferrari hospitality."
"Fair."
"Or within sight of Fred."
"Also fair."
"Or where photographers can see you."
"Reasonable."
"And preferably..." He points accusingly at you. "...not behind our tire trolleys."
You grin.
"No promises."
Charles groans. Fred simply stands.
"I'm going home."
As he walks away, he mutters just loudly enough for the two of you to hear, "At least she's not drinking Monster."
You beam.
"See?" You turn towards Charles. "It could be worse."
Charles looks at the can you've somehow produced from absolutely nowhere.
"...Please tell me you didn't have that in your pocket."
You crack it open with a satisfied hiss.
"A magician never reveals her secrets."
Charles sighs dramatically.
"I'm dating an energy drink smuggler."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He watches you take another sip. Then, despite himself, smiles.
someone once said to me that basketball is "just a game."
i don't think that's true.
for some people, basketball is how they made friends in a new country. for others, it's staying up until 4 a.m. to watch a team on the other side of the world. it's a parent who taught you the game, a player who inspired you, a playoff run they'll never forget, or simply the thing that made a difficult year a little easier.
i want to collect those stories.
introducing The Fan Archive - an ongoing storytelling project by Courtside Archive, dedicated to documenting the people behind the fandom.
if basketball has ever meant something to you - big or small - i would love to hear your story.
whether you've been watching for fifteen years or fifteen weeks, your experience deserves a place here.
your story may be featured on Courtside Archive across instagram, tiktok, and tumblr (only with your permission and according to the sharing preferences you choose in the form).
this isn't about stats.
it's about the people who fill the arenas, stay up through the night to watch games, wear jerseys until they're falling apart, and somehow find pieces of themselves in a game of basketball.
this is the link to the questionnaire.
let's build an archive of basketball stories together. 🏀♡
welcome to The Fan Archive. ♡
basketball isn't just played on the court - it's lived by the people who watch it.
The Fan Archive is an ongoi
here is the questionaire! including my NBA taglist, because i am sure you guys have lovely stories to share! <3
@XXXliterallegends @kyomionline @aantimaya @lexisoutofhere @moonlightluva @thvmaya
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
warnings: fluff, smau
note: hello ♡ this was written for an absolutely lovely request by @ateliefloresdaprimavera i hope i did your idea justice! i took a few creative liberties to flesh the story out while keeping the heart of your request the same. enjoy!! - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 14,565 others
yn.antonelli i raised him better than this!!!! @.kimi.antonelli
kimi.antonelli: delete this.
yn.antonelli: no ❤️
georgerussell: 😭😭😭😭
kimi.anotnelli: mate HELP ME
landonorris: kimi blink twice if you need help
yn.antonelli: he absolutely does not.
user1: WAIT KIMI HAS A SISTER!?
user2: HOLD ON
user3: new paddock sibling duo unlocked
max.verstappen: 😂
liked by author
The Mercedes hospitality is already buzzing by the time you arrive. Mechanics move between garages carrying equipment, journalists rehearse questions into voice recorders, camera shutters click every few seconds. You instinctively slow your pace, letting Kimi walk half a step ahead, because you'd learned years ago that being his sister meant allowing him to take the lead here. This was his world.
"You'll meet everyone eventually," Kimi says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"I don't have to."
"You do."
"I came to spend time with my little brother."
"You also came to see where I work."
"I've seen enough already."
"You've been here for... six minutes."
"Exactly."
He laughs.
"You'll like them."
"I work in an emergency department."
"So?"
"I've met every personality imaginable."
Kimi considers that.
"...fair."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 19,529 others
yn.antonelli apparently i survive outside the emergency department too
kimi.antonelli: debatable
kimi.antonelli: you do know i have pictures to show too -_-
yn.antonelli: do you dare?
georgerussell: welcome to the paddock!
yn.antonelli: thank you!
landonorris: guys, she is already threatening to make me drink water
yn.antonelli: because you need it
oscarpiastri: she has a point
yn.antonelli: @.landonorris listen to your boyfriend
max.verstappen: Hope you enjoy the weekend.
yn.antonelli: thank you! 😊
The paddock is quieter away from the garages, not silent, never silent. Just... calmer. The steady hum of conversations blends with distant engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You find the coffee station tucked into the corner of one of the hospitality units, perfect, until you realise someone else got there first.
Max Verstappen stands with one hand resting against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish pouring. He glances over as you approach.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then you point towards the coffee machine.
"Are you trying to blow the coffee machine up with your mind?"
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"No."
"It looked like it."
"I think it's ignoring me."
"It does that."
"You've been here before?"
"My brother has worked here for months."
"Fair point."
He steps aside without another word, giving you enough room to reach the machine.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The machine lets out an unimpressed hiss before finally beginning to pour. You watch it for a moment.
"So..."
Max breaks the silence first.
"Emergency nurse?"
You glance at him.
"I've been exposed."
"Oscar mentioned it."
"I'll have to have a word."
"He seemed frightened."
"He should be."
That earns another smile, one that softens his entire face. You hadn't expected Max Verstappen to smile like that. It suits him.
The coffee finishes pouring. You reach for the paper cup just as he notices the faint pink line across the back of your hand.
"You cut yourself."
Looking down, you shrug.
"Paper."
"Paper?"
"I lost."
He lets out an amused breath.
"I didn't know that was possible."
"You've clearly never worked in a hospital."
"I haven't."
"You'd be amazed what stationery is capable of."
He chuckles quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, you notice the split skin across his right knuckles. Old enough not to be bleeding, but fresh enough to still look angry.
"What happened to your hand?"
His eyes follow yours.
"This?"
He flexes it once.
"Nothing."
You give him a look.
"The universal male diagnosis."
"It's fine."
"Mhm."
"It is."
You take a sip of your coffee before speaking again.
"I'll believe you when you clean it."
He looks at you, then at his hand, then back at you.
"It's only a scratch."
"So was mine."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words leave your mouth so casually that you don't think twice about them. Max does, because nobody has ever looked at him the way you just did - not as a world champion or a rival, just... as someone with a cut that should probably be cleaned before it gets infected. It's strangely refreshing.
"You always this bossy?"
You smile into your coffee.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You should."
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice echoes across the paddock.
"There you are!"
Kimi. He stops beside you, looking between the two of you.
"Am I interrupting?"
You shake your head.
"I was just telling Max to clean his hand."
Kimi doesn't even hesitate.
"Oh, yeah. You should listen."
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You too?"
"I've been listening to her for nineteen years."
"And?"
"It's easier."
You grin triumphantly.
"See?"
Max looks between the two of you before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I don't think I've got much of a choice."
"No," you say warmly "You really don't."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1paddock
kimi antonelli's sister has been in the paddock for approximately three hours and she's already become everyone's older sister.
@.papayafiles
apparently yn told lando to drink water 😭
@.landonorris
i was HYDRATED.
@.oscarpiastri
you weren't.
@.f1tea
according to people in the paddock kimi's sister told max verstappen to clean a cut on his hand 😭
@.verstappenupdates
imagine being told off by max verstappen
❌️
imagine max verstappen being told off
✅️
@.formulafiles
not max smiling while talking to yn...
@.maxieschamp
can we PLEASE remember yn is literally kimi's sister and leave her alone 😭
@.gridgossip
no because why did max walk over to mercedes hospitality FOUR TIMES today
@.redbullracing
max: "i was looking for coffee."
@.f1fan247
oooh redbull admin is MESSY today
@.f1memes
coffee machine at mercedes after seeing max every twenty minutes:
"bro just admit you have a crush."
@.kimiupdates
kimi has absolutely no idea what's happening around him 😭
@.papayafiles
antonelli sister nation we're up.
@.gridgirlies
she has no clue twitter is shipping them and honestly let's keep it that way for now 😭🤍
By the time Max wanders back towards the Mercedes hospitality later that afternoon, he's managed to convince himself he's there for an entirely reasonable reason. The reason being... coffee... again. Never mind the fact that the paper cup in his hand is still half full. He steps inside just as you finish reorganising the contents of your tote bag.
"You know," you say without looking up, "I don't think anyone drinks as much coffee around here as you do."
Max glances down at his cup.
"...Probably not."
"You're proving my point."
"I like coffee."
"So do I."
You zip your bag shut before your eyes drift almost absentmindedly towards his right hand. You pause.
"Did you clean it?"
He looks down.
"The cut?"
"Mhm."
"I did."
You narrow your eyes.
"Can I see?"
For a split second, Max genuinely considers saying no, not because he minds, but because he suddenly becomes acutely aware that you want to hold his hand, which is an entirely ridiculous thing to think. You're a nurse. This is your job. Still...
He holds it out. You take it without hesitation. Your fingers are warm. You turn his hand over, studying the split skin across his knuckles with the same concentration he imagines you give every patient. For a moment, the noise of the paddock fades into the background.
"Hm."
That single syllable immediately worries him.
"What?"
"You cleaned it."
"I told you."
"You also put one tiny plaster over it."
"..."
"Which accomplished approximately nothing."
"I tried."
"I can tell."
You look up at him.
"It's a very... enthusiastic attempt."
"I feel judged."
"You are."
You release his hand for only a second before reaching into your tote. Max watches, mildly fascinated, as you produce what appears to be an entire miniature first-aid kit. Alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, bandages, medical tape, a tiny bottle of antiseptic. He blinks.
"You carry all of that around?"
You look at him as though he's asked why the sky is blue.
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"Right."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You're assuming people just... injure themselves around you?"
"They usually do."
"That's oddly concerning."
"It's usually men."
"I don't know whether to be offended."
"You shouldn't."
You tear open an antiseptic wipe.
"Give me your hand."
He does, again. Without thinking. You dab gently across the cut.
"This might sting."
"It already-"
The antiseptic touches the wound. He winces.
"Oh."
"There it is."
"I take it back."
You can't help smiling.
"You racing drivers are all the same."
"We are?"
"So dramatic."
"I wasn't dramatic."
"You flinched."
"It stung."
"It barely touched you."
"It absolutely did."
You laugh quietly, shaking your head before carefully pressing fresh gauze over the cut. Your movements are practised like you've done this a thousand times before. Maybe ten thousand.
"You've done this a lot."
You don't look up.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"I work in A&E."
"Right."
"Trust me," you murmur, smoothing the edge of the bandage into place, "this doesn't even make the top thousand."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'll try harder next time."
Your head snaps up.
"You'll do no such thing."
"I'm joking."
"I know."
You point a finger at him anyway.
"But if you come back with another split knuckle tomorrow, I'm charging you."
"For medical treatment?"
"For being stubborn."
Before he can reply, another voice cuts through the room.
"There you are."
Kimi walks in carrying two bottles of water. His eyes immediately land on the two of you. More specifically, on the fact that you're holding Max's hand.
"Oh," he says simply.
"You got him."
Max looks between the two of you.
"...Got me?"
Kimi nods sympathetically.
"She'll look after the cut."
He lifts one of the water bottles.
"Then she'll tell you you're dehydrated."
"I was literally about to."
"I know."
He hands you the bottle before passing the other to Max.
"You should drink that."
Max glances down at the bottle. Then at Kimi.
"You planned this."
Kimi shrugs.
"I've had plenty years to learn how she works."
You smile sweetly.
"And yet he still forgets to drink water."
"I don't forget."
"You do."
"I choose not to."
Max laughs a proper laugh. It makes both you and Kimi look at him. He rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say, fastening the last strip of tape across the bandage.
"There."
You finally let go of his hand.
"All done."
He looks down at the neat dressing. It looks professional - far better than the crooked plaster he'd attempted earlier.
"Thank you."
The words come genuinely. You offer him a smile that reaches your eyes.
"Occupational hazard."
He smiles back. Neither of you notices Lando walking past the open hospitality entrance. He slows just enough to glance inside. Takes one look at you carefully bandaging Max Verstappen's hand. Grins to himself.
"Oh," he mutters under his breath. "So that's what's happening."
Then, wisely deciding not to interrupt, he keeps walking.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ PADDOCK GROUP CHAT
Lando
boys
Lando
i've seen something today
Charles
that sounds ominous.
Oscar
is it another labubu? better keep it away from kimi
Lando
worse
George
Impossible.
Lando
verstappen smiled
Max
?
Lando
TWICE
Oscar
can confirm
Charles
i refuse to believe this.
George
At who?
Lando
oh you know exactly at who...
Max
i don't.
Oscar
kimi's sister
Seen by Max.
Seen by Charles.
Seen by George.
Seen by Lando.
Max
she fixed my hand.
Lando
mate
Charles
...
George
Did you deliberately injure yourself?
Max
no.
Oscar
that's not actually an answer
Lando
i give it until tomorrow before he develops another mysterious cut
Max
i hate all of you.
Charles
have you considered asking for her number?
Max
no.
George
Coward.
Lando
MASSIVE coward
Charles
it's alright max, i hear nurses like stubborn patients.
Lando
throw yourself down some stairs
Oscar
don't encourage workplace injuries!
Charles
paper cuts seem to be enough.
George
Or you could just tell her she's pretty?
Max
absolutely not.
Lando
he's gone
George
He's finished.
Charles
finished.
Kimi
can everyone stop trying to set my sister up?
Lando
...
George
...
Charles
...
Oscar
i forgot you were here
Kimi
clearlyy
Charles
to be fair...
George
Your sister is lovely.
Lando
yeah we're big fans
Kimi
that's worse!!!!
Max
i didn't say anything.
Lando
you didn't have to
By the time the afternoon settles into its familiar rhythm, you've reclaimed the small sofa tucked into the corner of the Mercedes hospitality. One leg is crossed beneath you, a paperback rests in your lap.
You barely make it through two pages before someone dramatically clears their throat. You don't even bother looking up.
"Yes, Lando."
"...How did you know it was me?"
"You sigh louder than everyone else."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Only then do you lift your eyes from the page. Lando is standing in front of you with the most exaggerated pout you've ever seen.
"What happened?"
"I've suffered a workplace injury."
You slowly close your book.
"Oh no."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He holds up his wrist, as though presenting evidence in court.
"I hit it."
"On what?"
"..."
"Lando?"
"...a door."
Oscar walks past behind him carrying a bottle of water.
"You walked into the door."
Lando turns immediately.
"The door moved."
Oscar doesn't even break stride.
"The door was stationary."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It has been attached to the wall since Thursday."
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
"So..." You reach out, gently taking Lando's wrist into your hand. "Can you move it?"
He rotates it dramatically.
"Like this?"
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"...Three."
You nod thoughtfully.
"So you're not dying."
"I thought I was."
"You thought wrong."
He gasps.
"I came here for sympathy."
"You came to the wrong person."
You stand, crossing over to your tote bag before rummaging inside. A moment later, you pull out a reusable ice pack. Lando blinks.
"You just... carry those?"
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"You carry emergency ice?"
"I do." You press it into his hand. "There."
He looks between the ice pack and you.
"...That's actually really nice."
"I know."
The interaction lasts perhaps two minutes. Long enough for George to wander in. He spots the ice pack and Lando, who looks like he has just given birth at the least.
"What happened?"
"He fought a door."
"I lost."
George nods solemnly.
"Happens to the best of us."
"It really doesn't," Oscar mutters from somewhere nearby.
George laughs before rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
"You don't happen to have another one, do you?"
You don't ask why. You simply kneel beside your bag again.
"Blue or green?"
He stares.
"...You have options?"
"I like to be prepared."
He accepts the blue one with an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Max arrives just in time to witness Charles wandering over.
"I have a question."
You don't even look up.
"Second pocket."
Charles pauses.
"...What?"
"Second pocket in the tote."
Curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches inside and pulls out a packet of plasters.
"...How did you know?"
You finally glance up.
"You've been picking at that cut on your finger since lunch."
Charles looks down.
"...Oh."
"Stop doing that."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
Max finds himself smiling. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.
Lewis is next. Not because he's injured, but because he's looking for painkillers after a headache starts creeping in.
"Left pocket," you say before he can finish asking.
"You've got a frightening system."
"I've had years to perfect it."
"I can tell."
Eventually, the room settles again. Lando is happily holding his ice pack against his wrist, George has one draped across the back of his neck, Charles has stopped absentmindedly picking at his finger, Lewis has disappeared with a bottle of water and two painkillers. You simply reopen your book as though none of it had happened. Max watches you for another moment before walking over.
"You really don't mind?"
You glance up.
"Mind what?"
"People," He gestures vaguely towards the room. "Coming to you."
You consider the question for a second. Then shrug.
"Not really."
"They interrupt you."
"They need something."
"They're capable adults."
You smile.
"Debatable."
He laughs quietly.
"I suppose."
You mark your page with a finger.
"My job isn't really about fixing people."
"No?"
"It's about making things a little easier."
He doesn't say anything.
"So..." You continue. "If someone trusts me enough to ask for help, why would I make them feel bad for asking?"
Max looks at you differently after that, not because you'd bandaged his hand or because you'd remembered his cut, but because you'd just revealed something about yourself so effortlessly. Kindness wasn't something you performed - it was simply the way you moved through the world.
"...That's a nice way of looking at it," he says quietly.
You smile.
"I think so too."
Before either of you can say anything else, Kimi pushes through the hospitality doors. He stops. Looks around the room at Lando, George, Charles. Then at you. He sighs.
"I leave for half an hour." Nobody says anything. "And somehow..." His eyes drift towards the collection of first-aid supplies spread neatly across the coffee table. "...you've opened another emergency department."
You grin innocently.
"They came to me."
"I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "They always do."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🔵 kimi.antonelli
liked by yn.antonelli, max.verstappen and 568,798 others
kimi.antonelli happy nurses appreciation day to the one that somehow opened another emergency department in mercedes hospitality. thanks for looking after us. ❤️ @.yn.antonelli
yn.antonelli: you all would've survived without me… probably <3
landonorris: debatable
georgerussell: still got the ice pack 👍
yn.antonelli: i am glad i could help!
charlesleclerc: finger has stopped bleeding thank you doctor
yn.antonelli: *nurse
lewishamilton: thank you for keeping everyone in one piece 🖤
yn.antonelli: that's my job! <3
oscarpiastri: especially lando!
landonorris: why am i catching strays?
max.verstappen: Thank you. My hand's much better.
yn.antonelli: glad to hear it 😊
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Max
Hi.
Thank you again.
Y/N
max you already thanked me in person 😭
Max
I know.
I just...
Wanted to again.
Y/N
then you're welcome again :)
Max
Would you let me repay you somehow?
Y/N
that's really not necessary
Max
Coffee?
Y/N
only if you promise not to injure yourself this time.
Max
I'll try.
Y/N
emphasis on try?
Max
No promises. :)
You almost don't notice the bouquet. It's only as you step through the café door that your eyes land on Max, already waiting by the window, standing as soon as he sees you... And holding flowers. Your pace falters.
"Oh."
He suddenly looks far less confident.
"I-"
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the florist to pick something that reminded them of summer."
You stare at the flowers, then at him.
"They're for me?"
He smiles, just barely.
"I don't see anyone else here."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"That's... incredibly sweet."
You accept the bouquet carefully, almost as though you're afraid you'll crush it.
"No one's ever brought me flowers on a coffee run before."
Max's eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
"A coffee run?"
You nod.
"You said you wanted to thank me."
"...Right."
He can't bring himself to correct you. Instead, he pulls out your chair. You blink.
"You're making me feel terribly underdressed."
"You look lovely."
The compliment slips out before he can think better of it. For the first time all afternoon, you seem genuinely caught off guard. A faint smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you."
The conversation comes surprisingly easily after that. It begins with work. You tell him about overnight shifts, impossible patients, and the elderly woman who insists on bringing homemade biscuits for the entire emergency department every Christmas.
He tells you about growing up around racing circuits, about travelling more than staying still, about how strange it feels to call so many airports familiar. At one point, you laugh so hard you have to wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. At another, the café around you fades into little more than background noise.
Hours pass unnoticed. Neither of you is in any hurry to leave. As you finally step back out onto the street, bouquet tucked safely in one arm and coffee still warming your hands, you smile at him.
"Thank you."
"For the flowers?"
"For today."
He smiles back.
"It was my pleasure."
You tilt your head.
"We should do this again sometime."
His heart practically stops.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
Completely oblivious to the fact that, somewhere across the street, a photographer has already taken three pictures of the two of you walking side by side. And even more oblivious to the fact that, to Max Verstappen, this had never been a coffee run. It had always been a date.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1gossip
BREAKING: Max Verstappen spotted leaving a café in Milan with Kimi Antonelli's sister.
@.gridupdates
DID YOU SEE HE GOT HER FLOWERS???
@.papayafiles
MAX VERSTAPPEN BOUGHT HER FLOWERS??????
@.f1tea
mind you... HE was carrying the flowers when he arrived. this wasn't a "thank you for coming" bouquet.
@.maxnation
oh. OH.
@.formulaobsessed
she looks so happy 😭🤍
@.verstappenfiles
need everyone to remember max does NOT do public dates.
@.landonorris
💐
@.oscarpiastri
...
@.landonorris
don't act surprised.
@.oscarpiastri
i'm not.
@.charles_leclerc
finally.
@.georgerussell63
about time.
@.f1girlies
WHO SAID FINALLY??? WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW???
@.kimiupdates
kimi antonelli has liked absolutely none of these tweets 😭
@.gridgossip
imagine introducing your sister to your coworkers and accidentally creating the paddock's newest couple.
@.f1memes
kimi watching the internet discover what he witnessed two days ago: 🧍🏼
@.f1tea
calling it now. they're either dating already... or they'll be dating by the end of the season.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Lando
are you busy
Y/N
just got home
Lando
how was your date
Y/N
what date?
Lando
😐
Y/N
?
Lando
with max.
Y/N
it wasn't a date
Lando
...
he brought you flowers.
Y/N
yes?
Lando
Y/N.
sweetheart.
gorgeous.
Y/N
😭
Lando
MEN DON'T BRING FLOWERS TO THANK-YOU COFFEES.
Y/N
maybe max does
Lando
MAX VERSTAPPEN ESPECIALLY DOESN'T.
Y/N
...
Lando
how long were you there
Y/N
about three hours?
Lando
THREE???
Y/N
time flew by
Lando
because it was a date.
Y/N
no because we were talking.
Lando
...
what did you talk about
Y/N
work
childhood
family
travelling
books
music
painting
he asked if we'd do it again
Lando
i'm going to need you to read that message again.
Y/N
...
oh.
The next race weekend feels... different, not because anything has changed. At least, not visibly. The paddock still hums with the same familiar energy. Mechanics hurry between garages. Engineers carry tablets tucked beneath their arms. Media personnel weave through the crowds.
And yet, somehow, you feel oddly aware of yourself. Aware of every time your phone buzzes. Aware of the flowers still sitting in a vase back at your apartment. Aware of one particularly smug British racing driver who has not let you forget, even once, that your "thank-you coffee" had very much been a date.
You find refuge in the hotel lobby while Kimi disappears into a team meeting. Book in hand, coffee beside you. It feels almost comforting. Almost.
"You really do always have a book with you."
The familiar voice makes you glance up. Max stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling in that quiet way you've quickly come to recognise. You smile back before you can stop yourself.
"I do."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Only if you've managed to avoid injuring yourself since last week."
He laughs.
"I've been very careful."
"I'm proud of you."
He settles into the chair opposite yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because it's awkward, strangely enough... It isn't.
"So," Max says eventually.
"So."
"I heard Lando finally told you."
You let out a groan dramatic enough to rival Lando himself.
"He was unbearably pleased with himself."
"I can imagine."
"I think he considered it one of his greatest achievements."
"He probably does."
You shake your head, laughing softly.
"He hasn't stopped reminding me."
Max smiles.
"I suppose that means..."
He hesitates.
"...you know."
"I know."
The words come quieter than you expected. You close your book carefully before placing it on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
His brows knit together immediately.
"For what?"
"I genuinely didn't realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't pretending."
"I know."
"I just..."
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the coffee cup fascinating.
"I thought you were being really nice."
"I was."
"No, I mean..."
You laugh at yourself.
"I thought you were just... an unusually thoughtful person."
"I'd like to think I am."
"You are."
You look back up at him.
"But I didn't realise you were asking me on a date."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I was trying to."
"You were?"
"I thought the flowers might've helped."
"They did."
"They did?"
"I just thought they were a thank-you present."
He drops his head for a moment, laughing properly now.
"You really had no idea."
"None."
"I was convinced I'd made it obvious."
"I was convinced you were just the nicest Dutch man I'd ever met."
"I'm afraid I'm only one of those things."
You smile.
"I know."
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. The silence settles comfortably between you. You reach into your tote bag absentmindedly. Max watches as you pull out a small bookmark tucked between the pages of your novel. Only it isn't a bookmark. It's one of the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you. His eyes linger on it.
"I kept them."
Your voice is almost shy.
"I thought they were too pretty to throw away."
Something in his expression softens.
"So..."
You twirl the pressed flower carefully between your fingers.
"I've been thinking." You smile. "I'd quite like to fix something."
He tilts his head.
"What?"
"Our first date."
He blinks.
"You mean..."
"I'd quite like to be aware I'm on the second one."
For perhaps the first time in his Formula One career, Max Verstappen is completely speechless. Then, slowly- A grin spreads across his face.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
He stands, offering you his hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
You pretend to think about it.
"Hm."
"You don't trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you."
You slip your hand into his.
"I just hope there aren't any flowers."
He laughs.
"There are definitely flowers."
You groan dramatically.
"This is going to make Lando insufferable."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
Hand in hand, the two of you leave the hotel lobby. Neither of you notices the photographer across the street lowering his camera with a very satisfied smile.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 23,529 others
yn.antonelli turns out… it really was a date after all. 🤍
max.verstappen: Best first date I've ever accidentally been on. ❤️
yn.antonelli: ❤️
landonorris: I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS FROM DAY ONE.
oscarpiastri: finally.
charlesleclerc: about time 🤍
georgerussell: knew we'd get here eventually.
lewishamilton: Happy for you both 🖤
kimi.antonelli: i suppose he's alright.
landonorris: THIS IS KIMI'S VERSION OF A BLESSING EVERYBODY STAY CALM.
max.verstappen: I'll take it.
yn.antonelli: @.max.verstappen don't let it get to your head.
maxverstappen1: Too late.
landonorris: disgusting.
oscarpiastri: says the one who played cupid.
landonorris: you're welcome.
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
warnings: fluff, smau
note: hello ♡ this was written for an absolutely lovely request by @ateliefloresdaprimavera i hope i did your idea justice! i took a few creative liberties to flesh the story out while keeping the heart of your request the same. enjoy!! - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 14,565 others
yn.antonelli i raised him better than this!!!! @.kimi.antonelli
kimi.antonelli: delete this.
yn.antonelli: no ❤️
georgerussell: 😭😭😭😭
kimi.anotnelli: mate HELP ME
landonorris: kimi blink twice if you need help
yn.antonelli: he absolutely does not.
user1: WAIT KIMI HAS A SISTER!?
user2: HOLD ON
user3: new paddock sibling duo unlocked
max.verstappen: 😂
liked by author
The Mercedes hospitality is already buzzing by the time you arrive. Mechanics move between garages carrying equipment, journalists rehearse questions into voice recorders, camera shutters click every few seconds. You instinctively slow your pace, letting Kimi walk half a step ahead, because you'd learned years ago that being his sister meant allowing him to take the lead here. This was his world.
"You'll meet everyone eventually," Kimi says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"I don't have to."
"You do."
"I came to spend time with my little brother."
"You also came to see where I work."
"I've seen enough already."
"You've been here for... six minutes."
"Exactly."
He laughs.
"You'll like them."
"I work in an emergency department."
"So?"
"I've met every personality imaginable."
Kimi considers that.
"...fair."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 19,529 others
yn.antonelli apparently i survive outside the emergency department too
kimi.antonelli: debatable
kimi.antonelli: you do know i have pictures to show too -_-
yn.antonelli: do you dare?
georgerussell: welcome to the paddock!
yn.antonelli: thank you!
landonorris: guys, she is already threatening to make me drink water
yn.antonelli: because you need it
oscarpiastri: she has a point
yn.antonelli: @.landonorris listen to your boyfriend
max.verstappen: Hope you enjoy the weekend.
yn.antonelli: thank you! 😊
The paddock is quieter away from the garages, not silent, never silent. Just... calmer. The steady hum of conversations blends with distant engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You find the coffee station tucked into the corner of one of the hospitality units, perfect, until you realise someone else got there first.
Max Verstappen stands with one hand resting against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish pouring. He glances over as you approach.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then you point towards the coffee machine.
"Are you trying to blow the coffee machine up with your mind?"
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"No."
"It looked like it."
"I think it's ignoring me."
"It does that."
"You've been here before?"
"My brother has worked here for months."
"Fair point."
He steps aside without another word, giving you enough room to reach the machine.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The machine lets out an unimpressed hiss before finally beginning to pour. You watch it for a moment.
"So..."
Max breaks the silence first.
"Emergency nurse?"
You glance at him.
"I've been exposed."
"Oscar mentioned it."
"I'll have to have a word."
"He seemed frightened."
"He should be."
That earns another smile, one that softens his entire face. You hadn't expected Max Verstappen to smile like that. It suits him.
The coffee finishes pouring. You reach for the paper cup just as he notices the faint pink line across the back of your hand.
"You cut yourself."
Looking down, you shrug.
"Paper."
"Paper?"
"I lost."
He lets out an amused breath.
"I didn't know that was possible."
"You've clearly never worked in a hospital."
"I haven't."
"You'd be amazed what stationery is capable of."
He chuckles quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, you notice the split skin across his right knuckles. Old enough not to be bleeding, but fresh enough to still look angry.
"What happened to your hand?"
His eyes follow yours.
"This?"
He flexes it once.
"Nothing."
You give him a look.
"The universal male diagnosis."
"It's fine."
"Mhm."
"It is."
You take a sip of your coffee before speaking again.
"I'll believe you when you clean it."
He looks at you, then at his hand, then back at you.
"It's only a scratch."
"So was mine."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words leave your mouth so casually that you don't think twice about them. Max does, because nobody has ever looked at him the way you just did - not as a world champion or a rival, just... as someone with a cut that should probably be cleaned before it gets infected. It's strangely refreshing.
"You always this bossy?"
You smile into your coffee.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You should."
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice echoes across the paddock.
"There you are!"
Kimi. He stops beside you, looking between the two of you.
"Am I interrupting?"
You shake your head.
"I was just telling Max to clean his hand."
Kimi doesn't even hesitate.
"Oh, yeah. You should listen."
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You too?"
"I've been listening to her for nineteen years."
"And?"
"It's easier."
You grin triumphantly.
"See?"
Max looks between the two of you before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I don't think I've got much of a choice."
"No," you say warmly "You really don't."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1paddock
kimi antonelli's sister has been in the paddock for approximately three hours and she's already become everyone's older sister.
@.papayafiles
apparently yn told lando to drink water 😭
@.landonorris
i was HYDRATED.
@.oscarpiastri
you weren't.
@.f1tea
according to people in the paddock kimi's sister told max verstappen to clean a cut on his hand 😭
@.verstappenupdates
imagine being told off by max verstappen
❌️
imagine max verstappen being told off
✅️
@.formulafiles
not max smiling while talking to yn...
@.maxieschamp
can we PLEASE remember yn is literally kimi's sister and leave her alone 😭
@.gridgossip
no because why did max walk over to mercedes hospitality FOUR TIMES today
@.redbullracing
max: "i was looking for coffee."
@.f1fan247
oooh redbull admin is MESSY today
@.f1memes
coffee machine at mercedes after seeing max every twenty minutes:
"bro just admit you have a crush."
@.kimiupdates
kimi has absolutely no idea what's happening around him 😭
@.papayafiles
antonelli sister nation we're up.
@.gridgirlies
she has no clue twitter is shipping them and honestly let's keep it that way for now 😭🤍
By the time Max wanders back towards the Mercedes hospitality later that afternoon, he's managed to convince himself he's there for an entirely reasonable reason. The reason being... coffee... again. Never mind the fact that the paper cup in his hand is still half full. He steps inside just as you finish reorganising the contents of your tote bag.
"You know," you say without looking up, "I don't think anyone drinks as much coffee around here as you do."
Max glances down at his cup.
"...Probably not."
"You're proving my point."
"I like coffee."
"So do I."
You zip your bag shut before your eyes drift almost absentmindedly towards his right hand. You pause.
"Did you clean it?"
He looks down.
"The cut?"
"Mhm."
"I did."
You narrow your eyes.
"Can I see?"
For a split second, Max genuinely considers saying no, not because he minds, but because he suddenly becomes acutely aware that you want to hold his hand, which is an entirely ridiculous thing to think. You're a nurse. This is your job. Still...
He holds it out. You take it without hesitation. Your fingers are warm. You turn his hand over, studying the split skin across his knuckles with the same concentration he imagines you give every patient. For a moment, the noise of the paddock fades into the background.
"Hm."
That single syllable immediately worries him.
"What?"
"You cleaned it."
"I told you."
"You also put one tiny plaster over it."
"..."
"Which accomplished approximately nothing."
"I tried."
"I can tell."
You look up at him.
"It's a very... enthusiastic attempt."
"I feel judged."
"You are."
You release his hand for only a second before reaching into your tote. Max watches, mildly fascinated, as you produce what appears to be an entire miniature first-aid kit. Alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, bandages, medical tape, a tiny bottle of antiseptic. He blinks.
"You carry all of that around?"
You look at him as though he's asked why the sky is blue.
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"Right."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You're assuming people just... injure themselves around you?"
"They usually do."
"That's oddly concerning."
"It's usually men."
"I don't know whether to be offended."
"You shouldn't."
You tear open an antiseptic wipe.
"Give me your hand."
He does, again. Without thinking. You dab gently across the cut.
"This might sting."
"It already-"
The antiseptic touches the wound. He winces.
"Oh."
"There it is."
"I take it back."
You can't help smiling.
"You racing drivers are all the same."
"We are?"
"So dramatic."
"I wasn't dramatic."
"You flinched."
"It stung."
"It barely touched you."
"It absolutely did."
You laugh quietly, shaking your head before carefully pressing fresh gauze over the cut. Your movements are practised like you've done this a thousand times before. Maybe ten thousand.
"You've done this a lot."
You don't look up.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"I work in A&E."
"Right."
"Trust me," you murmur, smoothing the edge of the bandage into place, "this doesn't even make the top thousand."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'll try harder next time."
Your head snaps up.
"You'll do no such thing."
"I'm joking."
"I know."
You point a finger at him anyway.
"But if you come back with another split knuckle tomorrow, I'm charging you."
"For medical treatment?"
"For being stubborn."
Before he can reply, another voice cuts through the room.
"There you are."
Kimi walks in carrying two bottles of water. His eyes immediately land on the two of you. More specifically, on the fact that you're holding Max's hand.
"Oh," he says simply.
"You got him."
Max looks between the two of you.
"...Got me?"
Kimi nods sympathetically.
"She'll look after the cut."
He lifts one of the water bottles.
"Then she'll tell you you're dehydrated."
"I was literally about to."
"I know."
He hands you the bottle before passing the other to Max.
"You should drink that."
Max glances down at the bottle. Then at Kimi.
"You planned this."
Kimi shrugs.
"I've had plenty years to learn how she works."
You smile sweetly.
"And yet he still forgets to drink water."
"I don't forget."
"You do."
"I choose not to."
Max laughs a proper laugh. It makes both you and Kimi look at him. He rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say, fastening the last strip of tape across the bandage.
"There."
You finally let go of his hand.
"All done."
He looks down at the neat dressing. It looks professional - far better than the crooked plaster he'd attempted earlier.
"Thank you."
The words come genuinely. You offer him a smile that reaches your eyes.
"Occupational hazard."
He smiles back. Neither of you notices Lando walking past the open hospitality entrance. He slows just enough to glance inside. Takes one look at you carefully bandaging Max Verstappen's hand. Grins to himself.
"Oh," he mutters under his breath. "So that's what's happening."
Then, wisely deciding not to interrupt, he keeps walking.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ PADDOCK GROUP CHAT
Lando
boys
Lando
i've seen something today
Charles
that sounds ominous.
Oscar
is it another labubu? better keep it away from kimi
Lando
worse
George
Impossible.
Lando
verstappen smiled
Max
?
Lando
TWICE
Oscar
can confirm
Charles
i refuse to believe this.
George
At who?
Lando
oh you know exactly at who...
Max
i don't.
Oscar
kimi's sister
Seen by Max.
Seen by Charles.
Seen by George.
Seen by Lando.
Max
she fixed my hand.
Lando
mate
Charles
...
George
Did you deliberately injure yourself?
Max
no.
Oscar
that's not actually an answer
Lando
i give it until tomorrow before he develops another mysterious cut
Max
i hate all of you.
Charles
have you considered asking for her number?
Max
no.
George
Coward.
Lando
MASSIVE coward
Charles
it's alright max, i hear nurses like stubborn patients.
Lando
throw yourself down some stairs
Oscar
don't encourage workplace injuries!
Charles
paper cuts seem to be enough.
George
Or you could just tell her she's pretty?
Max
absolutely not.
Lando
he's gone
George
He's finished.
Charles
finished.
Kimi
can everyone stop trying to set my sister up?
Lando
...
George
...
Charles
...
Oscar
i forgot you were here
Kimi
clearlyy
Charles
to be fair...
George
Your sister is lovely.
Lando
yeah we're big fans
Kimi
that's worse!!!!
Max
i didn't say anything.
Lando
you didn't have to
By the time the afternoon settles into its familiar rhythm, you've reclaimed the small sofa tucked into the corner of the Mercedes hospitality. One leg is crossed beneath you, a paperback rests in your lap.
You barely make it through two pages before someone dramatically clears their throat. You don't even bother looking up.
"Yes, Lando."
"...How did you know it was me?"
"You sigh louder than everyone else."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Only then do you lift your eyes from the page. Lando is standing in front of you with the most exaggerated pout you've ever seen.
"What happened?"
"I've suffered a workplace injury."
You slowly close your book.
"Oh no."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He holds up his wrist, as though presenting evidence in court.
"I hit it."
"On what?"
"..."
"Lando?"
"...a door."
Oscar walks past behind him carrying a bottle of water.
"You walked into the door."
Lando turns immediately.
"The door moved."
Oscar doesn't even break stride.
"The door was stationary."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It has been attached to the wall since Thursday."
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
"So..." You reach out, gently taking Lando's wrist into your hand. "Can you move it?"
He rotates it dramatically.
"Like this?"
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"...Three."
You nod thoughtfully.
"So you're not dying."
"I thought I was."
"You thought wrong."
He gasps.
"I came here for sympathy."
"You came to the wrong person."
You stand, crossing over to your tote bag before rummaging inside. A moment later, you pull out a reusable ice pack. Lando blinks.
"You just... carry those?"
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"You carry emergency ice?"
"I do." You press it into his hand. "There."
He looks between the ice pack and you.
"...That's actually really nice."
"I know."
The interaction lasts perhaps two minutes. Long enough for George to wander in. He spots the ice pack and Lando, who looks like he has just given birth at the least.
"What happened?"
"He fought a door."
"I lost."
George nods solemnly.
"Happens to the best of us."
"It really doesn't," Oscar mutters from somewhere nearby.
George laughs before rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
"You don't happen to have another one, do you?"
You don't ask why. You simply kneel beside your bag again.
"Blue or green?"
He stares.
"...You have options?"
"I like to be prepared."
He accepts the blue one with an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Max arrives just in time to witness Charles wandering over.
"I have a question."
You don't even look up.
"Second pocket."
Charles pauses.
"...What?"
"Second pocket in the tote."
Curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches inside and pulls out a packet of plasters.
"...How did you know?"
You finally glance up.
"You've been picking at that cut on your finger since lunch."
Charles looks down.
"...Oh."
"Stop doing that."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
Max finds himself smiling. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.
Lewis is next. Not because he's injured, but because he's looking for painkillers after a headache starts creeping in.
"Left pocket," you say before he can finish asking.
"You've got a frightening system."
"I've had years to perfect it."
"I can tell."
Eventually, the room settles again. Lando is happily holding his ice pack against his wrist, George has one draped across the back of his neck, Charles has stopped absentmindedly picking at his finger, Lewis has disappeared with a bottle of water and two painkillers. You simply reopen your book as though none of it had happened. Max watches you for another moment before walking over.
"You really don't mind?"
You glance up.
"Mind what?"
"People," He gestures vaguely towards the room. "Coming to you."
You consider the question for a second. Then shrug.
"Not really."
"They interrupt you."
"They need something."
"They're capable adults."
You smile.
"Debatable."
He laughs quietly.
"I suppose."
You mark your page with a finger.
"My job isn't really about fixing people."
"No?"
"It's about making things a little easier."
He doesn't say anything.
"So..." You continue. "If someone trusts me enough to ask for help, why would I make them feel bad for asking?"
Max looks at you differently after that, not because you'd bandaged his hand or because you'd remembered his cut, but because you'd just revealed something about yourself so effortlessly. Kindness wasn't something you performed - it was simply the way you moved through the world.
"...That's a nice way of looking at it," he says quietly.
You smile.
"I think so too."
Before either of you can say anything else, Kimi pushes through the hospitality doors. He stops. Looks around the room at Lando, George, Charles. Then at you. He sighs.
"I leave for half an hour." Nobody says anything. "And somehow..." His eyes drift towards the collection of first-aid supplies spread neatly across the coffee table. "...you've opened another emergency department."
You grin innocently.
"They came to me."
"I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "They always do."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🔵 kimi.antonelli
liked by yn.antonelli, max.verstappen and 568,798 others
kimi.antonelli happy nurses appreciation day to the one that somehow opened another emergency department in mercedes hospitality. thanks for looking after us. ❤️ @.yn.antonelli
yn.antonelli: you all would've survived without me… probably <3
landonorris: debatable
georgerussell: still got the ice pack 👍
yn.antonelli: i am glad i could help!
charlesleclerc: finger has stopped bleeding thank you doctor
yn.antonelli: *nurse
lewishamilton: thank you for keeping everyone in one piece 🖤
yn.antonelli: that's my job! <3
oscarpiastri: especially lando!
landonorris: why am i catching strays?
max.verstappen: Thank you. My hand's much better.
yn.antonelli: glad to hear it 😊
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Max
Hi.
Thank you again.
Y/N
max you already thanked me in person 😭
Max
I know.
I just...
Wanted to again.
Y/N
then you're welcome again :)
Max
Would you let me repay you somehow?
Y/N
that's really not necessary
Max
Coffee?
Y/N
only if you promise not to injure yourself this time.
Max
I'll try.
Y/N
emphasis on try?
Max
No promises. :)
You almost don't notice the bouquet. It's only as you step through the café door that your eyes land on Max, already waiting by the window, standing as soon as he sees you... And holding flowers. Your pace falters.
"Oh."
He suddenly looks far less confident.
"I-"
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the florist to pick something that reminded them of summer."
You stare at the flowers, then at him.
"They're for me?"
He smiles, just barely.
"I don't see anyone else here."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"That's... incredibly sweet."
You accept the bouquet carefully, almost as though you're afraid you'll crush it.
"No one's ever brought me flowers on a coffee run before."
Max's eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
"A coffee run?"
You nod.
"You said you wanted to thank me."
"...Right."
He can't bring himself to correct you. Instead, he pulls out your chair. You blink.
"You're making me feel terribly underdressed."
"You look lovely."
The compliment slips out before he can think better of it. For the first time all afternoon, you seem genuinely caught off guard. A faint smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you."
The conversation comes surprisingly easily after that. It begins with work. You tell him about overnight shifts, impossible patients, and the elderly woman who insists on bringing homemade biscuits for the entire emergency department every Christmas.
He tells you about growing up around racing circuits, about travelling more than staying still, about how strange it feels to call so many airports familiar. At one point, you laugh so hard you have to wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. At another, the café around you fades into little more than background noise.
Hours pass unnoticed. Neither of you is in any hurry to leave. As you finally step back out onto the street, bouquet tucked safely in one arm and coffee still warming your hands, you smile at him.
"Thank you."
"For the flowers?"
"For today."
He smiles back.
"It was my pleasure."
You tilt your head.
"We should do this again sometime."
His heart practically stops.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
Completely oblivious to the fact that, somewhere across the street, a photographer has already taken three pictures of the two of you walking side by side. And even more oblivious to the fact that, to Max Verstappen, this had never been a coffee run. It had always been a date.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1gossip
BREAKING: Max Verstappen spotted leaving a café in Milan with Kimi Antonelli's sister.
@.gridupdates
DID YOU SEE HE GOT HER FLOWERS???
@.papayafiles
MAX VERSTAPPEN BOUGHT HER FLOWERS??????
@.f1tea
mind you... HE was carrying the flowers when he arrived. this wasn't a "thank you for coming" bouquet.
@.maxnation
oh. OH.
@.formulaobsessed
she looks so happy 😭🤍
@.verstappenfiles
need everyone to remember max does NOT do public dates.
@.landonorris
💐
@.oscarpiastri
...
@.landonorris
don't act surprised.
@.oscarpiastri
i'm not.
@.charles_leclerc
finally.
@.georgerussell63
about time.
@.f1girlies
WHO SAID FINALLY??? WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW???
@.kimiupdates
kimi antonelli has liked absolutely none of these tweets 😭
@.gridgossip
imagine introducing your sister to your coworkers and accidentally creating the paddock's newest couple.
@.f1memes
kimi watching the internet discover what he witnessed two days ago: 🧍🏼
@.f1tea
calling it now. they're either dating already... or they'll be dating by the end of the season.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Lando
are you busy
Y/N
just got home
Lando
how was your date
Y/N
what date?
Lando
😐
Y/N
?
Lando
with max.
Y/N
it wasn't a date
Lando
...
he brought you flowers.
Y/N
yes?
Lando
Y/N.
sweetheart.
gorgeous.
Y/N
😭
Lando
MEN DON'T BRING FLOWERS TO THANK-YOU COFFEES.
Y/N
maybe max does
Lando
MAX VERSTAPPEN ESPECIALLY DOESN'T.
Y/N
...
Lando
how long were you there
Y/N
about three hours?
Lando
THREE???
Y/N
time flew by
Lando
because it was a date.
Y/N
no because we were talking.
Lando
...
what did you talk about
Y/N
work
childhood
family
travelling
books
music
painting
he asked if we'd do it again
Lando
i'm going to need you to read that message again.
Y/N
...
oh.
The next race weekend feels... different, not because anything has changed. At least, not visibly. The paddock still hums with the same familiar energy. Mechanics hurry between garages. Engineers carry tablets tucked beneath their arms. Media personnel weave through the crowds.
And yet, somehow, you feel oddly aware of yourself. Aware of every time your phone buzzes. Aware of the flowers still sitting in a vase back at your apartment. Aware of one particularly smug British racing driver who has not let you forget, even once, that your "thank-you coffee" had very much been a date.
You find refuge in the hotel lobby while Kimi disappears into a team meeting. Book in hand, coffee beside you. It feels almost comforting. Almost.
"You really do always have a book with you."
The familiar voice makes you glance up. Max stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling in that quiet way you've quickly come to recognise. You smile back before you can stop yourself.
"I do."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Only if you've managed to avoid injuring yourself since last week."
He laughs.
"I've been very careful."
"I'm proud of you."
He settles into the chair opposite yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because it's awkward, strangely enough... It isn't.
"So," Max says eventually.
"So."
"I heard Lando finally told you."
You let out a groan dramatic enough to rival Lando himself.
"He was unbearably pleased with himself."
"I can imagine."
"I think he considered it one of his greatest achievements."
"He probably does."
You shake your head, laughing softly.
"He hasn't stopped reminding me."
Max smiles.
"I suppose that means..."
He hesitates.
"...you know."
"I know."
The words come quieter than you expected. You close your book carefully before placing it on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
His brows knit together immediately.
"For what?"
"I genuinely didn't realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't pretending."
"I know."
"I just..."
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the coffee cup fascinating.
"I thought you were being really nice."
"I was."
"No, I mean..."
You laugh at yourself.
"I thought you were just... an unusually thoughtful person."
"I'd like to think I am."
"You are."
You look back up at him.
"But I didn't realise you were asking me on a date."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I was trying to."
"You were?"
"I thought the flowers might've helped."
"They did."
"They did?"
"I just thought they were a thank-you present."
He drops his head for a moment, laughing properly now.
"You really had no idea."
"None."
"I was convinced I'd made it obvious."
"I was convinced you were just the nicest Dutch man I'd ever met."
"I'm afraid I'm only one of those things."
You smile.
"I know."
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. The silence settles comfortably between you. You reach into your tote bag absentmindedly. Max watches as you pull out a small bookmark tucked between the pages of your novel. Only it isn't a bookmark. It's one of the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you. His eyes linger on it.
"I kept them."
Your voice is almost shy.
"I thought they were too pretty to throw away."
Something in his expression softens.
"So..."
You twirl the pressed flower carefully between your fingers.
"I've been thinking." You smile. "I'd quite like to fix something."
He tilts his head.
"What?"
"Our first date."
He blinks.
"You mean..."
"I'd quite like to be aware I'm on the second one."
For perhaps the first time in his Formula One career, Max Verstappen is completely speechless. Then, slowly- A grin spreads across his face.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
He stands, offering you his hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
You pretend to think about it.
"Hm."
"You don't trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you."
You slip your hand into his.
"I just hope there aren't any flowers."
He laughs.
"There are definitely flowers."
You groan dramatically.
"This is going to make Lando insufferable."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
Hand in hand, the two of you leave the hotel lobby. Neither of you notices the photographer across the street lowering his camera with a very satisfied smile.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 23,529 others
yn.antonelli turns out… it really was a date after all. 🤍
max.verstappen: Best first date I've ever accidentally been on. ❤️
yn.antonelli: ❤️
landonorris: I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS FROM DAY ONE.
oscarpiastri: finally.
charlesleclerc: about time 🤍
georgerussell: knew we'd get here eventually.
lewishamilton: Happy for you both 🖤
kimi.antonelli: i suppose he's alright.
landonorris: THIS IS KIMI'S VERSION OF A BLESSING EVERYBODY STAY CALM.
max.verstappen: I'll take it.
yn.antonelli: @.max.verstappen don't let it get to your head.
maxverstappen1: Too late.
landonorris: disgusting.
oscarpiastri: says the one who played cupid.
landonorris: you're welcome.
summary: when you apply to be a photographer for the spurs you can’t help but question why your photos for stephon aren’t working out.
pairing: stephon castle x photographer!reader
warnings: not proofread, fluff, no smut, my first fanfiction
inspired by: @honeylives
The cold air blows against your skin as you step into the facility. Just days earlier you had applied to be the team’s photographer not expecting it to go anywhere. Now you’re walking into the Spurs facility meeting with their manager for Media Day Photos.
Walking through the hallways you basically have no idea where you’re supposed to be. You’re pretending to be busy on your phone when you hear the sound of laughter echoing to your left. You snap your head towards the noise and get greeted with Carter Bryant, Dylan Harper, Stephon Castle, and Victor Wembanyama. To say you are in shock was an understatement. You stand there frozen for what felt like forever before Carter glances your way.
“Oh you must be the photographer!”
Carter flashes a smile.
“Yeahhh.. nice to meet you guys!”
You force out still surprised by the sight of them.
“What’s up, I’m Dylan.”
He says raising his hand to meet yours.
You shake his hand and turn your eyes to Stephon the one next to him. You expect him to greet you next but you’re met with nothing but him staring straight at you. You nod and laugh awkwardly then lift your head to meet eyes with Wemby.
“I’m Wemby.”
He says looking down at you.
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
You say trying to make conversation and lighten the mood
Dylan and Carter laugh while Stephon continues to look at you. Dylan whispers something into Stephon’s ear and he suddenly straightens his posture. Stephon blinks and finally greets you.
“Hey, my name’s Stephon.”
His words coming out in a mumble, and his eyes avoiding meeting yours for the first time since you’ve arrived. His hand rests awkwardly behind his neck as he looks everywhere but you.
“Nice to meet you!”
You smile, shifting your weight awkwardly as the conversation comes to an end.
Carter, glancing between everyone looks for a way to continue the conversation.
“So, are you looking for our manager?
He says, his smile never leaving his face
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet your manager before we take the photos for Media Day.”
“Oh, I can lead you to-“
Carter starts before Dylan cuts him off with a loud cough.
“Nah, coach just texted me he said he needs all of us but Steph to the court now.”
Carter looks at his fellow teammate with a confused look on his face.
“Oh let me check if he texted me-“
Carter gets cut off for the second time with Dylan just resting his hand on Carters back and guiding him away from the interaction.
Wemby nods before heading off to follow Dylan and Carter. Leaving just you and Stephon standing in the hallway.
“Uh, I can take you to our manager..”
Stephon finally forces out after what felt like five minutes of silence.
He meets your eyes as you nod your head.
“Thank you! Lead the way Castle”
You say with a slightly playful tone in your voice.
You guys walk through the hallways in what can be described as a comfortable silence. When you reach the office Stephon turns to face you and nods his head.
“See you later”
“See you, Stephon.”
You swear you saw his ears turning pink but you convince yourself it’s your mind playing tricks on you.
About 30 minutes later you finally leave the managers office and head down to the studio. You start to set up your gear when players start tumbling in voices fading in from all around you. After a few minutes of everybody talking they finally get into a single file line for you to start taking photos.
“Okay, Wemby you’re up first.”
He nods and looks down towards your camera.
SNAP
“Next!”
Media day seems to fly by, players fading into one another. The end of your shift is nearing with just five more people to go
“Okay, next.”
Stephon steps up and nods.
“Go ahead and maybe try flexing?”
A faint tint of blush appears on his cheeks, yet he still follows through with everything you request.
Although his heart feels like it could burst, he keeps a calm expression on his face.
A confused expression grows on your face as you go through the photos you had taken of him so far.
“Uhh, maybe we could try props.. Can I get a basketball?”
You suggest, tilting your head.
A staff member rolls a ball over and Stephon picks it up still standing stiff.
“Huh.. drop the ball.”
Stephon listens, becoming more nervous by the second.
“Just.. stand there. Try loosening your shoulders?”
Stephon tries to relax his body but he can’t knowing your eyes are on him.
“Quiet please.”
You say prompting everyone in the room to go silent. You can’t comprehend what’s not working with Stephon’s photos. Your mind completely blank until you see Carter in the corner of your eye smiling ear to ear. You lock eyes with Stephon, a grin growing on your face.
“Smile for me Castle.”
Stephon’s mind goes blank as the words repeat in his head over and over again. He feels like his entire body has gone red. For you? So be it. His smile goes all the way to his eyes.
“Oh but when I ask you to smile it’s a problem”
Dylan says, chuckling standing behind your camera.
“Good job, Stephon. Next!”
You say turning your head to Dylan who suddenly stopped laughing. Stephon jogs over to Wemby on the other side of the room as they dap each other up.
“GREEEN!!!”
Dylan says laughing, while getting his photo taken.
“Yo focus on your photos, chill on me.”
Stephon says, still letting out a little laugh as he exchanges glances with you.
i'm so proud of you for posting your first fic (seriously, that's a huge step!!) and i'm so honoured you tagged me. thank you for letting my little story inspire yours. everyone, please go show this some love because this absolutely deserves it.🤍
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Hi!!! i dont know particularly any of your request box rules. So feel free to haze me. But I Would like to know if you could do a similar fic to your Yuzu Melon? The one where reader regularly drinks an abnormal amount of monster every day? However, my request is- With redbull in place of monster? FEEL FREE TO HAZE ME AND PUBLICALLY EXECUTE ME OR JUST DELETE MY REQUEST- Just wanting to know! Tysm I hope you're doing well!!!
stop omg 😭🤍 first of all, there will be absolutely no hazing or public execution here, i promise. thank you so much for being so sweet and for sending this in!!
i actually love the idea, and i'd be more than happy to write it for you! 🥹 i do have a few requests and some pre-written fics ahead of it, so it may take me a little bit to get to, especially because i'm currently away on a work trip, but i promise i've added it to my list and i can't wait to give it a go. 🤍
i just have one little question before i start planning it: did you have a particular driver in mind, or are you happy for me to choose whoever i think fits the concept best?
thank you again for trusting me with your idea and for being so considerate about sending a request in the first place. it genuinely means so much that you thought of me, and i hope you're having the loveliest day!! 🫂🤍
pairing: george russell x female reader, friend!lando norris x friend!female reader
the public thinks you're an untouchable artist. lando norris knows you're the life of every party. george russell is about to discover that both versions are real.
note: hello ♡ this fic was born from the idea that george russell suffering while lando norris plays matchmaker was simply too funny not to write. enjoy ♡ - dean.
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
It starts, as most things do, online.
One evening, trapped in the passenger seat of a sponsor car while travelling between events, George falls down a rabbit hole. Initially, it is just an article that catches his attention, or rather the photograph attached above the title.
A woman, that he would describe as simply gorgeous, for lack of a better word in the realms of his vocabulary, stares into the camera lens. Her red dress, tailored in all the right places to hug her figure and yet look brilliantly tasteful is strewn out on the bench she is sat on; eyes glimmering beneath the pretentious bright lights of the Tate Gallery.
His thumb scrolls through various news sites, seeking more articles, preferably with photos he can ogle at rather than read, like a toddler who has just found out about the existence of books but struggles differentiating between letters. He goes through an interview, then another gallery feature in France. Then somehow he's watching a forty-minute conversation filmed in a gallery in New York.
It is you on his screen, the same stunning face as the one he saw in the photograph of Tate's article, sitting beneath soft studio lighting discussing your latest exhibition. The interviewer asks about identity, you answer by referencing philosophers he has never heard of. They ask about grief, you quote poetry, as if the book is in your hands. They ask about love, you spend three minutes discussing destruction.
George isn't entirely sure he understands half of it, but what he does understand is that you speak with the confidence of somebody twice your age. You don't smile much, don't joke. You look untouchable, marble-carved. The sort of woman people admire from a distance and writers probably write their novels about. Most importantly, the sort of woman he would probably never speak to.
Then Lando glances past his shoulder, eyes locked on the screen and nearly drops his drink.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
George looks up.
"What?"
Lando points directly at you.
"Not her."
"What?"
"Mate."
Lando drags a hand down his face.
"That woman once jumped off a yacht roof because somebody dared her."
George blinks.
"What?"
"She lost her shoe doing it."
"What?"
"She landed in the water and demanded somebody save the shoe."
George stares. Lando stares back. Neither speaks.
"That's her?"
"The very same."
George looks back at the interview, then back at Lando. Something doesn't add up, which confuses him, becuase he has always been very good at Maths. Lando beams, because this is his favorite thing about you. Nobody ever gets it right.
In all honesty, he understands why - after all, it had taken him quite a while to get you right too. You meet in Ibiza, although "meet" is a generous description.
Lando spent the first two weeks of making your acquaintance trying to flirt with you. You spent the first two weeks pretending not to notice, mostly because watching him struggle is entertaining.
The first conversation happened at a beach club. The second at a villa party. The third at three in the morning while half-drunk and eating chips in somebody's kitchen. By week three, neither of you remembered who introduced you, only that your friend groups had suddenly merged and now you are inseparable.
One night Lando found you teaching a group of men how to throw proper punches because their boxing stance is embarrassing. Another night he discovered you've somehow convinced an entire VIP section to play charades. A week later, you're sitting on a kitchen counter discussing art history while simultaneously threatening to throw a bottle at somebody being rude to your friend.
You are impossible and somehow incredibly easy to love. Eventually Lando stops flirting, because he realizes two things. For one, you're not interested. Another, you are significantly more valuable as a friend.
"You rejected me."
"You were never serious."
"I was."
"You asked me if I wanted to go skinny dipping."
"I was testing the waters."
"I hate you."
Lando laughs into your shoulder so hard he nearly falls over.
It is this proximity, that makes people often misunderstand your relationship. You have keys to each other's homes. You steal each other's clothes. Lando once arrived at your house at four in the morning after a race because he "didn't feel like being alone."
You made him pasta, then yelled at him for waking you up. He fell asleep on your sofa anyway.
Another time you called him crying because somebody had published photographs of your mother without permission. Lando drove thirty minutes through traffic just to sit beside you; neither of you mentioned it afterward.
Some friendships don't require explanation. Yours is one of them.
The breakup is sudden and quiet. Officially, you are handling it well. It is not like you have a choice really - both you and your ex are public figures, so the attention from media your separation caused is expected.
In the limelight, you seem awfully professional, answering questions about your now broken relationship with maturity far beyond your years, wishing the man you once loved, and partially still do, all the best with grace. The way people expect you to.
The reality is different. The reality is that the relationship lasted four months; four months of introducing him to friends, of letting somebody closer than usual, of believing him. Then one text message destroys all of it. A photograph, his arms around a different girl in a different city, on a weekend he swore up and down he was travelling for work during. This was not a misunderstanding, just betrayal.
You don't cry publicly. You don't make statements. You don't post cryptic quotes. Instead, you continue working, burrowing yourself in painting, travelling, pretending.
Deep in though, you startle when Lando finds you in the McLaren hospitality suite and immediately knows.
"How bad is it?"
You don't look up.
"Who says it's bad?"
"You haven't insulted me once."
You laugh despite yourself. A mistake, because suddenly everything feels closer to the surface.
"I just feel stupid."
The words escape before you can stop them. Lando's expression changes immediately.
"No."
"I do."
"You shouldn't."
"I introduced him to my family."
Your voice cracks slightly.
"I defended him."
Lando says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
"I knew he was ridiculous."
A laugh escapes, broken around the edges.
"But I thought he was my ridiculous."
Silence. The kind reserved for heartbreak. Lando reaches over, takes your hand in his.
"He's an idiot."
You stare at the table.
"I know."
"No."
His voice softens.
"He lost you."
That does it, not the cheating or betrayal or even the humiliation. But because suddenly somebody is on your side, angry for you. Before you realize it, tears are falling, quietly and embarrassingly burning your cheeks.
Lando doesn't say anything, just sits there, holding your hand, waiting. Like he always does. Eventually, when the worst passes, he grins.
"I have an idea."
You groan immediately.
"Absolutely not."
Unfortunately for both you and George Russell - Lando Norris is already texting.
The first time George Russell meets you, you're stealing Lando's chips. Aggressively so.
"They're literally mine."
"They're literally ours."
"They are not."
"They are now."
George arrives halfway through the argument, immediately stops. Immediately understands why Lando sounded exhausted every time he talked about you.
You are sitting cross-legged in a hospitality chair. Sunglasses perched on your head. One hand buried in Lando's food, pulling the plate off his lap and onto the armrest between you two. The other gesturing dramatically as you argue.
Nothing about you resembles the woman from the interviews. Nothing.
Lando spots him first.
"Oh good."
He points.
"George."
Then points at you.
"Artist."
You look up. George has exactly three seconds to prepare, which are unfortunately not enough, because you're beautiful. Not magazine beautiful, or curated or polished. Real beautiful. The kind that sneaks up on people, only intensified by your personality. You smile. George immediately understands why photographers follow you everywhere.
"Hi."
You extend a hand. George takes it.
"George."
"I know."
Your grip is firm.
"Of course you do."
You grin, then tilt your head, studying him.
"You're much taller than I expected."
"Thank you?"
"I'm not sure it was a compliment."
George blinks. Lando starts laughing. And suddenly George realizes he's being made fun of, within thirty seconds.
Impressive.
The problems begin afterward, because Mercedes's own 63 keeps running into you. The paddock simply isn't large enough to avoid people, especially people like you, who somehow know everyone.
One afternoon he passes a television screen playing one of your interviews. You're discussing your latest exhibition. The interviewer asks about artistic inspiration, you answer by referencing some foreign literary work, quoting a passage in a language he assumes is Arabic. The discussion sounds more like a university lecture than a conversation. George watches for a moment, then continues walking.
Ten minutes later he finds you trying to teach two mechanics how to play poker.
"You cannot bluff if you're smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You absolutely are."
The mechanic laughs, as you throw a playing card at him. George nearly walks into a wall. The contrast is becoming difficult to process.
Another time he sees you at a sponsor event. Surrounded by people in expensive suits discussing expensive things. You move effortlessly between conversations. Confident and commanding, the version of you the public knows.
Then somebody drops a glass. The sound echoes deafeningly through the room. You immediately crouch beside the waitress.
"Are you alright?"
The woman nods, visibly mortified. You help her gather the pieces off the floor, smile and reassure her that this is simply an incident, that could have happened to anybody. Once you make sure she is okay you turn round and continue the conversation as though nothing happened.
Most people wouldn't have noticed, but George wasn't most people. George always notices.
And then there are the names. The names drive him insane, because somehow you remember everybody. Security guards, drivers, journalists, catering staff, the woman who manages credentials, the mechanic who fixed something for you six months ago. You remember names, birthdays, stories, details.
One evening George watches you greet a member of circuit staff - not somebody important, just a man working.
"How's your daughter?"
The man lights up immediately. His answer lasts five minutes. You listen to every word. When he leaves, George stares.
"What?"
You glance over.
"You remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"His daughter."
You shrug, as though it means nothing.
"He loves talking about her."
"Most people would've forgotten."
"That's sad."
George doesn't know what to do with that.
The worst incident happens in Spain. You're being interviewed beside the paddock. George walks past and accidentally catches part of it. The interviewer asks a question about your work. You answer beautifully. He is sure people will quote you later.
The interview ends. You thank everyone, turn around. Immediately walk face-first into a glass door. The sound echoes. Several people gasp. You stare at the glass. Then:
"Oh for fuck's sake."
George laughs so hard he nearly drops his coffee. You look over, mortified. George is still laughing and for the first time since meeting him - you decide you like him, a little.
The realization arrives gradually for George, anyway. Like most things - he starts looking for you, the peculiar way people search for familiar faces in crowds. A habit, nothing more.
Then one day you aren't there. The paddock feels strange. Quieter. Less interesting. George realizes this approximately three hours before admitting he might have a problem. Unfortunately, the problem only gets worse.
"You like her."
George sighs, immediately. The exhaustion of a man who has been fighting this battle for months.
"No."
Lando laughs.
"Mate."
"No."
"You absolutely do."
George stares into his drink, then takes another sip. The silence lasts longer this time. Long enough.
"Maybe."
Lando nearly falls out of his chair.
"What exactly is the problem?"
George laughs, a humorless sound.
"The problem?"
"Yeah."
Lando gestures vaguely.
"She likes you."
George immediately shakes his head.
"No."
"George."
"No."
"George."
"Lando."
The look he receives suggests complete disbelief. George looks away, because this part is significantly harder.
"You didn't hear her."
"Hear her do what?"
"At the sponsor gala."
The answer comes quietly, too quietly. Lando immediately understands. The memory floats to the forefront of his mind; you, his friend, definitely tipsy from where he was standing, were telling one of your provocative intimate life stories to a group of girls, who let out loud gasps at the extravagance of your experiences. And then there was one of his own mechanics, likely within earshot, who didn't pass up on the opportunity of sneaking an arm over your shoulders; you leaning into him, not one to shy away from flirtation.
"Oh."
George nods.
"I don't fit into that world."
"What world?"
"The stories."
The relationships, the casualness, the confidence. Everything. George exhales. Like saying it aloud makes it real.
"She's just come out of a relationship."
The truth finally emerges.
"And so have I."
George laughs softly.
"I don't want to be somebody's distraction."
Lando's expression changes immediately. More serious now. Less teasing. More friendly.
"I don't think-"
"What if she just misses having somebody?"
George cuts him off, not angrily. Fearfully.
"What if she likes the attention? What if she likes being wanted? What if she likes me because I'm available?"
The words fall one after another. Questions George has clearly been carrying alone for a while.
"I don't want to be a rebound."
The confession lands between them, painfully real. Because George knows exactly what it feels like. To be the person somebody settles for. To be the person somebody chooses because they're hurting. He doesn't want that again. Especially not with you.
The dinner is George's worst idea in recent memory, frankly, he doesn't realize that until it's too late.
The restaurant is private, filled with people he knows and would normally enjoy spending time with. Then you arrive. He softly hates you for it, as suddenly everybody else becomes background noise.
You are wearing a black dress, long and tight with a dangerously low back and even more perilous slit up your left leg. Your hair falls over one shoulder. Gold jewelry catching the light. You look like every magazine cover George has ever seen.
Then you open your mouth and immediately swear. The illusion shatters. George is beginning to suspect that's his favorite thing about you.
The conversation at the table starts harmlessly. Someone talks about work at the paddock and all the pressures that come with it. On the other side of the table someone lets out an affirmative hum, complaining about the travel involved in an F1 career. The usual.
Then somebody orders another bottle of wine and suddenly the atmosphere changes. Especially for George, who is unsettled at his sudden loss of inhibition and by how comfortable everybody is. And nobody becomes comfortable faster than you.
One story becomes another, then another. Soon enough the entire table is laughing, including George. Especially George. Which is probably why he doesn't see the disaster coming.
"So."
One of your friends leans forward with a mischievous smile.
"Aren't you dating anyone?"
You groan immediately.
"No."
"Liar."
"I'm not."
"You literally had a boyfriend a month ago."
A collective wince travels around the table, the breakup remains a sensitive topic. You take a sip of wine. Then shrug.
"He doesn't count anymore."
"That's not how relationships work."
"It is if I decide it is."
Several people laugh. George does not, because unfortunately he's paying attention to the way your smile slightly falters.
"What was his name again?"
You close your eyes.
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"How are we supposed to cuss him out properly if you don't tell us his name?"
You slump in your seat. The friend smiles, victorious. The exact type of friend George fears.
"Benjamin. He was a DJ."
The entire table erupts, including Lando.
"He was not a DJ."
"He literally was."
"He owned a laptop and his daddy's inheritance."
"He mixed music."
"He downloaded Spotify."
George nearly chokes. You point accusingly.
"You are a terrible friend."
"Correct."
"And yet here we are."
The stories continue, much to Geroge's displeasure. You are a talker, he finds, a chatty drunk. Every story brought up reveals something: a piece of you, a life before him, a version of you he hasn't seen. He hates how much he wants to know more. Hates how much he wants to be included, to be the reason you're laughing.
At one point somebody mentions Milan. The reaction is immediate. Several people start screaming. You hide your face, behind the second martini you are nursing, after the second bottle of wine was finished. Lando nearly falls out of his chair. George feels confident enough to ask.
"What happened in Milan?"
"No."
"Tell him." A friend kicks you under the table.
"No."
"You know you weren't so shy when we could all hear the pornographic sounds from your hotel room."
"No." You flush and point at the group.
"If any of you tell him, I'll kill you."
That only makes George more curious - a terrible development.
Then somebody asks the worst possible question.
"So what's your type?"
The table immediately grows interested. George decides he hates everybody. You laugh, take another sip. Think about it, as you throw your head out and flutter your eyelashes.
"Hm."
George hates the fact that he's waiting for your answer, actually waiting, like an idiot.
"Brits."
The table explodes. George's soul briefly leaves his body. Lando is clawing at the table, trying to stop himself from combusting with laughter. Someone lets out a high pitched "Oh, girl". George is trying very hard to remain alive.
"Unfortunately."
The table erupts again. George returns to earth, barely. You grin, seemingly unaware of the destruction you've caused within the man to your left.
The real problem arrives a little later, when the conversation turns toward relationships. Not serious relationships - casual ones. The stories people tell after midnight, the stories they only tell friends. George is well aware he isn't yet well enough acquainted with you to hear them, he knows he should leave, for his own sanity at least. But he can't help it that something within him pulls him to stay.
A decision he immediately regrets, because suddenly you're talking and everybody around you is listening.
"Wait."
One friend points.
"What happened to the football player?"
You groan.
"No."
"Oh my God."
"Absolutely not."
"The football player?"
George immediately hates this man, whoever he is, wherever he is. For reasons that are entirely reasonable... Probably.
"He was boring."
"That's your explanation?"
"He was."
"How?"
You shrug.
"He kept talking about himself. Even while I was blowing him."
Lando raises a finger.
"A crime."
"A serious one."
"Punishable by death."
The table agrees. George does not, because George is too busy imagining you on dates with other men and in many other positions outside of candlelit dinners with other men. A horrifying experience. One he would not recommend.
The worst part isn't the stories, the worst part is how comfortable you seem telling them. Open, honest. How easy it is for everyone around you to access pieces of your life. George wants that.
The honesty, the stories, the trust. Hell, the lust even. He wants to know what keeps you awake, what scares you, what makes you cry. He wants to be the person sitting beside you when those stories happen or the person they are about, not the one hearing about them afterward.
The realization hits harder than expected - suddenly this isn't a crush anymore. Not really. It's something else, something that almost physically hurts far deeper.
Eventually, the group melts into their own separate conversations. Finishing drinks and food, preparing to leave.
"You alright?"
Your voice cuts through the noise, making George look up. The conversation around him disappears, instantly. You're looking directly at him, concern written across your face.
"You've gone quiet."
George blinks.
"I have not."
"You have."
"You monitor everybody this closely?"
You smile, something changing in your expression.
"Only the people I care about."
The room keeps moving. The conversation continues. The closeness between you two, torn open by Lando's hand resting on your shoulder, his chest a little too close to your back for George's comfort.
"I think it's time we go home." Lando speaks lowly, but still within earshot of his fellow driver.
"Home?" You look back in confusion.
"Yes, kitten. I don't think you are in any condition to be spending the night alone in your hotel room, no?" George wishes he could ignore the rise of warmth of wrath in his body at the pet name. It simply wasn't fair. If someone were to have the right to call you kitten, it should be him.
"You know what's embarrassing?"
Lando immediately regrets, letting you have more wine on his couch.
"What?"
You stare at the ceiling, stretching a hand up as if trying to touch it.
"I think I like George."
"Oh my God."
You throw a cushion at him. It hits him in the chest, in spite of his attempt to dodge.
"Don't."
"I've waited months for this."
"Don't."
"I deserve this."
You groan, burying your face in another pillow. The alcohol isn't helping. If anything, it's making honesty significantly easier. A terrible development.
"I can't do it."
"Do what?"
"This."
You gesture vaguely trying to convey the entire situation. George, your feelings, existence, all of it.
Lando studies you.
"Why?"
You laugh a sad laugh. The kind that arrives after heartbreak, reminiscent of a creaky swing set.
"Because look at me."
Lando actually looks, confused.
"What?"
"I'm a disaster."
"You own three properties."
"That's not the point."
"You sell paintings for six figures."
"Still not the point."
"You got invited to the Met Gala."
"Lando."
"Sorry."
The smile disappears, slowly.
"I'm tired."
The words emerge quietly. More honestly than intended. Lando's expression softens.
"I'm tired of people wanting me for one night."
The room grows quieter. The confession deeper. You stare at the ceiling again.
"I don't want another story."
Another stranger, you mean, another headline, another man who likes the idea of you more than the reality.
"I'm twenty."
You laugh, disbelieving.
"Twenty years old and somehow exhausted."
Lando says nothing, which means he's listening. Really listening.
You close your eyes.
"George is different."
The admission hangs in the air.
"I know."
"He actually listens."
"I know."
"He remembers things."
"I know."
"He looks at me like-"
You stop. Lando waits. Eventually:
"Like I'm a person."
The words almost break him. Because for all your confidence, for all your beauty, for all your success, you genuinely mean it.
The smile returns briefly. Bitter around the edges.
"But it doesn't matter."
"Why?"
You laugh. Again. The answer feels obvious.
"He's George Russell."
"And?"
"He's kind."
"And?"
"Successful."
"And?"
"Beautiful."
Lando groans violently.
"Dramatic."
"I'm serious."
"You're both ridiculous."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You sit up, hair a mess, makeup half gone. Still beautiful.
"You heard me at dinner."
Lando immediately understands.
"Oh."
"The stories."
The relationships, the men, the mistakes. Everything. You look away. Embarrassed now, a rare occurrence.
"What man hears all that and thinks girlfriend?"
The question lands softly. Lando doesn't answer immediately. Because for once, the answer isn't his secret to tell, instead he smiles. He knows something neither of you know. The exact same conversation is happening on both sides.
And somehow - both idiots think they're the rebound.
The problem with Lando Norris is that he exists. George understands this is not a reasonable position. Unfortunately, reason left several race weekends ago. The issue isn't that Lando is attractive, or famous, or successful.
The issue is that Lando belongs to your life in a way George doesn't. Lando has keys to your house. Lando knows your coffee order. Lando knows which version of you is angry and which version is simply hungry. Lando knows what your paintings look like before they're finished. Lando knows the names of your brothers. Lando knows where you disappear when you're upset.
Most annoyingly of all - you know him just as well. The familiarity is everywhere. Like the way you steal drinks directly from his hand. Or the way he walks into conversations already knowing what you're talking about. Or the way you communicate entire thoughts through eye contact alone.
George hates it. Respectfully.
The final straw arrives in Monza. A group gathers in hospitality. Somebody says something funny. You laugh, then immediately lean into Lando's shoulder. Without thinking, without meaning anything by it. Lando doesn't react either. Clearly this happens often, far too often. George spends the next fifteen minutes pretending not to care. An exhausting experience.
"You're doing it again."
George looks up at Lando nudging him.
"What?"
"The staring."
"I don't stare."
"You absolutely stare."
George remains silent. Lando's smile grows.
"Oh my God."
"No."
"You think we're dating."
The horror, the embarrassment, the immediate need for death. George says nothing, which is apparently confirmation. Lando bursts out laughing to the point where several people turn around.
"We're not dating."
"I never said-"
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You did."
George wants the floor to open, immediately. Unfortunately, it does not. Lando wipes tears from his eyes.
"Mate."
He points toward you, now across the room, laughing with your friends, completely oblivious.
"Trust me."
George narrows his eyes.
"On what?"
Lando grins.
"She likes you. I wasn't lying that night."
George's heart immediately attempts a backflip.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious."
"No."
"I am."
"No."
Lando studies him for a second, then smiles. The sort of smile that means he's already planning something. The sort of smile George should fear. And unfortunately he does.
The invitation arrives on a Thursday. George is halfway through dinner when his phone rings. Lando. A bad sign. George answers anyway.
"Hello?"
"Party."
George closes his eyes.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm talking about."
"I know enough."
"It's at her house."
Damning silence. Lando laughs.
"Oh my God."
"Shut up."
"That wasn't even five seconds."
"I was thinking."
"No, you weren't."
George rubs a hand over his face.
"I don't do parties."
"You literally drive Formula One cars."
"That's different."
"It's really not."
"It is."
Lando ignores him.
"Come."
"No."
"She asked if you were coming."
George nearly drops the phone. A beat. Two. Three.
"...she did?"
Lando makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
"Mate."
"Did she?"
"You are genuinely hopeless."
He spends entirely too long choosing an outfit, an embarrassing amount of time, humiliating truly. By the time he arrives, he's already annoyed. Mostly with himself.
The house appears at the end of a private road, hidden behind gates and security. The sort of property magazines write articles about. George understands immediately why you host parties here. Nobody can see in. Nobody can photograph anything. Nobody can sell stories. For one night, everyone gets to exist normally.
The music envelops him before he has reached the driveway. Low bass. The distant sound of people having entirely too much fun. Lando climbs out first. Already grinning and insufferable, acting like he knows something. Which means he definitely does.
"I hate you."
"I know."
The door opens before they knock. George's mind immediately forgets how to function, because there you are. And somehow, you look even better than usual. The dress is tight and adorned in crystals, tiny enough to be scandalous, elegant enough to get away with it. Your hair falls down your back, loose and soft. And draped around your arms is a powder-blue feather boa, which should look ridiculous, but instead looks like something specifically designed to ruin George's evening.
"Lando!"
You throw your arms around him. George watches and regrets watching. Then you turn. Everything changes, because your smile changes. Enough for George to notice. Enough for Lando to immediately look like he's witnessing his favorite reality TV show.
"George."
His name sounds unfair coming from you. You step forward, without hesitation. Wrap your arms around him. And George learns two things.
First: You smell incredible.
Second: You hug exactly the way you live. Fully, like you mean it. When you pull away, your hands remain on his shoulders. Just for a second.
"You came."
George tries very hard not to overanalyze those two words, fails instantly.
"You invited me."
"I wasn't sure you'd survive."
"Survive what?"
You gesture vaguely toward the house.
"My natural habitat."
The first thing George notices inside is that nobody cares who he is. Or who you are. Or who Lando is. The second thing he notices is that everybody adores you. The third is that they're justified. Every room feels alive. People dancing, singing, arguing over music, sitting on kitchen counters, spilling into gardens and terraces.
The house isn't hosting the party. The house is the party and somehow you're everywhere. Greeting people, introducing friends, fixing problems, refilling drinks. Making everyone feel welcome. George watches you move through the crowd effortlessly. Like this is where you belong. Maybe it is.
Then he notices something else. The girls. Lots of girls. All beautiful - models, artists, singers. Girls who somehow all look impossibly cool. George immediately understands why Lando accepted the invitation within seconds. The traitor.
"You alright?"
George looks over. Lando is trying not to laugh.
"What?"
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You absolutely are."
George says nothing. Lando grins. Then glances toward you currently dancing in the center of the room. The feather boa flying dramatically behind you.
"Go talk to her."
"No."
"George."
"No."
"George."
"No."
Lando sighs dramatically. Then mutters:
"For someone who wants to snog her, you're making this incredibly difficult."
George nearly chokes. Unfortunately, Lando is right. Somewhere across the room you look up, find George immediately and smile.
The thing about watching someone dance is that eventually they notice, particularly when that someone is you. George realizes this approximately three seconds too late. One moment you're laughing with your friends, the next you're looking directly at him again. The smile appears first and he can see the gears spinning in your head as the decision is made.
George watches it happen in real time. You say something to the group, hand somebody your drink and begin walking toward him.
God help him.
The crowd parts naturally. George hates how beautiful you are, respectfully.
You stop directly in front of him. Close enough to hear the music vibrating through the floor, close enough to see the faint gold shimmer on your skin.
"There you are."
George blinks.
"There I am."
You nod.
"As suspected."
"What was suspected?"
"You've spent the last twenty minutes standing in exactly the same place."
George looks offended.
"I moved."
"When?"
"Around."
You stare. George stares back. Neither breaks.
"You look like somebody's accountant."
George closes his eyes. Somewhere behind him, Lando starts laughing. The bastard.
"I do not."
"You do."
"I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do."
You gesture toward his outfit. The dark shirt, the watch, the posture. The entire George Russellness of it all.
"If somebody told me you were here to discuss tax regulations, I'd believe them."
George gasps. You nearly fold in half laughing.
"Come dance."
"No."
The answer arrives immediately. The music pounds around you. People cheer somewhere across the room. A glass breaks. Nobody cares.
"Why?"
"I don't dance."
The look on your face suggests you've just heard the stupidest thing imaginable.
"You absolutely dance."
"I don't."
"You have functioning legs."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing."
"No."
"George."
"No."
"George."
"No."
You step closer. George remains still. Mostly because retreat feels cowardly. Partially because he's forgotten how.
"You know what your problem is?"
George sighs.
"What?"
"You think too much."
There it is, the accusation. The one George suspects is unfortunately true.
"You don't think enough."
You grin victorious. Like you've been waiting for that response.
"Exactly."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does to me."
"That's concerning."
You laugh. God. That laugh. George is beginning to suspect he would commit minor crimes to hear it more often.
The music changes, the room erupts, several people run toward the dance floor. Including Lando. He pauses beside you. Looks at George, looks at you. Grabs your hand and places it on his bicep, then grins.
"Figure it out."
You watch him leave. Then glance back at George, standing still, your hand on his arm, something flickering through his face.
"You're jealous of him."
The statement lands without warning. George nearly chokes.
"What?"
"Lando."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm absolutely not."
You smile.
"Interesting."
George narrows his eyes.
"What's interesting?"
"The fact that I never said why."
Silence. George realizes his mistake. You realize he realizes. The smile grows.
"That's evil."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"You kind of were."
For a moment neither of you moves. The world continuing around you, yet somehow the space between you feels quieter. George notices your eyes first, then your mouth, immediately hates himself. You notice everything. The tension. The way he has now gently moved his hand to the small of your back.
And because you've spent weeks watching George Russell overthink himself into oblivion, you decide to help. Just a little.
The feather boa slips from your shoulders. You gather one end in your hand, then reach forward. George freezes. The feathers brush his neck. You loop it loosely around him, like a leash, connecting his body to your own.
George's brain stops functioning entirely, a predictable tragedy, but a tragedy nonetheless.
"Hi."
The word comes out quieter than intended. You smile.
"Hi."
George swears his heart actually skips, physically, like a teenager.
Then you kiss him. Simple as that. No warning. Just one second of silence. Then your hand pulling gently on the feather boa and George meeting you halfway. The kiss is warm, soft, certain. The sort of kiss that makes George wonder why he spent weeks suffering when he could have simply done this. Idiot.
When you pull away, George doesn't move, mostly because he's still processing, partially because you're still smiling, entirely because he doesn't trust his legs.
"FINALLY."
Lando's voice explodes across the room. Several people cheer, somebody starts clapping, a girl near the kitchen actually screams. George closes his eyes, absolutely mortified.
You, meanwhile, start laughing. The kind George would happily listen to for the rest of his life. And for the first time all evening he stops worrying. Because your hand is still tangled in the blue feather boa, the other resting on his cheek. Still holding him.
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Y/N's French bulldog falls in love with a stranger outside a bookstore. Unfortunately for her, the stranger turns out to be Lando Norris, and her dog seems determined to choose him over her at every possible opportunity.
warnings: fluff, y/n!reader
note: hello ♡ i fear every Lando fic eventually turns into golden retriever meets golden retriever. this one just happens to include an actual dog. enjoy. - dean
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The betrayal occurs on a Wednesday afternoon.
This particular act of treachery comes in the form of a nine-kilogram French bulldog named Marcel. Marcel is charcoal grey, stubborn beyond reason, and the undisputed love of your life. You are not, unfortunately, the love of his.
You realize this while standing outside a small bookstore in London, waiting for a friend who is twenty minutes late and counting. One hand holds an iced coffee. The other grips Marcel's leash. Or at least it does until Marcel decides otherwise. Without warning, he lunges forward. The leash jerks violently. Your coffee nearly becomes one with the pavement.
"Marcel!"
The dog ignores you. As always.
He barrels toward a man crouched beside the bookstore window, tail wagging so hard his entire body seems to vibrate. The stranger laughs.
"Hello, mate."
Marcel emits a noise that can only be described as ecstatic. The stranger scratches beneath his chin. You stop a few feet away, utterly horrified.
"Wow."
The man glances up.
"What?"
"I've raised him for three years."
Marcel rolls onto his back. The traitor.
"And?"
"And he's never looked at me like that."
The stranger grins.
"You seem jealous."
"I am jealous."
Marcel chooses this exact moment to climb into the stranger's lap. You stare. The stranger stares. Marcel stares at neither of you because he's busy living his best life.
"Wow," the man says.
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't encourage him."
The grin widens.
"You know, I think he likes me."
You narrow your eyes.
"He's confused."
The stranger laughs again. Marcel's tail wags harder. You briefly consider giving the dog away.
"What's his name?"
"Marcel."
The stranger nods thoughtfully.
"Good name."
"Thank you."
"Very French."
"He judges people if they mispronounce croissant."
The stranger looks down at Marcel. Marcel immediately sneezes.
"Fair enough."
You study the man properly for the first time; brown hair, hazel eyes, a baseball cap pulled low. It clicks.
"Oh."
The stranger raises an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"You're Lando Norris."
He winces.
"Unfortunately."
Marcel seems delighted by this information and wags his tail at speeds that can rival that of any one Formula 1 car.
"You're famous."
"So I've been told."
"And my dog prefers you."
"Also true."
You look at Marcel. Marcel is far too invested in his new friend. You assume that will be the end of it - London is large, people disappear into it every day. Lando Norris would surely be no exception.
Then three days later you see him again. Or rather, Marcel does. The dog spots Lando before you do. One second he's trotting peacefully beside you, the next he's dragging you across an entire street.
"Marcel!"
No response.
At this point you're fairly certain the dog only acknowledges commands when they benefit him. Lando looks up from his phone just in time to be nearly flattened by a French bulldog.
"Oh, hello."
Marcel loses his mind. You don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"You're joking."
Lando looks delighted.
"I think he missed me."
"You met once."
"He seems pretty committed."
Marcel chooses that exact moment to sit directly on Lando's shoe. The man looks unbearably pleased with himself.
You sigh.
"This is becoming a problem."
"It seems fine to me."
"Of course it does."
The encounters continue. Not intentionally, of course. Who could have known that the daily route you take when you are walking your dog, is apparently marked with all the spots Lando likes to go to, as well? You run into each other at the park, in front of coffee shops, by the grocery shop.
Once it's outside a bakery where Marcel abandons an expensive pastry in favor of greeting Lando. That one hurts. You paid four pounds for the pastry. Marcel's loyalty, apparently, costs less.
Each time the routine remains the same.
Marcel spots Lando. Marcel loses his mind. You endure the humiliation. Lando enjoys every second.
"You know," he says one afternoon, scratching behind Marcel's ears, "I think he loves me."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
Marcel places both paws on Lando's knee. You look paler than usual.
"God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers."
Lando nearly chokes laughing.
The problem begins sometime around the fifth encounter, not because Marcel likes Lando. That problem has long since established itself. No. The issue is that you're beginning to look forward to seeing him.
Very unfortunate, because Lando is easy to talk to. The conversations start small - coffee, books, films, travel - anything to kill the awkwardness from him crouching to play with Marcel. Then somehow become larger - dreams, childhood, the strange pressure of growing older and realizing nobody actually knows what they're doing.
One afternoon you spend nearly an hour sitting on a park bench talking while Marcel sleeps across both your laps. Neither of you notices how much time has passed. And when you do you don't mention it.
Then one Tuesday Marcel has a vet appointment, which means you walk through the park alone. You miss the sound of paws against pavement, the weight of the leash in your hand. You miss Marcel. A little.
You definitely do not miss somebody else, which is why you're surprised when you hear your name. You turn. Lando.
For a second he looks confused. Then disappointed. Then embarrassed for looking disappointed.
"Where's the tiny traitor?"
You smile despite yourself.
"Vet."
"Oh."
The answer arrives far too quickly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You sound disappointed."
"I liked seeing him."
"Sure."
Lando studies you.
"I liked seeing you too."
The words land softly, yet somehow feel heavier than they should. Your heart does something that can only be described as a jump. Lando looks away first.
"You know," he says, "without Marcel around, I might actually have to talk to you."
You laugh.
"Terrifying."
"Absolutely."
Yet neither of you leaves.
Two days later Marcel receives a clean bill of health. To celebrate, you take him to the park.
You spot Lando immediately. He spots you too. Marcel spots him first and tears forward. Lando crouches, but halfway there Marcel slows. Then stops.
Instead of launching himself at Lando, he returns to you. You stare. Lando stares.
Marcel settles comfortably against your leg. For a moment nobody speaks.
"Wow," Lando says.
"Wow."
"This is new."
"It is."
Marcel glances between the two of you. Then wanders over to the empty space between and settles onto the grass, completely satisfied with himself. A diplomatic genius.
Lando laughs first. You follow.
"You know," Lando says quietly, "I think he finally likes you."
You gasp.
"That's unbelievable."
"He had to think about it."
"I fed him."
"He needed time."
You shake your head. Then he asks,
"Would it be weird if I asked for your number?"
You look down at Marcel. Marcel looks up at you. Then at Lando. Then back at you. The little traitor. You smile.
"Only slightly."
Lando grins.
"I can work with slightly."
And somewhere between a bookstore, a park bench, and one very disloyal French bulldog, things begin.
p.s. Marcel was not sorry. Marcel had excellent taste and would absolutely do it again.
Lando discovers that your daily routine somehow includes an alarming amount of Monster Energy, and immediately decides he needs to intervene. Unfortunately for him, you're deeply committed to your caffeine addiction and refuse to be judged by a man whose profession involves driving in circles at 300 km/h. What follows is a battle of wills, hidden energy drinks, and one very concerned boyfriend.
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ this fic is dedicated to everyone whose blood is approximately 70% monster energy. unfortunately, i am writing from experience. - dean.
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The first Monster is discovered in your handbag.
This is not surprising, at least not to you. With days as demanding as yours the extra energy in necessary. To Lando, however, it appears to be the beginning of a criminal investigation.
"What is this?"
You glance up from your phone.
"A Monster."
"I know it's a Monster."
He holds up the can. The white, silver flecked can; the logo glints beneath the kitchen lights.
"Why is it in your purse?"
You stare.
"Because I put it there."
Lando blinks. You blink back.
Somehow, he looks more confused than before.
The second Monster is discovered in your car three days later.
You are driving, Lando is in the passenger seat. Everything is peaceful until he opens the center console, the silence that follows is concerning. You glance over. He is holding two cans, one in each hand.
"What?"
"You have emergency Monsters."
"No."
"Liar."
"They're backup Monsters."
"That's worse."
"That's smart. Lando." You glance at the road.
"Normal people don't have backup energy drinks." He continues.
"Normal people don't drive race cars."
He opens his mouth, then closes it. You smile.
Victory.
The third Monster is discovered beside your bed.
This one nearly kills him. You have just finished brushing your teeth when he notices it, a cold can sitting innocently on your nightstand. His expression changes immediately. The stages of grief, all five of them one after another.
"No."
You pause.
"What?"
"No."
"What?"
"Why is there a bedside Monster?"
You look at the can, then at him, then back at the can.
"As a treat."
"A treat?"
"Yes."
"You keep beverages next to your bed as treats?"
"Obviously."
He puts his head in his hands.
The fourth Monster is discovered during a grocery run.
You are happily placing a twelve-pack into the shopping cart, Lando watches horrified. The kind of horror usually seen on the faces of people in serial killer documentaries.
"What are you doing?"
"Shopping."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
You sigh.
"The answer is still shopping."
He points aggressively.
"That."
"Monster."
"I know what it is."
You shrug.
"It's on sale."
He looks like he may actually cry.
Things escalate after that. You discover hidden cans. One particularly memorable afternoon, you find three of them sitting in the vegetable basket on the side of the counter. You march directly into the living room.
"Lando."
He doesn't look up.
"Lando."
"What?"
"Why are my Monsters in the vegetable drawer?"
Finally, he looks up. The guilt is visible.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lando."
"I have no idea."
"You put them next to the lettuce."
He remains silent.
"Nobody accidentally stores energy drinks with vegetables."
"They are both green. I thought you wouldn't notice."
You throw a cushion at him.
The intervention occurs two weeks later. You walk into the apartment. The atmosphere is strange. Suspicious. Then you notice it. Lando sitting at the dining table, waiting. There is a single can of his own flavour placed between you.
"You need help."
You laugh, because there is absolutely no way this is real.
"You organized an intervention?"
"It's not an intervention."
"It looks exactly like an intervention."
"It isn't."
You point at the can, then at him, then back at the can.
"You're interrogating my beverage choices."
He leans forward.
"How many have you had today?"
You hesitate. His eyes narrow.
"How many?"
"...three."
"Y/N."
"Three?"
"It's only three."
"It's four o'clock."
You shrug. He looks physically pained.
That evening, you find a fresh can sitting on your desk, ice cold, exactly the way you like it. A sticky note is attached, you pick it up.
The handwriting is familiar. Only one person complains about your caffeine intake with this much dedication.
The note reads:
For the record, I still think this is ridiculous, but I love you. Please drink water.
- L
You smile. Then reach for your phone. A photo. A quick text.
you:
drinking water as we speak
you:
monster in the other hand though
The typing bubble appears instantly.
lando:
we are breaking up
you:
you love me
lando:
unfortunately
you:
good
lando:
how many today
you:
that's between me and god
lando:
answer the question
you:
no <3
By the time he gets home, he's still complaining, still stealing your cans, still trying to convince you to consume something with nutritional value. And honestly?
You wouldn't have it any other way, even if he is dramatically overreacting.
