⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ THE PITT ARCHIVES 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Welcome to the Archives! ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (dr. robby x doctor!reader masterlist!)
A Slice of Life Anthology:
Hold me, Console me light angst/fluff
Dr. Professor fluff
Da-da (whether you like it or not) fluff
Held close all the time, knowing I'm half of you ANGST (new fic!)
Dinner, makeup remover, and a ring I bought for you months ago (upcoming...)
── ⋆⋅more incoming⋅⋆ ──
Frank Langdon (dr. langdon x doctor!reader masterlist!)
I've seen it (upcoming...)
── ⋆⋅more incoming⋅⋆ ──
Jack Abbot (dr. jack abbot x doctor!reader masterlist!)
Batman and Robin (a medical mystery) fluff/humor
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summary: Peter is having some difficulties, and you're the first to notice.
I recently watched this interview with Tom where he talks about his dyslexia, and it made perfect sense that Peter would have it too. If you want to request anything related to Peter/Spiderman, send it in!
“Parker, do you have the photographs for our article?”
Peter looked up abruptly from his desk. For a second, he seemed unsure of where he was.
“Hm?”
“The photographs,” you repeated, leaning against the edge of his cubicle. “The ones from the Brooklyn fire. Jameson wants us to publish the article today.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Peter opened one drawer, then another. From where you stood, it looked as though he was stalling while searching for an excuse. He noticed your suspicion immediately.
“I do have them.”
“Uh-huh,” you replied, unconvinced.
Finally, he found a USB drive and held it up as if he had just rescued it from a catastrophe.
“Here.”
“Why don’t you just upload them to the cloud?”
“I forgot to do it,” he excused himself.
You took it without saying anything else and returned to your desk.
The two of you shared the same section of the floor, separated only by a narrow aisle. Close enough to work together, far enough to ignore each other when one of you was in a bad mood.
Once seated, you plugged the drive into your computer, and the photographs appeared on the screen.
As always, they were excellent. Peter had an irritating talent for being in the right place at exactly the right moment.
While reviewing the images, you opened the notes file he had attached. You always asked him for a brief description of the events or location so you could add it to the article if necessary.
However, you frowned immediately. That was there again.
Every time Peter wrote something, there were certain mistakes. They weren’t serious, nor were they frequent enough to attract the attention of someone reading his reports only once.
But you were far too observant to ignore them.
"The witness stated that he did not recieve any emergency alert before the incident."
A little further down:
"Several residents from neighboring appartments were interviewed."
And later:
"The building manager stated that repairs would begin tommorow."
They were tiny details, small enough to slip past a quick correction. But they appeared again and again.
As though certain words decided to rebel against him every time he tried to write them.
The facts were never wrong, of course: times, dates, locations. Everything was written correctly. It was in the rest of the notes that you could find it.
At first, you thought it was the result of exhaustion. A simple typo. You would have continued believing that if it had happened only once, or if it had been a note written in a rush between assignments. But this was already the fourth time you had noticed it. The fourth time you had worked together and found yourself correcting the same kind of mistakes. Too many to be a coincidence.
Should you ask him about it, or simply ignore it and correct the mistakes? How could you bring it up without embarrassing him?
You stretched your neck slightly over your desk to look for him, and he was right where he had been before, sitting at his workstation with a less-than-pleasant expression. He wasn’t a bad or rude guy; he just seemed chronically tired, as though he might faint at any moment.
The shirt had been perfectly pressed when he left home that morning. Now the sleeves were rolled up, the collar slightly disheveled, and the tie loosened enough to suggest he’d had a long day. Even so, he still looked more formal than comfortable in it.
A few months earlier, you had advised him—or forced him, depending on whom you asked—to visit an optometrist and get a decent pair of glasses. You were tired of seeing him squint every time you sent him a document or catching him leaning far too close to the screen to read something.
Peter had protested for weeks before finally giving in.
Now he wore them only when he had to review documents or spend hours at the computer. During those moments, something about him changed. He stopped looking like a photographer working for a second-rate newspaper and took on the focused air of a researcher absorbed in his work.
The glasses emphasized the seriousness of his features, softened the usual exhaustion in his expression, and made him seem more mature. More attractive.
If you were completely honest with yourself, and if you watched him long enough, you might even admit that he looked ridiculously sexy.
As though he had heard your thoughts, he glanced up in your direction, his expression silently asking whether something was wrong with the photographs. You responded by shaking your head and then returned to work.
You would have to bring it up at the right moment, preferably when there weren’t people around and, above all, in a way that felt like a conversation rather than an accusation. You had known the guy for less than six months; the last thing you wanted was tension between the two of you.
The fire article was published without any problems. It wasn’t until two days later that the opportunity you had been waiting for finally presented itself.
“Jameson told me he wants new photos of Spider-Man.”
Peter was standing beside the small table where the office coffee maker sat, pouring himself a cup. He looked like he had slept very little. His hair was messier than usual, and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“Doing what?”
“Anything, I guess.” You shrugged. “He just wants something he can use for one of his criticism columns.”
Peter let out a quiet chuckle as he added sugar to his coffee.
“Do you actually believe everything we publish?”
“No.”
You picked up your own mug before leaning against the counter.
“But I do believe I need this job to keep paying rent. So I’d rather not argue with my boss and his almost pathological obsession with our neighborhood’s friendly defender.”
Peter’s smile widened around the rim of his cup.
“Our neighborhood’s friendly defender, huh?”
“What? It’s better than menace in tights.”
The boy laughed when you imitated your boss’s tone, and for a moment, the exhaustion seemed to disappear from his expression.
“You have a point. Though you shouldn’t say that too loudly. If Jameson hears you, he might fire you.”
“And lose one of his best reporters. It would be an irreparable loss.”
“Of course. Completely irreplaceable.”
The irony in his voice drew a smile from you.
The atmosphere softened for a moment, as if the morning had not yet reached its peak and the two of you could enjoy a minute of peace. You cleared your throat before speaking.
“Peter…” you began. You almost never called him by his name. “I noticed something the other day, in... uh, your notes.”
“Yeah? What about them?”
“You misspelled some words.”
“Oh... didn’t I use the right ones? You know terminology isn’t always my thing. I mean, I write things the way they come to mind. I’m not exactly a writer.”
“That’s not what I mean,” you insisted. “You switched a couple of letters. Left others out.”
Peter immediately understood where the conversation was headed. You could tell by the look in his eyes, even though he tried to hide it.
“Oh. Sometimes I just type too fast.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, and Peter looked away first.
Silence settled between you before you spoke again.
“Yeah, well... that happens sometimes.”
He shrugged.
“Yeah. You know. The letters are really close together on the keyboard, and I... get mixed up.”
He waved a hand in the air, trying to illustrate the idea.
“Besides, I’m almost always doing three things at the same time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I review notes on my phone. Maybe that’s why.”
Another silence followed, more uncomfortable now because both of you knew he was making excuses. And both of you knew you weren’t buying them.
“Are you sure you’re not dyslexic?”
Peter’s expression froze.
As though you had uncovered a rather scandalous secret.
“You know that’s normal, right? I mean, not normal exactly, but... it’s not that uncommon. Lots of kids have it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Parker.”
“Seriously.”
He lowered his gaze to his coffee cup.
“I just make spelling mistakes every now and then.”
“No. You make the same spelling mistakes over and over again. There’s a pattern.”
He didn’t answer.
“And it takes you forever to read long documents.”
“Because long documents are boring.”
“And you squint when you read.”
“I needed glasses.”
“The glasses don’t explain everything else.”
Peter exhaled through his nose. He didn’t seem angry, only embarrassed.
“I’m not judging you,” you clarified immediately. “It’s just something I noticed, and I thought... if you didn’t know, it might be important to tell you.”
Peter was silent for a moment, as if considering an appropriate response. There was no point denying it anymore.
“I think someone mentioned something to May when I was a kid. But I’ve learned to adapt. That’s all.”
You nodded seriously, trying to show him that the last thing you wanted was to make fun of him.
“Before I became a journalist, I worked at a school,” you began. “And I met several kids with dyslexia.”
Peter shifted slightly in place but didn’t interrupt.
“I know a few techniques that can help. Nothing complicated.”
You shrugged.
“And if we ever have to go through long documents or articles together, I can turn them into audio for you.”
Peter blinked.
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. It’s no trouble.”
For a moment, he seemed unsure what to say.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Parker.”
You gave him a kind, sincere smile, and he returned one just like it. Suddenly, he seemed much more at ease.
“You know? I never thought the glasses had anything to do with it. But ever since I started wearing them, it’s gotten a little easier.”
“You never thought you needed them?”
Peter let out a soft laugh.
“Yeah, of course I did.”
“Then why didn’t you get them sooner?”
He shrugged, avoiding your gaze for a moment.
“Because they cost money.”
An unexpected knot formed in your chest. It wasn’t pity; Peter was probably one of the most capable people you knew. It was something closer to compassion.
A few more people had already entered the building, and more activity than before was beginning to fill the office. You would have to get back to work—or start, rather.
“I’m glad you let me stick my nose into your business.”
Peter shook his head, amused.
“I’d say it was already too late to stop you.”
Both of you smiled.
And, for the first time, it felt less like a conversation between coworkers and more like one between friends.
✴︎ Summary: With busy schedules, laundry tends to pile up. Why not do it all in one day in nothing but your undergarments?
✴︎ Word Count: 1.2k
✴︎ Warning: Slightly suggestive, but mostly just cute and short pure fluff (fluffier than freshly washed towels, I might add).
A/N: May or may not have stemmed from the fact that I hate doing laundry in my dorm & I've been putting it off.
You've been rattling open empty dresser drawer after empty dresser drawer all morning. You meant to do the laundry at some point earlier this week, and it looks like relying on bottom-of-the-barrel clothing is coming to an end today. You just need to find one more work shirt, and you swear to yourself that you'll do the laundry later today.
On the verge of giving up, and debating calling off, you resort to your boyfriend, “Jan, have you seen any of my work blouses?”
He thinks for a moment before responding from the bathroom, “Ah, yes.”
“Thank God,” you let out a sigh of relief. “Could you bring it to me, please?”
He steps over to the bathroom doorway, just into your view. “Oh, I mean, I did see it. Somewhere,” Jannik sucks his teeth and adds, “In the hamper.”
You groan and fall backwards onto the bed. “Guess I'm going to work in pajamas,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your face, hiding from the fact that you procrastinated laundry day much too long again.
“Sorry,” he says, plopping down on the edge of the bed beside you and gently tearing your arms from your face to look at him. “You can borrow one of mine?” he offers, knowing there's not much else he can do to help. He would go out and buy you a new top, but you're already cutting it close to being just on time.
“Between one of your Nike athletic polos and one of my plain t-shirts, I may have a guess on what's a bit more work appropriate,” you give him a half smile and add, “but thanks anyway, babe,” pecking him on the cheek before taking your turn in the bathroom.
✶ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ✶
You get back home a little before Jannik's finished with his tennis practice. Simone and Darren have been keeping him longer than usual, working on his serve and drop shots in particular.
Disrobing yourself of your impromptu work outfit, you toss the clothes one by one atop your already overflowing pile of laundry. Opening your pajama drawer, you find it to be empty. That's fine; you'll just borrow from Jannik. You pull open his drawer, empty again. Guess you’re not the only one slacking on doing their laundry. Time to throw in the towel—amongst the hundreds of other garments, you think and slightly roll your eyes at yourself.
The only thing left for you to wear happens to be the underwear and bra you're currently in. At least it's summer in Monaco. Taking your laundry basket out of the bedroom, you walk past the living room, and just as you're about to walk past the front door, you hear the familiar sounds of Jannik fumbling for his keys, unlocking the keyhole, and turning the doorknob.
“Amore, you won't believe this new drill Simone made me-” Jannik's sentence trails off once he makes eye contact with you, eyes widening at seeing your less-than-modestly covered form. He sets his practice bags down—you put the laundry basket down at some point to rest your arms. He tears his eyes from you and notices the basket. “Maybe I should do my laundry, too,” he says, his creeping blush starting to match his curls. You like how he still gets shy like this—when you're not even trying to tease him. You will tease him about his lack of urgency on chores, though.
You cross your arms, “Yeah, there's not a single clean piece of clothing left, if you can believe it.”
“Sì.” He knows full well he hasn't done laundry in weeks.
“Mhm. When's the last time you did your laundry, Sinner?”
He pretends to think about it for a moment, then responds, “Can't say I remember. And what about you?” he gestures to the comically large laundry bin beside you.
“Touché.”
“Well, you know, I should probably get out of these sweaty clothes.”
“And then you should probably take a shower.”
“Well, I would hate to use up all the water for our laundry,” he winks, incredibly exaggerated. “I'm a bit too sore to undress all on my own, anyway.”
His haphazard attempts at flirting earn a big grin from you and a kiss on his jaw. “I just need to put one load in first. Seriously, or I'll never have anything to wear.”
His hands reach out for your waist. “That would not be so bad, right, bellisima?” he smirks and pulls you in to properly kiss you before you both do your respective things.
You eventually make it to the laundry room and get a load running. Taking a seat on the cushioned bench, you watch the cycle for a few minutes—transfixed on its mechanical, methodical whirring. You let the tension in your body wash away, breathing in time with the machine, cycling out the stress of this morning and of work. Any other sounds are drowned out, and you don't hear Jannik's shuffling feet as he approaches.
“Still in here?” Jannik questions, carrying his own laundry basket in nothing but his boxers. Your gaze is broken from the washer, and your neck snaps in Jannik’s direction; you can't help giving him a one-over. He smiles sheepishly once you make eye contact again. It almost makes you forget about the very noticeable tennis sock tan line you just saw. Almost.
You smile back up at him, “Your sock tan line is diabolical, Jan. Maybe it's for the best that they're all out of commission.”
“Oh, so I should even out my tan for an hour while waiting for laundry instead of making you dinner. I see,” he nods.
“Wait, no!” you laugh, “I take it back, babe, I will do anything for your pasta.”
“Well, to be honest, I think I need an appetizer before dinner.” He bites his lower lip in an attempt to hide the smile breaking out across his face.
Naturally, you indulge him. Pushing yourself off the bench, you wrap your arms around his neck, resting your forearms on his shoulders. You inch your noses closer together. “What's on the menu?” Jannik wastes no time capturing your lips, and your fingers find his curls. He spins you around so that your back is against the washing machine. You're tickled by the machine's vibrations and Jannik's kisses moving from your lips to down your neck; he starts on your left and plants kisses down your arm, placing a chaste kiss on the top of your hand, softly blowing back up his trail, and then adjusts his body to do the same to your right side. Instead of your brain, it's your insides that are now spinning.
“I was thinking of trying,” he lowers to his knees with a mischievous glint in his eyes and the dopiest smile, “un po' della figa della mia ragazza.”
✶ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ✶
“I should procrastinate other house chores, no?” Jannik grins playfully and takes a bite of his pasta.
You stop your fork mid-twirl, “If you do, I might start looking for a lavanderie. Maybe my own apartment at that rate.”
“Cuore mio,” he gasps, “you wouldn’t.” He mock-pouts, clutching his chest with one hand and placing the other on top of your own.
“You're right, I can't get better pasta for free anywhere else.” You take his face in your hands and kiss him on the lips; he tastes of garlic and tomato and herbs. Giggling, you add, “or loads of soiled kisses.”
could you combine kissing your shoulder while they spoon you in cuddles and when they laugh at your messy hair in the morning from small but comforting gestures for jannik pretty please <3
you got it, anon 🤭🫡
A Lovable Loop
wc: 2.6k
You lay there, nestled in the warmth of the early morning sun, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the chest behind you. A content sigh escapes your lips as you feel the soft brush of breath against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. The arms holding you tighten briefly, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, and you know without looking that the mess of curls on the pillow beside you is Jannik's. His habit of kissing your shoulder while spooning has become a comforting lullaby, lulling you into a deeper sleep every night.
As the sun peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room, you crack open an eye to find him still asleep. The quiet of the apartment is a stark contrast to the roar of the crowds that typically follow him around the world. But here, at this moment, you're the only audience to the symphony of his breathing, the only witness to the peace that surrounds him when he's off the court. You take a moment to appreciate the rare stillness of his features, free from the concentration lines that etch his forehead during a match.
You shift slightly, and his hand on your waist moves up to your shoulder, his thumb idly tracing the edge of your collarbone. You giggle, the sound barely escaping your mouth, as you remember the countless mornings you've woken up with his messy hair tickling your nose. It's a small, endearing detail that you've grown to love about him, a stark contrast to the meticulously groomed athlete the world sees. The urge to lean in and kiss his cheek is strong, but you resist, not wanting to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
The scent of his cologne lingers faintly, mingling with the scent of fresh laundry from the bed sheets. The coolness of the fabric whispers against your skin, reminding you of the countless hours he's spent training, leaving behind a faint scent of sweat and determination. His breathing remains steady, a testament to his physical conditioning, but it's the sound of his heart beating in rhythm with yours that grounds you in the present.
You feel his chest muscles tighten as he stirs, and your eyes widen in anticipation. His hand moves from your shoulder to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair that has fallen across your face. His eyes open slowly, a sleepy smile gracing his lips as he takes in the sight of you. "Buongiorno," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends warmth through your body. You return the greeting with a smile of your own, your cheeks warming under his gentle touch.
As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the room brightens, revealing the tangled mess of sheets around you both. Jannik stretches, his muscles flexing under the thin layer of the T-shirt he'd worn to bed. You can't help but admire the way his body moves, the way his tattoos dance with the shadows cast by the light. He notices your gaze and chuckles, rolling over to face you.
"Take a photo," he playfully teased you, his voice still thick with sleep. "So you can remember me when I'm not around to wake you up like this."
"What? Can't I admire my boyfriend in the morning?" you tease back, the warmth in your voice matching the sun's embrace. Jannik's eyes light up at the word "boyfriend," and you can't help but feel a sense of pride at the joy you bring to this international sports star. His hand reaches up to gently tug on a lock of your hair, a silent invitation for you to come closer. You lean in, pressing your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his smile.
The room is filled with the gentle sounds of the morning - the distant chirping of birds outside the window, the faint hum of the city waking up. You're aware of the time ticking away, but in this moment, it's just the two of you, wrapped in a bubble of peace. Jannik's hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his thumb continuing to caress your skin. He pulls you into a lazy kiss, his mouth tasting faintly of mint from the toothpaste he'd used before bed. The kiss is soft and comforting, a silent promise that today will be as wonderful as every other day you've spent together.
As you pull away, his eyes are still closed, savoring the feeling of your lips on his. You can't help but reach out and tuck a curl behind his ear, marveling at the softness of his hair between your fingers. His skin is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to the calloused hands that had held you through the night. You feel his smile against your forehead before his eyes open.
"What's got you smiling so early?" he asks, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet of the room.
You laugh lightly, feeling your cheeks flush. "Just your hair," you admit, unable to resist the urge to run your fingers through the unruly mop. It's a game you've played countless times before, trying to tame the wildness that is Jannik Sinner's morning mane. "It's like a little bird's nest."
He opens his eyes, a playful glint in them as he reaches up to capture your hand. "Is that so?" he asks, bringing it to his mouth for a gentle kiss. "Well, maybe I should keep it this way, then. For you to play with."
You roll your eyes but can't hide the grin that spreads across your face. Jannik's eyes sparkle with mischief, and you know he's enjoying every moment of your early morning banter. His free hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and you feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and robust. The warmth of his skin sends a pleasant shiver through you, reminding you of the many times you've lain here, feeling the power of his body against yours.
His fingers intertwine with yours, the roughness of his palm a stark contrast to your own. Each callous a story of the hours he's spent perfecting his craft, each line a map of his dedication to the sport he loves. You trace the veins on the back of his hand with your thumb, feeling the strength that propels him to victory after victory.
He places a kiss on your shoulder, the same spot he's been planting sweet, lingering kisses for weeks now. You feel a warm rush of affection as his lips graze your skin, a silent declaration of his love that needs no words. You lean into his embrace, savoring the feeling of being cherished by someone so fiercely driven yet so gentle at heart.
The world outside the window is slowly coming to life, but here, in this cocoon of blankets and limbs, time seems to stand still. You can't help but let your mind wander to the day ahead. You know that soon, the apartment will be a flurry of activity as he prepares for his next match. The quiet moments like these are precious, stolen from the chaos of his schedule.
Jannik's grip tightens, as if sensing your thoughts. "You're thinking too much," he whispers, his voice a gentle reprimand. His thumb continues to trace patterns on your collarbone, the sensation sending a cascade of goosebumps across your skin. You nod, unable to deny the truth of his words.
"I don't want to leave this bed," you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The thought of the day's separation is a dull ache in the pit of your stomach. His tournament schedule is relentless, and even though you've grown used to it, the goodbyes never get easier.
"Neither do I," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. He kisses your shoulder again, the familiar gesture now charged with the weight of your impending separation. You turn to face him, your eyes searching his for any sign of regret or doubt, but all you find is a steadfast love that mirrors your own.
Jannik sighs, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer before he gently pushes himself up. The bed creaks under his weight, the sound a stark reminder that the morning is slipping away. He runs a hand through his hair, the mess of curls only growing more unruly with the movement. You can't help but giggle at the sight, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"What?" he asks, feigned innocence in his eyes. "It's not that bad, is it?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "It's not bad," you clarify, "it's just… you." You reach out to smooth down the unruly strands, but they spring back up as soon as your hand leaves, like a rebellious child refusing to be tamed. "It's one of the many things that makes you, you."
Jannik smiles, his eyes holding yours. "And what else makes me, me?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. You sit up, leaning on your elbow, and take a moment to study his face.
"Your passion for tennis, the way you light up when you talk about it," you reply, watching as his expression changes, a spark of excitement flickering in his eyes. "Your love for your family, your never-ending kindness, and the way you always make me feel like I'm the most important person in the room."
He looks at you with a softness that makes your heart flutter, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection. "And you," he says, taking your hand in his, "you're the one who brings balance to my life. The calm in the storm of competition."
You laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I'm not sure I'd call me calm," you protest, thinking of the many times you've cheered him on from the sidelines, your heart racing with every point.
"To me, you are," he insists, bringing your hand to his lips for a tender kiss. "You keep me grounded."
The room feels smaller, as if the walls are closing in around the two of you, capturing the intimacy of the moment. The sun is now a full-fledged participant in the day, casting a warm, golden light across the bed that emphasizes the planes of his face, the strength of his arms, and the gentle curve of his lips. You want to remember this moment, to hold onto it like a talisman against the trials that the day might bring.
But the world outside is unforgiving, and it won't wait for you to be ready. The soft beeping of Jannik's alarm breaks the spell, and with a groan, he lets your hand fall from his mouth. He swipes at the screen of his phone, silencing the annoying sound, and then rolls over to plant a kiss on your forehead. "I've got to get going," he says, regret tinging his words. "I have an early training session today."
You nod, understanding the routine all too well. He slides out of bed with the grace of a panther, his movements swift and silent despite his size. You watch as he pads across the hardwood floor to the bathroom, the muscles in his back rippling with each step. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound of the shower soon follows.
The apartment feels eerily quiet in his absence, the warmth of the bed now a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. You slide out from under the covers, your bare feet landing on the chilly floor. You grab your robe from the chair by the bed, wrapping it around you as you make your way to the kitchen to start the coffee for Jannik. The aroma fills the air, a comforting scent that grounds you in the reality of the new day.
While the coffee brews, you wander over to the living room windows and pull the curtains open, letting the sun flood the space. You look out at the bustling streets below, the people moving like ants in a colony, all with their own lives and stories. The sight of the city waking up reminds you of the world that exists outside your cozy bubble, a world where Jannik is a superstar and you're his quiet confidante.
The sound of the shower cuts off, and you return to the bedroom to find him dressed in his training gear, his hair still damp from the shower. He approaches you, his eyes searching yours, and you can see the question in them. You nod, giving him the encouragement he needs, and he leans in for a kiss that's anything but lazy. It's a kiss filled with passion and promise, a silent vow to conquer the day ahead.
Jannik breaks away, a small smile playing on his lips. He reaches out to caress your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before dropping his hand. "Thank you," he whispers, the words carrying more weight than you can comprehend.
"Don't forget the coffee," you call out as Jannik grabs his bag, the sound of the zipper punctuating the air. He flashes you a grin over his shoulder, the tension in his body already shifting into the focused mode you know so well. You pad over to the kitchen, the warmth of the robe enveloping you as you pour the dark liquid into a travel mug, the steam rising up to kiss your nose.
The apartment feels emptier with each step he takes towards the door, each movement a silent countdown to the moment you'll be alone again. You hand him the coffee, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours, and he takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll miss you," he says, the words simple yet carrying a weight that makes your heart ache.
"I'll miss you too," you reply, your voice a little too bright, trying to push the sadness aside. You stand on your tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your lips. He lingers for a moment, his hand on your hip, before gently setting the mug down on the counter.
Jannik's arms wrap around you in a fierce hug, lifting you off the ground. You cling to him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and the clean scent of his skin. His embrace is a fortress, a place where the world outside can't touch you, even if only for a brief moment. He whispers something in Italian, the language of love and home, the words lost in the folds of your shared warmth.
As he sets you back down, you can feel the tension in his body, the anticipation of the day's battles already weighing on him. You hand him the coffee, the warmth of the mug a small comfort against the impending chill of the day. "Drink it slow," you advise, knowing the caffeine will fuel his early morning training.
He nods, his grip tightening around the mug. "I will," he promises, his eyes searching yours. There's a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the sacrifices made for his career. The moments like these, stolen in the early morning light, are your sanctuary from the tumult of the world outside.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the apartment falls into a quietude that feels almost mournful. You take a deep breath, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a ghostly embrace. The bed seems too large now, the warmth of his body a fading memory. But you know that the real world is out there, and you can't hold onto these moments forever.
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Summary: Nine years is a long time to know somebody. In those nine years, she and Jannik have changed so much; grown as people, as players, rose to fame alongside each other. But some things, some rituals never change.
wc: 1k
Headphones in, head down. That was her most usual form about an hour before a match. Anything fast with a good rhythm would do - even better if it can keep up with her racing heart.
Nerves usually aren't an issue. Loud cheering crowds, chaotic coaches, phones ringing - loved ones wishing her good luck - it was a norm that she accepted early on in her career. However, they had never gotten that far before. This is it. Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2023.
Her eyes closed as a breath pushed out of her lungs, like waves rushing to shore, before opening once again and focusing on the task at hand. Her fingers worked with a practiced precision, the movement bringing an odd comfort to the room, as she carefully wrapped the white material around the grip of Jannik's racquet.
"I can do it myself, sai?" (you know?)
He comments from his place on the floor, while he stretches his hamstrings.
She looks at him blankly, noticing his mouth moving, yet hearing no sound over her blaring music. Gently tugging an earbud out, she raises a brow in question.
The response she receives is a gentle chuckle and a playful shake of the head.
"I'm not fifteen anymore, I can grip my own racquets."
(Note; he could always grip his racquets, just not up to her pristine standards. 'You're not doing it right,' she would complain back at the academy, before taking initiative and doing it herself - she was not going to risk losing due to his sloppiness.)
She simply shrugged, finishing her task with a slightly embarrassed smile.
"I don't want to jinx it."
She knew how silly it sounded, nevertheless, she did it. For the past seven years - on and off due to injury and scheduling conflicts, of course - she has known him, and re-gripped his racquets before their matches.
They were good. They were great. Two young rising stars, both in singles and doubles. She wasn't going to change the routine now. It worked, didn't it?
"I play just as fine when I do it myself, bella."
He responded with an small, amused smile.
"You have your superstitions, I have mine. Do you want to win or not?"
Her hand twitched, the way it did when she tensed, when her voiced carried a certain sharpness, threatening to crack under the weight of stress. He saw. He knew. Before she could apologise for her minor - yet sudden outburst, he repositioned himself to sit on the floor in front of the bench she is sitting at. He firmly tied the stubborn lace of her left shoe, giving her leg a reassuring pat.
"Andrà tutto bene. We've got this, no?" (everything will be fine)
How can he be so calm, so collected?
After a generous exhale, she nodded. He noticed that the whole scene lacked conviction, sure, but fake confidence was considerably better than no confidence. That was enough for him. She was enough for him.
They were enough for eachother. A universal truth that was further proven two hours later, when they lifted the silver trophy together.
Their lips met the cold steel at the same time, the ability to stand fueled purely by adrenaline after a grueling three set match. Another hour later, his lips would find hers for the first time. Yes, fueled by adrenaline, but mainly by the years spent by her side, watching her, knowing her. A simple silent admiration that he refused to suppress for any longer.
He has two grand slams to his name. She has three.
Together, they have four doubles majors under their belt, aiming for five.
Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2025.
Headphones in, head down. Brows gently furrowed in concentration, as the white material drags and stretches between her fingers, rotating his racquet with her other hand.
Sitting next to her, Jannik gently pulls an earphone out of her ear, careful not to startle her.
"Pronta, bella?" (ready?)
He nudges her shoulder with his in an encouraging gesture.
Finishing her practiced ministrations, she shrugs, placing the last racquet in his bag.
"Not really." She says with a nervous smile. It never gets easier. The contrary, if anything. The more you win, the more people admire you. The more people admire you, the more people you can dissapoint.
A tender smile creeps onto his face, and his comforting hand slips into hers, fingers lacing for the nth time.
"Honesty looks good on you. Come tutto, a dire il vero." (So does everything, to be fair)
She laughs lightly, shaking her head at his blatant flirting. Italian charm; foolproof.
"E niente." (And nothing) He says with a boyish grin, leaning in slightly.
She knows what he's doing, of course she does. Laughter is the best distcraction - anything to ease her nerves. And so, she lets him.
Her laughter thickens, her nose scrunching the way it often does when she is trully amused.
"You're ridiculous." She simply comments, her wide smile contrasting her words while she double-knots the laces of her shoes.
Jannik's undoubtebly witty retort is interupted by a knock on the door, and the tournament manager's nasally voice - "Five minutes!"
Brought back into the reality of the situation, she sighs as her smile drops slightly. Standing up, she picks up her bags, throwing them over her shoulder with a certain determination.
"It's just you and me out there." He reminds her, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear with his calloused fingers.
She nods with a thankful smile, placing his cap on his head.
"That's enough for me. I don't need anything else."
She seals her words with a quick, yet tender kiss. It is less a statement, more a promise. His hands - rough but oh so gentle - linger on her cheek, for just a moment more. Whatever happens out there, he's enough for her. They're enough for eachother.
Summary: Lando’s a little clingy tonight, which is how you end up sitting beside him off-camera while he streams CS with Max. It’s all going fine… until he notices the powdered sugar on your lips. One impulsive kiss later, the chat is in chaos, Max is traumatised, and Lando refuses to wipe the evidence away.
Warnings: fluff, established relationship, public but private couple, clingy!lando, streamer dynamics, brief kissing, chat chaos, max third-wheeling against his will, tooth-rotting sweetness
Word count: 1.2k ✨
A/N: so guys, as a lot of you said on my pole that you’d like to read more streamer!lando fics this is my first one. I got this idea because funnily enough I was eating powdered donuts myself while watching Lando stream with Max a few weeks ago (I had both streams open, and let me tell you it was hard to focus on both as I had one open on my phone and the other on my tablet and they were not in sync 😂) and I thought it was a super cute idea. I hope you enjoy, my requests are open for both Arthur and Lando fics. ☺️🩷
Tag list 🌸 Masterlist
Lando’s clingy.
Not verbally, he’ll never say it outright on stream, but you can always tell.
It’s in the way his hand keeps reaching for yours between rounds.
The way he swivels his chair slightly toward you even while focused on his monitor.
The way he’d texted you “come sit w me pls” from three feet away before going live.
So now you’re there.
Curled into the chair beside his, just out of camera frame like always. Public relationship, but private moments, the balance you’d both agreed on early. The viewers knew you existed, knew you were together… they just didn’t see you often.
Tonight was one of those rare nights you hovered just off screen because he wanted you close.
And because you’d brought snacks.
A small open box of mini powdered donuts rested on your lap, and you were halfway through your third one while scrolling TikTok with the volume low in your earbuds.
On his monitor, Lando’s game of CS was… not going well.
“HOW—” he cut himself off, leaning back in his chair. “How is he there? That makes no sense.”
From his headset, Max Fewtrell’s voice crackled in instantly.
“You say that every time you die.”
“Because it’s always stupid,” Lando shot back, clicking his mouse aggressively.
You snorted quietly beside him.
His head turned immediately.
The annoyance on his face melted the second he looked at you, it always did, and his eyes dropped to the donut in your hand.
Then to your mouth.
You didn’t even realise what he was staring at until he smiled.
A slow, soft, fond smile that made your stomach flip.
“What?” you mouthed.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he leaned sideways out of camera frame, quick, casual, one hand bracing lightly on your knee as he pressed a kiss to your lips.
Soft. Sweet. Brief.
You giggled instantly into it, surprised, powdered sugar dusting from your lips onto his.
He pulled back just as quickly, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world, and turned back to his screen as if nothing happened.
You blinked.
Then laughed quietly to yourself, wiping your fingers on a napkin before picking up another donut.
On stream, Max’s voice cut through again.
“…Why did you just disappear off camera?”
Lando froze mid-buy menu.
“What?” he said, too casually.
“You leaned out like you were kidnapped.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” Max insisted. “Chat’s literally asking where you went.”
Lando frowned, glancing at his second monitor where the chat was flying.
LANDOOOO WHERE DID U GO
bro vanished 💀
did his wifi die or—
wait… WAIT…
WAS THAT A KISS???
NO WAY
NOOOO WAYYY
POWDER ON HIS LIPS HELLO????
LANDO U HAVE SUGAR ON UR MOUTH
He blinked.
“…What?”
You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop laughing.
He frowned deeper, instinctively opening his stream preview, and there it was.
A faint dusting of powdered sugar across his bottom lip.
He stared at himself for a solid two seconds.
Then his cheeks went pink.
Max’s voice came through again, smug.
“Oh my god you kissed her didn’t you.”
Lando coughed.
“No.”
“Lando.”
“No.”
“LANDO.”
“Shut up, Max.”
Chat was in absolute meltdown.
HE’S BLUSHINGGGG
sugar kiss confirmed 🍩
THATS SO CUTE WHAT
bro got powdered donut rizz
he didn’t even WIPE IT OFF
IM SCREAMING
girlfriend reveal by SUGAR TRACE
You nudged his arm lightly, whispering, “You’ve got—”
“I know,” he muttered.
But instead of wiping it away…
He glanced at the camera again.
Then deliberately ran his tongue across his bottom lip, licking the sugar off slowly.
Chat exploded.
HELLO???
SIR???
THAT WAS ILLEGAL
he LICKED IT OFF???
I would like to thank powdered donuts for their service
gf off cam winning in life rn
He shot you a look then, playful glare, eyes narrowed.
“Your fault,” he said quietly, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.
You gasped dramatically. “My fault?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Distracting me mid-game.”
“You kissed me!”
“You had sugar on your lips!”
You giggled again, covering your mouth as you tried to stay quiet for stream.
Max groaned loudly in his headset.
“Oh my god I’m still here, by the way.”
Lando physically jumped in his chair.
“Fucking hell.. I forgot you were there.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” Max replied instantly. “I just watched you flirt live on Twitch.”
“I did not flirt.”
“You licked sugar off your girlfriend’s mouth on stream.”
Lando buried his face briefly in his hand, laughing.
Chat was eating it up.
max third wheeling AGAIN
free my man fewtrell
he’s traumatised
“i forgot you were there” 💀💀
clingy lando confirmed
He shook his head, refocusing on the game as the next round started.
“Right. Serious now,” he muttered, leaning forward.
You smiled to yourself and picked up another mini donut.
A minute passed.
Then two.
He was locked in, brows furrowed, mouse flicking, completely focused.
Until you tapped his arm.
He glanced sideways briefly.
You held up a powdered donut.
His expression softened instantly.
Without a word, he leaned over and took a bite straight from your fingers, never taking his eyes off the screen.
Chat noticed immediately.
SHE’S FEEDING HIM????
IM SO SOFT
off cam gf reveal but make it domestic
gamer boyfriend being fed donuts I can’t
he didn’t even look away 😭
Max groaned again.
“You’re being fed now? Are you five?”
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled through the bite, trying not to smile.
You wiped a bit of stray sugar from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.
He froze for half a second at the touch, then leaned slightly into it before catching himself and clearing his throat.
Focus. Stream. Game.
But his hand found your knee under the desk anyway, squeezing once absentmindedly.
You went back to scrolling TikTok, one earbud still in, occasionally tilting your phone so he could glance when he died between rounds.
At one point he died early again and leaned over.
“What’re you watching?”
“Fan edits,” you whispered.
He perked up immediately. “Of me?”
“Obviously.”
“Show me.”
You tilted your phone toward him, a dramatic slow-mo edit of him walking through the paddock.
He watched, deeply serious.
“…That’s sick.”
You laughed quietly.
Chat saw him looking off screen again.
WHAT IS HE LOOKING AT
show us king
gf showing him edits STOP
this is the softest stream ever
Max sighed.
“Can you stop being in love for five minutes so we can win a round?”
“No,” Lando said simply.
You choked on a laugh.
He smirked slightly at your reaction but kept playing, posture relaxed now, calmer just because you were there.
Another donut appeared in front of him.
He took it automatically.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
A pause.
Then softer, quieter, meant just for you:
“Stay here, yeah?”
Your heart melted a little.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiled, small but real, eyes flicking to you for a second before turning back to the game.
Chat noticed the softness instantly.
THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER
I’m unwell
clingy gamer bf energy
he just wants her near 😭
powdered donuts bringing families together
The round ended in a win.
Lando cheered, grabbing your hand and squeezing it triumphantly.
You squeezed back just as tight.
Max groaned one last time.
“I carried that, by the way.”
“Sure you did,” Lando said.
Then quieter, leaning slightly toward you again:
“Donut?”
You smiled, lifting one to his lips.
He took a bite, powdered sugar dusting his mouth all over again.
This time he didn’t even bother checking the camera.
thats exactly what I mean when I say, that I hate that posts, videos and entire movies are made, kind of glorifying crashes, or saying they make things interesting.
No.
We lost so many people to crashes and we are so lucky for everyone who came out of a crash and lived.
If you joke about a driver crashing, I hate you.
If you hope for a driver crashing, I hate you.
If you downplay a driver talking about the issues they faced after a crash, I hate you.
Just think about all the people we lost, and the people who lost a loved one like charles did.
okay ive been lowkey losing my mind over this but can someone help me fic an oscar piastri series fic where he found out that lando and reader slept together before r! and oscar were in a relationship and he gets like very mad over it.
ive been looking for it for an hour and i can't remember who wrote it T_T
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❝ mornings in monaco ❞ — husband!charles leclerc x fem!reader
set in monaco where mornings are slow and soft, and husband!charles is a little too affectionate about his sleepy wife, refusing to let her start the day without a dozen small moments of love and attention.
warnings: pure fluff, established relationship, clingy charles, use of y/n, not proofread
word count: 793 , masterlist , a/n : charles crashing at barcelona-catalunya gp.. oof… but congratulations to lewis for p1!! first ferrari win yayy!!!🤍
mornings in monaco were always too bright. like the sun had no idea people were trying to sleep.
you were curled up on the couch in one of charles hoodies. blanket halfway on the floor, hair tangled in a messy bun you threw in before you fell asleep.
charles walked into the living room and stopped immediately.
he was frozen.
you didn’t even open your eyes, you just heard him walking. “if you say anything about my hair i’m divorcing you.”
he laughed. “i wasn’t going to say anything.”
you peeked one eye open. “liar.”
he walked closer slowly, an energy drink in one hand, phone in the other, looking way too put together for someone who had been up late with you.
he crouched down in front of you on the floor.
“y/n,” he said softly.
“hm?”
he tilted his head. “why are you sleeping like a small animal.”
you opened both eyes now. “what??”
he smiled. “like a cute raccoon.”
you stared at him.
“…a raccoon?”
he nodded very seriously. “yes. very cute one.”
you sat up slightly. “that’s not a compliment.”
“it is,” he said immediately. “i like raccoons.” he says with a smitten smile.
you threw the blanket at him but it was weak and he just caught it like it was nothing.
“you’re insane,” you mumbled.
“you’re cute,” he corrected, leaning in and wrapping his arms around your waist anyway, pulling you slightly forward so your forehead bumped his shoulder.
you sighed. but you didn’t move away.
“you’re supposed to be getting ready,” you said into his hoodie.
he hummed. “i am ready.”
you pulled back slightly. “you’re literally not..”
he looked at you like you were the confused one. “i have clothes on.”
“charles.”
he smiled. “what?”
you narrowed your eyes. “you have a meeting in forty minutes.”
he paused.
“…oh.”
you blinked. “oh?”
he checked his phone.
paused again.
“…oh.”
you leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “you forgot.”
“i didn’t forget,” he said quickly. “i just… lost track of time.”
“you forgot.”
“i was cuddling you,” he said like that explained everything in the universe.
you pointed at him. “that is not an excuse!”
he leaned forward again immediately, resting his head on your shoulder. “it is a very good excuse.”
you tried not to smile. failed.
“you’re unbelievable.” you said.
he kissed the top of your head lightly.
“you’re warm.”
“that’s not relevant.”
he sighed dramatically and stood up, finally starting to actually move around the room.
“okay okay, i’m going,” he said, grabbing his watch.
you watched him for a second. “you’re stressing.”
“i am not stressing.”
you raised an eyebrow.
he looked at you.
“…i’m slightly stressing.”
you nodded. “better.”
he grabbed his shirt, then paused again, looking back at you.
you were still sitting there, blanket falling off your shoulder, watching him with half lidded eyes.
he stopped completely again.
“what now?” you asked.
he walked back over.
you sighed. “charles.”
he crouched in front of you again. “just one second.”
“you said that five minutes ago.”
“this is different.”
“how is it different?”
he didn’t answer right away but instead he just pulled you forward gently by your hands so you were closer to him again.
“what?” you said softer now.
he just looked at you for a second then smiled a little.
“nothing,” he said.
you narrowed your eyes. “you always say nothing and then do something weirdly emotional.”
“i just like you,” he said simply.
you froze a bit. he noticed instantly and smiled more.
“don’t start,” you warned.
“i’m not starting anything,” he said, still holding your hands. “i just… needed to see you properly before i go.”
you blinked. “you’re going to be late.”
“i know.”
“you’re not being very responsible right now.”
“i know.”
you scoff. “you’re impossible.”
he nodded. “i know.”
you tried to pull your hands back but he didn’t let go immediately.
just held them a second longer.
“charles,” you said again, softer.
“hm?”
you looked at him properly now. “go.”
he smiled at your words. he didn’t want togo but he did eventually let go.
he stood up, walked two steps away, then turned back again.
you groaned. “what now.”
he pointed at you slightly. “goodbye mon amour.”
you stared. “bye charles.”
he stood there and starred at you, smiling
you rolled your eyes. “go!”
he nodded, walked away again, paused at the door, looked back one last time.
you threw a pillow at him this time for real.
“GO!” you yelled.
he laughed and finally left.
ten seconds later you heard him shout from the hallway
“i love you!”
you yelled back without thinking, still half buried in blankets
“i love you too idiot.”
and even though he was already gone, you could practically hear him smiling.
Max Verstappen x mercedes!driver!reader
Toto Wolff & driver!reader (boss/driver dynamic)
Summary: You were supposed to be Mercedes title hope. Instead, Monaco gives the win to Kimi, the podium to Toto, and the heartbreak to you. Furious, overlooked, and terrified of losing your seat, you turn to the only person who tells you the truth – Max.
Warnings: angst, team politics, driver rivalry, emotional breakdown, secret relationship, suggestive smut (no smut description), Toto being ruthless.
Word count: 6k
a/n: I wanted to write something more angsty this time. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how George might feel this year with everything happening around the title fight, so I put the reader in a similar position – talented, frustrated, overlooked, and scared of being replaced.
In this AU, George drives for Red Bull alongside Max, while Kimi is the reader’s Mercedes teammate and Toto’s golden boy, which makes the whole Monaco mess hurt even more. And yes, I added Max because I enjoy making things messier. He brings spice, tension, and emotional chaos.
Monaco is supposed to love you. That is the lie you tell yourself when you wake up on Sunday morning.
Monaco loves precision. Monaco loves courage. Monaco loves drivers with enough arrogance to put a car between walls and pretend fear is something that happens to other people.
You are very good at that. Fear has never looked good on you.
But anger does.
So does a black leather jacket, combat boots, tattoos on display, and a motorbike helmet tucked under your arm while Toto Wolff stands in the Mercedes hospitality with the expression of a man regretting every life choice that led to managing you.
“You rode here?” he asked that morning.
You gave him your sweetest smile. “No, Toto. I teleported in leather.”
His jaw tightened. “We discussed this.”
“You discussed. I listened artistically.”
“I forbade it.”
“You forbid many things. I collect them.”
He looked at you over his coffee. “One day you will give me a heart attack.”
“One day I will win you a world championship.”
“That was the agreement,” he said.
And for a second, you believed it again. Because this season was meant to be yours. After Lewis left for Ferrari, Mercedes became your team. Your garage. Your fight. Toto told you that himself. He stood in his office after the announcement, one hand on the back of his chair, serious and calm, and said you were ready to lead.
You believed him.
Then came Kimi. Young. Fast. Polite. Annoyingly talented. Mercedes new wonder boy with a smile like he still asked permission before taking the last biscuit.
You like him. That is the worst part.
Kimi is impossible to hate. He brings Susie coffee when she visits. He let Jack climb into the simulator and pretend to drive. He calls you “bossy” once and then immediately apologize because your stare nearly ends his career.
He is sweet. He is also your teammate. And this year, he is winning. From the first race, everything had started going wrong for you.
You were supposed to be the title favourite. Instead, Kimi leads the championship.
You are third. Still close enough to fight. Still fast enough to scare everyone. Still angry enough to burn the whole paddock down if somebody handed you matches.
Monaco was meant to reset the story. Pole position. Your pole position.
Kimi second. Max third in the Red Bull, already furious because George had outqualified him the previous race and they were currently communicating through hostile silence, aggressive overtakes, and media quotes so fake polite they should have come with warning labels.
The lights went out. You launched perfectly.
For forty laps, you controlled everything. The car was sharp. The tyres behaved. The walls stayed exactly where you expected them. Kimi followed, close enough to pressure you, too far to touch you.
You breathed with the circuit. Turn 1. Massenet. Casino Square. Mirabeau. Hairpin. Tunnel.
Monaco loved you.
Then Stroll crashed at the Swimming Pool. The safety car came out.
Your radio exploded with voices. You drove slowly past the debris and already felt it, the cold little twist in your stomach.
“Box me,” you said.
Silence. Then your engineer: “Stand by.”
You nearly laughed. Stand by. At Monaco. Where track position was oxygen.
“Kimi is boxing,” your engineer said.
Your hands tightened on the wheel. “What?”
“Kimi boxes this lap. You stay out. We are covering—”
“Covering what?” you snapped. “A ghost?”
“Toto says stay out.”
There it was.
Toto says.
The magic phrase. The final commandment. The holy law from the pit wall.
You stayed out. Kimi pitted. Kimi came out with fresh tyres.
You waited one lap. Two. By the time they called you in, you already knew. You knew from the tone. You knew from the quiet. You knew from the way the garage stopped sounding like a racing team and started sounding like people trying very hard to avoid responsibility.
You came out behind him. In Monaco. Behind Kimi. Your teammate. Toto’s golden boy.
The restart came, and you drove like fury itself had borrowed your gloves.
You filled Kimi’s mirrors. You attacked every corner where logic said there was no space. You made space with the kind of audacity that made commentators raise their voices and engineers stop breathing.
Kimi defended cleanly. Too cleanly. Too well. Of course he did. The kid was brilliant. You hated him for five laps.
Then your engine coughed. Once.
Your stomach dropped. “No,” you said.
The dashboard lit up.
“No, no, no, no—”
The car lost power exiting the tunnel. Kimi vanished ahead. The walls closed in.
Your radio filled with instructions that meant nothing because you already knew the feeling of a dying Mercedes.
You coasted toward the Nouvelle Chicane, steering heavy, pulse roaring louder than the crowd.
“Engine is gone,” you said, voice flat.
“We are checking.”
“Check faster. I’m parked.”
You stopped the car. Five laps from the end. Again.
The marshals moved toward you. You sat still for one second longer than necessary, gloved hands resting on the wheel.
There was no screaming, no dramatic gesture. The rage was too big for that. It settled inside you like something ancient.
Then you climbed out. You did not wave. You did not look at the cameras. You did not touch the barrier with some tragic little farewell gesture for the Netflix edit.
You walked. Helmet still on. Visor down. Because if the world wanted a woman in Formula 1 to cry, it could pay for therapy and earn the privilege.
By the time you reached the Mercedes garage, Kimi was crossing the line. The entire place erupted. Mechanics shouted. Engineers hugged. Someone cried.
You stood at the back, helmet in one hand, sweat cooling under your fireproofs, and watched your teammate win the Monaco Grand Prix.
The Monaco Grand Prix. The one race every driver wanted to win.
And then you looked up at the screen. Toto was going to the podium. For him. For Kimi.
Your whole body went cold.
Toto hated podium theatrics. He avoided them whenever he could. He always sent someone else. Technical director. Sponsor. Board member. A smiling Mercedes person with good hair and no emotional complications.
You had won six races for this team. Six. Toto had never stood on the podium with you.
Kimi won Monaco, and Toto walked up there.
The cameras loved it. Of course they did. Toto Wolff, tall and proud, standing beside the teenage Mercedes winner while the anthem played. Kimi soaked in champagne, laughing like he had just been handed the moon. Toto clapped him on the back, smiled at him, pulled him into a hug.
A real hug. Warm. Proud. Fatherly. The kind Toto gave you in private corridors after hard races. The kind he never gave you where the world could see.
Your hands curled around your helmet. Someone said your name carefully. You did not answer.
On screen, Kimi sprayed champagne over Toto’s shoulder.
Toto laughed. You felt something inside you tear.
Then Toto looked down from the podium. For one tiny second, through the camera angle, it almost seemed like he was looking toward the Mercedes garage. Toward you.
You turned away first.
He finds you twenty minutes later. Toto has always known where to find you. Empty corridors. Quiet corners. Garages after everyone else leaves. Places where you can breathe without cameras licking at your wounds.
This time you are in his office.
You are standing by the table, still in your race suit, half unzipped, hair damp with sweat, helmet on the chair beside you.
You should be in debrief. You should be in media. You should be congratulating Kimi with the grace of a mature professional athlete.
Instead, you are staring at the wall and imagining how satisfying it would feel to throw Toto’s laptop into the harbour.
The door opens.
He steps inside. Still wet from champagne. His black Mercedes shirt clings slightly to his shoulders. His hair is damp. There are golden drops on his collar. He smells like victory.
Kimi’s victory.
You smile before he speaks. It is not a nice smile.
“Congratulations,” you say.
Toto closes the door behind him. The click sounds too final.
He looks tired. Careful. Angry too, somewhere under the control.
“You left the garage.”
“I had a dead car and a living temper. Seemed safer.”
“You missed the team celebration.”
You laugh once, sharp and joyless. “Celebration? I had nothing to celebrate. A funeral, maybe.”
His jaw tightens. “Do not start.”
You laugh. “Oh, darling, I started around lap forty-one.”
His eyes sharpen at the word.
You use it sometimes to irritate him. Usually he rolls his eyes and tells you to behave. Today, he does not.
Today he looks at you like you are a problem with too many variables. You hate that.
“You smell like champagne,” you say.
His face shifts. A direct hit. Good.
“I came straight from the podium.”
“Yes. I saw.”
Silence.
You turn away and pick up a towel from the table. You twist it once between your hands.
Toto steps closer. “I know you are angry.”
The towel hits the wall before you fully realize you have thrown it. Soft and pathetic.
You stare at it in disgust. “Everything in this office is useless for violence.”
Toto exhales through his nose. “That is comforting.”
“Don’t joke with me.”
“I am trying to keep you from doing something you regret.”
You turn on him. “Too late.”
His expression hardens. “Careful.”
There it is. The boss voice. The voice sponsors obey. The voice engineers fear. The voice that once made you feel safe because it meant someone powerful was standing between you and the wolves.
Today, it only reminds you that Toto owns the door. The contracts. The seat. Maybe your future.
“No,” you say. “You don’t get to ‘careful’ me today.”
“I am still your team principal.”
“And I am still the driver you left out while you saved his race.”
His eyes flash. “That is not what happened.”
“Funny. Because I watched it happen from inside the car.”
“The safety car created a split-second decision.”
“And you chose Kimi.”
“We covered the highest probability outcome.”
“You covered him.”
Toto’s face goes still.
You step closer. The anger is clean now. Sharp enough to cut your own hands open.
“Say it,” you demand.
“Say what?”
“That the team is shifting.”
His brows draw together. “This is not a conversation to have while you are emotional.”
You laugh. “Oh, there it is. The classic. The woman is emotional. Somebody bring a blanket and a sedative.”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
You hate that he says it like a fact. Because he knows you. Too well. He knows when you are performing. He knows when you are hurt. He knows when your rage is a shield, and your pride is bleeding behind it.
That used to matter. That used to make him feel like home.
Toto’s voice lowers. “I have defended you from that kind of talk for years.”
You flinch. Tiny. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
“You have,” you say.
The words come out quieter.
And that is the problem. Toto has defended you. When reporters asked if you were too aggressive. When sponsors wanted you softer. When a former driver said women lacked the instinct for Formula 1 and Toto nearly dismantled him on live television with a smile.
Susie supported you too. Always. She hugged you after your first podium, gave you advice before your first rookie season, sent you messages after bad qualifying sessions, and let Jack run into your arms every race weekend like you were his favourite chaos aunt.
Jack loved you. You loved him too.
You loved that family in dangerous little ways.
Maybe that was your first mistake. You thought being loved by people near Mercedes meant Mercedes could love you back.
Toto moves closer. “Look at me.”
You do. Bad decision.
His brown eyes are tired, still warm despite everything. His face has champagne drying on it. There is a small sticky mark near his jaw, and some absurd part of your brain remembers Jack once getting ice cream on Toto’s shirt and Toto pretending to be furious while letting the boy climb into his lap.
Your chest hurts.
“I know today was bad,” he says.
You stare at him. “Bad?”
His mouth tightens.
“Bad is missing a braking point,” you say. “Bad is a slow pit stop. Bad is a puncture. This was Monaco, Toto. I was leading Monaco.”
“I know.”
“I was leading, and you gave Kimi the pit priority.”
“It was the call.”
“It was his call.”
“It was the team’s call.”
“You are the team.”
The words land between you. Toto does not answer quickly enough.
You smile, bitter and bright. “At least the silence is honest.”
His eyes narrow. “Do not confuse silence with guilt.”
“Then explain it.”
“We had to protect against Lewis.”
You laugh so sharply it almost hurts. “Lewis? Lewis was stuck behind us with a car that looked like it wanted to retire itself out of shame.”
“Track position mattered.”
“Yes, and you gave it to Kimi.”
Toto’s voice hardens. “He won.”
You freeze. For one second, even he seems to regret saying it. Too late. The words go through you like a knife.
He won.
Simple. Brutal. The only thing Formula 1 really respects.
You nod once. “Right.”
Toto says your name.
You lift a hand. “No. I understand.”
“You are twisting this.”
“No, I am finally hearing you clearly.”
He takes another step. “You are one of the strongest drivers I have ever worked with.”
“One of,” you repeat.
His jaw tightens. “Stop doing that.”
“I used to be the driver here.”
“You still are.”
“No.” You shake your head. “I am the difficult one. The stubborn one. The one who rides bikes too fast and tells sponsors their questions are stupid when they are stupid.”
“They often are.”
“Do not make me laugh. I am trying to hate you.”
His face softens for half a second. That makes it worse.
You turn away.
“I was supposed to fight for the title this year,” you say. “That was the plan. That was what you told me.”
“And you still can.”
“Kimi is leading the championship.”
“There are many races left.”
“I am third because this car keeps breaking, the pit wall keeps gambling with my race, and I keep driving like I have something to prove because every single weekend I do.”
Toto’s voice lowers. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
You spin back around. “Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“Yes, Toto!” Your voice cracks. “Every single day. Because Kimi walks into this team and gets treated like the future. I walk in and get told to control my temper.”
“You threw a towel at the wall.”
“I wanted to throw your laptop.”
“That would have been expensive.”
“I am expensive.”
For one insane second, his mouth almost twitches. Then your face changes, and the almost-smile disappears.
“You stood on the podium with him.”
The room goes quiet. Toto looks at you.
You hate yourself immediately. That was too honest. Too small. Too wounded.
He takes a breath. “Is that what this is about?”
Your eyes burn. “No,” you lie.
He says your name again, softer this time.
You hate that too.
“You have never stood there with me,” you say. “Six wins. Not once.”
His expression shifts. There is something like pain there.
Good. Let him have some.
“I didn’t know that mattered to you,” he says.
You laugh, but it comes out broken.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I should have.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
He looks at the champagne on his sleeve like he has only now remembered it is there.
“You are important to this team,” he says.
You look at him. “Don’t.”
“It is true.”
“Don’t give me the family speech.”
His eyes hold yours. “Mercedes is your home.”
There it is. Your chest closes around it. Home.
Again.
You step back as though the word touched you.
“My home put him on fresh tyres and left me out to die.”
His face hardens. “Enough.”
“No, Toto. It isn’t enough. It hasn’t been enough all season. Every time something goes wrong, I am told to be patient. Every time Kimi wins, I am told to be happy for the team. Every time I ask what the hell is happening with my side of the garage, I get numbers and excuses.”
“You think I would push you out?”
The question is quiet. Too quiet.
You stare at him. And the truth is awful. Because you do not know.
A year ago, you would have laughed in his face. Toto? Push you out? The same Toto who threatened to lock your motorbike away? The same Toto who let Jack put stickers on your helmet? The same Toto who once stayed in the medical centre with you after a crash until Susie arrived with coffee and a look that said both of you were idiots?
That Toto protected you.
This Toto just held Kimi on a Monaco podium.
“I think,” you say slowly, “you are capable of anything if you believe it will make Mercedes win.”
His face goes still.
There.
You both know it. You have said the one thing he cannot deny.
Toto Wolff loves people. He protects them. He remembers birthdays, notices exhaustion, sends doctors, blocks journalists, and looks at Jack like the world begins and ends with his son’s laugh.
He is also ruthless.
Mercedes first.
Always.
Even love must wait outside the strategy room.
“I need drivers who deliver,” he says.
Quiet. Controlled. Professional.
You feel the sentence wrap around your throat.
“I was delivering before the engine died.”
“I know.”
“Before your strategy put me behind him.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you need from me?”
He does not answer.
That silence is the loudest thing in Monaco.
You nod. “Right.”
You grab your helmet.
Toto moves toward the door, blocking it without meaning to. Or perhaps meaning to. With him, the difference is often paperwork.
“We are not finished.”
“Yes, we are.”
“You will attend the debrief.”
“I will attend because my contract says I have to.”
His eyes sharpen. “Do not speak to me like I am your enemy.”
You look up at him. You wish he had shouted. It would have been easier.
“I don’t know what you are anymore.”
His face changes. For one second, Toto looks genuinely hurt.
You open the door and walk out before that hurt can become yours too.
You do the debrief. Barely.
You sit there with your hair still damp from a rushed shower, face clean, expression deadly calm. Kimi keeps glancing at you from across the room like a puppy standing beside a broken vase.
He is sweet enough to look guilty. That almost makes you angrier.
He did nothing wrong. He drove well. He won Monaco.
You should congratulate him. You do, eventually. After the data. After the technical excuses. After Toto speaks in that measured tone and everyone pretends this room does not smell like burned trust.
You walk up to Kimi near the door.
He straightens. “I’m sorry,” he says before you can speak.
Your anger slips for half a second.
“Don’t be stupid.”
His eyes widen.
You sigh. “You drove well.”
“I know the strategy—”
“You drove well,” you repeat. “Take the win.”
He looks at you, uncertain.
You force a smile. It costs you something.
“And stop looking like I kicked your dog.”
He smiles faintly. “I don’t have a dog.”
“Then stop looking like I kicked George. Same energy.”
That gets a real laugh from him. Small. Nervous.
You squeeze his shoulder once. Then you leave before you start crying in front of the boy everyone thinks will replace you.
Media is worse. The questions come dressed as sympathy.
“Difficult day for you.”
“How frustrating was it to see Kimi win after the strategy split?”
“Do you feel the team could have done more?”
“Is Kimi now the number one contender for Mercedes?”
That one makes your PR officer’s soul leave her body.
You smile.
It feels sharp enough to draw blood.
“Kimi drove a strong race,” you say. “I had a car issue. The team will investigate. Monaco is cruel. That’s racing.”
That’s racing.
The most useless sentence in the world. It means everything and explains nothing.
By the time you reach your driver room, your phone is already full.
Susie texts first.
Susie: I know today hurt. Call me when you can. Jack says you are still his favourite and Kimi only won because your car “went sleepy.”
That breaks something in you.
You sit on the floor with your back against the sofa and press the phone to your chest.
Jack. Sweet, loyal Jack.
You can picture him perfectly, little serious face, convinced Mercedes cars have personalities and yours simply needed a nap.
You laugh once. Then you cry. Quietly. Angrily. For exactly two minutes.
Then you wipe your face, stand up, and text Max.
You: Where are you?
His reply comes fast.
Max: My apartment. You coming?
You stare at the screen.
You should say no. You should sleep. You should apologize to Toto. You should take the mature route, which sounds horrible and involves herbal tea.
Instead, you grab your bag.
You: Lock the door.
Max opens before you knock twice.
His Red Bull shirt is wrinkled. His hair is messy. His face has the same dark post-race fury you feel in your bones.
His race had been bad too. In fact, his race barely even started. The engine died right at the start, and that was his race over. George on the other side of the garage pretending not to enjoy his misery, which meant absolutely enjoying it.
Max looks at you once. “Monaco loves drama.”
You push inside. “Monaco can choke.”
He shuts the door. You throw your bag down.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he says, “You watched the podium.”
You look at him. That is all it takes.
Max crosses the room and kisses you hard. No careful hello. No sympathy. No soft little question about whether you are okay.
Good.
You are not okay. You want heat, not pity.
You shove him back against the wall, fingers in his hair, mouth fierce on his. He gives you three seconds of control because he is generous in the way predators are generous.
Then he turns you, pins you there, and kisses you like he has been waiting to ruin your composure all day.
“Angry?” he asks against your mouth.
You laugh, breathless. “Inspired.”
His eyes darken. “Dangerous.”
“You like dangerous.”
“I like winning.”
“Rough day for you too, then.”
He bites your lower lip lightly. You gasp. He smiles. “Careful.”
You drag your nails down his chest. “You first.”
That is the thing about Max. He never treats your anger like a problem to solve. He treats it like fuel.
His hands are firm on your waist. Yours are impatient at his belt. Clothes become obstacles, and both of you have always hated obstacles. His shirt goes first. Your hoodie follows. You kiss him like a fight. He holds you like he knows exactly how much pressure your body needs before your thoughts finally shut up.
The room turns into heat. Breath. Skin. Hands pulling, gripping, demanding.
Max moves with that same brutal confidence he has in a car, direct and relentless, except here you can answer back. You do. With nails, teeth, sharp little orders against his mouth. He laughs once, low and rough, then makes you forget the sentence you were trying to throw at him.
You hate how well he knows you.
You love it too.
He knows when to slow down until you swear at him. He knows when to push until your head falls back.
He knows how to hold your wrists and make you look at him when you try to disappear into your own anger.
“There,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Stay here.”
You want to mock him. You want to say something cutting.
Instead, your breath breaks. Because for a few minutes, there is no Mercedes. No podium. No Kimi. No Toto wet with champagne, looking at you like he wants to protect you and replace you in the same breath.
There is only Max. His mouth. His hands. His weight. The heat of him dragging you out of your head and back into your body.
Afterward, you lie tangled in the wreckage of the bed, breathing hard.
Your hoodie is on the floor. Max’s watch is under a chair. One of the pillows has given up and fallen sideways like it also had a difficult Grand Prix.
You stare at the ceiling. Max lies beside you, one hand moving slowly along your stomach.
For a while, the silence is almost kind. Then he says, “They fucked you.”
You close your eyes. “How romantic.”
“I am serious.”
“I know.”
“They chose Kimi.”
You swallow.
The sentence hurts more because Max says it with no pleasure. No rivalry. No paddock politics. Just truth.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His hand keeps moving.
“I hate that I like him,” you say.
“Kimi?”
“Yes.”
“He is hard to hate.”
“He apologizes when I insult him. It is extremely inconvenient.”
Max huffs a small laugh.
You turn onto your side, facing him. He looks tired now. Still sharp, still Max, but without the armour he wears in the paddock.
Your secret with him began as a mistake. A post-race drink. A bad mood. A kiss that should have stopped. A night that should have stayed singular.
Then it became easier to go to him after races than to go back to your room and stare at the ceiling. Max never asked you to be softer. He never asked you to explain your ambition in a way that sounded less threatening. He never told you to smile.
That alone was almost love language. Almost.
You study his face. “Be honest with me.”
His hand stops. He already knows the question. You hate that.
“Has Toto spoken to you?”
Max looks away. Your stomach drops.
You sit up. “Max.”
He exhales. “Yes.”
The room goes cold.
“About Mercedes.”
“Yes.”
You grip the sheet in your fist. “When?”
“Earlier this year.”
“How serious?”
He sits up too, running a hand through his hair. “Preliminary at first.”
Your laugh is sharp and empty. “At first.”
His mouth tightens.
You stare at him. “How serious now?”
“There is a framework.”
“A framework,” you repeat.
The words taste expensive.
“A multi-year offer,” he says.
You stand so fast the sheet slips from your lap.
Max does not look away, because Max has never pretended you are something delicate.
“How generous?”
His silence answers.
You nod, slow and furious. “Of course.”
“It is not signed.”
“Oh, thank God. My career is only being measured for the coffin.”
He gets up. “That is not what I said.”
“No, you said framework. Multi-year. Generous.”
“I should not have told you.”
“Then why did you?”
He looks at you. The room quiets.
“Because you asked.”
Simple. Too simple.
Your throat tightens. You grab your shirt from the floor and pull it on with shaking hands.
“Toto told me today Mercedes was my home.”
Max’s jaw tightens.
“He stood there,” you continue, voice rising, “still smelling like Kimi’s champagne, and told me I belonged. He looked me in the eye and said I was important to the team.”
“You are.”
“Am I?” You laugh. “Because it sounds like he is shopping for my replacement.”
“It could be Kimi.”
You stop. Then you laugh properly. Ugly. Disbelieving.
“Please. Kimi?”
Max says nothing.
“Toto’s miracle child? The boy he just hugged on the Monaco podium like proud papa Wolff presenting the future of motorsport, like Simba being presented to the kingdom?”
Max winces slightly.
You point at him. “Exactly.”
“He is leading the championship.”
“Yes. Thank you for the emotional support.”
“I am saying Mercedes could build around him and still keep you.”
“And bring you in where? As team mascot?”
Max’s eyes sharpen. “You know what I mean.”
You do. That is the problem. Mercedes has two seats. Kimi is winning. Max is Max.
And you are the woman who was supposed to win the title this year and instead keeps losing races to bad luck, team calls, reliability, and the teenage teammate everyone wants to crown.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. The anger drains fast. Too fast. It leaves something worse behind. Fear.
You hate fear. It makes you feel nineteen again. Too young, too watched, too aware that every mistake you make becomes proof for men who never wanted you on the grid at all.
Your tattoos. Your bikes. Your sharp mouth. Your refusal to be grateful for scraps.
They loved calling you difficult.
Toto used to call you extraordinary. Maybe extraordinary had an expiry date.
Max crouches in front of you. “Any team would take you.”
You look at him. “Do not do that.”
“What?”
“Say comforting bullshit because we just had sex.”
His mouth curves faintly. “I am not comforting.”
“True. You have the emotional range of a tyre blanket.”
“And you are still one of the best drivers on the grid.”
You look away. “One of.”
Max’s hand touches your knee. “You are scared.”
You glare at him. “I am calculating.”
“You are scared.”
“Say that again and I’ll throw your watch out the window.”
“It is already under the chair.”
Despite yourself, a broken little laugh leaves you.
Then your eyes fill again. You turn your face away quickly.
Max sees. He stands and pulls you into him.
You resist for half a heartbeat, because resistance is your native language. Then you fold against his chest.
His arms close around you. No big speech. No useless promise. Just Max, warm and steady, one hand at the back of your head.
“I was meant to fight for it,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“This was supposed to be my year.”
“I know.”
“I worked for this. I stayed when Lewis left. I trusted Toto.”
Max says nothing.
You close your eyes. That is what hurts most.
You trusted Toto. With your career. With your anger. With the ugly parts of being the only woman on the grid. With the soft parts too.
You let him become family.
Susie. Jack. The Mercedes garage. The mechanics who knew your coffee order. Toto’s hand on your shoulder after bad sessions. The way he said your name when he wanted you to stop pretending.
And all along, maybe he was already planning the future without you.
Maybe that is Formula 1. Maybe family is only a word people use until the data says otherwise.
Your phone buzzes. You freeze.
Max’s arms loosen.
You already know. You pick up the phone from the floor.
Toto.
Toto: We need to speak again.
Toto: Properly this time.
You stare at the screen. Another message appears.
Toto: I know today I hurt you. I should have understood sooner.
Your chest aches. For one second, you want to believe him. That is the most humiliating part. You want Toto to explain it. To say Max misunderstood. To say the offer means nothing. To say your seat is safe, your place is safe, your home is safe.
You want him to be the man who protected you.
You are terrified he is only the man who will fire you gently.
Max watches your face. “You going to him?” he asks.
You lock the phone. “No.”
His brows lift slightly.
You wipe your face with the heel of your hand.
“I cannot hear him call Mercedes my family tonight.”
Max stands quietly beside you.
You sit back down on the bed, phone in your hand, staring at nothing.
For the first time all day, you are completely still. No rage. No shouting. No throwing towels at walls.
Just the awful weight of understanding.
Toto may care about you. He may even love you in his careful, protective, almost-fatherly way. He may worry when you ride too fast, smile when Jack runs to you, defend you when the paddock gets cruel, and look at you like he sees the fire under your skin.
And still, if Mercedes needs Max Verstappen, if Kimi keeps winning, if the board wants the future wrapped in a cleaner story, Toto will sit across from you in some glass office and tell you it is business.
He will say he is sorry. He will mean it. Then he will take your seat anyway.
That is what breaks you. Not Kimi’s win. Not the dead engine. Not the champagne. The realization that Toto can care and still choose against you.
Your phone buzzes again. You do not look.
Max sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder touches yours.
Outside, Monaco celebrates Kimi’s victory. The harbour glows. Champagne flows. Cameras flash. Somewhere, Toto Wolff waits for an answer.
You breathe in. Slow. Shaking. Then you place the phone face down on the bed.
“I need to win again,” you say.
Max looks at you.
Your voice is quiet now. That makes it colder. “I need to win so hard he regrets even thinking about it.”
Max’s mouth tightens. “He already will.”
You stare at the wall. “No,” you whisper. “He won’t.”
Because Toto Wolff does not regret decisions that make Mercedes stronger. He only regrets the people they hurt.
And tonight, finally, you understand the difference.
You sit there until your tears stop. Then you stand, pull on your jeans, find your hoodie, and pick your Mercedes cap up from the floor.
For a moment, you look at the silver star on it. Home. Family. Seat. Weapon.
You put it on.
Max watches you from the bed. “Where are you going?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder. “To sleep.”
He gives you a look.
You almost smile. “To try,” you correct.
At the door, you pause. Your hand rests on the handle. You do not turn around when you speak.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Max is quiet for a second. “You deserved the truth.”
You close your eyes. That sentence hurts too. Because somewhere in another apartment, the man you once trusted most is still asking to explain.
And maybe he has reasons. Maybe he has guilt. Maybe he has a version of the truth wrapped in careful words and strategy documents.
But tonight, you do not need Toto’s reasons. You need the pain to stay sharp. Sharp enough to drive with. Sharp enough to survive with. Sharp enough to remember that Formula 1 has never given you anything because you were loved.
You had to take every inch. Every corner. Every win. Every breath.
So if Toto wants to replace you, he will have to look you in the eye while you make it the hardest decision of his life.
You open the door. Monaco waits outside, bright and cruel. You walk into it with your head high. And for the first time this season, you stop wondering whether Mercedes still wants you.
Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings Mentioning of ill family member
A/N Writing about Lewis Hamilton makes me feel like this needs a more mature touch to it, it feels very different from writing about Lando and Yuki, the vibe is different, but I hope you'll like it!
It started quietly, just a few missed calls from your sister back home during a double-header weekend. You ignored them, thinking it could wait. But the messages that followed made your stomach drop.
Your father had collapsed. A small stroke, they said. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to need rehab, constant monitoring, and someone to manage the house. Someone to keep things from falling apart.
You didn’t tell anyone at first. You buried it, the way you were trained to. Numbers, strategy, race prep, those were things you could control. But your thoughts started slipping during sessions. You missed small details. And people noticed. Lewis noticed most of all.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said one night after a strategy meeting. The paddock had gone dark, just the distant hum of generators and the click of his boots keeping time with your silence.
You tried to lie. “Just tired.”
He gave you a look, patient, but pointed. “That’s not all.”
And maybe that was the moment you should have told him everything. About your dad. About how the team was starting to question your focus. About how the whispers around the paddock were growing louder, that you and Lewis were too close. That if you got offered a real contract, it would be because of him.
Instead, you deflected. “We shouldn’t keep doing this.”
He blinked. “Doing what?”
“Whatever this is.” You gestured between you. “The long looks. The late talks. It’s confusing, and people are talking.”
His voice was calm, but strained. “Let them talk.”
“I can’t afford to let them. Not when I’ve worked this hard and slipping a bit.”
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t him. But it was real.
Right after the race weekend, you formally requested the leave. You told HR there was a family health issue. They nodded without hesitation but disappointed about not able to keep you after the internship. You came back after the week and finished up the two races left, finished up your internship, and you left Mercedes. Your badge clicked against the lanyard as you handed it over to the receptionist at Mercedes HQ. No dramatic moment. No ceremony. Just a quiet return of your access pass and the weight that came with it. You had packed up the shared workstation the night before, long after everyone else had gone home. No one noticed. You liked it that way.
You didn’t talk much to Lewis since the conversation, you knew you were leaving F1 for now, for your family. You told yourself it was temporary, that you’d come back, that F1 would wait.
You didn’t say goodbye to Lewis in person. You couldn’t. You left a note in his driver's room.
“You were the part of this I’ll miss most.”
He never got to reply. The number he had was your work phone number. And that was how it ended. Not with a crash. Just a quiet exit from a world you thought would be yours forever.
You kept telling yourself that it was better this way. Cleaner. Simpler. The professional thing to do.
But as the cab pulled out of Brackley and the silver crest of the team logo disappeared in the rearview mirror, your chest tightened. Not from regret, but from the ache of something unfinished. Something you didn’t allow to become real.
Albert Park always buzzed a little differently. New season, fresh paint, unfamiliar lineups. Everything looked sharper under the Australian sun, especially the Ferrari red. Lewis adjusted the collar of his new fireproofs as he stepped into the paddock, a place that had seen his rise, his heartbreak, and his reinvention.
The cameras flashed. People waved. Fans were loud.
But his focus drifted as he walked, eyes scanning out of habit rather than need. Until he saw a flicker of orange that crossed his line of sight.
McLaren.
He almost didn’t think twice. Plenty of new hires. New faces. But something about the way one particular person moved, decisive, unbothered by the buzz, cut through the noise. Then she turned.
And for a split second, time folded in on itself.
It was you.
The sun caught your face just right, same eyes, steadier now. A little older, a little tougher around the edges. Clipboard in hand, headset around your neck, you laughed at something a mechanic said, eyes squinting in the light. You hadn't seen him yet.
Five years.
He thought he might’ve imagined you all this time. A ghost from Brackley. A mistake he never chased. But now you were here. In the paddock. Wearing McLaren orange like you’d never been gone. And God, you looked like you belonged. Lewis froze, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something harder to name.
You turned again, finally locking eyes with him. A beat. Then another.
And then, the smallest shift in your expression, recognition, hesitation, maybe even surprise. Of course, you expected him to be here. You watched him all this time, fighting his own battles, winning, losing, everything.
You didn’t smile. Neither did he. But you didn’t look away.
He took a step forward. Then another. But something stopped him.
It wasn’t fear. Lewis Hamilton wasn’t afraid of much, not speed, not people, not the press.
It was the silence between you. The five years he never reached out. He could have easily found your contact through HR, but the way you left without a word. The question of whether you wanted to be found at all.
His hand clenched slightly around his helmet.
Someone called you for something, and you smiled at them. He watched as you disappeared into the McLaren garage.
The sun in Susuka hadn’t fully risen yet. Just that faint pre-dawn glow stretching across, casting soft blues and orange hues across the empty circuit. The grandstands were empty, the air crisp, the scent of dew still clinging to the asphalt.
You liked track walks like this, early, silent, yours.
Clipboard in hand, headset slung around your neck, you traced the racing line with quiet focus, murmuring notes into your phone. ‘Tyre wear at Turn 6, surface grip better than last year.’ Small things. Safe things.
Then, ahead, on the edge of Turn 7, you saw another figure, Lewis.
Walking slowly. Alone. No engineer, no entourage. Just his trainers and a cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were in his pockets. His gaze was on the track, but something in him was already aware.
You froze for a moment. Thought about turning around. Pretending you forgot something. Giving him the same silence you gave him five years ago.
But you didn’t move. And he looked up.
A beat passed. Two.
Then Lewis slowed to a stop and gave you a faint nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
His voice was exactly the same, low, calm, steady. But you heard the edge. Not angry. Not cold. Just… measured.
You walked a little closer. “Early walks help me think,” you said simply. “Old habit.”
He gave a soft, humourless laugh, barely audible. “Yeah. I remember.”
Silence again. Not awkward. But heavy. Like the track between you wasn’t asphalt, but everything unsaid.
He shifted his weight. “So… McLaren, huh?”
You smiled a little. “The opportunity presented itself. I took it.”
“You didn’t take mine.”
That stopped you. You looked at him fully for the first time. The same eyes. A little more tired around the edges, but still warm, still searching.
“I had to go,” you said softly.
“I didn’t even get a goodbye.”
You inhaled. “I know.” Another long pause.
Wind rustled through the nearby trees. The world was waking up, but here, on this part of the track, it still felt like night. Like the moment hadn’t caught up to reality yet.
“You look good in red,” you said gently.
He gave you a small smile. “You always said I could pull off anything.”
You turned away slightly, biting the inside of your cheek. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”
“I remember a lot of things.”
And there it was. The air shifted. You felt it in your chest. Like gravity had moved, like something was pulling again. But before you could say anything else, your comms buzzed faintly.
“Duty calls,” you said.
“Right,” Lewis nodded. “Me too.”
You hesitated, then started walking. Not toward him, just past. And he stood still for a second, letting you go.
But just as you reached the next turn, he called out, “Hey.”
You stopped.
“When this weekend’s over... would you stay a little longer?”
You met his eyes across the track.
“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Lewis.”
You left the words there on the track, turn 7, and you left Lewis there.
Miami was alive. The crowd roared through every corner as strategies unfolded like high-stakes chess. Two cars danced toward Turn 11, papaya and scarlet locked in battle.
McLaren had gone aggressive. You were making the call.
“Lando, Mode 7. Brake later into Turn 13. Lewis is struggling on exits, we’ve got him.”
Your voice was calm in the headset, but your chest was tight. You watched the telemetry pulse on your screen, heard the engine notes change as Lando responded instantly.
And in car #44, the comms crackled in Lewis’ ears.
The comms crackled in his ears. “Box opposite Norris if needed, he’s getting push from strategy.”
“Copy. What’s his delta?”
“His engineer told him you’re struggling on exits.”
Lewis didn’t reply.
In the Ferrari garage, eyes were darting across monitors. The battle was on. You weren’t watching them, you were watching the margins. The data. The win.
On the next straight, Lando pulled closer. DRS open. A clean dive. Lewis held the outside, then gave just enough room. You could feel the electricity crackle through the radio.
And when Lando overtook, Lewis didn’t fight back. Not really. Not like he could’ve.
Not when the voice pushing Lando forward was the same one that used to steady him.
Lando finished P2. Lewis P5.
There were cheers in the McLaren garage. Champagne mist. Back pats. You stood at the back, smiling, clipboard in hand, heart thudding beneath it.
And across the media zone, Lewis was watching you again. Not like before. Not like someone surprised. This time, it was like he finally saw you for what you were now: rival, equal, stranger.
He didn’t approach. But as he walked past, you heard his voice low near his press officer, almost under his breath.
“She always knew how to win a race.”
You weren’t sure if it was admiration or accusation. Maybe both.
Later, you were leaning over your laptop, fingers flying as you compiled data summaries from the race. Around you, the engineering team buzzed with quiet adrenaline, half celebration, half analysis. The clink of bottles, the low murmur of strategy breakdowns.
Lando flopped into the chair next to you, still in his race suit, hair a little damp, cheeks flushed from the podium high.
“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice light.
You didn’t look up. “What what was about?”
“That call on Lap 38. The one where you went for Lewis’ throat like it was personal.”
You paused. Then glanced at him. “I was just doing my job.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah. But that tone?”
You sighed, leaned back in your chair. “He was slowing you down. You had the better tyres, the better line. I knew we could take him. And since when are you a vocologist ?”
Lando didn’t let it go. “Whatever that is, I don't need to be one. I saw how he looked at you after the race, like he wanted to either congratulate you or burn down the motorhome.”
You said nothing. Lando waited a beat. Then tried again, quieter this time.
“You knew each other, didn’t you?”
You exhaled. “A long time ago. When I was still… just starting.”
He nodded slowly. “And now?”
You looked out the window for a moment, where the sun was starting to dip behind the stands.
“Now,” you said carefully, “we’re just on different teams.”
Lando studied you for a second, then grinned faintly. “Right. Sure. Just different teams.”
You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
Lando put both of his hands up. “I’m just saying, if I ever see an unlabelled bottle of wine in the garage, I’m not assuming it’s from Ferrari.”
You laughed, finally. A small one, but real.
And Lando, still smirking, leaned back and added, “But… thanks. For the call. Even if it came with something that’s probably more than that.”
You smiled at your screen. “Anytime, Norris. And it’s not that deep.”
The air outside the Monaco media pen still buzzed with race-day tension. Reporters huddled behind barriers, mic lights flashing, voices clashing in a dozen languages. You stood with the McLaren crew, headset still around your neck, scanning your phone for post-race notes.
And then you heard Lewis.
His voice cut through the noise, sharp. “Unnecessary. It was completely unnecessary.”
You looked up. He was mid-interview with Sky. Red Ferrari shirt, sweat still clinging to his brow. And though he was looking at the camera, you knew those words were aimed at you.
“We had the pace. We were managing fine. That push from Norris felt like a strategic overreaction. Very unnecessary call from someone who clearly wanted to prove a point more than win a clean race.”
The journalist blinked. “Are you saying McLaren’s strategy was... personal?”
Lewis smiled, tight, unreadable. “You’d have to ask their pit wall. I’m sure someone over there has a lot to get off their chest.”
You froze. And so did the entire McLaren crew.
It was the first time he’d said anything like that out loud. Publicly. Later, as the interviews ended and drivers dispersed, you were in the corridor near the hospitality units when you heard his voice again.
This time, it was direct.
“You didn’t need to make that call.”
You turned. Lewis stood there, jaw tense, voice low, but not soft.
“But I did, I had to” You said simply.
“You know you didn’t. That was me out there. You knew I was managing tyres. You knew pushing Lando would force me to defend and burn more grip.”
“And you think I should’ve held him back? For you?” you snapped.
“I think you knew exactly what you were doing,” he shot back. “And I think you wanted to remind me who you are now.”
You took a step closer, careful to keep your voice down even if your pulse was screaming.
“I made a race call. That’s my job. I’m not in your garage anymore, Lewis. You don’t get to accuse me of playing games just because you don’t like how things are going.”
He shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Five years ago, you left without a word but just a note. Now you're back, and the first thing you do is use your strategy board to send a message?”
You stared at him, feeling like being caught on the spot.
“Message received,” he added coldly, before walking off.
You stood there, stunned. The hallway felt colder somehow. Like the high from Lando’s podium had already burned off. For a second, you wanted to chase after him. Explain. But you didn’t.
Because maybe, just maybe, he was right. Or maybe he was just angry that he finally had to race someone who knew him too well.
The energy from the race had long faded. Most of the garage had cleared out, laughter and celebration trickling elsewhere. But Lewis lingered behind Ferrari’s unit, restlessness keeping him pacing near the service corridor.
That’s when he saw Lando, still in half his race gear, holding a water bottle, standing in the soft orange glow of the McLaren side.
They made brief eye contact. It wasn’t as friendly as it used to be.
“Got a minute?” Lando asked.
Lewis didn’t answer. Just nodded once.
Lando stepped in closer. “I heard what you said. To the press.”
Lewis looked away. “Yeah. Well, I meant it.”
“Even after everything?” Lando asked sharply. “I heard that you’ve worked closely together, and you still think she’s calling shots like that because she wants to?”
“She made the call,” Lewis replied, jaw tense. “That’s all I know. Plus, it’s been a long time, I don’t think she's the same person I used to know now.”
“Well then, you need to look further.” Lando folded his arms. “She’s been getting it hard from the upper management for months. They listen to her when it’s convenient. Ignore her when it’s not. And today? That push? It wasn’t her plan, it was theirs. She’s the engineer. She had to wear that hat.”
Lewis blinked. Something shifted in his expression.
“And another thing,” Lando added. “Something’s clearly bothering her recently. She apparently signed almost two weeks to go home for family business, we’re moving all calls online. And McLaren doesn’t sign that amount of day offs easily.”
Silence.
“I don’t know what it is, but it seems serious, just don’t push too hard on her, I know she’s good and I know there’s something with you two, just… take it easy on her. I need my engineer in good shape.”
He left Lewis standing there, a tangle of guilt and realisation tightening in his chest.
Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings Mentioning of ill family member
A/N Bit longer than the usuals. A lottt of conversation in this one, and I personally love writing these conversations! Hope you enjoy it!! BTW I really appreciated the comments! keep them coming, it really motivates me a lot!
The glow of telemetry screens flickered across the glass walls, casting lines of green and red across your face. You sat hunched over the desk, still in uniform, still wired in, but the race had been over for hours.
The rest of the team had left, but you couldn’t. Not yet. The numbers gave you something to hold onto. Something that didn’t shift beneath your feet.
You rubbed your temple with the back of your wrist, eyes glassy but dry. Grief didn’t always look like crying. Sometimes it looked like… silence.
The door clicked quietly open behind you.
You didn’t turn. You were too tired to mask anything.
“Didn’t think you were still here,” Lewis’s voice said, low.
You looked up just slightly, your voice flat.
“These numbers…” “Don’t sleep.” He finished your phrase, one of your first conversations in Mercedes.
He stepped inside slowly, not in his usual commanding way. This was something gentler. Uncertain. He slowly sat down beside you, slightly turning the chair toward you.
“I… talked to Lando.”
You stiffened, eyes still on the screen. “Let me guess, he told you I’m not a monster.”
Lewis winced, but didn’t take the bait. “He told me you’re under pressure. That what happened out there wasn’t entirely your call.”
You let out a dry breath, almost a laugh. “Not entirely my call, no. But entirely my fault when it goes wrong.”
Silence again. You didn’t look at him, but you felt him watching you.
“You know, after I left Mercedes, I thought I’d be more sure of myself,” you said suddenly. “Like, after everything… I thought coming back would feel like closure.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“But it's just hard. And they ask for more and more, ‘make the bold call,’ ‘be decisive,’ ‘be the expert.’ And when it works, it’s their win. When it doesn’t…”
Lewis’s voice cut in quietly. “It’s your name on the report.”
You finally looked up at him.
“They like to doubt, and it’s tough when there’s no one to back you up.”
Lewis watched you, brows furrowed, he remebered how it was like when you were an intern.
“Lando said you’re taking a while off, he said it seems serious.” He hesitated.
“And Lando needs to start keeping his mouth shut.”
Lewis didn’t move, just sat there with you under the dim light room. The monitors cast a soft blue glow over your face, which you kept turned toward the data, though your eyes weren’t really reading anymore.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said softly. “But if you need to talk about it… I’m here.”
You shook your head once, sharp. “It’s nothing. Just… burnout, I guess.”
Lewis didn’t buy it, you could tell. You weren’t sure why you even tried.
“We both know you’re not like that, you loved the work and the challenge we’re having around here, or you wouldn’t have come back.”
That made you scoff. “You don’t know what kind of person I am anymore.”
He didn’t flinch. “Maybe not everything. But I know you cared. I know you still do. If you want to just gain big cash, you’ve got other places more comfortable and easier ways to it.”
Something in your chest ached, sharp and old and buried under four years of pretending you were made of steel.
You exhaled slowly, tired. “It’s been four years.”
Lewis’s head tilted, just slightly. He patiently waited for you to continue.
You paused. The words stuck in your throat, hot and unspoken. Your fingers dug into the edge of the desk. You weren’t going to cry. Not in front of him.
“You're right. I didn’t leave Mercedes because of the job,” you said, voice barely a whisper.
“My dad was sick. He… he got worse just after the internship ended.”
Lewis’s expression didn’t change, but his posture shifted, softer somehow, like he was trying to take the weight of your words onto himself.
“I didn’t know,” he said gently.
“I didn’t tell anyone.” Your voice cracked on the last word. “I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
You shrugged, but the gesture was hollow. “Because I thought if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if I stayed, I’d fail at both, this job and being there for him.”
A long silence followed. You finally looked at him.
“I missed over half a year of life just sitting in a hospital room, pretending every hour mattered more than the last. And then he was just gone... The memorial is next week.”
Lewis didn’t speak right away. He leaned gently against the desk beside you, not too close, just there.
“That’s why you' took're taking the time off, and why you briefly left before the internship ended,” he said.
You nodded, eyes fixed on a distant point, somewhere past the screen.
“Mom’s still emotionally not well. He was a big pillar in the family. I got interested in all this thanks to him. I know he'd be proud. Like this is the thing that connected us so much.” Your voice trembled a bit, remembering all the times you watched races with him, and he was thrilled that you were working at Mercedes with THE Lewis Hamilton.
“I didn’t even know how to pick myself up, I did a bit of data analysis here and there. Nothing clicked right. Ended up throwing myself back into this. I thought if I worked hard enough and things ran fast enough, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You know, he actually liked you a lot. The times that he asked me to send him a picture of you.” You slightly smiled at the thought of it.
“Should‘ve just asked me I would’ve love to say hi, seemed like an amazing father.”
“He was.” another silence, more at ease that now the truth was revealed.
“I’m sorry.” You said quietly after a while.
“What for?”
“I didn’t mean to leave without saying goodbye. Especially to you. But I didn’t know how to explain it then. It was a lot emotionally, and I just couldn’t. I couldn’t handle the goodbye. I wasn’t ready to lose anything.”
“I wish you had,” he said. “But… I get it now.”
His voice had none of the judgment you’d been bracing for. Just something warm. Heavy with understanding.
Lewis looked down, thumb tapping against his leg like he wanted to say something more, but couldn’t yet find the shape of it.
“I said something today I shouldn’t have,” he finally admitted. “I thought you’d changed.”
“I have,” you said. “Just not the way you think.”
He nodded. Quiet again.
“You look tired,” he said after a long pause.
You let out a short laugh. “That’s generous.”
A few beats passed.
“I know we’re not in the same team anymore, but if you ever need… someone to talk to. Or not talk to. Just… sit and exist next to, you know where to find me, the red is probably pretty hard to miss.”
You didn’t say thank you. You just nodded, eyes a little glassier now. That was enough.
As Lewis stood up quietly to leave, he paused at the door, then turned back.
“I still remember the girl who stood her ground and corrected Darren in front of the whole team,” he said with a small smile. “She was right back then, too.”
Then he left you to your glowing screens and your quiet thoughts, but the air didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore.
The McLaren garage buzzed as always, tools clicking, tires stacked in columns, engineers calling out updates. But when you stepped in, it was like the noise dimmed just slightly.
You arrived directly in Singapore after your day off to spend time with your family for your father’s funeral anniversary. It has been a while, but it was still mentally hard for your mom. You really took the time to make sure she was okay. You still monitored and analysed the sim data almost in real time back home, just weren’t at the HQ physically.
Lando spotted you first. “Hey. There she is.”
You offered him a small smile. “Glad to be back.”
“We survived. Barely. But we did.” he said
You gave him a mock salute. “Noted.”
You made your way to your workstation, setting your bag down. A few glances came your way, friendly but cautious. People weren’t sure how much to ask, and that was fine by you.
Your fingers brushed against your bag’s side pocket, where a folded note still sat, one you’d found tucked into a bouquet of white and pale orange roses that arrived at your hotel room three days ago.
“Thinking of him. And of you.” No name. Just the flowers and the message.
But you knew. You knew it was him. You hadn’t said anything. But the quiet gesture stayed with you like a warm hand on your back.
Then you heard the voice, low, familiar, grounding.
“Morning.”
You turned. Lewis stood just outside the garage entry, red Ferrari jacket unzipped, hands in his blue jeans pockets. His gaze met yours, steady.
“Morning,” you replied, voice quieter than intended.
A pause.
“You good?” he asked.
You nodded. “Getting there.”
You lifted the piece of note with two fingers, showing him, and whispered to him a “Thank you.”
He nodded, smiled warmly, like nothing had changed, like it was normal again. But the way his eyes lingered just half a second longer before he left? That said everything you needed to know.
The next morning, you were hunched over telemetry again, reviewing tire data with your headset on when Lando appeared at your side with a paper cup in his hand and a suspiciously smug expression.
He plopped it on your desk. “Delivery for the overachiever.”
You glanced at it. Your exact coffee order, strong, barely sweet, a bit sharp on the finish. Written in black marker on the cup:
Strong, not sweet. Like your calls, apparently.
Your heart skipped, just briefly.
Lando leaned in. “Don’t act surprised. I saw him hovering earlier. He thinks no one notices.”
You tried to hide your smile, failing miserably. “There’s no proof it’s him.”
“Sure,” Lando said, rolling his eyes. “And I don’t drive cars for a living.”
You lifted the cup, warming your hands around it. “Thanks for delivering.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m just the messenger. But hey, if a random bottle of wine shows up next race, I’m still not drinking it.”
You laughed, tension easing for the first time in days.
And later, as you passed Lewis near the media pen, you didn’t say a word. Just let your eyes meet his, and lift the cup slightly as you pass.
A flicker of a smile played on his lips. Still no words. But maybe none were needed.
The sun had dipped low behind the hills, casting long shadows over the paddock. The podium ceremony was over, the noise now fading, just a few camera crews packing up, scattered media wrapping interviews, fans starting to thin out.
You hadn’t planned to stay late, but your feet didn’t take you back to the garage. Not yet. You wandered a little too far along the edge of the hospitality area, needing the space, the silence. The chaos of race day always came with a strange comedown, and Singapore’s silence was almost haunting.
You heard the footsteps before you saw him.
Lewis.
Hair damp from the champagne, Ferrari red zipped halfway up, a medal still looped loosely around his neck. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood beside you by the low barrier, overlooking the harbour lights.
“Hell of a race,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” A pause.
He turned his body slightly toward you. “That coffee yesterday... I wasn’t sure you’d accept it.”
“I didn’t. Lando did.” You smiled faintly. “Then I did.”
He chuckled. “Figured.”
You let the quiet sit again, then finally asked, “I... also got the flowers.”
His jaw tensed just slightly, but he nodded. “Didn’t want to make it harder. Just... like I said, I want to let you know that I’m here.”
You swallowed. “He would be really glad.”
“Guess we would have got along. I hated that I was upset about you leaving without saying anything this whole time.”
“I thought I needed to be alone for that.”
He nodded, slowly. “But you didn’t have to be alone.”
You blinked, the emotion hitting sharper than expected.
“Now you don’t have to be alone” he said softly.
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He looked at you like he had more to say. Maybe a dozen things. But all he said was, “I’m glad you’re here again, even though you are not really in the colour I would’ve preferred.”
You looked up at him, you smiled a bit. “So am I.”
And in that suspended moment, with engines quiet, Singapore circuit still in the buzz of the city, it felt like five years of distance had just taken one step closer to closing.
Lando’s car rolled into the pit box smooth as ever, and you didn’t miss the half-second glance he shot toward the screen showing live feed of the Ferrari garage.
You barely looked up from your tablet. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything... yet,” Lando said, tugging off one glove with dramatic innocence. “But since we’re all not going to talk about it. Lewis went purple in sector one, and I swear I heard you grind your teeth.”
You gave him a flat look. “It’s called stress. You should try it sometime.”
He chuckled, swinging his legs off the side of the car. “Stress or unresolved romantic tension with your former... driver… whatever he was? Because that feels more likely.”
You arched a brow. “You want to give the strategy debrief today?”
“God, no,” he said. “But I do want you to admit that this little engineering chess match between you two is weirdly hot.”
You made a point of checking his tire temps instead of responding.
Then, you both heard Lewis’s radio hit the public feed.
"That McLaren call’s just a reaction. Let 'em chase."
Lando blinked. “Wow. Bold. Did he really just…” he looked at you, mouth twitching. “Okay, now he’s definitely trying to get under your skin.”
“He’s trying to win quali.”
“You say that like they’re different things.”
You muttered something under your breath and passed the tablet off to another engineer.
Lando had disappeared into the garage, leaving you at the pit wall, arms folded tight across your chest. You weren’t even pretending to look at data anymore.
Across the paddock, Lewis was doing interviews. The camera caught him in profile, calm, smooth, composed. You could practically hear the exact tone he’d use. Measured. Sharp when needed. Charismatic without trying. He was good at this. Always had been. On and off the track.
You turned away before your thoughts could wander somewhere they shouldn’t. Again. But you didn’t get far.
“Didn’t think I’d see you sulking trackside.”
You turned sharply at the voice. Lewis. Again. Out of the shadows of the McLaren hospitality canopy, like the universe was daring you to keep pretending.
You let out a breath. “I’m not sulking.”
He tilted his head. “You sure? You looked a little... dented after that radio call.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Did you come all the way over here to gloat?”
“No,” he said, too easily. “Maybe.”
You turned your body toward him slightly. “You really want to play games right now?”
His voice softened. “No. Not really.”
Silence pulsed again, not awkward, but tight. Like something coiled between you both, asking to be addressed and avoided all at once.
He stepped in just slightly, the crowd noise fading behind him. “I wasn’t trying to rattle you. Not really.”
“You did anyway.”
“I know.”
You looked at him then, fully. “Why are you doing this, Lewis?”
He hesitated, and in that crack of silence, the mask dropped just a little.
“Because it’s the only way I know how to keep you in front of me.”
That shut you up.
He exhaled, hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what we’re doing. But if pretending I’m just another car on track keeps me near whatever we were... I’ll keep pretending.”
Your chest tightened, the words hitting a place you thought you’d locked up tight five years ago. A beat.
You blinked slowly, grounding yourself before you slipped too far into him. “You didn’t have to try that hard, Lewis. I was already looking.”
His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but just then, your comms crackled to life again. Duty calling.
You stepped back. He didn’t stop you. But his voice followed just as you turned.
“When this season is over…” he said, low, “don’t leave just yet.”
You didn’t turn around.
You just let the corner of your mouth lift. “I wasn’t planning to.”
The bar was crowded, the kind of post-race energy that vibrated through glass and steel. McLaren engineers were already a few drinks in. Lando was somewhere near the dartboard, pretending he could play, and someone had put on a terrible remix.
You stayed at the edge of it all, sipping something cold and fizzy, still in your team colours. The noise buzzed behind your eyes, but you weren’t really in it. Not when you knew who else might be nearby.
And then, you felt it. That awareness. Like gravity shifted. You turned and there he was. Lewis. Red still clinging to him in the collar of his Ferrari team polo, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.
No one else noticed the moment stretch. But it did. He made his way over eventually, slow, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” he said casually, voice smooth but low. “Figured you’d vanish before midnight.”
You gave him a look. “And miss Lando trying to dance horribly like that again? Not a chance.”
He huffed a laugh, eyes softening as he glanced past you to the chaos. “Looks like your team’s celebrating hard.”
You didn’t answer that directly. Just took another sip, then nodded toward the hallway. “Too loud in here, I can't hear anything. Come on.”
The lounge was quieter, dimmer lights, fewer people, just the gentle clink of glasses and low jazz hum beneath conversation. You slid into a booth tucked in the corner. He sat across from you, for a moment, neither of you spoke.
“Lando’s protective of you,” he suddenly said, almost offhand.
You raised a brow. “He should be. I’m the reason he doesn’t pit himself into the wall.”
Lewis smirked, but there was something else in his eyes. “Still. He looks at me like I’m about to break something important.”
You looked down at your drink. “You might be.”
That made him pause. “You think I’m here to mess with you?”
You met his eyes now. Steady. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re here for, Lewis.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Maybe I don’t either. I just know that I’ve been waiting five years to be across from you again, and now that I am… I don’t really want to leave.”
The words hung there between you, electric and terrifying. You swallowed.
Before you could respond, the bartender passed, dropping off a drink you didn’t order. You looked up, confused.
“From the gentleman,” the bartender nodded toward Lewis.
You stared at the glass. He smiled, a little smug. “Didn't know if you would take it from me directly.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Still works on you, though.”
“Do you miss it?” After a pause, he asked.
You glanced at him. “What?”
“Being on the same side.”
You took a slow breath, eyes on the water just beyond the edge of the dock. “I miss not having to pretend I don’t care when you race.”
He turned to face you fully. The air changed.
“I miss knowing what you’re thinking,” he said.
You swallowed. “I think about it, you know. What would’ve happened if I didn’t leave. If I just… told you.”
He stepped closer. His voice dropped. “I think about what would’ve happened if you stayed.”
Your pulse kicked up. His hand brushed your arm, just once, but deliberate. You didn’t move away.
“You drive me crazy,” he said, low. “Still do.”
You smirked, breath catching. “You’re not exactly a peacekeeper yourself.”
And then he did it, reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, barely there but enough to make your heart slam. Your eyes met. You could feel it, the kiss, the pull, the almost.
Then your phone buzzed.
Lando :
'Pls tell me you’re not out there making out with a Ferrari driver. I feel like I’m too young for that trauma.
Also if you're not back in 10 I’m drinking your champagne, and maybe telling the garage you smiled at Lewis. again.'
You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. Lewis arched a brow.
“Lando?” he asked.
You tilted the screen so he could see. “Your biggest fan.”
He chuckled softly. “Reckon he’d be more supportive.”
“He is,” you murmured. “In his own unhinged way.”
“Like I said, you don’t have to keep doing this alone,” he said, quieter. “Whatever’s weighing on you.”
You met his eyes. That same pull, that gravity, five years hadn’t dulled it.
“I know,” you said, slightly nodding.
He didn’t push. Didn’t reach for you again.
And that was the hardest part.
“Come back in when you’re ready,” he murmured. “Or I’ll come get you.”
You watched him walk away, just far enough to not feel him, but not far enough to forget.
You slipped back through the crowd like muscle memory, trying not to look toward the red in the corner of the room.
You felt it anyway. That awareness. That pull.
Lando spotted you first, lifting his drink in triumph like he’d just won another race.
“Ah, the forbidden lover returns!”
You groaned. “Lando…”
“What? You were gone for twenty minutes and came back looking like you’ve seen God or got kissed by him. Did he kiss you?” He squinted dramatically like a high school girl waiting for the gossips. “No, don’t tell me. Let me suffer in suspense.”
You rolled your eyes but stole a sip from his glass anyway, fruity and way too strong.
“You’re lucky you’re winning lately,” you muttered.
“I’m always lucky,” he said smugly. “But tonight? That’s not my doing. That look in those eyes? That’s Italian regret, darling.”
Your head whipped around before you could stop it. Lewis was across the room, in conversation, but his eyes met yours instantly. And even in a sea of people, noise, and glittering celebration, you felt it.
That connection. Still taut. Still real.
“You know he’s been watching you all night, right?” Lando said casually, taking the glass back. “You’re not exactly subtle either. The whole garage’s been placing bets.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “Not real ones. Just pride-based. I’m losing though. I bet on you making the first move. Come on, don’t let me down.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
You rolled your eyes but stayed for a while before made your way toward the back of the room where the bar was quieter. The air was cooler. A few of the Red Bull engineers had claimed a table, but none of them stopped you. You needed a moment to breathe.
And then suddenly, he was beside you again. Lewis.
Not saying anything. Just handing you a glass.
“Didn’t think you’d come back in,” he said.
You took the glass. “Didn’t think you’d still be waiting.”
“Didn’t say I was waiting.” A beat. “But I was.”
This time, the pause between you didn’t stretch awkwardly. It held. Soft and electric.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked.
That surprised you. “You hate this music.”
He leaned in, voice low.
“I hate pretending I don’t want to be near you more.”
Your chest tightened.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you said quietly.
“Then maybe it’s time we stopped thinking,” he murmured.
And this time, when your arms brushed, he didn’t pull back.
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.
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Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings swearing
A/N I’ve been a bit distracted by the F1 weekend (how can we not!) and was a bit clearing up how this story should go. I tend to write as I develop the story instead of having the whole clear picture so it took me some time, but here it is!!! Hope you like it!
Your eye fluttered open. It was the kind of waking where you forget where you are, when it is, or even who you’re supposed to be for the day. The room was only dimly lit by the small slit of the drapes. Monday. Post-race travel day. No briefings. No data sessions. Your body softened into the mattress with a rare kind of relief.
But that didn’t last long. You then slowly registered, something’s not exactly right.
You felt some weight around your waist. Then your senses finally came back, the warm breath on the top of your head, the warmth behind you. You thought your mind was playing games or you were still dreaming until you remembered what happened last night. You slowly turned around to see the person behind you, confirming whatever happened was not a dream or imagination. Lewis was still sleeping peacefully. His arms instinctively moved up to hold you on the back as you turned around. His lashes long against his cheek, lips parted just slightly.
Your mind travelled back to yesterday, the dance floor, and you didn’t hold back. For once, you let yourself exist in the moment. You took whatever Lando handed you, you laughed louder than you had in months, and you didn’t care who watched you anymore. Not when Lewis was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.
The words Lewis said, “I hate pretending I don’t want to be near you more.” The way he pulled you closer, not just with his hands, but with the truth in his eyes. How his eyes were shimmering under the bar’s light, you see the waves of emotions in his eyes, it was not something coming from a temporary fling, it was something heavier, deeper.
You were tipsy at the end of the night, but he was bright sober. He took your hand. You remember that. You remember Lando smirking like the smug little shit he was and muttering something about “finally” as he watched you leave with Lewis. You dreaded at the thought of having to face Lando the next time you see him, which is probably sooner than you'd like.
You weren’t sure if Lewis offered to take you home or if Lando demanded he do it. But the moment he touched your back to guide you toward the car, the world tilted into something quieter. Something more certain. The rest blurred. The elevator. The hotel door. You were asking him to stay, and his answer was silence, the kind where everything is said.
You rarely let yourself go like that. Not emotionally, not physically. You never felt safe enough. But last night you did.
You looked at him now. Still here. Still holding you. And that’s when it hit you, the weight of what this meant. Of waking up tangled with a man who now wore red while you wore orange. Of loving someone you couldn’t cheer for in public. Of needing someone you were supposed to out-strategise.
A soft ping from your phone interrupted your spiralling thoughts, you turned over to reach your phone, which was charging. He even plugged your phone.
“How’s the hangover, McLaren? Or should I call you Mrs Ferrari now?”
Lando. Why is he not a dead asleep or hangover somewhere far away when you need him to be? You rolled your eyes. You knew how excited he was about the whole tea of yours. Annoyed, your fingers hovered above a reply, then stopped.
A soft groan pulled your attention back to Lewis. He shifted, you turned around as his arms pulled you a bit closer, his eyes blinked open, locking on to yours with a kind of sleepy softness you didn’t expect.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough with morning.
“Hey,” you whispered back.
His thumb brushed the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nodded, but not fully. Not with the kind of certainty he gave you just by looking. He watched you for a moment, eyes quietly tracing the uncertainty on your face.
“You’re thinking too much.”
You gave him a dry half-smile. “And you’re not thinking enough.”
“I’ve done all the thinking already,” he murmured. “Weeks ago. Months, maybe.”
That pulled at something in you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Just... don’t shut me out.”
You didn’t promise him anything. Not in words. But you stayed. That morning bled into breakfast in bed, laughter over hotel robes and bad espresso. The hours passed like water, soft and warm, neither of you willing to disturb the quiet bubble you’d somehow created. By evening, you both flew back to London, privately. Quietly. Together. Just the two of you and a bottle of wine, his hand occasionally brushing yours between naps and casual conversation. For a moment, it felt simple. Possible. Like you could both have this, have each other and still return to your corners of the racing world.
You let the team know your itinerary had changed, no one asked anything more and you knew probably more than half of the team knew what was up with you. But you will have a couple of days before having to face that, you chose to be selfish, you chose to ignore all the alerts you had in your mind, at least just for a few days.
You spent two, maybe three days together. Time warped in that strange way it does when you're pretending nothing else exists outside of this little stretch of calm. Mornings when his arm found you before the sun. Afternoons wandering markets, cuddling with Roscoe, making dinner with music playing low in the background. Evenings when he'd pull you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn’t push. He didn’t make promises that sounded like ultimatums. He was just there. Present. Certain.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, one night as you lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes on his collarbone. “Unless you ask me to.”
And you wanted to believe that was enough.
But then came the calendar alert, your flight. His schedule. Media day. The season never really stops, not for long.
He dropped you off at your place. But just before you walked out of his car, he took your hand.
“I know it’s not going to be easy,” he said. “But don’t pull away just because it is hard.”
You nodded, but your chest was tight. You kissed him like you were afraid to make it too final.
It felt like only hours later, you were surrounded by screens and data again, the papaya walls closing in, when it hit you.
You’d built your whole professional world around precision. Control. Boundaries. And Lewis, he was none of those things right now. He was the risk. He was Ferrari. A team whose job is basically to destroy them, be against them.
And for the first time since you let him into your hotel room, you wondered if you were strong enough to keep him in your life without letting the rest unravel.
Your phone buzzed later that night. His name is on the screen.
“Miss you already.”
Your fingers hovered over the screen. You wanted to answer. God, you did. But instead, you set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
Soon, you’re texts started to shorten and slow, Lewis noticed, and he’s not afraid to talk about it.
He called one night, voice warm but cautious. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just... tired. A lot on my plate.”
A pause. “Is this about us?”
You didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough.
He exhaled slowly, not angry. Just knowing.
“Look, I get it. I really do. I wanted you to know that I don’t need all of you all the time. But I need to know you’re still with me. Even in the grey areas. We’re in this together.”
Your throat tightened. “I just need to think.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “But I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.”
You were reviewing data as usual, eyes dry from staring at screens too long. Lando slid into the seat across from you, sipping his smoothie obnoxiously loud.
“So,” he said, not even bothering with small talk. “No more morning conference with Ferrari 44?”
You didn’t look up. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Sure,” he grinned, “but not when I’m watching my best engineer in full-on emotional denial.”
You sighed. “I’m not in denial.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table. “You had that man fly you back to London with champagne and caviar, hand-feed you strawberries in his kitchen like it was a damn rom-com. And now you’re pretending he doesn’t exist?”
Your cheeks flushed. “You need to stop daydreaming of these scenarios, and I’m not pretending. I’m being realistic.”
Lando's smirk softened. “No, you’re being scared. Which is fair. But it’s okay to admit it, if you don’t talk about it and bury yourself in work, it just won’t help.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
He leaned back, eyes gentler. “He really cares about you. I mean I care about you, too. But not enough to fly you back on a private jet with me.”
That made you laugh, despite everything.
“But seriously,” he added, voice quieter, “don’t push him away just because it’s complicated. The job is always going to be complicated. Doesn’t mean you have to let your feelings go.”
The next day, you passed the break room on your way to the garage. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, not really, but your name caught your ear. And Lewis’s. Two junior engineers murmured low over coffee.
“I don’t care if it’s off-season,” one said. “It’s just a bad look, right? Dating the guy we’re supposed to be beating?”
“I heard Zak said something about it last week after Singapore,” the other added. “They can’t tell her what to do, but come on. It’s Ferrari. It’s Hamilton.”
You froze.
“Bet you anything if results start slipping, especially against Hamilton, it’s going to be on her.”
That one sentence landed like a punch. And for a terrifying moment, you felt small, like every earned moment of respect could be wiped clean with a single headline. You walked away before you could hear more.
You dreaded it, but the meeting came. You, your manager and HR.
They didn’t waste time. “We need to talk about perception.”
“We’ve heard things,” the PR rep said gently. “There are murmurs in the paddock. Nothing too serious yet, but it’s gaining traction. And we are concerned about these doubts going around the team.”
You swallowed hard.
“It’s about Lewis,” you said, already knowing.
They nodded. “This isn’t about blame. We understand your work ethic and your devotion. But the optics matter more when you’re in your role. Your calls affect both drivers. Your analysis shapes strategy. Even if you’re neutral, it won’t look like you are.”
You hated how small your voice sounded. “So what are you saying? That I have to end it?”
Your manager paused. “We’re saying you need to make a choice. Either you recuse yourself from any direct influence on Lando’s strategy… or you might need to take a step back from race weekends entirely. Only three weekends left in this season, but you know these last ones are crucial.”
Your heart dropped. That wasn’t a compromise. That was a soft exile.
“I’ve never let this relationship affect my work,” you tried to defend yourself, even though you knew how useless that argument was.
“We know,” they said, and it almost hurt more, the quiet empathy in their voice. “But the paddock isn’t about truth. It’s about belief. And right now, too many people believe you’re compromised.”
You left the room with your badge still hanging around your neck, but your identity already shaken.
You didn’t message Lewis. You just walked. Thought. Let the rage fade into clarity. And then, hours later, you found him waiting by your hotel door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“I heard,” he said.
“I don’t want you to fix this.” You swallowed. You were exhausted, emotionally.
He raised a brow. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
You let out a breath. “They want me to step back. From strategy. From weekends.”
He stepped forward, jaw tight. “They’re punishing you for being with me.”
You didn’t argue. Just stared at the floor. It was the right way to put it. “Maybe they’re right.”
“No,” he said immediately. “They’re afraid. That’s not the same thing.”
“I don’t want me to be the reason you lose the thing you’ve worked your whole life for.” He continued.
The silence between you cracked open. But it didn’t fall apart.
“What are you feeling?” he asked after the silence
“Can we just let the season blow over and then figure this out?”
He nodded unwillingly. He reached for your hand. “We don’t choose between us and the job. We find a way to fight for both.”
You left McLaren after the season. You said your farewells to Lando, and he tried to talk to you about you and Lewis, but you told him you really need some time off for that.
You left the F1 world again, for the second time in your life. You stayed with your mom, making sure she was doing better. Some family time, away from the noises of the engine. Lewis tried calling, texting. You did it again, you extracted yourself again from his world.
But this time he didn’t keep his silence. You started to receive postcards. Somehow, he figured out your address, probably through Lando. Every city he went to, he sent you a picture and a postcard with a short message. You didn’t reply, but you kept every one of them.
Monaco, it was he and Charles in the special white suits for Monaco.
The only time of the year you can’t laugh at me being in red! –L
Silverstone, it was the circuit under the cloudy grey.
Home track. And it doesn’t feel like home without you. –L
Singapore, it was the fireworks and neon lights.
Missing how you smiled that night and asked me to stay. –L
Even your mom started to notice the postcards, the handwritten Ls, the flowers that came for your father’s memorial and your birthday.
“Honey, don’t leave the man hanging, you need to let him know, no matter what’s on your mind and what your decision is. Hold on to the man that have you on his mind this whole time. Like how your father would.”
“Daddy really liked him.”
“And you know your dad’s good at judging people.”
She didn’t push you more, just being there for you like you were there for her.
You were preparing lunch when your mom called you from the living room. It was close to winter, and almost a year had passed.
“Honey, a Mr. Vasseur is on the phone.”
“A what?” You heard the name, you almost got your finger cut off with the knife.
You set everything down and went to the living room while your mom took your place in the kitchen.
It was Fédéric Vassuer.
“I’ll be frank with you. You were a huge headache for us last year, and it’s not smart for McLaren to let you go. We’re looking for a new engineer for next season, and we need someone who knows how to challenge the data. Challenge the driver. Someone who won’t flinch.”
Then he added, “And we got a strong recommendation from someone.”
You both knew who he was talking about. Your heart thudded.
“We had the conversation at the beginning of the season. He said he trusts you more than anyone in the sport. And I need a good engineer who works well with my driver.”
In the following weeks, terms were discussed, the contract was signed, and you had your heart racing way before the new season started.
Lewis was in his car, on the starting grid, waiting for the first morning testing session of the season in Barcelona. Something bothered him. He realised his talk with Fred probably didn’t work as he didn’t see you from the beginning of the season at the office. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know whether, after a whole year, he should continue to wait and send the postcards or accept the fact that he should just let you go. But the flowers were all successfully delivered and not once returned. He thought that had to mean something. But he’s not so sure of it anymore.
The buzz of the radio stopped his train of thought. He slightly sighed and was ready to get on to work.
“Good morning, Lewis, Radio check.”
He pushed the button to talk, but he paused.
“Lewis, Radio check.” The voice repeated.
“Is that you?” He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Long time.” You smiled into the microphone, waiting for his reaction.
“Fuck am I hallucinating?” After a long pause, he finally spoke again.
“No, and now I need you to get that car out for the testing before you can come back and check for yourself.” You smirked, and Fred gave you a thumbs-up next to you.
“Copy.” Simple, but you heard the dedication.
After a couple of rounds, the number 44 car drove back into the pit lane, where he saw you. After a whole year, finally. You were there, you stood with your headphones around your neck, you were in red, the exact same colour as him. His eyes were on you the whole time as the mechanics pulled him back in. He jumped out of the car the moment he could, and got rid of his helmet immediately. He ran to you.
Some stood aside and smirked at the scenery. It was a secret. That was part of the deal with Fred. You wanted to be recruited with the regular process. You didn’t want to be chosen just because Lewis said so. You went through the interviews, the data working before the season starts, you secretly worked on all the data for Lewis’ testing and sims, giving feedbacks and suggestions for improvements, you took the time to prove to everyone in the team that you were there because you are worthy and not just because of Lewis. The red Italian family saw your dedication and value, and you were feeling more accepted than ever.
Lewis holds on to you as if he let go, you would disappear again. You wrapped your arms around him to let him know that you are here. When he finally let go, he held your face delicately and looked at you. His eyes looked like a lost puppy, desperately making sure it was really you.
“Welcome back.” He had tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry it took me so long. Thank you for waiting.” You whispered for only the two of you.
“She’s wearing red, and this is not just for today?” He asked, turned to look at Fred for confirmation.
Fred smiled, giving him a thumbs-up for confirmation. “As long as you two give me a good result this year.”
“This time I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered as he looked back at you.
Then his lips crashed onto yours.
The pair of you wrote history and legacy together. And he would always say that it was your call, he trusted it and he followed.
Oh, and if you really want to know, trust me, Lando bragged about how he delivered Lewis’s coffee, how he asked Lewis to take you back to your hotel, and how he gave Lewis your address, not just on your wedding, but for the rest of his life.
summary - you’re forced to do go karting with Lando even though you’re not a great driver
pairing - lando norris x girlfriend!reader
word count - ~1k
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
You pouted as Lando placed a helmet over your head, tucking your balaclava onto your chin properly to make sure you were safe.
He chuckled as he paid attention to what he was doing rather than you, making your pout impossible to disappear.
“You agreed to do this.” He said.
“And why didn’t you stop me, huh? Such a bad boyfriend.” You closed your visor aggressively, continuing your tantrum.
Your visor immediately went back up, Lando holding both sides of your helmet so he could focus your gaze on his now that he was finished.
“Bad boyfriend?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Hmph.”
“Who said he’d drive you to get you a McFlurry after this?”
“You.” You rolled your eyes.
“Does that sound like something a bad boyfriend would do?”
“No.” Your eyes softened, hoping he didn’t actually believe what you were saying.
Lando had known you for three years now, so there was part of you that hoped he would know when you were messing around. Like now, for example.
You were taking out your anxiety on him, which was unfair but Lando knew that that’s all it was.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll be right out there with you.” He promised, resting his forehead against the top of your helmet to be closer to you.
“I know.”
“And it’s just for a socials video. Nothing life-altering.”
“It’ll be life-altering if I crash.”
“I won’t let that happen. Plus you know if anyone’s going to crash it’s going to be me, babe.” Lando laughed and it managed to pull a smile out of you too.
“Okay.”
“You ready?”
“Yeah.” You nodded.
Lando’s hands leave your helmet. You turned around to walk towards your kart, Lando patting your arse gently as you did so.
You turned around to give him a ‘really’ look and he just had the biggest grin on his face.
“What?” You asked.
“You look so unfairly good in a racing suit.” He smirked, shaking his head as he blushed a little. It was crazy to think that you managed to get him this flustered still.
You gave him a quick pose before continuing to move to your kart.
You stood next to it and waited for Lando to give you a hand to step into it.
Next to you both were the social media managers for McLaren, along with a team of videographers, in order to film you both for some content.
You held onto Lando’s hand tightly as you stepped inside the kart, before weaning yourself down into the seat. Lando crouched down beside you to help put your seatbelt on correctly, checking it wasn’t too tight.
“All good?”
“Yep.” You said.
“Okay. Let’s race.”
“What about your helmet?” You asked with concern.
“I’ve had enough practice putting it on.” He laughed, rubbing your cheek with his thumb through the visor.
He then got up and walked towards the kart behind yours on the racing track. You turned around to make sure he got his helmet on okay and watched as he effortlessly got into his kart.
You held up a thumb for him.
He responded by putting up his thumb.
A worker of the go karting facility explained the rules and such you again, making sure you were okay, before leaving you to have a moment.
The lights above the starting line flickered red as they prepared you to start.
You heard Lando rev the engine of his kart behind you and you couldn’t help but smile over how crazy this was. You were about to go head to head with an F1 driver and you had taken 4 times to pass your driving test.
The red lights started to light up in a row and you waited until they went green before stepping on the gas pedal.
Lando went straight past you, even though he was behind you to start, before you had even the opportunity to step on the pedal.
You could imagine him laughing to himself as he sped past.
You grumbled to yourself before speeding off yourself.
You took a left at the first bend, swerving so you wouldn’t hit the barriers. Lando was well ahead by the time you came around the corner.
You pressed on the pedal again, flooring it until you came to the next corner. You steered sharply, clearing the corner before driving down the next straight.
It was a very easy course.
However, it wasn’t something that Lando pointed out or even insinuated considering that this is probably the easiest course he’s ever driven.
Ten laps later and Lando having passed you four times already, you picked up a bit of speed to see if you could keep up with him.
It only took one turn for that to go wrong though.
You steered a little too excitedly into the bend and span in your kart.
You pressed your brakes immediately and tried to steer out of it, but you were already spinning.
“Shit.” You swore repeatedly.
Then came the impact.
Your body shook as your kart impacted with the side of the wall. It wasn’t as bad of an impact as if you hadn’t pressed the breaks, but it ricocheted through your body all the same.
How did F1 drivers do this going five times faster?
You’d only crashed for ten seconds before Lando’s kart pulls in swiftly behind yours. He doesn’t check anything before leaving his kart and running over to you.
He lifted your visor first before lifting his. He had to see you with his own eyes, not through a screen.
“You hear me?” He asked.
You nodded.
“Are you hurt?”
You shook your head because you didn’t think so. Only your pride was.
He reached under your helmet to unclasp it, before taking it off for you.
His hands brushed over your face and hair to check for anything significant. Even though he could see nothing was visibly wrong, he was still worried.
“Had to prove me wrong didn’t you? Had to prove that you could crash?” He tried to joke and bring a sense of humour to the situation, but even you could tell he wasn’t too happy.
You smiled, but didn’t laugh because your body was shaking a little from the shock.
“Alright c’mon. Out you get.” He tucked his hands under your armpits and lifted you up as you pushed up with your legs.
“I’m okay.”
“Just give me peace of mind, please.” He insisted.
Once you were out of the kart Lando pressed his hands over crucial parts of your body to double check that everything was okay and nothing hurt.
Lando was assured that you were okay after you gave a quick kiss to the side of his helmet.
You couldn’t help but get flustered - like every other time - at Lando wearing his helmet.
You watched Lando’s eyes crinkle, “What?”
“You look good with your helmet on.”
“Oh do I? Seems like someone is doing better than I thought then.” He chuckled, making you blush.
“I’m okay. Better with you.” You gave him a reassuring smile. “Let’s not do this again though.”
“Yeah, too right. I’ll do all the driving from now on, otherwise I’ll be in an early grave thanks to you.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
<•>
You’re getting changed out of your racing suit in the changing room when you notice it.
A big purple bruise on your thigh from where your body hit against the side of the kart. It’s not huge but it’s big enough that it will hurt when you lay on it.
You slipped on your jeans and Lando’s borrowed hoodie, wincing when your jeans made contact with your skin.
Lando 🧡 : u ready yet? xx
You: 5 mins
You: think i’ve hurt myself 🥲
You didn’t get a respond from Lando but a minute later he comes bounding into the changing room, a lady behind him shouting that he isn’t allowed in here.
“Hey.” He sounded rushed, running his hand through his freshly showered hair.
“What are you doing?”
“You said you were hurt.”
You smiled and then pouted over how much he cared about you. It made your heart twinge with an overwhelming amount of love for him.
“It’s just a bruise on my leg.”
“Wrapping you in bubble wrap next time.” He shook his head before giving you a soft kiss to your forehead.
“I’m okay with that.”
“Alright,” He gave you another kiss to your forehead, “We’ll get that McFlurry afterwards. You deserve it.”
“Yes, because I’m such a great driver.” You smiled, giving him a tight hug before he left you.
“I love you, babe, but even I can’t agree with that.”
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