late apex — beach sports bar

WHO I WRITE FOR: Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Carlos Sainz, Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Alex Albon, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lewis Hamilton, Yuki Tsunoda, George Russell, Esteban Ocon, Franco Colapinto, Sergio Pérez, Jenson Button, Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman, Sebastian Vettel.

you can ask about other drivers not on the list and i’ll see if i can make it happen! ☺️

WHAT’S ON TAP

→ fluff / angst / hurt & comfort / domestic vibes → headcanons / short blurbs / text aus / little scenarios → reader insert (fem & gn — please specify. if not, i’ll assume fem!reader)

NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS LOCATION

→ nsfw / smut → explicit dark themes (only included if very minimal and non-explicit) → real person hate or drama

HOW TO PLACE AN ORDER, please include: driver(s), short summary or prompt & tone (fluff / angst / comfort / funny)

note: I have anonymous requests disabled, but if you want to remain anonymous when I publish your request, just let me know in your request!

order time: I take my time with each post to make sure it’s done right, so please be patient. Requests may close temporarily if I’m catching up on orders.

extra notes:

Face claims will be blurred unless you say otherwise.

Please be kind in asks and comments—this is meant to be a safe, cozy space.

Thank you so much for stopping by and respecting the rules. It really means a lot 🤍

tag: #dinawrites — all orders served here.

Lando held up his arm, twisting his wrist so the customized sapphire casing caught the morning light filtering through the tinted windows. He wore a grin so smug it bordered on insufferable. "Custom one-of-one. Matte black with papaya accents. Skeleton dial. Do you like it?"

"Did McLaren give you that for the podium in Budapest?" Oscar asked, taking a slow sip of his water, trying to calculate the retail value in his head and failing.

"No," Lando said happily, resting his chin on his hand and gazing across the room. "Y/N bought it for me."

Oscar choked slightly. He grabbed a napkin, coughing into it before staring at his teammate. "She bought you a two-million-dollar watch?"

"I was a very good boy this month," Lando stated, utterly shameless, adjusting the strap with a reverent touch. "I didn't break any of her antique vases while streaming in the living room, I finished all my media duties without complaining, and I let her pick the movie three nights in a row. So, I got a treat."

Oscar just stared at him, blinking slowly. "You know everyone can hear you, right? You sound like a kept man."

"Oscar, mate," Lando patted the younger driver's shoulder with profound sincerity. "I am a kept man. It’s fantastic. You should try it. The pressure is completely off. If I total the car tomorrow, my sugar mama can literally just buy the team and fire everyone who yells at me."

Across the room, you were standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, completely ignoring the bustling mechanics and catering staff. You had a sleek earpiece in, your posture rigid, eyes narrowed at the live market data scrolling across your iPad. You were dressed impeccably in a sharp, tailored charcoal suit that screamed effortless power, the jacket unbuttoned just enough to hint at a black silk camisole underneath.

"I don't care if the European Central Bank is raising rates," you said into the earpiece. Your voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a lethal, cutting edge that made a passing aerodynamicist flinch and quicken his pace. "I told Sterling to liquidate the telecom assets by Friday. If he wants to drag his feet, tell him he has until noon to pack up his desk. I’ll replace him with an algorithm that actually understands liquidity."

A beat of silence. You smirked, a dangerous, thrilling expression. "Good. Have the contracts on my desk by Monday."

You tapped the earpiece to end the call, slipping the iPad under your arm. The fierce, boardroom expression softened the exact second your eyes locked onto Lando across the room.

Lando practically melted into his chair. "God, she’s so hot when she destroys people's careers," he whispered to Oscar, a dopey, lovesick smile spreading across his face.

Oscar shook his head, picking up his plate. "I'm going to engineering. You two are terrifying."

As Oscar retreated, you walked over to the table. The atmosphere in the room always seemed to shift when you moved—people naturally parted, giving you a wide berth out of a mixture of deep respect and lingering intimidation. You trailed a hand over the back of Lando's chair before resting it heavily on the nape of his neck.

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief second as he leaned back into your touch, instantly pliant. All the cheeky bravado he had shown Oscar evaporated, replaced by a quiet, absolute devotion.

"Everything alright, darling?" Lando asked softly, tilting his head back to look up at you upside down.

"Just some corporate deadweight," you murmured, your fingers gently playing with the short, soft curls at the base of his neck. You gave the strands a light, grounding tug. "How is your focus this morning? Are you ready for FP1?"

"Always," he beamed, looking up at you like you hung the moon in the sky. He reached up, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist to keep your hand exactly where it was.

"Good," you praised, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Because if you put it on pole tomorrow, I have something else picked out for you. Something a little faster than a watch."

Lando’s eyes widened, the dark pupils blown out. "Really? Is it the vintage Porsche? The silver one?"

"Don't push your luck, pretty boy," you teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. "Get in the car and do your job first. Then we'll discuss your allowance."

"Yes, ma'am," Lando breathed, already scrambling up to grab his helmet, more motivated for a practice session than he had been all season.

The qualifying session had been an unmitigated disaster. Red flags, terrible timing out of the garage, and a catastrophic miscommunication on the pit wall meant Lando was knocked out in Q2. He would be starting P14 for Sunday’s race.

When he stormed into his private driver's room at the back of the McLaren motorhome, the door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. He was pacing like a caged animal, the top half of his fireproof race suit peeled down and tied aggressively around his waist. His hands were pulling at his sweat-damp curls, his chest heaving as he spiraled. The heavy, crushing weight of self-criticism was dragging him down into a dark, frantic headspace.

"I had the pace!" Lando ranted, kicking his Puma race boot against the base of the small sofa. "I had the fucking pace, and they kept me in the garage for thirty seconds too long! It’s a joke. The whole strategy was an absolute joke. I'm going to be stuck in a DRS train all afternoon tomorrow because no one knows how to look at a weather radar!"

You were sitting calmly in the leather armchair in the corner, a stark contrast to his hurricane of anxiety. You had anticipated this. You watched him pace back and forth for exactly two minutes, letting him get the initial, explosive burst of adrenaline out of his system.

When he finally kicked his heavy carbon-fiber helmet bag, sending it sliding across the carpet, you decided he was done.

"Lando."

You didn't raise your voice. You didn't need to. The low, authoritative tone cut straight through his panic like a knife through silk.

He froze, his shoulders rigid, but he didn't look at you. He was staring at the wall, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. "What? They ruined the lap, Y/N. I can't even—"

"Lando. Look at me."

It was a command, not a request. Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes dragged over to meet yours. The sheer panic in his gaze made your chest ache slightly, but your face remained an unreadable mask of absolute control.

"Come here," you ordered smoothly, dropping your hands to rest on your thighs.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the adrenaline still screaming at him to fight or flee, before he crossed the small room. He stopped a foot in front of your chair, looking down at you, still vibrating with nervous, angry energy.

"Sit." You pointed a single manicured finger to the floor right between your knees.

Lando swallowed hard. The defiant, furious driver who had just been screaming at his race engineer over the radio completely vanished. Without a single word of protest, he dropped to his knees, slotting his body between your legs.

You leaned forward, taking his face in both of your hands. Your grip was firm, holding him completely still. You forced him to hold your gaze, projecting an unwavering, terrifyingly calm aura until you felt the rigid tension in his neck begin to loosen.

"Breathe," you instructed softly but firmly.

He took a jagged, shaky breath in.

"Again. Slower. From your stomach."

He followed your instruction perfectly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as your thumbs began a slow, deliberate stroke over his cheekbones.

"You are spiraling over something that is already in the past," you said, your voice a dark velvet purr that wrapped around him, demanding his complete attention. "Look at me. Did you make the strategy call to stay in the garage?"

"No," he whispered, his eyes opening to lock onto yours.

"Could you control the traffic in sector three?"

"No."

"Did you overdrive the car, or did you do exactly what was asked of you with the track position you had?"

"I did what I could," he answered, his voice dropping in pitch.

"Then you are wasting my time and yours by throwing a tantrum over variables outside of your control," you stated, your tone brooking no argument. "You are one of the best drivers on this grid. You will start P14 tomorrow, you will carve your way through the midfield, and you will bring home points. Do you understand me?"

The absolute certainty in your voice washed over him like a heavy, comforting blanket. He didn't have to think; he just had to listen to you. He didn't have to carry the weight of the strategy failure; he just had to obey you. The submission grounded him entirely, pulling him out of his own head.

"Yes," he murmured, his hands coming up to grip your thighs, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your trousers as he sought an anchor.

"Yes, what?" you corrected gently, applying a slight pressure to his jaw to tilt his chin up higher.

A dark, appreciative flush crept up his neck, and a spark of clarity returned to his eyes. He leaned his weight forward, resting his chest against your knees. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy," you praised, a slow, genuine smile finally curving your lips. You leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to his forehead. The storm had passed. "Now, get up, go shower, and put on the navy suit I laid out for you. We have a dinner reservation with Zak and the sponsors in an hour, and you are going to smile and be perfectly charming."

Lando stood up smoothly, the frantic energy completely drained out of him, replaced by a focused, devoted calm. The anger was gone, leaving only an intense loyalty.

"Whatever you want, Y/N."

-

The Monaco Winter Gala was the undisputed highlight of the off-season. It was a suffocating sea of flashing bulbs, inherited wealth, and exorbitant diamonds. Usually, Formula 1 drivers were the undisputed stars of these events, strutting down the carpet with models on their arms, soaking up the adoration.

Not tonight.

You stepped out of the blacked-out Maybach looking like a goddess of war descending from Olympus. You wore a backless, emerald-green Tom Ford gown that fit you like liquid glass. The sharp cut of the silk emphasized your posture, and your expression was cool, regal, and entirely untouchable as the cameras erupted into a blinding frenzy.

Lando stepped out right behind you. He was wearing a sharp, custom-fitted velvet tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders, but what caught everyone's attention wasn't his tailoring. It was what he was holding.

In his left hand, he casually dangled your small, heavy crystal-encrusted clutch. In his right, draped carefully over his forearm, was your black faux-fur coat.

A reporter thrust a microphone over the velvet rope as you both walked down the carpet, the press aggressively vying for his attention. "Lando! Lando! How are preparations going for the new season? Are you aiming for a championship run this year?"

Lando stopped, offering the reporter a brilliant, carefree smile. He subtly stepped slightly behind you, a deliberate physical shift to ensure you remained the focal point of the cameras.

"Oh, you'll have to ask Andrea about the car," Lando laughed, gesturing vaguely with the hand holding your diamond clutch. "I'm strictly off the clock tonight."

"But surely you have thoughts on the new aerodynamic regulations?" another reporter pressed, bewildered by his casual dismissal of his own career.

"Honestly?" Lando leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially as if sharing a secret. "I have no idea. I’m just the arm candy tonight. I’m here to hold my partner's coat, tell her how gorgeous she looks, and drink the expensive champagne."

The reporters blinked, completely disarmed. Most men in his position—especially elite athletes—would be fighting to assert their dominance, desperate to prove they weren't overshadowed by their older, hyper-successful partner. The fragile masculinity of the paddock dictated that the driver was always the sun, and the WAGs were merely orbiting planets.

Lando didn't care. He actively reveled in your shadow, perfectly content to orbit you. He knew exactly who was in charge, and he loved it.

You paused a few steps ahead, looking over your bare shoulder at him with an elegantly arched eyebrow. "Are you coming, darling, or are you going to gossip with the press all night?"

"Coming, boss!" Lando chirped happily, utterly unfazed by the nickname slipping out in public.

He jogged a few steps to catch up with you, slipping his free arm smoothly around your waist. As you walked toward the grand entrance of the casino, away from the screaming press, you tilted your head slightly toward him.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you murmured, your lips barely moving.

"Are you kidding?" Lando whispered back, his breath tickling your ear. He squeezed your waist affectionately. "Half the men on this carpet are completely terrified of you, and the other half wish they were me. I’m living the absolute dream."

You smirked, running a manicured fingernail lightly over the velvet lapel of his tuxedo, feeling his breath hitch slightly at the contact. "Keep acting like such a good boy, and I might just raise your allowance."

Lando’s eyes darkened instantly. The playful puppy-dog energy morphed into something hungrier, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he followed you inside the venue.

"Yes, ma'am."

The doors to the Monaco penthouse clicked shut, instantly silencing the dull roar of the city below. The gala had been a triumph. You had successfully backed two rival hedge fund managers into a corner, secured a verbal agreement on a multi-million dollar tech merger, and looked flawless doing it.

You let out a long, slow exhale, dropping the Iron Lady persona the moment the deadbolt slid into place. You kicked off your Tom Ford stilettos, the crystal-embellished heels hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud.

Before you could even reach for the clasp of your gown, Lando was there.

He had already shed his velvet tuxedo jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a pristine white armchair. He stepped up behind you, his hands warm and steady as he gently brushed your hair over your shoulder.

"Tired?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder blade.

"Exhausted," you admitted, closing your eyes and leaning back against his chest. "Marcus Thorne talked at me for forty-five minutes about cryptocurrency. I almost threw my champagne in his face."

"You were incredibly restrained," Lando praised, his fingers finding the hidden zipper at the base of your spine. He pulled it down with agonizing slowness. "And incredibly intimidating. Did you see the way the CEO of OmniCorp looked at you when you corrected his quarterly projections?"

"He’s an idiot who over-leverages his assets," you hummed, letting the heavy silk of the gown pool around your ankles. You were left in nothing but your black lace lingerie and a diamond necklace.

Lando’s hands immediately moved to your waist, holding you with a reverence that bordered on worship. In the high-stakes world you inhabited, men constantly tried to prove they were smarter, louder, or richer than you. Lando never tried to compete. He simply existed to support you, content to be the soft place you landed after going to war.

"Come here," he whispered, guiding you toward the plush velvet sofa in the center of the living room. "Sit."

You raised an eyebrow at his use of your favorite command, but you complied, sinking into the cushions with a sigh of relief.

Lando didn't sit beside you. Instead, he dropped to his knees on the thick rug, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. He took your bare right foot in his hands, his thumbs pressing firmly into the aching arch.

A quiet groan escaped your lips, your head falling back against the sofa. "God. That’s exactly it."

"I know," he smiled, his eyes fixed on his task. He massaged the soreness away with practiced, rhythmic precision. "You carry the whole world, Y/N. You're allowed to let me carry you sometimes."

You opened one eye to look down at him. The dim lighting of the penthouse cast shadows over his sharp jawline, his curls slightly messy from the long night. He looked beautiful, entirely focused on pleasing you.

"You make a very good trophy husband, Lando Norris," you murmured, reaching down to trace the line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

Lando leaned into your touch, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. "It’s the best job in the world. The perks are amazing, the boss is brilliant, and the bonuses are highly motivating."

"Speaking of bonuses," you said, your voice dropping an octave, sliding effortlessly back into the commanding tone that made his breath hitch. You tapped his chin with your index finger, tilting his face up so his dark eyes met yours. "I recall promising you a raise in your allowance if you behaved tonight."

Lando swallowed hard, his hands stilling on your calves. The playful energy completely vanished, replaced by a heavy, devoted anticipation. "I was very good, Y/N. I held your coat. I didn't say anything stupid to the press."

"You were perfect," you praised smoothly, sliding your hand into his curls and giving a firm, grounding tug. "Take off my necklace, Lando. Then we can discuss exactly how you're going to earn that vintage Porsche."

Lando’s eyes darkened, completely entirely captivated by you. He leaned forward, his hands trembling just slightly as he reached for the diamond clasp at the nape of your neck.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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Three Years Later

alex_albon

liked by ynuser and 2.9M users

alex_albon Getting some lessons from the pro ⛳️ Best caddie around @ lilymhe

georgerussell63 About time you made it grid official, mate

lilymhe You’re still terrible at golf, but you’re cute so I’ll keep you ❤️

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-

Y/N tossed her phone onto the plush hotel bed, letting out a heavy sigh as she stared at the ceiling. The breakup with her ex had been messy, but mostly because it was deeply unfair to him. She had tried to move on. She had tried to force herself to fall in love with someone who was present, someone who wasn't constantly living life at 200 miles per hour.

But every time her ex had smiled at her, she found herself wishing he had his hair and a British-Thai accent.

She picked her phone back up, unlocking the screen. It was still open to Alex’s Instagram page. She stared at the picture of him and Lily. He looked genuinely happy. His career had stabilized, he was glowing, and he had a beautiful, successful athlete by his side. It was exactly what Y/N had wanted for him when they tearfully agreed to break up years ago.

She just never expected how much it would hurt to see him actually get it.

-

rolexmontecarlomasters

liked by user and 312,931 users

rolexmontecarlomasters Worlds colliding at Centre Court! 🎾🏎️ Williams Racing driver @ alex_albon catching up with former World No. 3 @ ynuser during the Men's Final

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It was supposed to be a one-off run-in at Wimbledon. A quick hug, a polite catch-up, and going their separate ways. But then Alex invited her to sit with him, and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all. The banter, the easy comfort, the way he knew exactly how she took her coffee—it all flooded back instantly.

Now, three months later, they were firmly back in each other's lives. They texted daily, grabbed lunch whenever the tennis and F1 calendars magically aligned, and fell right back into the roles of best friends.

For Alex, it seemed effortless. For Y/N, it was pure, unadulterated torture.

She sat on the sofa in her London flat, watching Alex absentmindedly throw a tennis ball up and catch it as he rambled on about car upgrades. He was relaxed, completely at ease in her space, and all Y/N could think about was how much she wanted to cross the distance between them and kiss him. Meeting him again hadn't just brought back a friend; it had violently ripped the band-aid off the truth she had been ignoring for years. She was still completely, irrevocably in love with him.

Alex’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a picture of Lily and the words Incoming Call.

Alex glanced at it, his smile faltering just a fraction, before he muted it and flipped the phone face down. "Sorry," he muttered. "Anyway, as I was saying..."

Y/N’s heart did a traitorous, ugly little leap. It was entirely selfish, and she hated herself for it, but she couldn't stop the narrative spinning in her head. Why is he ignoring her call? Are they fighting? Is it ending?

"You don't need to take that?" Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice perfectly neutral.

"Nah, it's fine. We had a... disagreement earlier. I'll call her back later," Alex said, rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign he was stressed.

"I'm sorry, Alex. If you need to vent, you know I'm here."

She smiled warmly at him, playing the perfect, supportive best friend. But deep down, a dark, desperate part of her was silently begging the universe to let the cracks in his relationship shatter completely. If he was single, just for a moment, she could finally tell him the truth. She just needed him to be free.

-

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alex_albon

liked by ynuser and 8.7M users

alex_albon She said yes! 💍 Can’t wait for forever with you.

lando FINALLY mate! Congrats! 🎉

lilymhe I love you! ❤️

-

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The pounding on the door was relentless. Y/N pulled her oversized sweater tighter around her frame, staring at the wood as if it might physically attack her. She had spent the last two months slowly pulling away, suffocating the hope she had foolishly harbored. The engagement ring was the final, devastating proof: he didn't love her back. He loved Lily.

"Y/N! Open the door or I'm using the spare key you hid under the mat!" Alex's voice was muffled but laced with genuine frustration.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she swung the door open.

Alex stood there, looking agitated, but his expression softened slightly the moment he saw her tired eyes. "Why are you pushing me away?" he demanded, stepping into her flat without waiting for an invitation. "It's my wedding, Y/N. I need my best friend there. You've been ghosting me for weeks."

"I told you, I'm busy, Alex," she said, her voice trembling as she crossed her arms defensively. "Just drop it."

"No! I'm not dropping it," he fired back, pacing her living room. "We survived breaking up, we survived building our careers, and we found our way back to each other. I am not losing you over some stubborn tennis schedule. Why won't you just come?"

"Because I can't, okay? Leave it alone!"

"Give me one actual reason!" Alex pleaded, stopping in front of her. His eyes were desperate, searching hers for an answer she had spent years burying. "Please, Y/N. You're my best friend. It won't be the same if you aren't standing there."

"Because I love you!" Y/N snapped, the words tearing out of her throat with a violent, agonizing force.

Silence crashed over the room, absolute and deafening.

Alex froze. All the color drained from his face as his eyes widened in shock. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Y/N let out a broken, humorless laugh, hot tears finally spilling over her cheeks. "I never stopped, Alex. Never. I thought I could be your friend. I thought if I stayed close, maybe, just maybe, you'd look at me the way you used to. But then you proposed to her."

"Y/N, I—I didn't know," he whispered, stepping forward, his hand twitching as if to reach out.

"Don't," she stepped back, her voice cracking. "I can't sit in a pew and watch the only man I've ever loved promise his entire life to someone else. I'm selfish, and I'm heartbroken, and I need you to leave."

"We need to talk about this—"

"There is nothing to talk about! You're getting married!" Y/N grabbed his jacket from the armchair and shoved it into his chest. "Get out, Alex. Please. Just get out."

She practically pushed him back into the hallway. Alex stumbled over the threshold, his face a mask of complete devastation, but before he could say another word, she slammed the door in his face. The deadbolt clicked into place with a loud, final echo.

She sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, and let the sobs consume her.

alex Block this Caller Are you sure you want to block this contact? You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTimes from people on your block list. Confirm

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ynuser

liked by user and 1.2M users

ynuser Sometimes you just need a clean slate. Thrilled to announce I’ve accepted a long-term residency and coaching position at the National Tennis Centre in Melbourne! 🇦🇺🎾 Moving to the other side of the world, but ready for this next chapter. Goodbye London, see you soon Australia! ✈️

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Alex sprinted up the stairs to Y/N’s floor, his chest heaving, ignoring the burning in his lungs. It had been two days since she slammed the door in his face. Two days of absolute hell, of sleepless nights, and of finally having the most painful, honest conversation of his life with Lily. The wedding was off. The moment Y/N had yelled that she loved him, the heavy fog he had been living in lifted. He didn't want a future if Y/N wasn't in it.

He hammered his fist against her door. "Y/N! Please! Open up!"

Silence.

He knocked again, harder. "I know I messed up! Just let me explain!"

The door to the left opened with a creak. Mrs. Higgins, Y/N’s elderly neighbor, peeked her head out, clutching her floral robe. "Oh, stop all that racket, young man. You're going to wake the whole building."

"Mrs. Higgins, I'm sorry. Is Y/N home? She's not answering."

The old woman gave him a sympathetic, albeit scolding, look. "She’s gone, dear. Left with two massive suitcases about an hour ago. Handed me her spare key and said she was moving to Australia. Said she had a flight out of Heathrow at noon."

Alex’s blood ran cold. He checked his watch. It was 10:45 AM.

"Thank you!" he shouted, already halfway down the stairs before she could reply.

-

-

The Melbourne sun was unforgiving, but hitting the tennis balls with brutal, echoing force was the only thing keeping Y/N's mind off the life she had left behind. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, turning to grab her water bottle from the bleachers.

That's when she saw him.

Alex was sitting three rows up, looking entirely out of place in jeans and a dark hoodie, heavily jet-lagged, and out of breath. Y/N dropped her racket. The clatter echoed across the empty hardcourt.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered, though the quiet stadium carried her voice perfectly.

Alex climbed down the bleachers, walking onto the court until he was standing just inches from her. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were blazing with a clarity she hadn't seen in years.

"I called off the wedding," he said, his voice raw and shaking.

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Alex... what?"

"The moment you closed that door... it felt like my entire world ended," he confessed, stepping closer. "I realized I’ve just been going through the motions. I don't want Lily, Y/N. I want you. I want the girl who understands the pressure of professional sports, the girl who brings me down to earth, the girl I never should have let go of all those years ago."

Y/N stared at him, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Tears pricked her eyes. "You flew all the way to Australia to tell me this?"

"I flew all the way to Australia because I love you," Alex said softly, reaching out to gently take her hand, as if terrified she might pull away. "I always have. And I know I hurt you. I know I was blind and stupid, and I don't expect you to just fall into my arms."

He took a deep breath, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. "But if you let me, I’m going to spend every single day earning your trust back. I will court you properly. I will fly across the world for your matches, I will take you on actual dates, I will carry your tennis bags—whatever it takes. Just give me a chance."

Y/N looked into his desperate, sincere eyes, the walls she had spent weeks building crumbling into dust in a matter of seconds. A small, watery smile broke across her face.

"You're carrying my tennis bags starting right now," she whispered.

Alex let out a breath that sounded like a sob and a laugh all at once. He pulled her into a desperate, crushing hug, burying his face in her neck, holding onto her like she was his lifeline. Finally, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

-

8 Months Later

alex_albon

liked by ynuser and 6.8M users

alex_albon Took a trip across the world, a lot of groveling, and a few years of being an absolute idiot to get it right. But I finally got my girl back ❤️🎾

georgerussell63 About time, mate. The angst was exhausting for the rest of us

lando So am I invited to this wedding or what?

ynuser I love you. Now stop taking my picture and eat your pasta! 🍝

alex_albon @ ynuser Yes ma'am 🫡❤️

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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f1

liked by user and 5.4M users

f1 Look who dropped by the paddock today! ✨🌴🏁 Welcome to Miami, @ ynuser!

user SHES GLOWING!!! TTPD era but she looks so happy 😭

user Need to know which garage she is visiting immediately

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redbullracing

liked by ynuser and 3.4M users

redbullracing We have a very special guest in the garage today. Great to have you, Y/N! 🏎️💨

user THE WAY HE IS LOOKING AT HER??? HELLO???

user Max Verstappen smiling like that on a race weekend is actually unprecedented. She cast a spell on him

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maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser and 6.1M users

maxverstappen1 Simply lovely weekend 🏆🦁

ynuser Simply the best 🧡

redbullracing Winning on and off the track

user THE HARD LAUNCH OMG IM SCREAMING

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 12.3M users

ynuser I wrote TTPD when I thought my world was ending, wrapping myself in old memories on this tour just to feel safe. But sometimes, when you least expect it, someone comes along and shows you how to drive out of the dark. This is a story about finding light at the end of the tunnel, about moving fast, and loving fiercely. My new album, "The Life of a Showgirl", is out at midnight 🧡💚

sabrinacarpenter So incredibly proud to be a part of this 🥺💖 Let’s go Showgirls! ✨

ynuser @ sabrinacarpenter Love you so much!! We really did that 👯‍♀️🤍

maxverstappen1 Beautiful. So proud of you 🧡🔥

redbullracing We are streaming The Life of a Showgirl in the garage today 🎧🧡💚

user OMG IT'S FINALLY HAPPENING!!! 💗 A NO-SKIP ALBUM I CAN FEEL IT.

user Eldest Daughter is going to destroy me, I just know it. 😭 My therapist is not ready.

user CAN'T WAIT FOR Wi$h Li$t!!! The dollar signs???

user The collabs are always major 🔥 Sabrina Carpenter featured? Yes please

user The visuals are INSANE. We are not ready for this era

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maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser and 7.8M users

maxverstappen1 Track 7 on repeat 🤍🏆

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 13.9M users

ynuser The tour continues, the music is yours, and my heart is completely full. Thank you for loving The Life of a Showgirl as much as I loved surviving it to make it for you. See you next weekend, Monaco! 🇲🇨✨

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 19.8M users

ynuser In the middle of the loudest crowds and the fastest cars, I found the quietest, safest kind of love. The showgirl finally got her happy ending. A million times yes, forever 🏁🧡✨

maxverstappen1 My absolute biggest win. I love you 🦁❤️

sabrinacarpenter THE SHOUT I JUST LET OUT!!! The showgirl is getting married!!! 😭🥂💖

charles_leclerc Congratulations to you both! Welcome to Monaco 🇲🇨🙌

redbullracing From the garage to the podium, and now to forever. Congratulations Max & Y/N! 💍✨ Y/N, you’re officially stuck with us at the track now!

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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🎞 tag list smau: @ghosties-dagger @berrnuu @lynlove222 @drunkstreetlight

Spoiler: No.

It happened on an FP1 Friday. The morning was chaotic, and Yuki was late. Not just standard F1-traffic late, but late-late. When he finally jogged into the hospitality area, he looked completely exhausted, half-asleep, and running on pure, unadulterated inertia. More noticeably, he was completely empty-handed. No backpack. No helmet. No neatly packed cooler bag.

A mild panic began to ripple through the Visa Cash App RB side of the garage.

But when Yuki finally stumbled into his driver's room, he froze. His backpack was already sitting perfectly on his chair. His helmet was prepped. And sitting squarely on top of his gear was his familiar insulated lunchbox, with a small, neatly folded sticky note attached to the handle. It wasn't overly sappy or poetic. It just read:

"Eat properly. I’ll see you later."

The garage fell into a sudden, collective silence. Engineers, mechanics, and PR officers all stared at the neatly arranged gear, their sleep-deprived brains slowly connecting the dots.

"Wait, he didn't arrive with that," one of his mechanics whispered.

"Then who...?"

"He definitely didn't cook that this morning," his race engineer pointed out, eyeing the intricate bento box that Yuki was already unzipping. "Or yesterday."

Someone at the back of the garage finally murmured the realization out loud. "So... someone’s been cooking for him this whole time."

Yuki, thoroughly distracted and already chewing on a perfectly seasoned piece of tamagoyaki, blinked up at his team. "Yeah," he said, entirely casually. "My person does."

My. Person.

You were a chef. Not necessarily world-famous, but you worked hard in the paddock, managing the catering for one of the hospitality suites. And you knew Yuki better than anyone. You knew that despite his profound love for food, the stress of a race weekend often made him forget to eat entirely. You knew he always performed better, felt better, and smiled more when someone took the time to feed him properly.

So, you did. No grand announcements. No stealing the credit when the grid praised his culinary skills. It was just love, quietly packaged in Tupperware and thermos flasks.

Later that afternoon, while Yuki was debriefing, one of his trainers gently opened the lunchbox to check his macros for the day. It wasn't just "random food." It was his absolute favorite meal, precisely adjusted for the carbohydrates and proteins he needed for a high-G-force track. The vegetables were cut beautifully. The balance was flawless. It was a meal made by someone who studied his schedule, knew his body, and knew his heart.

His trainer closed the lid with a soft sigh. "This isn’t just food," he muttered to the head mechanic. "This is care."

Much later, when the chaos of FP2 had finally settled and the sun began to dip below the grandstands, Yuki found you. You were wiping down a stainless steel counter in the quiet of the catering kitchen when you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder.

"I didn't even say goodbye this morning," he mumbled, his voice thick with leftover exhaustion, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You leaned back into him, resting your hands over his. "You were asleep, Y/N. I wasn't going to wake you just to say goodbye."

"You still packed my lunch."

You smiled, turning slightly to press a kiss to his cheek. "Always."

Yuki’s grip tightened just a fraction, his tone shifting into something incredibly soft and sincere. "I eat better when you’re taking care of me."

"I know," you whispered back. "That's why I do it."

From that Friday onward, the narrative in the paddock completely shifted. Nobody ever said, “Yuki cooks for himself” again. Instead, whenever he walked into the garage with a perfectly arranged meal that smelled like heaven, the team would just smile knowingly and say, “Yuki is very loved.”

And you kept cooking. Because you loved your craft, because seeing him eat happily was your favorite thing in the world, and because, to you, feeding him was exactly what it meant to love him.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

"Hello," Bella says, staring straight ahead at the road, not blinking. "Welcome to Box, Box. The only show where I hold people hostage in very fast cars until they tell me their secrets. Today, I am driving a McLaren 720S. I didn't buy it. I borrowed it. From my guest’s boyfriend, who probably doesn't know I have it."

Y/N laughs, reaching up to adjust the sun visor. "He definitely knows. He made me sign a waiver before I got in here with you."

"Legal jargon," Bella dismisses with a wave of her hand, shifting gears. The car growls. "With me today is Y/N. WAG, academic weapon, and the only person who can tolerate Oscar Piastri for more than four consecutive days. Welcome."

"Thank you, Bella. It's an honor to be in Oscar's car with you."

Jump cut.

They are stopped at a red light. Bella turns her head slowly to stare directly at Y/N. The silence stretches for a full four seconds.

"You went to university," Bella states flatly.

"I did," Y/N nods, playing along perfectly with the awkward tension. "I studied Architecture."

"Architecture," Bella repeats. "So, you like looking at buildings."

"I like designing them, yeah."

"Right. Have you ever considered designing a better track for Monaco? Because I think the cars are getting a bit wide."

Y/N snorts, covering her mouth. "I'll put it on my to-do list. Right after I finish my current project."

"Good." Bella hits the gas as the light turns green, throwing them both slightly back into the bucket seats. "So. You and Oscar."

"Me and Oscar," Y/N smiles, a soft, involuntary thing that happens whenever his name is brought up. The comments section of this video is going to absolutely melt over it.

"You are high school sweethearts," Bella says, reading from a crushed piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. "You met in Australia. You’ve been together since before he had a driver's license. Which means you knew him when he had bad hair and took the bus."

"I did," Y/N confirms, grinning now. "I actually had to drive him around for a good six months because I got my license before he did."

Bella pauses, looking genuinely intrigued. "You chauffeured a Formula 1 driver?"

"In a beaten-up Toyota Yaris, yes. He was a terrible passenger. Always telling me I was braking too late."

"Did you ever just... leave him at a petrol station?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Y/N laughs. "But he used to buy me snacks, so I kept him around."

Jump cut.

They are cruising down a scenic, tree-lined road. The lighting is golden hour perfect.

"Are you not bored?" Bella asks abruptly.

Y/N blinks. "Of?"

"Him. You’ve been together for years. Most people our age change relationships like they change tires during a wet race. What is the secret to not getting the ick?"

Y/N leans her head against the headrest, smiling softly at the dashboard. "I think we just grew up together. Instead of growing apart, we just figured out how to fit into each other's weird, chaotic lives. Plus, he's actually really funny. Not just internet-funny, but actually funny."

"He has the emotional range of a very polite robot," Bella observes dryly.

"That's just what he wants you to think," Y/N teases, leaning slightly toward the camera. "Behind closed doors, he's basically a golden retriever."

Bella looks directly into the GoPro lens. "I am trying to picture Oscar Piastri fetching a tennis ball, and my brain is actively rejecting the image."

Y/N bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small cabin of the McLaren, right before Bella aggressively shifts gears again and the engine roars, drowning them out.

Jump cut.

The camera angle has shifted slightly. They are now parked in a drive-thru line, inching forward. Bella is staring blankly at the car in front of them.

"You studied Architecture," Bella says, not looking at Y/N. "Which hospitality building in the paddock is the ugliest? You can be honest. I can blur your mouth."

Y/N laughs, a hand covering her face. "I can't answer that! I have to eat in those buildings."

"Coward," Bella deadpans. "Fine. Which one has the best structural integrity for when a driver inevitably throws a tantrum and throws a chair?"

"McLaren, obviously," Y/N smiles smoothly. "Papaya is a very load-bearing color."

"Good PR answer. Zak Brown is wiring you fifty quid right now."

Jump cut.

They are back on the open road. The 720S purrs as Bella takes a sweeping bend, shockingly adept at handling the supercar despite her relaxed posture.

"What is the worst thing about living with an F1 driver?" Bella asks. "Does he try to hit the apex when he's pushing a trolley around Tesco?"

"Yes, actually," Y/N nods, completely serious. "Grocery shopping is a nightmare. He treats the dairy aisle like it's Parabolica. If someone is moving too slow with their cart, I can literally see him calculating the overtake. I have to physically hold his jacket to stop him from slipping up the inside of an old lady."

Bella blinks slowly. "Has he ever asked for DRS on a straight piece of pavement?"

"No, but he did complain about dirty air once when we were walking behind a group of tourists."

"He's sick in the head," Bella concludes.

"A little bit, yeah."

Jump cut.

Suddenly, the harsh, generic ringing of an incoming call echoes through the car's Bluetooth system. On the sleek center console, the name osc 🧡 flashes brightly.

Bella glances at the screen, then at Y/N, then back to the road. She presses the button on the steering wheel to accept the call.

"You're on Box, Box," Bella announces flatly. "State your emergency."

A beat of silence. Then, Oscar’s very calm, very Australian voice fills the cabin. "Why is my McLaren app telling me that my car is currently doing sixty in a thirty zone?"

Y/N instantly bursts into laughter, leaning out of the frame slightly.

Bella doesn't even flinch. "Your app is broken. We are stationary. I am a very safe driver."

"I can literally hear the engine, Bella," Oscar sighs. The long-suffering tone is palpable even through the speakers. "Hi, darling."

"Hi," Y/N says, grinning at the dashboard. "I'm alive. She hasn't crashed it yet."

"That's reassuring," Oscar says dryly. "Could you kindly remind the host of this kidnapping that she promised to bring it back with a full tank?"

"I don't believe in petrol," Bella says to the steering wheel. "It's a construct. Goodbye, Oscar."

Bella aggressively hits the hang-up button. The cabin returns to the low hum of the engine. She looks at Y/N.

"He seems needy."

Y/N is still wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "So needy."

Jump cut.

The car is now parked in an empty, scenic layby overlooking the city. The engine is finally off. Bella turns her entire torso to face Y/N, clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Y/N. It has been a pleasure having you in your boyfriend's car. Do you have any final words for the internet?"

Y/N smiles, looking right into the GoPro. "Don't let Bella borrow your car."

"Spiteful," Bella mutters. "And what about Oscar? Any message for him?"

Y/N softens just a fraction, the golden hour light catching her eyes. "I'll see you at home. I'll bring snacks."

"Disgusting," Bella says, deadpan. "I'm ending the video now. Get out."

Y/N laughs, the sound fading perfectly as the screen abruptly cuts to black.

-

The screen remains black for a few seconds before simple, white text appears: BONUS FOOTAGE (Because McLaren’s PR team threatened to sue me)

Jump cut.

The GoPro is back on, but the car is moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Bella is attempting to parallel park the 720S between a skip bin and a very battered Ford Fiesta.

"You have about two inches on your left," Y/N instructs, leaning out of the passenger window, squinting. "Wait, no. That's a spatial illusion. You have zero inches."

"I am an apex predator of the road," Bella mutters, white-knuckling the carbon-fiber steering wheel. "I don't need inches."

"Bella, if you scratch this car, Oscar won't yell at you, but he will just stare at you with immense disappointment, and I promise you that's much worse."

Bella hits the brakes, freezing the car in place. She stares blankly at the dashboard. "I can't handle the disappointed Australian sigh. I'm leaving it here. We are walking."

Jump cut.

Bella and Y/N are sitting in the parked car eating chips out of a greasy paper bag.

"So," Bella says, chewing thoughtfully. "Does he sleep in his race suit?"

Y/N chokes on a chip, coughing into her hand. "No, Bella. He wears normal pajamas. Or sweatpants."

"I bet they have sponsors on them."

"They don't."

"Are you sure? Have you checked the waistband for a stray Dell logo?"

Cut to black.

Later That Evening

The heavy front door of the apartment clicked shut. Y/N dropped her keys into the small ceramic bowl by the entrance, the satisfying clink echoing through the quiet hallway.

"I'm alive," Y/N announced to the apartment. "And I brought the snacks I promised."

"In the kitchen!" Oscar’s voice called out, followed by the sound of the fridge closing.

Y/N walked in to find him leaning against the kitchen island, wearing a grey hoodie and looking infuriatingly relaxed. He raised an eyebrow as she placed a crinkled bag of his favorite crisps on the marble counter.

"You survived," Oscar observed, his lips twitching into a small smile as he pulled her in by the waist. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "More importantly, did my car survive?"

"Barely," Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "She tried to parallel park near a dumpster. I had to use my architectural degree to calculate the angles so we didn't scrape the paint."

Oscar let out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I knew I shouldn't have given her the keys. But she cornered me in the paddock, and it’s very hard to say no when she’s staring at you without blinking."

"She asked me if you sleep in your race suit."

"What did you say?"

"I told her you had a Pirelli logo stamped on your lower back."

Oscar groaned, letting his head drop forward to rest against her shoulder. "The internet is going to run with that. Lando is never going to let me hear the end of it."

"Oh, it gets better," Y/N teased, running her fingers lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I also told her that behind closed doors, you have the personality of a golden retriever."

Oscar lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at her in mock offense. "I am a ruthless competitor, Y/N. I am a fierce, cold-blooded racing driver."

"Mhm. Sure you are," Y/N smiled, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "Now, are we going to open these snacks, or is the ruthless competitor too cool for salt and vinegar?"

Oscar looked at the bag of crisps, then back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I suppose even fierce racing drivers need a snack break."

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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It was a futile effort. Lando Norris had a terrifying gleam in his eye and a magnum of Ferrari Trento already popped. He didn't just spray it; he aimed with the precision of a sniper, soaking the back of her race suit until the chilled champagne soaked right through to her fireproofs.

To her left, Oscar Piastri was methodically shaking his own bottle, looking entirely too calm for the ensuing warfare. He waited until Lando was distracted by Y/N's retaliation before absolutely drenching his teammate from the side.

It was a perfect afternoon. The car had been flawless, the strategy immaculate, and sharing the podium with her two best friends on the grid was the dream. But as Y/N wiped the stinging champagne from her eyes and looked down into the sea of papaya and neon green below, her eyes snagged on one specific figure standing near the media barriers.

Jenson Button.

He was in his Sky Sports uniform, microphone in hand, watching the podium antics with a wide, crinkling smile. When he caught Y/N looking, he raised a hand, giving her a pointed, proud thumbs-up.

Y/N’s heart did a ridiculous, entirely un-aerodynamic flip. She waved back, feeling a flush creep up her neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the exertion of a seventy-lap race.

"Staring is rude, mate," a voice yelled into her ear.

Y/N jumped, nearly slipping on the champagne-slicked podium. Lando had sidled up next to her, his arm slung heavy and wet over her shoulders. He followed her line of sight, his grin widening into something distinctly devious. "Though I suppose when it’s Jense, we can make an exception."

"Shut up, Lando," Y/N muttered, elbowing him in the ribs.

"I’m just saying," Lando sing-songed, dodging her elbow with practiced ease. "You won the British Grand Prix. If there was ever a day to finally ask him out, it’s today."

"I am not asking him out. He’s... he’s Jenson Button. And he sees me like a kid sister."

"He sees you like a phenomenal driver who is currently making heart-eyes at him from a literal pedestal," Oscar chimed in, having somehow materialized on her other side. He took a casual sip straight from his champagne bottle. "Just put yourself out of your misery, Y/N. The pining is exhausting for all of us."

"I don't pine," Y/N argued, though the argument lost some of its heat as she snuck another glance down. Jenson was already turning away, talking to a producer, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the main topic of conversation on the podium.

An hour later, the adrenaline had faded into a bone-deep, satisfying exhaustion. Y/N was sitting on the small sofa in her driver room inside the Ferrari motorhome, dressed in a fresh team t-shirt and sweatpants, aggressively towel-drying her hair.

There was a soft knock on the half-open door before a familiar face poked in.

"Just wanted to give my congratulations in person before the madness of the evening sets in."

Y/N nearly dropped the towel. Jenson leaned against the doorframe, looking effortlessly handsome in his crisp white shirt. The sheer unfairness of how good the man looked after spending hours in the hot paddock made Y/N’s throat dry.

"Thanks, Jense," she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay level. "It was a wild one out there."

"You drove brilliantly," he said, stepping into the room. His eyes were warm, full of that genuine pride that always made Y/N feel ten feet tall. "Your tire management in the second stint was textbook. I was watching your onboard; you didn't put a foot wrong."

"I had a good car under me," she deflected modestly, though she couldn't stop the beam that spread across her face.

"Don't downplay it. You earned that top step." Jenson reached out, giving her shoulder a fond, brief squeeze. The warmth of his hand lingered long after he pulled away. "You kids go have fun tonight. Don't let Lando get you in too much trouble."

"No promises," Y/N laughed, ignoring the way her pulse fluttered at the physical contact. "Have a good flight back."

"Will do. See you in Hungary, Y/N."

With a final, devastating smile, he turned and headed down the corridor. Y/N let out a long, pathetic breath, sinking back into the sofa cushions and burying her face in the towel.

"You are so painful to watch."

Y/N whipped the towel away to see Lando standing in the doorway, Oscar right behind him.

"How long have you two been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to see you basically melt into a puddle because he touched your shoulder," Lando snorted, walking in and throwing himself onto the armchair opposite her. Oscar took the spot next to Y/N on the sofa, looking at her with a mix of amusement and pity.

"It's not my fault he's perfect," Y/N grumbled, tossing the damp towel at Lando's face. He caught it effortlessly. "And it doesn't matter anyway. You heard him. 'You kids go have fun.' He thinks I'm a child."

"He thinks you're twenty-something, which you are," Oscar corrected sensibly. "And he's a polite, professional guy who isn't going to hit on a younger driver in the middle of the Ferrari motorhome."

"Exactly," Lando agreed, leaning forward, the devious glint back in his eyes. "Which is why he needs a gentle push. A push in a more... relaxed environment."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at her teammate. "Lando. What did you do?"

"We are going all out tonight," Lando declared, completely ignoring her question. "Podium sweep calls for a massive celebration. I've booked out the VIP section at The Box. And I've made an executive decision regarding the guest list."

Y/N felt a sense of impending doom. "Tell me you didn't."

"I ran into Jense while he was leaving," Lando beamed, looking far too pleased with himself. "Told him the team was having a relaxed get-together to celebrate the sweep, and that it would mean a lot to you if he came for a drink."

"Lando!" Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"He's meeting us there at eleven," Lando finished smoothly. "You're welcome. Now go do your makeup. You have a World Champion to woo."

The vibrant scarlet of Y/N’s Ferrari race suit hung in the corner of her hotel room, a stark contrast to the sleek, black silk dress she had just pulled from her suitcase. It had been a historic day for the Scuderia, winning at Silverstone, but the "sweep" Lando had been bragging about was a purely personal one. Y/N in first for Ferrari, with her two McLaren best friends flanking her in second and third.

A sharp knock on the adjoining door pulled her from her nerves.

"Come in, Charles!" she called out, struggling with the clasp of her necklace.

Charles Leclerc pushed the door open, already dressed in a sharp designer jacket, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He walked over, gently batting her hands away to clasp the delicate gold chain around her neck himself.

"You look incredible," Charles said, his reflection meeting hers in the mirror. "Though, I assume the extra effort isn't just to celebrate bringing the trophy back to Maranello?"

Y/N sighed, leaning back against him slightly. "Word travels fast."

"Lando texted me. In all caps. He is very proud of himself for inviting Jenson," Charles chuckled, patting her shoulders before stepping back. "Don't stress, mon ange. Button is a gentleman, and you are a Grand Prix winner. Just be yourself."

"Myself is currently terrified and wants to hide under the duvet," Y/N admitted.

"Well, you are not allowed to hide. I need my teammate to look triumphant tonight." Charles offered her his arm. "Come on. Let's go meet the McLaren boys before they drink the club dry."

By the time Y/N and Charles arrived at the VIP section of The Box, the music was a physical weight in the air, pulsing with heavy bass. Lando and Oscar were already installed in a plush semicircular booth, surrounded by sparklers and an absurd amount of vodka.

"There she is! The woman of the hour!" Lando cheered over the music, practically vibrating with excitement. He patted the empty leather seat next to him. "Sit, sit. He isn't here yet."

"If you make this weird, Norris, I swear I'll put you in the wall in Budapest," Y/N threatened, though she slid into the booth anyway, accepting a glass of champagne from Oscar.

"I'm the perfect wingman," Lando insisted, looking offended.

Ten minutes later, the velvet rope lifted, and Y/N’s heart plummeted straight into her stomach.

Jenson looked devastating. Away from the bright paddock lights and team gear, he wore a simple, perfectly tailored dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He navigated the crowded club with effortless charisma, shaking a few hands before sliding into the booth—right into the empty space on Y/N's other side.

"Evening, lads," Jenson greeted, his voice a warm rumble over the heavy beat of the music. He turned his attention to Y/N, and the crinkles around his bright blue eyes appeared as he smiled. "And there's the race winner. I see you managed to get all the champagne out of your hair."

"It took three washes," Y/N laughed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was sitting. His knee casually brushed against hers, sending a spark of electricity shooting up her leg.

"Well, you look lovely," Jenson said effortlessly, pouring himself a drink. "Congratulations again, Y/N. A Ferrari win at Silverstone is something special."

"Thank you, Jense."

Y/N took a desperate sip of her champagne. He was too charming, too close, and smelled incredible—like expensive cologne and clean rain. She needed to calm down. She needed a strategy.

Liquid courage, her brain supplied unhelpfully. Just one shot to take the edge off.

One shot of tequila, generously poured by Lando, turned into two. Two turned into a vodka cranberry handed to her by Charles, who was now deep in conversation with Oscar.

By 1:30 AM, the edge wasn't just taken off; it was thoroughly obliterated. Y/N felt loose, bold, and incredibly warm. The heavy bass of the club felt like a heartbeat, and the anxiety that had been choking her all evening had evaporated, replaced by a hazy, affectionate confidence.

"You know," Y/N slurred slightly, leaning heavily against Jenson's side so he could hear her over the track. Her hand somehow found its way to his bicep, her fingers giving the solid muscle an experimental squeeze. "You're really, really pretty."

Jenson paused mid-sip, his eyes widening slightly before a soft, amused chuckle vibrated against her shoulder. "Thank you, Y/N. That's very kind. But I think you might have had a bit too much to drink."

"No, I haven't!" she protested indignantly. She tried to sit up straight to prove her sobriety, but the sudden movement made the room tilt wildly.

Jenson’s arm instinctively shot out, his large hand wrapping firmly around her waist to steady her before she could topple into the table. The firm, protective contact sent a dizzying jolt straight through her hazy brain.

"Whoa there, careful," Jenson murmured, his tone shifting from casual amusement to gentle concern. He kept his arm securely around her.

"I'm just... being honest," Y/N insisted, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. "I wanted to tell you something very important. A secret."

She leaned in, her lips hovering inches from his ear, entirely intent on confessing her undying love right there in the middle of a London nightclub. But as she inhaled, a sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness washed over her. The flashing strobe lights became blinding, and instead of a smooth confession, she let out a soft groan and dropped her forehead heavily against his shoulder.

Across the table, Lando was trying—and failing—to muffle his laughter into his sleeve, while Charles suddenly looked very protective, leaning forward.

Jenson caught Charles's eye and gave a gentle, knowing shake of his head, silently communicating that he had it handled.

"Alright, I think the Ferrari star has officially hit her limit," Jenson said smoothly, his voice cutting through the noise. He stood up, keeping a steadying grip on Y/N’s arm and carefully bringing her to her feet with him. "I'm going to get her back to the hotel."

"I can take her, Jenson, it's no problem," Charles offered, standing up as well.

"Don't worry about it, Charles. You boys stay and celebrate. You earned it," Jenson insisted warmly. He looked down at Y/N, who was swaying slightly, her eyes closed as she clung to his shirt. "I've got her."

Lando grinned, raising his glass in a silent, triumphant toast.

"Come on, sweetheart," Jenson coaxed softly, wrapping his arm around her waist and supporting most of her weight. "Let's get you out of this noise."

The blast of cool London air outside the club was a welcome relief against Y/N's flushed skin, though it did absolutely nothing to sober her up. She stumbled slightly on the uneven pavement, but Jenson’s arm was a solid, unwavering band of steel around her waist, keeping her upright as he hailed a black cab.

"Careful, I've got you," he murmured, his hand securely on the small of her back as he guided her into the leather backseat.

Y/N slumped against the upholstery, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. Jenson climbed in beside her, giving the driver the name of her hotel before settling back. He didn't pull away; instead, he let Y/N rest her heavy head against his shoulder. The car smelled faintly of leather, but beneath it was the distinct, comforting scent of Jenson.

"You smell nice," Y/N mumbled into his shirt collar, her lack of filter fully taking the wheel. "Like... rain. And expensive things."

Jenson let out a rich, quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against her cheek. "I'll take that as a compliment. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy," she admitted, closing her eyes. Her fingers loosely curled into the fabric of his shirt. "I think the champagne and the tequila decided to go to war in my stomach."

"That sounds about right for a podium celebration," he said gently. He reached over, his hand resting lightly over hers to keep her from tugging a button off his shirt. His thumb stroked her knuckles—a small, soothing gesture that made Y/N’s heart ache with how much she liked him.

The rest of the ride passed in a comfortable, sleepy blur. When they arrived at the hotel, Jenson expertly navigated her through the quiet, dimly lit lobby and into the elevator. Y/N leaned most of her weight against him, giggling softly when she couldn't figure out the latch on her small clutch to find her room key.

"Allow me," Jenson said with an amused smile, taking the bag from her hands and smoothly extracting the keycard.

He swiped them into her room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them to block out the rest of the world. He guided her straight to the edge of the large, plush bed, easing her down until she was sitting.

"Okay, let's get these off," he instructed softly, kneeling in front of her. He carefully unbuckled the straps of her heels, slipping them off her feet and setting them aside.

Y/N watched him through half-lidded eyes, the hazy alcohol fog making everything feel warm and surreal. He was a Formula 1 legend, a World Champion, and here he was, carefully taking off her shoes and pulling the duvet back so she could sleep. He didn't seem annoyed or burdened; he was just entirely focused on making sure she was safe and comfortable.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a glass of water and a cool, damp washcloth. He set the water on the nightstand next to two ibuprofen pills.

"Look at me," he murmured, stepping into the space between her knees.

Y/N tilted her head up. Jenson gently cupped her jaw with one hand, using the damp washcloth in his other hand to carefully wipe away the smudged eyeliner and glitter from under her eyes. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent. She let her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

"Why are you so nice to me?" she whispered into the quiet room, her voice vulnerable and thick with exhaustion.

Jenson paused, his thumb gently brushing across her cheekbone before he pulled the washcloth away.

"Because I care about you, Y/N," he replied simply, his voice low and incredibly soft. He guided her shoulders down until her head hit the pillows, pulling the thick duvet up to her chin. "Now, get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Y/N woke up to the sensation of a jackhammer working directly behind her forehead. She groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes to block out the harsh morning sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.

"Good morning."

Y/N froze.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, painfully, she lowered her arm and peeked out.

Jenson was sitting in the small armchair by the window. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, dressed in the same shirt as last night, though it was slightly rumpled now. He looked entirely too put-together for someone who had babysat a drunk driver until the early hours of the morning.

The memories of the previous night came rushing back in agonizing, technicolor flashes. Calling him pretty. Squeezing his bicep. The taxi ride. Him wiping off her makeup.

"Oh my god," Y/N croaked, immediately dragging the duvet over her face to hide. "Please tell me I didn't say half the things I think I said."

Jenson chuckled, the sound rich and warm. She heard his chair scrape against the carpet, followed by the dip of the mattress as he sat on the edge of her bed. He gently pulled the duvet down just enough to reveal her mortified face.

He handed her a fresh cup of tea from room service and tapped the pills still sitting on the nightstand. "Drink. And take those."

She obeyed, swallowing the pills with a wince before clutching the warm mug in her hands. She couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Jenson. I made an absolute idiot of myself."

"You didn't," he assured her, his tone completely genuine. "Though I have to admit, having a Ferrari driver call me 'really, really pretty' did wonders for my ego."

Y/N flushed a deep, violent shade of scarlet, staring down at the tea leaves swirling in her cup. "I meant it," she mumbled, deciding she had already hit rock bottom and had nothing left to lose. "But I didn't mean to dump it on you while I was completely hammered. Lando kept teasing me about it, and I wanted to finally say something, but I got nervous and... well. Tequila happened."

She finally took a deep, shaky breath and forced herself to look up at him. "I really like you, Jenson. Have for a long time."

The room went quiet. Y/N braced herself for the polite, gentle rejection. The speech Charles had promised wouldn't happen, the one about how she was great but he just saw her as a friend.

Instead, Jenson shifted closer. He reached out, his large hand gently covering both of hers around the mug. His thumb lightly stroked her knuckles, just like it had in the taxi. Y/N looked at his face, completely surprised to find him smiling—a soft, incredibly fond expression that made her breath hitch.

"I know," he said softly.

Y/N blinked, her hangover temporarily forgotten. "You knew?"

"Well, Lando isn't exactly subtle. And honestly, Y/N, neither are you." He laughed lightly, shaking his head. "But I didn't want to overstep. There's an age difference, and I work for the media while you're racing... I didn't want to make you uncomfortable if I had misread the situation, or if it was just a passing paddock crush."

"It's not," she said quickly, her heart doing a frantic, joyful leap.

"I'm very glad to hear that," Jenson murmured. He reached up, his free hand gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. The air between them shifted, the casual, friendly tension melting into something far more intimate and real. "Because I really like you too, Y/N. Have for a very long time."

Y/N couldn't help the massive, disbelieving grin that broke out across her face, despite the pounding in her head. "So... no more liquid courage needed?"

Jenson laughed, leaning forward. His lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, sending a rush of warmth straight to her toes.

"No more liquid courage needed," he promised, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "Now, finish your tea, try not to move your head too fast, and let me take you out on a proper, sober date tonight."

That evening, the chaotic bass of The Box was replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware at a dimly lit, private Italian restaurant tucked away in Mayfair.

Y/N felt a different kind of nervous this time. There was no racing adrenaline to hide behind, and absolutely no tequila to blur the edges. She was completely sober, painfully aware of every time Jenson’s hand brushed hers across the crisp white tablecloth, and entirely mesmerized by the way the candlelight caught his eyes.

"You're very quiet," Jenson observed with a fond smile, taking a sip of his wine. He had insisted Y/N stick to sparkling water for the first half of the dinner, a decision her recovering head had deeply appreciated. "Regretting letting me take you out?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N admitted quickly. She traced the rim of her water glass, a shy smile pulling at her lips. "I just keep waiting to wake up. Yesterday I was convinced you only saw me as Charles's annoying younger teammate."

"Never annoying," Jenson corrected smoothly. "Intimidatingly fast, occasionally reckless on turn four, but never annoying. And for the record, I’ve wanted to take you to dinner since Miami. I just... needed a sign that I wouldn't be crossing a line."

"Well," Y/N laughed softly, a blush warming her cheeks. "I'm pretty sure slurring 'you're really pretty' into your collar was less of a sign and more of a billboard."

"It was highly effective," he teased, his eyes crinkling. He reached across the table, his fingers gently wrapping around hers. The simple contact sent a thrill straight to her chest. "Best post-race debrief I've ever had."

The rest of the evening flowed effortlessly. They talked about everything and nothing—the nuances of the Ferrari car this season, Jenson's broadcasting work, Oscar's uncanny ability to remain deadpan in any situation, and the sheer terror of Lando with a champagne bottle.

When they finally stepped out of the restaurant, the cool London night felt refreshing. Without missing a beat, Jenson interlaced his fingers with hers, tucking their joined hands into the pocket of his coat as they walked down the quiet, cobblestone street.

When they reached the entrance of her hotel, they stopped beneath the warm glow of the awning. Jenson turned to face her, his free hand coming up to gently cup her jaw.

"Thank you for letting me take you out, Y/N," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone, just like he had the night before—only this time, she was perfectly clear-headed to memorize the feeling.

"Thank you for being brave enough to ask out the girl who threw herself at you in a nightclub," she whispered back, leaning into his touch.

Jenson laughed, a soft, breathy sound, before he leaned down.

The kiss was entirely different from the fast-paced, high-stakes world they lived in. It was slow, sweet, and incredibly deliberate. Y/N’s hands found the lapels of his coat, pulling him just a fraction closer as her eyes fluttered shut. When they finally pulled apart, they were both smiling, the cool night air doing nothing to dampen the warmth radiating between them.

"I'll see you in Hungary," Jenson promised, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Two weeks later, the blistering heat of the Hungaroring was taking its toll on the paddock, but Y/N felt lighter than she had all season.

She was walking out of the Ferrari hospitality unit, fully suited up and ready for FP1, when she felt an arm sling heavily over her shoulders.

"So," Lando drawled, matching her pace as Oscar fell into step on her other side. "I noticed a certain World Champion looking particularly smug in the media pen this morning. And I noticed my favorite Ferrari driver is practically glowing. Did the wingman of the century deliver?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Y/N replied primly, though she couldn't suppress her smile.

"Liar," Oscar said flatly, taking a sip from his water bottle. "You're terrible at hiding it. Lando is demanding a finder's fee."

"I am!" Lando insisted. "I set the trap, I provided the tequila, I facilitated the romance! I deserve a cut of the happiness."

Before Y/N could formulate a witty comeback, Charles suddenly appeared in front of them, dressed in his own scarlet race suit. He took one look at Lando's smug expression and Y/N's flushed face and sighed, though his eyes were dancing with amusement.

"Leave my teammate alone, McLaren," Charles ordered playfully, pulling Y/N away from Lando's grip and throwing a protective arm around her shoulders. "She needs to focus on beating you today, not listening to you take credit for her love life."

"Hey, I'm just looking out for my girl!" Lando called out as Charles guided her toward the garage.

As they approached the back of the Ferrari garage, Y/N spotted a familiar figure in a light blue shirt, chatting with her race engineer. Jenson looked up as she approached, and that devastating, crinkly-eyed smile broke across his face.

Charles gave Y/N's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I will give you two minutes. Then, it is visor down, yes?"

"Yes, Charles," Y/N laughed.

As Charles walked into the garage, Jenson stepped closer. He couldn't exactly kiss her in front of a dozen mechanics and roaming cameras, but he didn't need to. He reached out, his hand casually resting on the small of her back as he leaned in to speak over the roar of the engines firing up.

"Good luck out there today," Jenson murmured, his voice sending a familiar, wonderful shiver down her spine. "I'll be watching your onboard."

Y/N looked up at him, her heart completely full, knowing that for the first time, she didn't have to hide the way she looked at him.

"You better be," Y/N smiled, dropping her voice so only he could hear. "I need to impress my boyfriend, after all."

Jenson's eyes darkened slightly, his smile turning wicked as his hand tightened just a fraction on her waist. "You already have, sweetheart. Now go show them how it's done."

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

ynuser

liked by carlossainz55 and others

ynuser That’s a wrap on principal photography for The Missing Piece! 🎬 Six months, countless sleepless nights, and the most incredible crew. Now boarding a flight back to London to sleep for a solid week.

carlossainz55 The most talented director I know. Rest up, Y/N. I’m bringing the good coffee tomorrow

ynuser @ carlossainz55 You better. And the pastries 😁

user wait, Carlos commenting within 2 minutes of her posting? The notifications are ON

lando Finally! Can we actually hang out now or are you still "in your artistic zone"?

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ynuser

liked by carlossainz55 and others

ynuser The perfect mix of Saturday night and the rest of my life 🍷

carlossainz55 Mi vida ❤️ I told you it was easy

ynuser @ carlossainz55 The easiest thing I've ever done.

lando FINALLY. I AM FREE FROM KEEPING SECRETS.

charles_leclerc We can finally talk about something else at dinner. So happy for you both

user I FELL TO MY KNEES IN A WALMART

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carlossainz55

liked by ynuser and 2.3M users

carlossainz55 My missing piece ❤️🏎️ So happy to have you here!

ynuser The icing on my cake ❤️ Good luck tomorrow #55

charles_leclerc Finally, she brings some actual culture and art to this place

carlossainz55 @ charles_leclerc Excuse me?

lando Mom and Dad

user HE HARD LAUNCHED HER WITH A CAROUSEL OH MY GOD

user She looks so natural in the paddock! We love a supportive director gf

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© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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Max was in a foul mood. Free Practice 2 had been a disaster of red flags and zero grip, and he had retreated to the quietest corner of the Red Bull Energy Station to escape the frantic engineers. The hospitality area was supposed to be empty, shut down for the evening to everyone except essential personnel.

But as Max rounded the corner toward the espresso bar, he heard a sharp, very un-heiress-like string of curses.

He stopped, leaning silently against the doorframe.

Y/N was standing in front of the massive, industrial espresso machine. She was wearing a flawless, structured white blazer, looking like she belonged on the cover of Forbes, but her posture was rigid with absolute fury. She jammed a button on the machine. Nothing happened. She hit it again, harder this time.

"Come on," Y/N hissed, her voice vibrating with a raw, desperate exhaustion that caught Max entirely off guard. "Just one cup. Do not do this to me."

The machine whirred, hissed aggressively, and spat a stream of cold, murky water all over the pristine marble counter—and directly onto the sleeve of her blazer.

Y/N froze. For a second, Max thought she was going to cry. The perfect, smiling asset that her father paraded around the grid looked completely shattered over a broken coffee machine.

Instead of crying, Y/N let out a breath, grabbed a fistful of napkins, and aggressively slammed them onto the counter. "Fine," she whispered fiercely to the machine. "Be useless. See if I care."

She kicked the base of the heavy metal counter with the toe of her designer heel—a sharp, violent thud that echoed in the empty room.

A low, involuntary chuckle escaped Max’s chest.

Y/N whipped around, her eyes wide, the mask slamming back into place so fast it gave Max whiplash. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and the furious, real girl vanished behind a polite, deadened smile.

"Max," she said smoothly, though he could see her pulse jumping at her throat. "I apologize. I didn't realize anyone was still here."

Max didn't smile back. He didn't like the mask. He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly toward her, his eyes locked on hers. He didn't stop until he was entirely in her personal space, close enough to smell the vanilla perfume and the bitter scent of the spilled espresso.

He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and flipped a hidden override switch on the back of the machine. The digital screen hummed to life, glowing a warm green.

"You have to reset the boiler after the cleaning cycle," Max said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled a fresh cup, locked the portafilter in place, and hit the extraction button. A perfect, dark shot of espresso began to pour.

Y/N stared at the coffee, then slowly looked up at him. The polite smile faltered, just a fraction. "Right. Thank you."

Max picked up the cup and held it out to her. When her fingers brushed his to take it, he didn't let go right away. His blue eyes dragged over her ruined white sleeve, and then back up to her exhausted, guarded eyes.

"For what it's worth," Max murmured, his voice dropping into that blunt, intense honesty he reserved for very few people. "I liked you better when you were kicking the counter."

He finally released the cup and walked away, leaving Y/N staring after him, the first tiny crack forming in her armor.

For Oscar, the realization came a month later, beneath the glittering chandeliers of a VIP gala in Monza.

The room was suffocatingly loud, packed with team principals, celebrities, and the corporate elite. Oscar hated these events, but McLaren expected him to make an appearance. He was seated at a table near the back, quietly observing the room with a glass of sparkling water, when he noticed her.

Y/N was seated three tables away, trapped in a conversation with two tech billionaires and her father. From a distance, she looked perfect. She was nodding at the right intervals, offering polite, composed smiles, and holding a champagne flute with absolute elegance.

But Oscar was a driver who made his living noticing the micro-details that everyone else missed.

He watched the way her knuckles were entirely white where she gripped the stem of the glass. He noticed that her polite smile never once reached her eyes—they looked glassy, thousand-yard-staring through the men talking at her.

Then, Oscar saw her shift her weight slightly under the table. Her foot slipped out of her towering stiletto heel, just for a second, seeking relief on the carpeted floor. It was a tiny, desperate motion. She was miserable. She was being held hostage in plain sight.

Oscar set his water glass down. He didn't overthink it; he just acted.

He navigated through the crowded tables with quiet efficiency, approaching her father's circle just as one of the tech executives was launching into a droning monologue about market shares.

"Excuse me," Oscar interrupted smoothly, his voice polite but carrying enough authority to halt the conversation.

Her father looked annoyed, but seeing the McLaren driver, he forced a smile. "Ah, Piastri. Enjoying the evening?"

"Very much," Oscar lied effortlessly. He didn't look at her father; his dark, observant eyes dropped entirely to Y/N. "Actually, I was hoping to steal your daughter for a moment. McLaren’s aerodynamicist was just debating the drag coefficient of the new rear wing, and Y/N promised she'd settle the bet."

It was a completely absurd excuse. Y/N’s father knew it. The tech billionaires looked confused.

But Y/N looked at Oscar like he had just thrown her a life raft in the middle of a hurricane.

"Of course," Y/N said quickly. She slipped her foot seamlessly back into her heel and stood up, placing the untouched champagne on the table. "Duty calls. Gentlemen."

Oscar offered his arm, a perfectly gentlemanly gesture for the cameras, and she took it. Her grip on his forearm was tight, her fingers trembling slightly.

He led her away from the tables, bypassing the aerodynamicists entirely, and steered them out onto a quiet, dimly lit balcony overlooking the Italian gardens. The heavy glass doors shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the gala instantly.

Y/N dropped his arm, turning her back to the glass doors. She let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders slumping as the perfect posture dissolved.

"Aerodynamics?" Y/N asked, looking over at him.

Oscar leaned against the stone balustrade, crossing his arms comfortably. "It was either that, or tell them I needed you to explain the geopolitical history of the tire blanket ban. I went with the more believable lie."

For a second, Y/N just stared at him. And then, it happened.

A laugh slipped out of her. It wasn't the polite, breathy chuckle she gave the board members. It was a real, bright, surprised laugh that completely transformed her face. The heavy, guarded look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a brilliant, unfiltered relief.

Oscar felt the air knock out of his lungs. It was like watching a completely different person step out of the shadows.

"Thank you," Y/N breathed, a genuine smile lingering on her lips as she looked at him. "I think I owed you a rescue."

"Anytime," Oscar replied softly, his eyes tracing the new, relaxed lines of her face. He filed the sound of that laugh away in his mind, making a quiet, concrete decision right then and there.

He was going to make sure she never had to fake a smile around him again.

Once Max and Oscar had seen the girl beneath the heiress, they couldn't unsee her. And more dangerously, they couldn't stop looking for her.

As the European leg of the season dragged on, a bizarre, unspoken phenomenon began to occur in the paddock. Wherever Y/N was forced to stand for prolonged PR appearances, either a dark blue Red Bull cap or a papaya McLaren jacket would inevitably appear on the periphery.

It started subtle.

In Hungary, when a gaggle of aggressive photographers cornered Y/N near the VIP turnstiles, Oscar "accidentally" stopped to tie his shoe directly in their path, creating a bottleneck that allowed her to slip away into the Red Bull hospitality suite unnoticed.

Two weeks later in Spa, it was Max. Y/N had been forced to stand in the pouring rain on the grid while her father gave an excruciatingly long television interview. Max had finished his own media duties, but instead of retreating to the dry garage, he casually leaned against his car’s front wing, angling an oversized team umbrella just enough to shield her from the worst of the downpour. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak to her. But he stood in the freezing rain for ten solid minutes until her father finally moved on.

They were orbiting her. Separately. Silently.

But it was only a matter of time before their orbits collided.

The collision happened in the sweltering, suffocating humidity of the Singapore Grand Prix.

Y/N had been running on three hours of sleep, paraded through endless late-night sponsor dinners. By Saturday afternoon, the exhaustion was radiating off her in waves.

Max had been tracking her movements since Thursday. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup artist couldn't quite hide, and the slight tremor in her hands when she handed her father a microphone during a press event. Max's protective instincts were practically vibrating.

After Free Practice 3, Max bypassed his debrief entirely. He grabbed a bottle of electrolyte water and walked straight out the back of the Red Bull garage, intending to pull Y/N into his driver’s room the moment she stepped out of the FIA hospitality suite.

But when he rounded the corner, she wasn't there.

Max’s eyes narrowed, scanning the crowded paddock. He spotted the trailing edge of her father's entourage heading toward the Paddock Club, but Y/N wasn't with them.

Max moved with predatory focus, checking the usual hiding spots. The terrace. The media center fire escape. Nothing.

Finally, acting on a gut instinct he couldn't entirely explain, Max crossed enemy lines. He walked straight into the McLaren hospitality center.

The papaya-clad mechanics and PR reps stared at the reigning World Champion striding into their territory, but nobody was brave enough to stop him. Max ignored them all, heading straight for the private driver rooms at the back.

He didn't bother knocking on Oscar's door. He just opened it.

The blast of icy air conditioning hit Max first. Then, he saw her.

Y/N was curled up in the corner of Oscar's small, heavily air-conditioned driver room, fast asleep. She had a McLaren team towel draped over her legs to combat the chill, and her head was resting against the plush fabric of the sofa. The tense, rigid lines of her face were completely smoothed out. She looked peaceful.

Oscar was sitting in the armchair opposite her, scrolling through data on his tablet. He didn't look up when the door opened, completely unbothered by the intrusion.

"Close the door, Max," Oscar murmured quietly, finally flicking his dark eyes up to meet Max’s. "You're letting the heat in."

Max stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. He looked from the sleeping girl to the McLaren driver, his jaw tight. The bottle of electrolyte water in his hand suddenly felt redundant. Oscar had already placed a fresh, unopened bottle on the coffee table right next to Y/N’s phone.

"Her father is looking for her," Max said, keeping his voice to a low rumble so he wouldn't wake her.

"I know," Oscar replied calmly, setting his tablet down. "I told his assistant she got called into a meeting with Zak about the branding on the rear wing. Bought her an hour."

Max crossed his arms, staring at Oscar. The territorial fire that always burned in Max’s chest flared, urging him to grab Y/N, wake her up, and drag her back to his own territory. But as he watched Oscar—who was sitting guard with the exact same lethal, quiet devotion that Max felt—the fire shifted into something else. Recognition.

"You're tracking her," Max stated bluntly.

"So are you," Oscar countered smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze locking with Max's in a silent challenge. "I saw you block that Netflix crew from her in the pit lane yesterday."

"I saw you accidentally spill your water on that creepy tech investor who wouldn't leave her alone in Miami," Max shot back.

The two drivers stared at each other in the dim light of the room, the sleeping heiress breathing softly between them. They were apex predators in a cutthroat sport, trained to exploit weaknesses and destroy the competition. Sharing was not in their DNA.

But Y/N wasn't a championship trophy. She was a girl drowning in a gilded cage. And for the first time, Max and Oscar looked at each other and realized that neither of them had the power to pull her out alone without causing a PR explosion that would drag her down with them.

Max let out a slow, sharp exhale, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He walked over, setting his electrolyte water on the table right next to Oscar's.

"Her dad’s people will start swarming this building in twenty minutes," Max said, his tone shifting from adversarial to tactical. "If you take her out the back exit, I'll go out the front and start an argument with Laurent in plain sight. Every camera in the paddock will turn toward me."

Oscar’s mouth twitched into a slow, begrudging smirk. He looked at Max, the silent rivalry transforming instantly into an ironclad alliance.

"Distraction duty again, Verstappen?" Oscar asked quietly. "Careful. I might start thinking you're a team player."

"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his own mouth. He looked down at Y/N one last time, his eyes softening completely, before turning back to the door. "Twenty minutes. Don't let them see her."

"I won't," Oscar promised.

Max slipped out the door, the click of the lock sealing the unspoken treaty. The grid didn't know it yet, and neither did Y/N's father, but the war had just officially begun.

-

The roar of the engines had faded hours ago, replaced by the equally deafening hum of the Paddock Club. Y/N stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her champagne glass untouched, functioning exactly as she was trained to: as the perfect, smiling centerpiece of her family’s empire.

Her father, the CEO of the title sponsor plastered across half the grid, was currently holding court by the bar. Every time he glanced her way, Y/N knew it was an unspoken command to straighten her posture, to laugh politely at a stale joke told by a billionaire investor, to look the part of the dutiful heiress. Her heels dug into the carpet, a sharp, constant reminder of the cage she was standing in.

"If you grip that glass any tighter, it's going to shatter."

The voice was calm, pitched perfectly just under the noise of the room. Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She allowed her shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch as Oscar stepped up beside her. He wasn't in his race suit anymore, dressed instead in his team kit that looked effortlessly comfortable compared to her suffocating silk dress.

"If it shatters, it might give me an excuse to leave," Y/N murmured, finally unclenching her jaw.

Oscar took a sip of his water, his eyes tracking the crowded room with mild detachment. He was always like this—the quiet center of a hurricane. "I could always accidentally spill this on you. Ruin the dress. Tragic wardrobe malfunction. You'd have to retreat to your hotel."

A genuine, albeit tired, smile touched Y/N’s lips. "Tempting, Piastri. But my mother would simply have a backup dress materialized within three minutes. I'm stuck here until the board members are sufficiently charmed."

Oscar shifted slightly, angling his body to subtly block the line of sight between Y/N and the group of executives her father was entertaining. It was a small, deliberate movement. An anchor dropping.

"Take five minutes," Oscar said softly, not looking at her so as not to draw attention. "Go out to the terrace. It's empty. Breathe for a second."

Y/N met his gaze briefly. His dark eyes were steady, observant. He always saw the cracks before anyone else did, noticing the exact moment she reached her limit. "Thank you," she breathed.

Slipping out the heavy glass doors onto the dimly lit terrace was like breaking the surface of the water after holding her breath for too long. The cool night air of the circuit washed over her, and Y/N let her eyes close, leaning her weight against the railing. For exactly two minutes, it was quiet.

Then, the heavy door clicked open.

"You're hiding."

Y/N’s eyes snapped open. Max Verstappen stood in the doorway, his team cap pulled low, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked entirely out of place on the VIP terrace, carrying a raw intensity that demanded space. He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping out into the cool air and letting the glass door swing shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the party completely.

"I'm not hiding," Y/N lied smoothly, straightening up out of habit. "I'm getting fresh air."

Max scoffed, a blunt, dismissive sound. He walked over, invading her personal space just enough to make the air between them feel electrified. "You're hiding, Y/N. Your dad is looking for you in there to parade you in front of the new tech sponsors."

Her stomach dropped. The mask she had just managed to peel off slammed back into place. "I should go back inside, then."

She moved to step past him, but Max caught her wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was solid. Grounding. He looked down at her, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding, stripping away the polished heiress persona in a second. Max knew pressure. He knew what it felt like to have a parent’s heavy expectations dictating every move, turning a passion into a prison.

"You don't have to go back in right now," Max said, his voice dropping low, losing the abrasive edge it usually held for the press.

"Max, I can't just disappear."

"Yes, you can." He let go of her wrist, instead stepping into her line of sight to the door, effectively shielding her from anyone who might look out. "I've got the key to my driver's room. The couch is terrible, but it's soundproof. No cameras. No sponsors. Just ten minutes of absolute silence. You look like you're going to pass out if you smile one more time."

Y/N looked between Max’s fierce, protective stance and the glass door leading back to the flashing lights and suffocating expectations. She thought of Oscar, standing guard near the bar, giving her the quiet excuse to leave, and Max, standing in front of her, offering a literal escape route.

"Ten minutes," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking slightly under the weight of her own exhaustion.

Max’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. "Ten minutes," he agreed, gesturing toward the back stairwell. "Come on."

The descent from the Paddock Club to the ground floor was a blur of concrete stairs and service hallways. Max moved with practiced efficiency, taking the routes designed for drivers trying to dodge the media pen. He stayed half a step ahead of Y/N, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the lingering crew members until they reached the Red Bull motorhome.

When Max finally pushed open the door to his driver’s room and locked it behind them, the absolute silence of the space hit Y/N like a physical weight.

There was no clinking of crystal glasses, no camera shutters, no forced laughter. Just the low, steady hum of the air conditioning. Y/N exhaled a breath it felt like she had been holding since Thursday’s press conferences. She kicked off her heels without asking, her bare feet sinking into the utilitarian carpet as she collapsed onto the small, stiff sofa.

Max watched her from the center of the room. He didn't offer platitudes or ask if she was okay, because they both knew the answer. Instead, he reached into his duffel bag, pulled out a thick, oversized team hoodie, and tossed it to her.

"Put that on," Max ordered gruffly. "You're shivering."

"It's just the adrenaline leaving my system," Y/N murmured, though she gratefully pulled the heavy fabric over her head. The contrast of the dark blue cotton over her custom designer silk dress was ridiculous, but it smelled like motor oil, clean laundry, and him. It felt like armor.

Max grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and handed it to her before leaning against the edge of his massage table, crossing his arms. His blue eyes traced the exhaustion mapping her features.

"He’s suffocating you, Y/N." The bluntness was classic Max. No sugarcoating, no PR-approved phrasing.

Y/N stared at the water bottle in her hands. "It's the board, Max. Not just my father. If I don't play the game, they'll restructure the company and push me out entirely. I was born to do this."

"You weren't born to be a prop," Max shot back, his jaw tightening. "I know what it looks like when someone is pushing you until you break. If you let them, they will take everything until there is nothing of you left."

Before Y/N could process the raw, heavy truth in his voice, a sharp knock rapped against the door.

Max’s head snapped toward the sound, his posture instantly rigid. "I told my trainer I wasn't to be bothered," he muttered, stalking toward the door. He yanked it open just a fraction, ready to snap at whoever was on the other side.

Instead of a Red Bull staff member, Oscar Piastri stood in the hallway, looking entirely unfazed by Max’s lethal glare.

Oscar had his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans. "Didn't think you'd be giving paddock tours on a Friday night, mate," he said, his voice mild and unbothered.

Max narrowed his eyes, instinctively shifting his weight to block Oscar’s view into the room. "What do you want, Piastri?"

"To return this." Oscar held up a small, glittering designer clutch. "She left it on the terrace. Figured you wouldn't want her mother’s PR assistant finding it and tracking her down."

Max hesitated, and in that brief second, Oscar effortlessly pushed the door open a few inches wider, his dark eyes instantly finding Y/N huddled on the couch in the oversized Red Bull hoodie. A flicker of something territorial flashed across Oscar's usually placid expression, but it was gone before it could fully register, replaced by quiet relief.

"How did you know we were here?" Max demanded, his voice low and defensive.

"I saw you both take the service stairs," Oscar replied calmly, finally looking back at Max. "And it's a good thing I did. Her dad cornered me by the bar three minutes later asking if I'd seen her."

Y/N’s head shot up, a spike of panic piercing through the calm she had just found. "What did you say?"

Oscar stepped fully into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind him until it clicked in the lock. He walked over, setting the clutch on the small table next to her.

"I told him you looked incredibly pale, complained of dizzy spells, and that I practically forced you to go to the FIA medical center for hydration," Oscar said smoothly. He looked down at her, his expression softening entirely. "It’s a nightmare to get clearance to go in there if you aren't team personnel. Your dad isn't going to try."

Max let out a short, incredulous breath, staring at the McLaren driver. "The medical center? That buys her maybe thirty minutes before they start making calls."

Oscar turned to face Max, the height difference negligible, the contrast in their energy stark. Max was all fire and defensive tension; Oscar was ice-cold strategy.

"Exactly," Oscar said, his tone perfectly even. "So she gets thirty minutes of peace, Max. Not ten."

The tension in the small room thickened, heavy and electric. Max and Oscar stared at each other, a silent, assessing standoff between two apex predators who suddenly realized they were guarding the same territory. Neither stepped back. Neither looked away.

Y/N pulled her knees to her chest under the oversized hoodie, watching the two drivers. For the first time all weekend, she didn't feel like a pawn on a chessboard. She felt safe.

The silence in the room stretched until it was wire-taut. Max’s jaw worked, his eyes locked on Oscar with the kind of predatory focus he usually reserved for turn one on a Sunday. Oscar merely held the gaze, his posture relaxed, though the slight tilt of his chin betrayed a stubbornness that matched Max’s own.

"You can stop sizing each other up," Y/N murmured from the couch, her voice muffled slightly by the collar of Max’s hoodie. "I don't have the energy to break up a fight."

The tension snapped. Max broke eye contact first, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath as he resumed pacing the narrow strip of floor between the massage table and the wall. Oscar let out a quiet exhale, his shoulders dropping as he moved to sit on the edge of the small coffee table, placing him just inches from Y/N's knees.

"Not fighting," Oscar said softly, his eyes scanning her face. "Just figuring out logistics. You have about twenty-two minutes left before the medical center excuse expires and your mother’s assistant starts tracking your phone."

Max stopped pacing. "Turn it off."

"Max, I can't just—"

"Turn it off, Y/N," Max repeated, stepping closer. The raw command in his voice wasn't aimed at her in anger, but in fierce, unyielding protection. "If they can't reach you, they can't control you. Just for tonight."

Y/N hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for her phone resting inside the glittering clutch. The screen was already lit up with half a dozen missed calls. Before she could overthink the consequences, Oscar’s hand covered hers. His skin was warm, his grip steadying.

"I'll take the battery hit for you," Oscar offered casually. He took the phone from her shaking fingers, held down the power button, and tossed the lifeless device onto the counter. "Oops. Must have died. Tragic."

A short, genuine laugh punched out of Y/N’s chest, the sound surprising all three of them. Max’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction at the sound of it. He stepped into the space beside Oscar, leaning against the edge of the coffee table. The two drivers were suddenly a united front, a barricade of muscle and team kit standing between her and the world outside the door.

"Okay, her phone is dead," Max said, all business now, his strategic mind taking over. "But she can't go back to her family’s hotel. Her dad will be waiting in the lobby with a PR brief for tomorrow."

"I have a room booked under my trainer's name," Oscar said smoothly, not looking up from where his thumb was absently tracing a soothing pattern against Y/N’s ankle, right where the strap of her heels had dug violently into her skin. "Different hotel. Totally off the grid from the title sponsors."

Max narrowed his eyes, processing the offer. He didn't like the idea of Oscar taking her away, but he couldn't deny the logic. Max's own hotel was heavily guarded, but also heavily monitored by media. "How do you get her out of the paddock? If she walks out in that dress, even with my hoodie on, someone will recognize her."

"I can take my rental car around to the service gate behind the Red Bull hospitality," Oscar suggested. "It bypasses the main turnstiles."

"No," Max countered instantly. "The service gate is swarming with Netflix crews right now. You take her through the McLaren garage. It's Friday night, half your mechanics are already at the pub. I'll take my Honda out the front gate and create a bottleneck at the media pen. They’ll all swarm my car looking for a quote about qualifying, and you drive her out the back while they're distracted."

Oscar looked up at Max, a slow, begrudging smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Using yourself as bait, Verstappen? That's terribly noble of you."

"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though there was no real venom in it. He looked down at Y/N, his blue eyes softening as they swept over her exhausted frame. "Does that work for you? You stay at Oscar’s shadow-room tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out the rest."

Y/N looked between them. Max, who was willing to throw himself to the media wolves just to buy her a clear exit. And Oscar, who was currently rubbing the ache out of her feet while quietly organizing a safe haven. The sheer weight of their combined care was terrifying, entirely foreign to a girl who was only ever valued for what she could provide.

"Why are you both doing this?" she whispered, her voice dangerously thick with unshed tears. "If my father finds out either of you helped me disappear, he could threaten your sponsorships. He’s ruthless."

Max reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The touch was impossibly gentle for a man who lived his life at two hundred miles an hour. "Let him try," Max said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I don't care about the sponsors, Y/N."

Oscar’s hand slipped from her ankle, his fingers coming to rest lightly over her knee, anchoring her to the present. "Neither do I," Oscar added, his voice a quiet vow in the sterile room. "We care about you. Now, let's get you out of this cage."

The execution of the plan was ruthlessly efficient, a stark reminder that Y/N was currently in the hands of two men who made split-second, high-stakes decisions for a living.

Max handed her a spare Red Bull cap, pulling the brim down low over her eyes. He lingered for a fraction of a second, his hands resting heavy and warm on her shoulders.

"Keep your head down. Don't look at the cameras if there are any left," Max instructed, his thumb brushing against her collarbone in a fleeting, grounding touch. He looked over her head to Oscar. "Text me when she's behind a locked door."

"Drive safe, mate," Oscar replied smoothly, picking up his car keys. "Try not to run over any journalists."

Max gave a dark, amused scoff before slipping out the door. Two minutes later, Y/N and Oscar followed.

The walk through the back corridors of the paddock was a masterclass in stealth. Oscar moved with a quiet, unhurried confidence, instinctively positioning himself between Y/N and any wandering mechanics. They slipped through the darkened McLaren garage, the sleek, papaya-colored cars sleeping under their covers, entirely devoid of the glamorous chaos they represented in the daylight.

When they reached Oscar’s nondescript rental SUV in the back lot, he opened the passenger door for her, making sure she was completely shielded before shutting it silently.

As Oscar pulled out onto the perimeter road, heading for the service exit, Y/N caught a glimpse of the main gates through the trees. It was a circus of flashing lights and swarming bodies, entirely centered around Max’s Honda. Max had parked at a ridiculous angle, blocking half the exit, and was currently leaning against his hood, casually giving a Netflix crew the most monotonous, drawn-out answers about tire degradation conceivable.

"He really does have a flair for the dramatic," Oscar murmured from the driver's seat, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice.

"He's going to get fined for blocking the exit," Y/N said, a weak smile breaking through her exhaustion.

"Red Bull will pay it. Worth every penny." Oscar merged onto the dark, quiet highway, the chaotic glow of the circuit finally fading in the rearview mirror. "You can put the seat back. We've got a twenty-minute drive."

The silence in the car wasn't heavy like the silence in the VIP suite; it was expansive. Safe. Y/N leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt lulling her into a state of hazy relief. By the time Oscar navigated into the underground parking garage of a modest, off-the-grid hotel, her eyelids were heavy.

Oscar handled the logistics flawlessly. They bypassed the lobby entirely, taking the service elevator straight to the top floor. He unlocked the door to a standard, unassuming suite—no crystal chandeliers, no sprawling terrace, just a quiet room with a large bed, a sofa, and heavy blackout curtains.

"Sanctuary," Oscar announced quietly, tossing the keycard onto the counter. "I'm ordering room service. What do you want?"

"Just tea," Y/N murmured, hovering awkwardly in the center of the room. The adrenaline had completely vanished, leaving behind an ache in her bones that felt impossibly deep. She reached up to pull the heavy hoodie over her head, intending to give it back, but realized underneath she was still trapped in the suffocating, corset-boned silk dress her mother had forced her into.

She reached around to her back, her fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper. It was stuck, the delicate fabric caught in the tiny metal teeth. A frustrated, choked sound escaped her throat, a sudden wave of irrational tears prickling her eyes. It was just a zipper, but it felt like the last chain holding her to the cage.

"Hey. Stop. You're going to tear it, and then your mother will definitely execute us."

Oscar was there instantly. He gently swatted her hands away, stepping in close behind her. Y/N dropped her arms, her head falling forward in defeat.

"It's stuck," she whispered, her voice dangerously fragile. "I can't get it off."

"I've got it. Deep breath," Oscar said softly.

His knuckles brushed lightly against her spine as he worked the fabric free. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness—just the steady, methodical patience of a man who knew how to untangle a mess. With a quiet click, the zipper gave way, sliding smoothly down her back.

The corset loosened, and Y/N finally, truly breathed.

"Thank you," she breathed out, stepping forward and catching the dress before it slipped off her shoulders entirely.

"Bathroom is through there. Take your time. There's one of my clean t-shirts on the counter." Oscar stepped back, giving her space immediately. He picked up Max’s discarded hoodie from the armchair and held it out to her. "Keep this. It's colder in here than it is at the track."

When Y/N emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the transformation was complete. The heiress was gone. Her face was scrubbed clean of the heavy, flawless makeup, her hair was tied up in a messy knot, and she was drowning in Oscar’s soft grey t-shirt and Max’s oversized blue hoodie.

Oscar was sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the sofa, a pot of chamomile tea resting on the coffee table beside him. He looked up, his dark eyes tracking over her bare, scrubbed face and the drowning layers of their team gear. The corner of his mouth ticked upward into a soft, private smile.

"Better?" he asked.

Y/N walked over, sinking onto the floor right next to him instead of taking the couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, her shoulder brushing against his. "So much better."

Oscar poured her a cup of tea, sliding it toward her. Just then, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and the soft smile widened.

"Max?" Y/N guessed, wrapping her hands around the warm mug.

"Yeah. He says the media finally let him leave. He wants to know if you're asleep yet." Oscar picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He looked at her, his expression turning serious, yet incredibly warm. "He also wants to know if he should bring breakfast tomorrow before we figure out how to handle your family."

Y/N stared at the steaming tea. Tomorrow, the war with her family’s PR machine would begin. Tomorrow, the consequences of her disappearance would hit the paddock. But tonight, she was sitting on the floor of a shadow-room, wrapped in the protective layers of two men who were fully prepared to burn that machine to the ground for her.

"Tell him yes," Y/N said softly, leaning her head against Oscar’s shoulder. "Tell him to come over."

Oscar’s arm slipped naturally around her waist, anchoring her against his side as he typed out the reply. "Done."

-

The knock on the door came at 6:15 AM, a sharp, rhythmic rap that dragged Y/N out of a deep, dreamless sleep.

She blinked against the dim light of the hotel room. She was tangled in the sheets of the massive bed, still drowning in Oscar’s t-shirt and Max’s hoodie. The sofa was empty, but a neatly folded blanket sat on one end.

The door clicked open, and Y/N heard the low, gravelly sound of Max’s voice, followed immediately by Oscar’s quiet murmur. She pushed herself up, padding barefoot into the small living area just as Max set a cardboard tray of coffees and a white paper bag on the kitchen counter.

Max was in street clothes—dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, a Red Bull cap pulled low over his messy hair. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes speaking of a restless night, but the moment he saw her, his entire posture shifted. His shoulders dropped, and his blue eyes swept over her, lingering for a heavy, satisfied second on the sight of her wearing his oversized team hoodie.

"You look better," Max stated. It wasn't a question. He picked up a cup of coffee and walked it over to her, pressing the warm cardboard into her hands. "Oat milk latte. Two sugars. Right?"

Y/N stared at the cup, her heart doing a strange, painful stutter. "How did you know my coffee order?"

"I pay attention," Max said simply, leaning against the back of the sofa. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to. The idea of Max Verstappen—ruthless, hyper-focused World Champion—quietly noting down her coffee preferences during crowded hospitality meetings was enough to make her breath catch.

Oscar emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in his McLaren kit for the day, his hair slightly damp. He walked over to the counter, pulled a pastry from the bag, and tossed it onto a napkin before grabbing his own coffee. "Morning. How's the escapee?"

"Caffeinated, now," Y/N said, offering a small, fragile smile. She took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.

But the domestic peace shattered exactly ten seconds later.

Oscar’s phone, resting face-up on the counter, lit up with a barrage of notifications. The buzzing was violent, relentless. Max’s phone in his pocket started vibrating simultaneously.

Oscar set his coffee down, his brow furrowing as he unlocked his screen. The quiet, relaxed aura around him evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.

"What is it?" Y/N asked, the coffee suddenly turning to ash in her mouth.

Oscar didn't answer. He just turned the phone around so she could see the screen. It was an alert from a major motorsport publication, but it had nothing to do with racing.

BREAKING: F1 Paddock Royalty to Wed. [Family Company] Heiress Y/N Engaged to Tech Billionaire Richard Vance in Mega-Merger.

Below the headline was a perfectly curated, PR-approved statement from her father, expressing his "overwhelming joy" at the union of their two families. There was a photo of her attached—one taken weeks ago, photoshopped to perfection, standing next to a man who looked at her like she was a shiny new acquisition for his portfolio.

The air in the room vanished.

"No," Y/N choked out, taking a step back. The mug trembled in her hands, coffee sloshing over the brim onto her fingers. "No, we hadn't—I never agreed. I told them no."

Max snatched the phone out of Oscar’s hand, his eyes scanning the article. A muscle feathered in his jaw, tight and dangerous. "He released it to the press to force your hand," Max realized, his voice a low, lethal snarl. "Because you disappeared last night. He's trying to trap you in the spotlight so you have to come back."

"If I deny it publicly, they'll pull my shares. They'll ruin my reputation, leak stories about my mental health, whatever it takes to protect the stock price," Y/N whispered, panic clawing at her throat. She looked between the two drivers, the reality of her gilded cage slamming shut around her. "You have to go."

Max’s head snapped up. "What?"

"You have Free Practice 3 in two hours, and Qualifying after that. If my father finds out I'm with you—if the media links you to this—he will drag your teams into a PR nightmare. He sponsors half the grid!" Y/N was rambling now, moving toward the bedroom to find her discarded clothes. "I have to go back. I have to play the part, or he'll destroy—"

"Stop."

Oscar moved faster than she expected. He caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm and entirely grounding, halting her frantic retreat.

"Breathe, Y/N," Oscar commanded softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers, anchoring her to the floor. "We aren't leaving. And you aren't going back there to smile for cameras next to a man you despise."

"Oscar, you don't understand how ruthless they are—"

"I don't care," Max interrupted, his voice cracking like a whip. He stalked over, invading her space, his chest practically brushing her back as he boxed her in with Oscar. "Let him try to ruin me. I drive cars fast, Y/N. I don't give a shit about corporate politics or your father's money. You are not marrying him."

The sheer ferocity in Max’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn't just protective; he was possessive, a raw, burning fire fighting the ice in her veins.

"We have time," Oscar said calmly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders. "It's Saturday. The paddock is focused on Qualifying. You stay here today. Do not turn your phone on. Do not look at the news."

"And what happens tomorrow?" Y/N asked, a tear finally slipping hot and fast down her cheek. "I can't hide forever."

Max reached out, his rough thumb catching the tear before it could drop. The gentleness of the gesture was entirely at odds with the storm brewing in his eyes.

"Tomorrow, we win," Max said, his gaze flicking briefly to Oscar, a silent, ironclad agreement passing between the two rivals. "We handle the track today. You rest. And tonight, we figure out how to blow up your father’s empire."

The hours stretching between morning and evening were agonizingly slow. Y/N paced the length of the hotel suite, the heavy silence of the room pressing in on her. She had kept the television off for most of the day, terrified of seeing her own face plastered across the news networks alongside a man she loathed.

But when the clock struck three, she couldn't help herself. She found the remote and switched on the feed for Qualifying.

The broadcast immediately cut to the Red Bull garage. And there, standing behind the engineers, looking immaculate and furiously impatient, was her father. The commentators were already buzzing about the "wedding of the decade," casually mentioning that the bride-to-be was entirely absent from the paddock today due to a "minor illness."

Y/N felt physically sick. She watched as Max strapped into his car, his visor snapping down, hiding his eyes.

When the session started, it was brutally clear that Max was driving with a lethal, barely contained rage. He didn't just clip the apexes; he punished them. His RB21 looked like it was glued to the track, defying physics, setting purple sectors that made the commentators gasp.

Oscar, on the other hand, drove with terrifying, surgical precision. Where Max was a sledgehammer, Oscar was a scalpel. He carved through the circuit, unfazed by the traffic, entirely immune to the chaos unfolding in the garages.

They locked out the front row. Max P1. Oscar P2.

When Max climbed out of his car in parc fermé, the trackside reporter immediately shoved a microphone in his face. Y/N held her breath.

"Max, incredible lap! Your title sponsor's CEO is in the garage today celebrating a massive family milestone—any words on the big engagement?"

Max ripped his balaclava off, his chest heaving, his blue eyes instantly locking onto the camera lens. It felt as though he was looking straight through the screen, directly into the hotel room.

"I don't care about PR stunts," Max said, his voice cold and abrasive. "I'm here to race. The people who matter know where I stand." He shoved past the reporter without waiting for a follow-up, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

A few meters away, Oscar was approached with a similar question. He smiled, a tight, polite expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I think the only commitments that matter this weekend are the ones made on the track. Excuse me."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, collapsing back onto the sofa. They were daring her father to retaliate. They were drawing the fire away from her and onto themselves.

It was nearly 8:00 PM when the hotel door finally clicked open.

The heavy, metallic smell of adrenaline, sweat, and champagne immediately filled the small suite. Max and Oscar stepped inside, looking utterly exhausted.

Y/N was waiting for them at the small dining table, an open hotel notepad in front of her. She had spent the last four hours tearing apart her family’s corporate structure in her head. The panic from the morning had burned away, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.

Max dropped his helmet on the floor and crossed the room in three massive strides. He didn't say a word, just pulled her up from the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around her. The embrace was crushing, possessive, and exactly what she needed. Y/N buried her face in his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his race suit.

"We saw him in the paddock," Max rumbled against her hair. "He looked like he wanted to murder someone."

"Let him," Oscar said quietly, walking over. He didn't join the hug, but his hand came up to rest on the back of Y/N’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at her hairline. The dual contact—Max’s overwhelming heat and Oscar’s steadying touch—anchored her completely.

Y/N pulled back just enough to look at both of them. "You two are going to get fired. Or fined. Or both. Did you hear your own interviews?"

"I meant every word," Max said stubbornly, his hands dropping to her waist, keeping her close.

"McLaren pays my fines," Oscar added with a dry smirk, his hand sliding from her neck to rest on her shoulder. He looked down at the notepad on the table, his eyes narrowing slightly at the frantic, scribbled diagrams. "What's this?"

Y/N took a deep breath, stepping back to gesture at the paper. "It's my way out. You said we were going to blow up his empire tonight. I figured out how."

Max leaned against the table, crossing his arms, all his attention zeroed in on her. "I'm listening."

"My father controls the board because he holds a 40% majority," Y/N explained, her voice steadying as the plan took shape out loud. "I have 12% in a trust that fully vested on my last birthday. He thinks I’m too afraid of the family name to ever use it against him. But if I vote my shares with the minority stakeholders—who hate this tech merger, by the way—we can block the acquisition. The engagement becomes completely useless to him."

Oscar picked up the notepad, studying her frantic math. "You have the voting power to override the CEO."

"Yes," Y/N said. "But to do it, I have to go public. I can't just quietly break the engagement. I have to humiliate him in front of the exact people he’s trying to impress. I have to call a press conference and detonate the whole thing."

Max stared at her, his blue eyes darkening with a mixture of immense pride and something far more dangerous. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his knuckles. "You’re going to war with them."

"I am," Y/N whispered, leaning into his touch. "But I don't know how to get a microphone tomorrow without his security shutting it down."

Oscar set the notepad down. He looked at Max, the same silent, strategic communication passing between them that had happened the night before in the Red Bull driver's room.

"They won't shut it down if you're holding the microphone in the FIA media pen," Oscar said slowly, a brilliant, ruthless plan forming in his eyes.

"Only drivers and team principals are allowed in the pen," Y/N pointed out.

Max let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached out, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder in a rare display of complete camaraderie. "Not if she walks in on the arm of the race winner. The FIA won't dare drag her out on live television if she's standing between P1 and P2."

Y/N's breath caught. "You want to smuggle me into the post-race press conference?"

"We are going to walk you through the front door," Oscar corrected softly. He stepped closer, closing the small triangle between the three of them. His dark eyes were fierce, stripping away his usual calm facade to reveal the iron beneath. "You wear the team gear. You walk in with us. And you burn his absolute house down."

Sunday morning dawned with the heavy, electric tension that only race day could bring.

The hotel suite was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning. Y/N stood by the window, watching the distant grandstands filling up with a sea of fans. She had swapped the oversized hoodies for something completely different: a sharp, tailored black blazer and matching trousers she had requested Oscar’s trainer smuggle out of her apartment. It was armor. She wasn't going into the paddock as a lost heiress in a silk dress; she was going in as a majority shareholder.

A warm hand settled on the small of her back, the thumb tracing the line of her spine through the blazer.

"Nervous?" Oscar’s voice was a low, soothing hum near her ear. He was wearing the team's jersey and blue jeans.

"Terrified," Y/N admitted, leaning back slightly against his chest. "If I miscalculate this, my father will freeze my assets and have me escorted out by security before I even open my mouth."

"He won't get close enough to try," Max said, walking into the living area. He was tossing an FIA VIP All-Access lanyard between his hands. It wasn't one of her father's heavily branded corporate passes; it was a personal guest pass. Max Verstappen - Guest 1.

Max stepped up to her, slipping the lanyard over her head. He didn't let go of the thick fabric strap right away, using it to pull her just a fraction closer. His blue eyes traced her sharp, commanding outfit, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

"You look dangerous," Max murmured approvingly.

"I feel like I'm about to jump out of a plane without a parachute," Y/N breathed, her hands resting lightly on his chest.

Oscar stepped to her other side, his hand sliding down her arm to briefly intertwine his fingers with hers. "You aren't jumping alone. My trainer is going to bring you to the paddock entrance with ten laps to go. You wait in the FIA hospitality suite—it’s neutral ground, your dad's people can't get in there. When the checkered flag drops, we meet you at the entrance to the media pen."

Max leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. "We'll see you at the finish line."

Watching the race from the sterile quiet of the FIA hospitality suite was torture.

Y/N stared at the television monitors, her heart hammering against her ribs. The commentators were shouting themselves hoarse. Max and Oscar had pulled away from the rest of the grid by lap twenty, turning the Grand Prix into a two-man war of attrition. They traded fastest laps, their cars dancing on the absolute edge of grip. It was a terrifying, beautiful display of synchronized aggression.

They weren't just driving to win. They were driving to make a statement.

On lap 70, the checkered flag waved. Max crossed the line first, Oscar a mere six-tenths of a second behind him.

Y/N didn't wait to watch the cool-down lap. She stood up, her pulse deafening in her ears, and walked out the door.

The corridor leading to the media pen was chaotic, thick with mechanics, PR reps, and journalists preparing for the top-three interviews. Y/N stayed back in the shadows, pulling the brim of Max's spare Red Bull cap low over her eyes. She watched the monitors as Max and Oscar completed the podium ceremony. They barely sprayed the champagne, their faces set in grim, singular focus before they abandoned the podium entirely.

Five minutes later, the double doors at the end of the hall banged open.

Max and Oscar strode through, still in their sweat-soaked race suits, helmets dangling from their hands. The energy radiating off them was lethal. The crowd of journalists naturally parted, intimidated by the sheer intensity of the 1-2 finishers walking side-by-side.

Max’s eyes scanned the corridor, snapping to Y/N instantly. He didn't smile, but his jaw unclenched. Oscar met her gaze a second later, a subtle nod of his head signaling the start.

Y/N stepped out of the shadows.

The moment she joined them, the air in the corridor seemed to ignite. Murmurs ripped through the crowd. Y/N stepped perfectly into the space between the two drivers. Max immediately placed a heavy, grounding hand on her lower back, while Oscar stepped half a pace ahead, boxing her in from the flashing cameras.

They walked into the media pen as a united, impenetrable front.

The trackside reporter, microphone in hand, gaped at them. "Max, Oscar—congratulations. And... Y/N, we didn't expect to see you here today, especially after yesterday's incredible engagement announcement—"

"Stop," Max ordered, his voice echoing off the temporary walls. The entire pen went dead silent.

Before the reporter could recover, a furious shout broke through the crowd. "Y/N!"

Her father pushed his way to the front of the barricade, his face purple with rage. He was flanked by two massive corporate security guards. "What do you think you are doing? Get over here immediately. This is a PR disaster!"

Y/N froze, the ingrained terror of her father's voice paralyzing her lungs. But Max didn't flinch. He stepped directly in front of her, his broad shoulders completely obscuring her from her father’s line of sight.

"Take another step toward her," Max challenged, his voice dangerously soft, "and we’ll see how fast paddock security tackles a title sponsor."

"She is my daughter and the future wife of—"

"Actually," Y/N said, her voice cutting through the thick tension.

She stepped out from behind Max. Her hands were shaking, but she forced her chin up. Oscar moved subtly to her side, his arm brushing hers, a silent reminder that she was anchored.

Y/N reached out and pulled the live microphone from the stunned reporter’s hand. She looked directly into the primary broadcast camera, broadcasting to millions of viewers worldwide.

"There is no engagement," Y/N stated, her voice ringing out clear and cold. "The announcement yesterday was fabricated by my father and the board of directors to force a corporate merger without my consent."

Her father lunged forward against the barricade. "Cut the feed! Cut the damn feed!" he screamed at the cameramen. Nobody moved.

"Furthermore," Y/N continued, her eyes shifting to meet her father’s furious gaze, "as a vested 12% shareholder of the company, I am officially aligning my voting rights with the minority stakeholders. The merger with Vance Tech is blocked. The acquisition is dead."

The media pen erupted. Dozens of journalists started shouting questions, camera flashes exploding in a blinding strobe effect.

Her father stared at her, utterly ruined, the realization setting in that the daughter he had treated as a prop had just publicly dismantled his life's work in under sixty seconds.

Y/N didn't wait for the questions. She handed the microphone back to the reporter, her hands finally steady. She turned back to Max and Oscar, the crushing weight of twenty-four years of expectations completely gone from her shoulders.

Max’s eyes were practically glowing with pride. He didn't care about the cameras, the journalists, or the screaming CEO behind the barricade. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of her blazer, and pulled her in, kissing her hard and breathless in front of the entire Formula 1 world.

When Max finally pulled back, Oscar was waiting. He smiled—a brilliant, genuine, unfiltered smile—and took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly through hers.

"Ready to go home?" Oscar asked quietly, ignoring the absolute pandemonium erupting around them.

"Yeah," Y/N breathed, squeezing his hand. "Take me home."

-

The air in the glass-walled London boardroom was sterile, cold, and thick with open hostility.

It was month four of the corporate war, and Y/N was exhausted. She sat at the center of the massive mahogany table, a mountain of legal documents in front of her. For the past three hours, her father and his loyalist board members had been systematically trying to dismantle her coalition of minority shareholders through intimidation, legal loopholes, and sheer volume.

"You are acting on emotion, Y/N," her father said, his voice laced with that familiar, patronizing edge designed to make her feel like a child. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "You are tanking the stock price with this rebellion. The Vance Tech merger is the only logical path forward. If you force this vote today, you will bankrupt the very legacy you claim to be protecting."

A few of the older board members murmured in agreement, their eyes darting nervously between Y/N and the furious CEO.

Y/N kept her face perfectly neutral, but under the table, her hands were trembling. Her father was good at this. He was twisting the narrative, making the minority shareholders doubt their alliance with her. She had the votes on paper, but if he managed to flip just two of them in this room, she would lose everything.

She opened her mouth to counter his financial projections, but before she could speak, the heavy glass doors of the boardroom swung open.

The security guard at the door sputtered, trying to step in the way. "Sirs, you can't go in there, this is a closed—"

"Move," a low, gravelly voice commanded.

The entire room went dead silent as Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri walked in.

They weren't in team gear. Max wore a tailored black button-down, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, looking every inch a man accustomed to commanding a room. Oscar was in a sharp, dark navy suit, devoid of a tie, radiating an icy, untouchable calm.

"What is the meaning of this?" Y/N’s father demanded, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. He pointed a shaking finger at them. "Security! Remove them immediately. This is a private executive board meeting!"

Max didn't even look at her father. He walked straight past the billionaire executives, pulled out the empty leather chair directly to Y/N’s right, and sat down. He slouched back comfortably, crossing his arms over his chest, and finally leveled a dark, predatory glare at the CEO.

"Try it," Max challenged softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

The security guard nervously hovered at the door, took one look at Max’s lethal expression, and quietly stepped backward into the hallway, letting the door click shut.

Oscar, meanwhile, walked to Y/N’s left. He didn't sit. He stood just behind her chair, a silent, immovable sentinel. He reached across the table, picked up the crystal pitcher of ice water, and poured a fresh glass, setting it gently near Y/N’s right hand.

"Sorry we're late," Oscar murmured to her, completely ignoring the fifteen stunned executives staring at him. "Traffic on the M4."

Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The trembling in her hands stopped instantly. The crushing, suffocating pressure of the room completely evaporated, absorbed by the two men who thrived under pressure on a global stage.

Her father slammed his hand on the table. "I will not have my boardroom turned into a circus by two racing drivers! Y/N, tell your... distractions to leave, or I will have the police escort them out."

Y/N picked up the glass of water Oscar had poured. She took a slow sip, enjoying the absolute, horrified silence of the room. When she set the glass down, the heiress was gone. The Chairperson had arrived.

"They are my guests," Y/N said, her voice ringing out clear, cold, and dripping with authority. "And as the majority voting bloc of this company, I decide who sits in this room."

She looked around the table, locking eyes with the wavering minority shareholders. With Max sitting beside her like a loaded weapon and Oscar standing behind her like a shield, the power dynamic in the room entirely inverted. Her father suddenly just looked like an angry, desperate old man.

"Let's be clear about the Vance Tech merger," Y/N continued, pulling a sleek black folder from her stack of documents and tossing it to the center of the table. "That merger wasn't designed to save the company; it was designed to liquidate our R&D department to cover my father's personal offshore debts. The proof is on page four."

The boardroom erupted into chaos. Executives lunged for the folder, papers tearing as the minority shareholders finally saw the unredacted financials her team had spent months digging up.

Her father stared at her, the color draining from his face. "You... you stole confidential files."

"I audited my own company," Y/N corrected coldly. She didn't break eye contact with him. "Call the vote."

Ten minutes later, it was over.

The vote was a landslide. The merger was killed, and a secondary motion to remove the CEO for gross financial misconduct was passed with a terrifying swiftness.

As the executives scrambled out of the room to call their lawyers and PR teams, her father stood frozen at the head of the table. He looked from Y/N, to Oscar, and finally to Max. He opened his mouth to speak, to hurl one last threat, but Max simply leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table.

"I think your meeting is over," Max stated, his tone devoid of any emotion, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying.

Her father swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and walked out.

When the glass doors finally clicked shut behind the last executive, leaving the three of them alone in the massive room, the adrenaline suddenly vanished, leaving Y/N completely hollowed out. She dropped her face into her hands, letting out a long, shaky breath.

"It's done," she whispered into the quiet room. "It's actually done."

Max was out of his chair in a second. He crouched down next to her, gently prying her hands away from her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his fierce, blue eyes searching her face to make sure she wasn't breaking.

"You destroyed them," Max said, a fiercely proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. "You didn't even flinch."

Oscar stepped around the chair, resting a hand softly on top of Y/N’s head, threading his fingers through her hair. "You were terrifying. I think the CFO actually cried."

Y/N let out a wet, exhausted laugh, leaning her head against Max’s shoulder while Oscar’s hand anchored her from above. She looked between the two of them, the men who had flown halfway across Europe on a Tuesday between race weekends just to sit silently in a room so she wouldn't have to face her demons alone.

"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping one hand into the fabric of Max's shirt and reaching up with the other to grip Oscar's wrist. "For showing up."

"Always," Oscar promised quietly.

Max pressed a kiss to her temple, pulling her up from the chair. "Come on, Chairperson. Let's get out of London. I know a place in Monaco that delivers terrible takeout."

-

The fallout from the media pen was apocalyptic, but for the first time in her life, Y/N didn’t care.

Walking out of the paddock that Sunday, flanked by Max and Oscar, felt like walking out of a burning building. They didn’t look back. Her father’s PR machine scrambled to do damage control, the board of directors convened in emergency sessions, and the global media lost their collective minds over the love triangle that had just hijacked the Formula 1 World Championship.

But behind the locked doors of Max’s Monaco apartment, the three of them simply shut off their phones, ordered terrible takeout, and finally breathed.

The corporate war took six brutal months. Y/N leveraged her shares, rallied the minority stakeholders, and ruthlessly ousted her father from the CEO position. She didn't destroy the company; she took it over. She restructured the board, tore up the toxic sponsor mandates, and rebuilt the empire on her own terms. Max and Oscar were her unwavering anchors through every vicious legal battle and grueling boardroom standoff. When she was too exhausted to fight, Max gave her his fire. When she was too overwhelmed to think, Oscar gave her his ice.

They didn't conform to anyone's expectations. They just existed, perfectly balanced, fiercely protective of the sanctuary they had built together.

One Year Later

The roar of the engines vibrating through the grid was deafening, a physical force that rattled the ribcage. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the asphalt, and the paddock was a chaotic sea of VIPs, mechanics, and flashing cameras.

It was the exact same environment that had once been Y/N’s gilded cage. Now, it was just her playground.

Y/N stood at the back of the Red Bull garage, a clipboard tucked under her arm. She wasn't wearing a suffocating designer silk dress or agonizing heels. She wore a sharp, tailored black jumpsuit, comfortable sneakers, and draped casually over her shoulders was a bright papaya McLaren team jacket. Resting against her collarbone, catching the light, was a thick gold chain carrying a small, diamond-encrusted lion pendant—a gift Max had secured around her neck before they left the apartment that morning.

She was the youngest acting Chairperson in her company’s history, the lead sponsor for half the grid, and the most untouchable woman in motorsport.

"You're supposed to be pretending to be impartial, you know."

Y/N looked up from her notes. Oscar was leaning against the engineering bulkhead, his race suit tied around his waist, an easy, fond smirk playing on his lips.

"I am entirely impartial," Y/N replied, stepping forward and adjusting the collar of the McLaren jacket she had stolen from his driver’s room an hour ago.

"Right. That's why you're standing in the Red Bull garage wearing my clothes," Oscar teased quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was as grounding as ever, a quiet harbor in the middle of the grid's madness. "How were the sponsor meetings?"

"Boring. But short," Y/N smiled, leaning into his hand. "Nobody argues with me anymore. It’s wonderfully refreshing."

Before Oscar could reply, a heavy presence stepped up behind Y/N. A familiar, calloused hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against a firm chest clad in dark blue fireproofs.

"She's wearing your jacket because it's cold in the paddock," Max muttered, resting his chin briefly on top of Y/N's head as he glared playfully at the McLaren driver. "But she's standing in my garage because I qualify faster."

Oscar let out a dry, genuine laugh. "Keep telling yourself that, mate. Let's see who's faster into turn one."

Max grinned, a feral, competitive spark lighting up his blue eyes. He turned his attention down to Y/N, his expression instantly softening into something impossibly warm and exclusively hers. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, entirely unbothered by the Netflix cameras lingering twenty feet away. The media had spent months trying to dissect their dynamic, trying to figure out who was the "real" partner, before finally giving up. The truth was too undeniable to twist: they were a unit. A closed circuit.

"Five minutes to track clearance," Max murmured, his thumb stroking her hip. "Will you be on the pit wall?"

"For the first half," Y/N promised, turning her head to press a quick kiss to his jaw. "Then I'm walking over to McLaren for the second half. Try not to run each other off the road while I'm in transit, please."

"No promises," Oscar and Max said in unison.

They shared a look—the same silent, ironclad understanding that had forged their alliance a year ago in a sterile driver’s room. They were rivals on the asphalt, ruthless and unyielding, but the moment they stepped out of the cars, they belonged to the same girl.

Max squeezed her waist one last time before pulling his balaclava over his head and stepping out toward the car. Oscar gave her a soft, lingering smile, his knuckles brushing against her cheek.

"See you at the podium," Oscar promised quietly, turning to head back down the pit lane to his own garage.

Y/N stood alone at the edge of the garage as the cars fired up, the deafening scream of the engines drowning out the paddock chatter. The cameras flashed, capturing her standing exactly where she wanted to be, wearing the colors of the two men she loved, entirely unbothered by the noise.

She looked out at the glittering Monaco harbor, taking a deep, unrestricted breath.

The cage was gone. She held the keys now.

-

The Monaco apartment was usually just a high-end storage unit for their luggage between race weekends. But on a rare, rainy Tuesday in October, it was a sanctuary.

Outside, the Mediterranean was swallowed by a heavy, grey storm, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the sleek, obscenely expensive kitchen was currently the site of a logistical nightmare.

Y/N had made a fatal error: she had suggested they cook dinner instead of ordering in.

"I'm just saying, it’s rice," Max grumbled, leaning heavily over the marble island. He was holding a wooden spoon like it was a steering wheel, staring aggressively into a simmering steel pan. "If I turn the heat up, it cooks faster. That is basic science."

"It's risotto, Max, not a qualifying lap," Oscar corrected smoothly from the other side of the island.

Oscar was wearing a dark grey apron over his t-shirt, completely unbothered by the kitchen chaos. He was currently mincing garlic with terrifying, surgical precision, the knife rocking back and forth in a perfect, rhythmic cadence. "If you turn the heat up, you burn the arborio, ruin the starch release, and we end up eating crunchy garlic paste."

"You have been adding broth for twenty minutes," Max argued, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. He abandoned the stove, walking over to where Y/N was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter.

Max wedged himself directly between her knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin heavily on her chest with a dramatic groan. "He is torturing me on purpose."

Y/N laughed, resting one hand on the back of Max’s neck, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape. With her other hand, she took a sip of her red wine. "Oscar is following the recipe. You are trying to bully the rice into submitting to your will. They require different strategies."

"My strategy is faster," Max muttered into her collarbone, his breath warm against her skin. He didn't move, entirely content to use her as a human shield against culinary responsibility.

Oscar paused his chopping, picking up a small spoonful of the simmering risotto. He walked around the island, bypassing Max entirely, and held the wooden spoon up to Y/N’s lips.

"Taste test," Oscar murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers, completely ignoring the World Champion currently clinging to her waist.

Y/N leaned forward and tasted it. The rich, savory warmth of parmesan and white wine hit her tongue perfectly. She closed her eyes, letting out a soft hum of approval. "That’s actually incredible."

"See?" Oscar said mildly, reaching out with his free hand to wipe a microscopic drop of broth from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "Patience yields results."

Max turned his head just enough to glare at the McLaren driver. "Give me that."

Oscar obliged, holding the spoon out. Max took a reluctant taste, chewing slowly. His eyes narrowed as he realized it was, in fact, perfect.

"Fine," Max conceded begrudgingly. "But I’m taking credit for the stirring. The stirring was crucial."

"You stirred it like you were trying to dig a hole through the bottom of the pan," Oscar pointed out drily, turning back to the stove to turn off the heat. "But sure. Team effort."

The three of them ended up abandoning the formal dining table entirely. Instead, they dragged a mountain of throw pillows and thick blankets onto the rug in the living room, sitting on the floor with their bowls of risotto, the rain hammering against the glass walls of the apartment.

Y/N sat cross-legged, leaning sideways against Oscar’s shoulder. Max was stretched out on his back, his head resting squarely in Y/N’s lap, perfectly content to let her feed him a bite from her bowl every few minutes while he stared up at the ceiling.

"We leave for Austin on Monday," Max noted quietly, the tension of the impending race week creeping slowly into his voice. The final stretch of the season was always brutal.

Y/N trailed her fingers lightly across Max’s forehead, smoothing out the tiny crease forming between his brows. "Monday is a long time from now. Tonight, we just exist here."

Oscar shifted slightly, wrapping his arm around Y/N’s back and pulling her closer to his side, effectively anchoring both her and Max to the present moment. He rested his chin on the top of her head.

"No press, no sponsors, no track limits," Oscar murmured into her hair, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against her shoulder. "Just us."

Max turned his face slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of Y/N’s wrist where it rested near his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning fully into the quiet sanctuary they had built.

"Just us," Max echoed softly.

-

The flight from Monaco to Austin was nine hours of pressurized cabin air and shifting time zones. By the time they unlocked the door to their secluded rental property in the Texas hills, the clock read 10:00 PM local time, but their bodies were stubbornly protesting that it was 5:00 AM.

The house was dark, quiet, and smelled faintly of cedar and dry Texas air.

"I am completely dead," Max announced, his voice a gravelly, sand-papered rasp. He didn't even drop his heavy duffel bag; he just unclipped it and let it fall straight onto the hardwood floor of the entryway.

He moved like a zombie toward the sprawling master bedroom, collapsing face-down across the massive king-sized bed without even removing his sneakers.

Oscar, carrying Y/N’s smaller rolling suitcase along with his own, walked into the kitchen with the slow, methodical stride of someone operating on autopilot. He set the luggage down, walked over to the fridge, and opened it. The light illuminated the exhaustion etched deep into the shadows under his eyes.

"The team stocked it," Oscar muttered, his usual sharp cadence slowed down by the jet lag. "There’s milk, eggs, and... three different types of locally brewed IPA that Max will definitely try to drink before FP1."

Y/N walked up behind him, her limbs feeling like lead weights. She didn't say anything, she just leaned her forehead directly against the center of Oscar’s back, letting her arms loop loosely around his waist.

Oscar didn't move. He just let out a long, slow exhale, his hands resting on the edge of the refrigerator door as he leaned back into her weight, anchoring her. "We should sleep," he murmured into the cold air of the fridge.

"Max is already unconscious," Y/N mumbled against the fabric of his shirt. "I think he’s wearing his shoes."

Oscar let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. He turned around within the circle of her arms, closing the fridge door and plunging the kitchen back into the soft, ambient glow of the outdoor landscape lights. He reached down, his hands cupping the back of her thighs, and effortlessly lifted her up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter.

Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist out of habit, her hands sliding up to grip his shoulders.

Oscar stepped in close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He didn't say anything for a long time, just breathed her in, his hands sliding up her back to hold her tight against him. In the quiet, dark kitchen, away from the paddock turnstiles and the corporate contracts, the silence was expansive.

"Come here," a low, demanding rumble echoed from the bedroom doorway.

They both looked over. Max was leaning against the doorframe, looking utterly disheveled. His hair was standing up in three different directions, his eyes were half-lidded with sleep, and he had managed to kick his shoes off, but he was still wearing his dark jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.

"You're both vibrating," Max muttered, his bluntness amplified by his exhaustion. He walked over, his heavy steps silent on the rug, and wedged himself into the space right next to Oscar, his large hands immediately reaching out to grip Y/N’s hips. "Stop thinking about the data. Stop thinking about the board. Come to bed."

Y/N smiled, reaching out to tangle her fingers in Max’s chaotic hair, smoothing it down. "We're coming, Max."

Ten minutes later, the lights in the Texas villa were completely out.

The bed was a massive, tangled sea of white sheets and heavy blankets. Y/N was stuck directly in the middle. Max had claimed her left side, one of his heavy, calloused legs thrown completely over hers, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist as if making sure she couldn't escape into the night. His breathing was already deep and even, a heavy, rhythmic anchor.

Oscar was on her right, pulled in close enough that his chest was pressed against her shoulder. He wasn't as heavy as Max, but he was immovable. His hand was slid beneath the small of her back, his fingers tracing slow, abstract shapes against her skin through her t-shirt, a quiet, soothing pattern that systematically turned off the remaining static in her brain.

Y/N looked up at the ceiling, listening to the synchronized breathing of the two men holding her captive in the dark.

Tomorrow, the Texas heat would hit. Tomorrow, the Austin circuit would swarm with hundreds of thousands of fans, flashing cameras, and the relentless pressure of the championship fight. Max and Oscar would become rivals again, fighting for inches at two hundred miles an hour.

But tonight, in the quiet dark of the hill country, they were just three people who had successfully stolen their lives back from the world.

Y/N closed her eyes, turning her face into Oscar’s shoulder while Max’s grip tightened imperceptibly around her waist, and finally drifted off to sleep.

Thursday media day at the Circuit of the Americas was always a special kind of chaos.

The Texas sun beat down relentlessly on the asphalt, turning the paddock into a sweltering oven. The air was thick with humidity, the smell of barbecue from the hospitality suites, and the electric buzz of American fans who brought a completely different, wilder energy to the sport.

Y/N navigated the crowded paddock with effortless authority. She was dressed for the brutal heat in a tailored, lightweight cream linen vest and matching trousers, looking every inch the untouchable Chairperson of a global conglomerate. But the sharp corporate edge was softened by the details: she was wearing Max’s favorite pair of dark aviators, and strapped to her wrist was Oscar’s spare Richard Mille watch, the oversized face sliding down her forearm.

She had just wrapped up a highly successful meeting with the circuit promoters and was making her way back toward the center of the paddock when a rogue Drive to Survive camera crew intercepted her path.

"Madame Chairperson!" the producer called out, motioning for the boom mic operator to step in. "A quick question for the fans? The championship fight is coming down to the wire between Red Bull and McLaren. Who exactly are you rooting for this weekend?"

It was a trap of a question, designed to manufacture drama. A year ago, a microphone in her face would have sent her into a spiral of anxiety, terrified of saying the wrong thing and invoking her father's wrath.

Today, Y/N simply stopped, lowered the dark aviators down the bridge of her nose, and offered a cool, entirely unbothered smile.

"I am rooting for an excellent return on investment for my shareholders," Y/N replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "And as my company sponsors both teams, I think I'm guaranteed a win either way. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a strategy briefing to attend."

She slipped her sunglasses back up and stepped around the crew, leaving them scrambling for a follow-up.

A low, familiar chuckle sounded from the shaded awning of the Red Bull hospitality suite to her left.

Max was leaning against the barrier, dressed in his dark blue shorts and a Red Bull polo. He had a white towel draped around his neck against the heat, and he was watching her with that dark, intensely proud expression that always made her pulse skip a beat.

"Very diplomatic, Madame Chairperson

"I try," Y/N smiled, stepping into the shade.

Before she could say another word, Max reached out and unapologetically dropped a massive, woven cowboy hat onto her head. It sank down, completely messing up her carefully styled hair and shielding half her face.

Y/N pushed the brim up, glaring playfully at the World Champion. "Really, Max?"

"It suits you," Max grinned, a feral, boyish spark in his eyes. He stepped into her space, entirely ignoring the cameras clicking a few yards away. He wrapped a heavy hand around the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin just beneath the collar of her linen vest, and leaned in to press a lingering, unapologetic kiss to her mouth.

It was still surreal to the paddock—the ruthlessly private Max Verstappen openly displaying affection in the middle of a race weekend. But he didn't care. He had almost lost her to a corporate cage, and he was never going to pretend she wasn't his again.

"You're going to get sweat on her suit, mate," a calm, dry voice interrupted.

Max pulled back just a fraction, keeping his hand firmly on the back of Y/N’s neck, and looked over her shoulder.

Oscar was strolling up the paddock path, looking entirely unbothered by the Texas heat in his papaya kit. He was holding two iced coffees, the condensation dripping down the plastic cups. He walked directly into the Red Bull awning, entirely ignoring the confused looks of the Red Bull PR team, and handed one of the cups to Y/N.

"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping her hands around the freezing plastic. She took a long sip, the caffeine and ice immediately reviving her.

Oscar reached out and adjusted the ridiculous cowboy hat on her head, tilting it back so he could actually see her eyes. "Good meeting?"

"Excellent," Y/N said, leaning her shoulder casually against his chest. "I terrified three different marketing executives."

"That's my girl," Oscar murmured softly, his dark eyes flashing with quiet pride. He looked at Max, the easy camaraderie settling over them. "You ready for the press conference? They put us in the same group today. They're going to try and make us trash-talk each other."

Max scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his competitive fire instantly flaring to life. "I don't need to trash-talk you, Piastri. I'll just beat you into turn one on Sunday."

"Right. Because that worked out so well for you in Singapore," Oscar fired back smoothly, taking a sip of his iced coffee.

"That was a tire degradation issue!" Max argued immediately, his voice rising in volume.

Y/N stood between them, sipping her iced coffee in the sweltering Texas heat, listening to the two most lethal drivers on the grid bicker about brake bias and apex lines. The cameras outside the awning were desperately trying to capture the "hostility" between the championship rivals, completely missing the fact that under the shade, Oscar’s knee was casually resting against Max’s leg, and Max’s hand was still resting protectively on the back of Y/N’s neck.

They were going to go to war on the asphalt on Sunday. But the moment the checkered flag dropped, they would both come back to the exact same place.

-

Three Years Later 

The F1 calendar had grown to a grueling twenty-six races, making the deep winter shutdown the most sacred time of the year.

Outside the glass walls of their secluded Alpine chalet, a heavy snowstorm was burying the mountains in total whiteout conditions. Inside, the fire was roaring, the only sound accompanying the soft crackle of burning cedar and the howling wind.

Y/N was curled up on the massive velvet sofa, swathed in a thick cashmere blanket. She was three years into her tenure as Chairperson, having doubled the company’s valuation and cemented herself as the most terrifyingly effective negotiator in motorsport. But here, miles above sea level with zero cell reception, she was completely at peace.

She turned a page in her book, blindly reaching out with her left hand to grab her mug of hot tea.

Instead of ceramic, her fingers brushed against warm skin.

Y/N looked up. Max was kneeling beside the coffee table, having silently intercepted her tea. He set the mug down, but didn't let go of her hand. His blue eyes were piercing, completely stripped of the competitive fire that usually defined him, leaving behind something impossibly raw and devoted.

A floorboard creaked softly to her right. Y/N turned her head to see Oscar standing just behind the sofa. He walked around to join Max, moving with that quiet, unhurried grace. He knelt on her other side, his knee brushing against Max’s in the tight space. Oscar reached out, his warm hands entirely covering her right hand where it rested on her lap.

The air in the room suddenly shifted. It wasn't heavy or suffocating—it was electric.

"What are you two doing?" Y/N asked softly, her heart giving a sudden, violent kick against her ribs.

Max and Oscar shared a look. It was that same silent, ironclad communication they had used in the Red Bull driver’s room years ago, the exact same wavelength that allowed them to dismantle boardrooms and coordinate on track.

Oscar turned his dark, steady eyes back to her. He reached into the pocket of his dark wool sweater and pulled out a small, midnight-blue velvet box.

"We had a logistical debate," Oscar started, his voice a low, grounding rumble that immediately anchored her racing pulse. A soft, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Max wanted to do this on the podium at Yas Marina. I told him the FIA would fine us for delaying the broadcast, and that you would probably murder us for doing it on live television."

"It would have made a great photo," Max muttered stubbornly, though his thumb was stroking a soothing, repetitive circle into the back of Y/N’s left hand. He looked up at her, the playful irritation vanishing. "But he was right. You’ve spent your whole life being a spectacle for other people. This isn't for them."

Oscar clicked the velvet box open.

Resting inside the black silk were not one, but two rings, brilliantly designed to interlock. One band was set with a flawless, fiercely brilliant emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sharp, geometric platinum edges—Max. The other was a smooth, elegant band of crushed diamonds set in deep white gold, quietly catching the light from every angle without demanding it—Oscar.

Separated, they were stunning. Snapped together, they formed a perfect, seamless whole.

Y/N let out a shattered breath, her eyes darting between the rings and the two men kneeling in front of her.

"We don't do things the way the rest of the world does," Max said, his voice dropping into that blunt, absolute certainty he only used when he was talking about her. His grip on her hand tightened. "We don't share you. We just belong to you. And I am entirely done pretending there is any universe where I wake up without you."

"We built a sanctuary," Oscar added quietly, lifting her right hand to press a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. He looked at her, his expression radiating that deep, unshakable calm that had saved her life more times than she could count. "We want to make it permanent. The three of us. A closed circuit."

Tears spilled over Y/N’s lashes, hot and fast, completely ruining the quiet composure she had maintained for three years. She didn't have to choose between the fire and the ice. She never had.

"Yes," Y/N choked out, pulling both of them forward by their collars. "God, yes. Give me the rings."

Max let out a ragged breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, leaning up to catch her lips in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted like pure relief. Oscar’s hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her next, slow and deliberate, a quiet vow sealed in the warmth of the firelight.

Two Months Later

The Formula 1 circus had returned, the desert sun beating down on the first official media day of the new season.

The media pen was swarming, microphones shoved aggressively toward team principals and drivers. Y/N stood near the entrance of the FIA hospitality suite, reviewing a sponsorship contract on her tablet. She was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.

As she lifted her hand to adjust her sunglasses, the desert sun caught the metal on her left ring finger.

A photographer’s lens flashed. Then another. Within thirty seconds, the murmur rippling through the paddock turned into a deafening roar.

The trackside reporter abandoned his interview with a midfield rookie and practically sprinted toward her. "Madame Chairperson! Y/N! The rings on your finger—are congratulations in order? Can you tell us who proposed?"

Y/N paused. She looked down at the heavy, interlocking diamonds resting perfectly on her finger. She then looked across the paddock.

Standing outside the Red Bull garage, Max was watching her, leaning against the barricade with a ferociously proud smirk on his face. Fifty yards down the pit lane, Oscar was standing outside McLaren, a dark, incredibly smug smile playing on his lips as he held her gaze.

Y/N looked back at the reporter, offering a cool, entirely untouchable smile.

"Yes, congratulations are in order," Y/N said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. "And to answer your question: they both did."

She didn't wait for the reporter to pick his jaw up off the floor. She turned on her heel and walked down the pit lane, leaving the entire Formula 1 world to completely lose its mind, while she went to find her fiancés.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak @aturnof-thepage

Fernando walked through the VIP swipe gates with a confidence that usually accompanied him on his way to the podium. But this time, his right hand was firmly intertwined with yours, and his left arm was supporting Sofia, who was perched happily on his shoulders. She was wearing tiny, noise-canceling ear defenders and a custom Aston Martin race suit that Fernando had specifically requested from the team.

The flashbulbs went absolutely crazy. Reporters scrambled, shouting Fernando’s name, but he just offered them a relaxed, beaming smile, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek before guiding you toward the Aston Martin motorhome.

The reactions from the other drivers were priceless.

As you walked past the McLaren hospitality, Lando practically choked on his water, nudging Piastri in disbelief as they watched the notorious "bad boy" of the grid point out different cars to his daughter. Lewis, walking in the opposite direction, stopped entirely. A massive smile broke across his face as he walked over, greeting Fernando with a warm embrace and politely shaking your hand, entirely charmed when Sofia waved shyly at him from her father's shoulders.

"I still can't believe he kept you two a secret for over three years," Lance chuckled later that afternoon as you sat in the back of the garage. You were watching Fernando review telemetry, though his eyes kept darting back to the corner where you were coloring with Sofia.

"It was peaceful while it lasted," you laughed, handing Sofia a green crayon. "But I think he's secretly enjoying showing off."

"Oh, he's definitely showing off," a familiar, gruff Australian accent echoed from the entrance of the garage.

You looked up, your face breaking into a massive grin. Walking past the bewildered Aston Martin mechanics were Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel. Seb was visiting the paddock for the weekend, and Mark, managing Oscar, was a regular fixture.

Before anyone could say a word, Sofia dropped her crayon. "Uncle Seb! Uncle Mark!"

The mechanics watched in absolute shock as the tiny girl bypassed her father entirely and launched herself at the two retired world champions. Sebastian caught her effortlessly, hoisting her into the air as she giggled, while Mark grinned, ruffling her curls.

"Look at you, mate! You're getting so big!" Mark beamed, kissing her cheek.

"Did you bring me chocolate?" Sofia demanded, looking at Sebastian with Fernando’s exact demanding glare.

"Don't tell your mother," Seb whispered conspiratorially, pulling a small Swiss chocolate bar from his jacket pocket, much to your exasperation and Fernando's amusement.

A few feet away, a young F1TV reporter who had been shadowing the team for social media content lowered his camera, looking between Fernando, Mark, and Sebastian as if his brain was short-circuiting.

"Wait," the reporter stammered. "You... you guys know about her?"

Mark barked out a laugh, exchanging a look with Fernando. "Know about her? Mate, we're her godfathers."

The reporter’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Godfathers?"

"We had to make sure she learned how to drive properly," Sebastian deadpanned, holding Sofia on his hip as naturally as if she were his own. "Since her father is a bit rusty."

Fernando immediately threw a balled-up piece of telemetry paper at Seb’s head, sparking a chorus of laughter between the three men.

Within an hour, the clip of Webber and Vettel—two of Fernando Alonso’s fiercest, most legendary rivals—playing the roles of doting godfathers to his secret daughter was everywhere. The internet was practically hyperventilating. The men who had defined a decade of ruthless, cutthroat racing warfare were now spending their Sundays at barbecues together, spoiling Y/N and Fernando's daughter.

Later that evening, after the media frenzy had died down and the paddock began to empty out under the setting Spanish sun, you stood on the balcony of the motorhome. The cool evening breeze ruffled your hair as you watched the mechanics pack up the garage below.

You felt strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a warm chest. Fernando rested his chin on your shoulder, letting out a long, contented sigh.

"Surviving your first day as paddock royalty, Y/N?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"Barely," you smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "I think Seb gave her too much sugar. She's asleep on the sofa downstairs, but she fought it for an hour."

Fernando chuckled, turning you around so he could look into your eyes. The fierce, intense competitor that the world saw was gone. In his place was just your husband—the man who loved you more than anything.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "For a long time, I loved keeping you as my beautiful secret. But having you both here... walking into the garage and seeing you... it is the best feeling in the world."

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for a slow, tender kiss. "We're not going anywhere, Fer. We're right behind you."

He rested his forehead against yours, a soft, incredibly rare smile gracing his features. "Good. Because I have a feeling Uncle Seb and Uncle Mark are going to be insufferable if I don't get a podium for my girls on Sunday."

Sunday morning at the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was a different beast entirely.

If Thursday and Friday had been about the paddock adjusting to the shock of Fernando’s secret family, Sunday was a masterclass in watching the two distinct sides of Fernando Alonso coexist.

You sat in the Aston Martin hospitality area, sipping a coffee while Sofia happily demolished a croissant. Across the table, Fernando was entirely in his element. He was going through the final race strategy with his engineers, his eyes sharp, his jaw set. This was the Fernando the world knew: the ruthless tactician, the driver who could calculate tire degradation and aerodynamic deficits while going 300 km/h.

But every few minutes, the fierce glint in his eyes would soften. He would reach under the table, rest his hand on your knee, and give it a reassuring squeeze. Or he would pause mid-sentence to wipe a stray flake of pastry from Sofia’s nose, completely unfazed by the sudden shift from intense motorsport data to gentle fatherhood.

"Okay," Fernando said finally, closing his laptop. He stood up, stretching his arms, and the room seemed to shift. The race was an hour away. The visor was coming down, metaphorically speaking.

He walked around the table and crouched beside your chair. "I have to go to the garage now. Helmet on, get in the zone."

"We know the drill, Fer," you smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. "We'll be in the back of the garage watching."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that ignored the frantic engineers shuffling around you. "Wish me luck, mi amor."

"You don't need luck," you murmured against his mouth. "Just drive fast."

He grinned, that signature spark of arrogance returning. He turned to Sofia, tapping her lightly on the nose. "And you, pequeña. Be good for mama. And don't let Uncle Seb give you any more chocolate, or I will run him over with the safety car."

Sofia giggled, throwing her arms around his neck. "Win the big cup, Papa!"

"For you? Always."

By the time the race started, the Aston Martin garage was a hive of nervous energy. You sat in a high chair at the back, Sofia perched on your lap with her massive green ear defenders securely in place.

True to his word, Sebastian Vettel had materialized in the garage shortly before lights out, leaning against the counter next to you with his arms crossed, watching the data screens with eagle-eyed intensity.

"He's got a good setup today," Seb muttered, pointing to the telemetry graph as the cars completed the formation lap. "If he manages the rears through turn three, he can take Sainz on the first stint."

"Are you translating the car data for me, or are you just missing the seat, Seb?" you teased lightly.

Sebastian laughed, shaking his head. "A bit of both, Y/N. But honestly, he's driving with a different kind of fire today. You guys being here... it changes things."

When the five red lights went out, the roar of the engines vibrated through the floorboards. You held your breath as Fernando launched off the line. He was starting from P4, a strong position, but the run down to turn one in Barcelona was notoriously chaotic.

On the screens, you watched his green car dart to the inside, braking impossibly late—a classic Alonso move—and sliding beautifully into P3. The garage erupted into cheers. Sofia, mimicking the mechanics, threw her tiny fists in the air and cheered, even if she didn't entirely grasp the strategy behind the overtake.

For the next ninety minutes, you were completely absorbed in the ballet of Formula 1. You watched Fernando hunt down his rivals, his radio messages sharp, precise, and demanding. He was putting on a clinic, extracting every single ounce of performance from the car.

With five laps to go, he was sitting comfortably in P2, chasing down Max. The gap was too large to close for the win, but second place was secured.

"Okay, Fernando, gap to cars behind is twelve seconds. Bring it home, mate. P2," his race engineer's voice crackled over the radio.

Instead of his usual stoic acknowledgment, Fernando’s voice came back breathless but incredibly light. "Understood. Tell the girls I am coming home."

You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, pressing a kiss to the top of Sofia’s head. "Papa did it, sweetie. He got the big cup."

Parc fermé was absolute chaos. The moment Fernando’s car rolled into the P2 slot, the media swarmed the barriers.

You stood slightly back from the madness, holding Sofia in your arms. Mark had joined you and Seb, standing tall beside you like a set of extremely overqualified bodyguards.

Fernando climbed out of the cockpit, exhausted, soaked in sweat, and absolutely glowing. He did the mandatory weigh-in, hugged his mechanics, and did a quick television interview. But his eyes were frantically scanning the crowd.

The moment he spotted you, he broke away from the media pen entirely.

The cameras aggressively tracked him as he jogged over to the barricade. He didn't care about the dirt on his race suit or the sweat on his face. He reached over the barrier, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your neck.

"You did so well," you whispered, holding him tight, not caring about the grease smudging your shirt.

"I drove the whole race thinking about you two," he breathed out, setting you down before immediately reaching for Sofia. He lifted his daughter over the fence, settling her securely against his chest.

"Papa! You went vroom!" Sofia cheered, patting his helmet.

"I did go vroom," Fernando laughed, kissing her cheek loudly. He turned back to the paddock, holding his daughter up for the world to see, flashing a grin so radiant it practically blinded the photographers.

Later, during the podium ceremony, you stood down on the track with the team. As Dutch anthem played for Max, Fernando stood on the second step. He wasn't looking at the crowd, or the dignitaries, or the trophy.

He was looking straight down at you.

When the champagne sprayed, Fernando made sure to direct his bottle away from you and Sofia, instead launching a direct hit at Sebastian and Mark, who were standing nearby. The two former drivers cursed loudly, laughing as they tried to shield themselves, while Sofia squealed in delight at the bubbly rain.

As the celebrations wound down, Fernando walked to the edge of the podium, looking down at his family, his friends, and the life he had built outside the cockpit. He held the silver trophy in one hand, but he pointed directly at you and Sofia with the other, tapping his heart.

The internet would undoubtedly break again tomorrow. The think-pieces about Fernando’s softened, family-man era would flood the timelines.

But looking up at your husband as he grinned down at you, covered in champagne and absolute joy, you knew the truth. He hadn't gone soft at all. He had just finally found something off the track that was worth winning for.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

Being Hollywood royalty comes with a very specific set of expectations, but being the "It-Girl" of the modeling world means your face is everywhere, whether you want it to be or not.

For Y/N Cooper, the inaugural Miami Grand Prix was supposed to be strictly business. A quick VIP appearance, a few photos for the sponsors, wave at the cameras, and get out before the Florida humidity completely ruined her hair. She was used to chaotic environments—fashion weeks in Paris and Milan trained her well—but the F1 paddock was an entirely different beast. It was loud, chaotic, and packed with an unbelievable amount of ego.

"Just smile, look at the cars, and pretend you know what a DRS zone is," her publicist had muttered in her ear before shoving her toward the VIP garage tour.

That was the exact moment she bumped into him.

Literally.

Y/N stepped back, her heel catching on the edge of a tire blanket, and felt a strong hand catch her elbow before she could plummet to the incredibly expensive Sauber garage floor.

"Careful there. The cars are fast, but the floors are completely unforgiving," a voice said, a low, amused rumble cutting through the noise of the revving engines.

Y/N looked up, and her breath hitched. It was Nico. She recognized him immediately, of course. You couldn't be anywhere near a screen without seeing his face on a Rolex billboard or a post-race interview. Up close, though, he was entirely different. The fireproof suit was tied around his waist, his race shirt clinging to his shoulders, and the amused smirk on his face was effortlessly lethal.

"I'll keep that in mind," Y/N replied, instantly pulling her arm back and straightening her posture, slipping on her perfectly practiced model glare. "I was just admiring the... engineering."

"The engineering," Nico repeated, his eyes dropping to her VIP pass, reading her name. The smirk deepened. "Right. Well, Y/N, if you want a real tour from someone who actually drives them instead of just posing next to them, let me know."

The chemistry was instantaneous, heavy, and undeniable. It crackled in the narrow space between them. Y/N felt a flush creep up her neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the Miami heat.

But as quickly as the spark ignited, Y/N threw a bucket of ice water over it. Absolutely not, she told herself.

She knew exactly who he was. More importantly, she knew how old he was. The age gap alone would be a tabloid feast. The headlines practically wrote themselves: Cooper's Little Girl Plays Fast and Loose with F1 Veteran. She had spent years carefully cultivating her career, finally stepping out of her father's shadow and setting him up with her friend Gigi so the press would focus on his love life instead of hers. There was no way she was throwing herself into the shark tank for a racing driver, no matter how ridiculously magnetic he was.

"I think my PR team has the tour handled, but thank you," Y/N said smoothly, giving him a polite, dismissive nod. "Good luck out there today."

Nico didn't look deterred. In fact, her dismissal seemed to amuse him even more. "I'll see you around, Y/N."

-

yncooper

liked by gigihadid, friend1, f1 and others

yncooper Miami heat, loud engines, and VIP views. Thanks for the hospitality @ f1 🌴🏎️🏁

gigihadid The paddock was absolutely not ready for this look. Gorgeous! 🤍✨

yncooper Missed you this weekend!!

bcooperfans She is glowing! Wonder if Bradley was watching the race from LA? 😂

vogue A lesson in trackside chic 👏 liked by yncooper

f1tea Wait… someone on Twitter said they saw Y/N deep in conversation outside the Sauber garage. Who was she talking to?! 👀

user Probably just a PR person, calm down. user I was in the Paddock Club! I swear I saw her bump into Nico, the tension was INSANE

user The white vest and the Birkin?! She is the moment

user Great to see Hollywood royalty enjoying the inaugural Miami GP!

user Okay but did anyone else notice that Nico liked this post literally two seconds after it went up? He doesn't even follow her…

user Omg he did. He NEVER likes celeb posts. What is happening f1wagsdaily If he is trying to pull Bradley Cooper's daughter, I am going to scream. The age gap alone would break the internet

user living her best life unbothered by the rumors 💅

-

-

-

yncooper

liked by hulkhulkenberg, gigihadid, bradleycooper and others

ynuser Suiting up 🖤 Thank you for trusting me to close the show. The energy backstage was absolutely electric @ yslbeauty

gigihadid EXCUSE ME?! The suit? The hair? You are the absolute blueprint 😮‍💨🔥

yncooper Learned from the best 🫶🏼

voguemagazine Power dressing redefined. A standout moment on the runway 👏

user She said let me show you who is boss!!

user Bradley must be so proud! She looks stunning ❗🔥🔥 liked by yncooper

f1tea Ummmm guys… did anyone else notice that Nico just posted a story drinking espresso from a café that is literally two streets down from this venue in Paris? 👀☕️

user NO WAY. You're joking... 😐 user You guys are reaching so hard. There’s a GP this weekend, he’s probably just traveling *for work*!!!!!! user Reaching?! He liked this post before I could even read the caption! The man is ON THE CLOCK 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

user The tie. The messy waves. The "I could ruin your life" stare. 1000/10 ✨✨

user Nico liking a fashion week post? He usually only likes pictures of cars and his dog. Something is definitely shifting in the universe 😏

bellahadid So unbelievably proud of you, angel! 🖤 liked by yncooper

-

San Vicente Bungalows was a fortress of privacy. The second Y/N handed her phone to the hostess to have the camera lenses covered with strict, tamper-proof stickers, she took a deep breath.

This was a surgical strike. Get in, act like a walking, talking TikTok algorithm, make the generational divide painfully obvious, and get out. By the end of the night, Nico would realize he was chasing a girl who belonged to a completely different era, and he’d fly back to Monaco. Problem solved. Drama avoided.

She found him sitting in a secluded corner booth, looking frustratingly handsome in a crisp, dark button-down that shouldn't have worked as well as it did. He stood up when she approached, pulling out her chair with an easy, practiced grace.

"You made it," Nico said, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I was half-expecting you to ghost me."

"I don't ghost, Nico. That’s so 2018," Y/N replied, dramatically dropping her designer micro-bag onto the table. It was barely large enough to hold a lipstick. "But honestly, traffic was giving absolute nightmare energy."

Nico blinked, his amusement instantly catching the light. He signaled the waiter. "Drink?"

"Matcha martini," Y/N said smoothly, leaning back. "With oat milk. If they use almond, I'll literally cancel them."

Nico ordered his scotch, straight, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Alright. So. Tell me about this nightmare energy."

For the next forty-five minutes, Y/N put on the performance of a lifetime. She rapid-fired through niche internet drama, extensively detailed the lore of three different influencer boxing matches, and casually dropped slang into every sentence. She complained about her screen time, explained the concept of 'rizz', and strategically asked him if he remembered where he was when the iPad was invented.

She waited for the exhaustion to hit his eyes. She waited for the judgmental, older-man sigh.

Instead, Nico just took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes gleaming with unfiltered entertainment.

"So, let me get this straight," Nico said, completely deadpan. "You are purposely trying to convince me that you have the attention span of a goldfish and only communicate in memes so that I'll realize I'm 'too old' for you?"

Y/N froze, her meticulously manicured hand hovering over her glass. "I—no. I'm just telling you about my life."

"Y/N," Nico chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made her stomach do an entirely unscripted flip. "I spend nine months out of the year strapped into a carbon-fiber missile surrounded by twenty-something engineers who speak entirely in acronyms. You think 'giving nightmare energy' scares me?"

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up. The act was crumbling. "I just... I think we're from different worlds. You have a whole life, a legacy. I'm literally twenty-something."

"And you are incredibly successful, intelligent, and currently trying very hard to push me away because you're scared of a few tabloid headlines," Nico countered softly. He reached across the table, his fingers gently brushing against her wrist. The touch was electric. "I didn't fly across an ocean for PR, Y/N. I flew across an ocean because you bumped into me in Miami and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since."

The wall she had spent weeks building completely shattered.

She looked at him—really looked at him—and realized the worst possible truth: her sabotage had entirely failed because she actually liked him. He was sharp, he didn't coddle her, and he saw right through her defenses in a way no one else had in a very long time.

For the rest of the dinner, the Gen-Z persona vanished. They talked about her struggles stepping out of her father's shadow, his pressures on the track, the crushing weight of public expectations, and their shared love for terrible 90s movies. By the time the valet brought her car around, three hours had completely vanished.

"So," Nico murmured, standing close to her in the dimly lit courtyard of the club. "Did I pass the test?"

Y/N looked up at him, biting the inside of her cheek to hide her smile. "Barely."

"Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Because I'm not leaving LA until you agree to a second date. And this time, no oat milk martinis."

The problem with the San Vicente date was that it was flawless. Y/N went back to her hotel, stared at the ceiling, and realized she was in serious trouble. He wasn't just a charming driver; he was smart, he listened to her, and the chemistry was terrifying.

So, Y/N did what any self-respecting, PR-conscious Hollywood daughter would do: she hit the panic button.

-

Y/N didn't reply. She changed his contact name back to 'Unknown Number' and threw herself into her work.

For four weeks, they didn't speak. It was an excruciating battle of stubbornness. Nico respected her boundaries and didn't double-text, but he made his presence known in the most infuriating, subtle ways possible.

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yncooper

liked by friend1, gigihadid, hulkhulkenberg and others

yncooper Burnout but make it fashion ☕️

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f1updates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and others

f1updates P3 for Nico! An absolute masterclass on the streets of Silverstone today! 🏁🏆

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You can only run from fate for so long before it catches up to you, usually wearing a custom tuxedo.

A month after her text, Y/N was in France for the Cannes Film Festival. It was a high-stakes week of premieres, red carpets, and yacht parties. She was attending an exclusive Chopard gala, wearing a silk, emerald green gown that left very little to the imagination.

She was mid-conversation with a French director when a hush fell over their section of the VIP lounge.

"Ah, the man of the hour," the director said, raising his champagne glass.

Y/N turned around, and the air physically left her lungs. Nico was walking into the lounge, flanked by two PR reps. He was in a perfectly tailored black velvet tuxedo, his hair effortlessly styled, looking like he owned the entire French Riviera. He was there as a brand ambassador, and he looked lethal.

Their eyes met across the room. The music seemed to drown out. He didn't smile, but a spark of recognition—and challenge—flashed in his gaze.

He didn't approach her immediately. He let her stew. For two hours, they navigated the same room, always standing just a few feet apart, hyper-aware of each other's gravity. It was psychological warfare.

Finally, Y/N couldn't take it anymore. She excused herself and slipped out onto the quiet, dimly lit balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, desperate for some cool air.

A few seconds later, the heavy glass door clicked shut behind her.

"Green is definitely your color."

Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath before turning around. He was leaning against the stone railing, watching her with a look so intense it made her knees weak.

"Are you following me?" Y/N asked, crossing her arms defensively.

"I'm an ambassador for the brand hosting the party, Y/N. You're the one standing on my balcony," Nico replied, taking a slow step toward her. The scent of his cologne—something expensive, woody, and entirely intoxicating—wrapped around her. "How was your month of being realistic?"

"It was very productive," she lied, her voice wavering slightly as he stepped into her personal space.

"Really?" Nico murmured. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against the bare skin of her shoulder. Y/N shivered, completely unable to stop the reaction. "Because you look just as stressed as you did the night you ran away from me in LA."

"I didn't run."

"You bolted," he corrected softly, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her gaze again. "And it’s fine. I told you I'd give you space. But I’m done waiting, Y/N. Tell me to leave right now, tell me you feel absolutely nothing, and I will walk back inside and never bother you again."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the crashing of the waves below. Y/N looked at him—the certainty in his eyes, the absolute confidence—and realized she was exhausted from fighting it. The PR didn't matter. The age gap didn't matter.

Y/N reached out, grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and pulled him down to her eye level.

"If you ever tell anyone how long it took you to break me," Y/N whispered fiercely, "I will deny it."

Nico’s smirk returned, entirely triumphant, right before his hands found her waist and he pulled her against him, finally closing the distance between them.

-

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FaceTime Log

[2:00 AM in Tokyo / 7:00 PM in Silverstone] Y/N is sitting in a makeup chair, her hair half-pinned up as she stifles a yawn. On the screen, Nico is in his driver's room, still wearing his race suit, looking exhausted but victorious after a podium finish. He spends twenty minutes just listening to her complain about the jet lag while tracing the outline of her face on his screen.

[8:00 AM in Los Angeles / 5:00 PM in Maranello] Nico is walking the track during a track walk with his engineers, holding the phone slightly angled so no one can see the screen. Y/N is in her kitchen, making her morning coffee in an oversized t-shirt. She catches a glimpse of one of his teammates looking suspiciously at the phone and immediately hangs up, texting him an angry "BE CAREFUL!!!!!!!!!!" with ten exclamation points.

-

gigihadid UM. WHO IS THAT. CALL ME RIGHT NOW.

friend1 The soft launch is too loud!!! Y/N!!!

bellahadid Wait… is that… no way.

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DeuxMoi Blind Item

SUBJECT: Fast Cars & Front Rows

MESSAGE: Spotted: Everyone's favorite blonde nepo-model-turned-it-girl sneaking out of the service exit of a very famous luxury hotel in Monaco last weekend. About twenty minutes later, a certain veteran F1 driver was seen leaving the exact same exit, looking very happy. Word on the grid is that he’s been intensely distracted lately. Are we looking at the most unexpected crossover of the year?

-

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The F1 Summer Break in August was supposed to be their sanctuary. For three weeks, there were no race weekends, no media duties, and no fashion weeks.

Nico had chartered a ridiculously expensive, incredibly private yacht off the coast of Sardinia. The captain and the skeleton crew had signed Y/N’s ironclad NDAs, the boat was anchored miles away from the mainland, and for the first time in months, they let their guard down. There were no burner phones, no decoy cars, and no service elevators. It was just the Mediterranean sun, sea salt, and the illusion of absolute privacy.

They forgot about the one thing worse than an F1 fan with a WiFi connection: an Italian paparazzi photographer with a massive, high-powered telephoto lens on a rented speedboat.

-

-

Y/N sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed in the master cabin, staring blindly at her phone screen as the notifications poured in like a digital avalanche. The secret was out. The bubble was aggressively popped.

The bathroom door opened, and Nico walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, rubbing a smaller towel through his wet hair. He took one look at her pale face and immediately stopped.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice dropping all of its usual playful arrogance, replaced instantly by concern.

"They found us," Y/N whispered, her voice shaking slightly. She turned the phone screen toward him, displaying the massive tabloid cover. "We're on the front page of Page Six. Twitter is having an absolute field day with the age gap. Gigi is having a meltdown. And... my dad knows."

Nico didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He just walked over, gently took the phone out of her trembling hand, and tossed it face-down onto the mattress.

He sat down next to her, pulling her into his side so her head rested against his bare chest. "Breathe, Y/N."

"My publicist is going to kill me," she muttered into his collarbone. "And my dad is going to kill you."

"I've survived worse," Nico said calmly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "We knew this was going to happen eventually. You can't keep a secret forever. So, what do you want to do? Deny it? Blame it on an angle?"

Y/N pulled back slightly, looking up into his eyes. There was no hesitation there. Just steady, unwavering support.

"No," Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'm tired of sneaking around service elevators and pretending I don't know you. But I have to go to Los Angeles. I have to face my dad before the media spins this completely out of control."

Nico nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll get the pilot to prep the jet." He paused, a small smirk finally breaking through. "For the record... the photos are fantastic. I look great."

Y/N shoved his shoulder, a reluctant, terrified laugh escaping her. "I hate you."

"You really don't," Nico replied, pulling her back in.

The flight from Europe to Los Angeles felt like the longest twelve hours of Y/N’s life. By the time her car pulled up to the heavy, iron gates of her father’s Pacific Palisades estate, her nerves were entirely frayed.

She walked through the front door, dropping her bags in the foyer. The house was suspiciously quiet.

"Dad?" she called out, bracing herself.

"In the kitchen!" a familiar voice echoed back.

Y/N took a deep breath, mentally rehearsing the defense she had spent the entire flight constructing. Yes, he's older. Yes, he's a race car driver. No, I am not ruining my brand. Yes, I am being careful. She marched into the kitchen, fully prepared for war.

Bradley was standing at the marble island, wearing a casual t-shirt and glasses, calmly pouring a cup of coffee. Sitting right in the middle of the counter, completely unavoidable, was a printed copy of the Page Six article.

"Okay, before you say anything," Y/N started, holding her hands up defensively. She was pacing the length of the kitchen. "I know how it looks. I know the PR team is probably having a collective aneurysm. I know the internet is being completely unhinged about the age difference. But I like him. I really like him, Dad. He treats me well, he respects my career, and he doesn't care about the Hollywood circus. And I am an adult, so you can't be mad at me for—"

"Y/N," Bradley interrupted, his voice incredibly calm.

"What?" she snapped, freezing in her tracks.

Bradley picked up the coffee mug, leaned against the counter, and looked down at the tabloid picture of Nico kissing her neck on the yacht. A slow, highly amused smile spread across his face.

Then, he started laughing.

"Dad! This isn't funny!" Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. "The timeline is literally crucifying me."

"Sweetheart," Bradley chuckled, taking off his glasses and gesturing vaguely around the room. "Do you honestly think I am going to stand in my own kitchen and lecture my daughter about the optics of an age gap?"

Y/N lowered her hands, blinking in confusion.

"You set me up with Gigi," Bradley pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "Gigi, who is literally your friend. Gigi, who is significantly younger than me. If I tried to give you a speech about generational differences right now, the sheer hypocrisy would probably cause the house to collapse."

Y/N stared at him, her brain short-circuiting as the reality of the situation set in. "Wait. You're... you're not mad?"

"Mad? No," Bradley sighed, walking around the island to wrap an arm around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head. "Surprised? Absolutely. When Sarah called me yesterday hyperventilating about an F1 driver, I had to sit down. I thought you were just busy with fashion week."

"I was trying to protect it," Y/N admitted quietly, leaning into him. "I knew how chaotic it would be once people found out. I just wanted it to be ours for a little while."

"I get it," Bradley said softly. He pulled back, looking at her seriously. "But Y/N, I haven't seen you this happy in years. You've had this... glow about you lately. I knew you were seeing someone, I just assumed it was some actor I’d have to pretend to like. If this guy makes you smile like that, then I don't care what Twitter has to say about his birth year."

A massive wave of relief washed over her. The tension that had been sitting on her chest for the last 48 hours completely evaporated.

"Thanks, Dad," she smiled, wiping a stray tear from her eye.

"You're welcome," Bradley smiled back. Then, he tapped the tabloid on the counter. "Now, please call your friend. Gigi has left me fourteen voice notes threatening to fly to Monaco and interrogate him herself."

-

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yncooper

liked by hulkhulkenberg, gigihadid, friend1 and others

yncooper guess we can stop taking separate flights now 🤍🏁

hulkhulkenberg I don't know, I was starting to enjoy sneaking through the service elevators

yncooper @ hulkhulkenberg you are literally the most dramatic man on earth...

gigihadid THE LAST SLIDE 😭 If he passed the dog test, he’s officially family

yncooper @ gigihadid he literally likes the dog more than me, G :(

user THE BINOCULARS IN THE FIRST SLIDE LMAO He was actively looking out for the paparazzi and they STILL got caught!! 🚨🚨

user @ user the way they are just laughing about it now is so iconic. She really said 'let me post better angles'

lando Wait, he actually smiles? I thought his face was stuck like that

hulkhulkenberg @ lando I will personally make sure you finish P15 on Sunday, Lando

voguemagazine The most stylish hard launch of the year ✨

bcooperfans Bradley liking this post in 0.5 seconds is sending me. The dad approval is real!

user ok, the elevator picture is doing things to me. The blazer? The sunglasses indoors? He knows exactly what he’s doing.

user we survived the secret era trenches and now we are being fed. Look at how soft he is with the dog 🥺

user @ user I’m printing the third slide and putting it on my fridge. I have never seen this man look so peaceful!!

user The casual Van Cleef necklace in the elevator pic... she is so effortless it hurts. They look SO good together

gabrielbortoleto Happy for you both, mate. (Please tell me this means you'll be in a better mood at the engineering briefings)

ynuser @ gabrielbortoleto no promises, George 🫶🏼

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audif1

liked by yncooper, hulkhulkenberg, gabrielbortoleto and others

audif1 Kicking off a new era in style ✨ Great to have @ yncooper joining the Audi F1 family for our debut race weekend!

yncooper The new colors look incredibly good on you guys. Let’s go!! 🤍🏁

audif1 @ yncooper Welcome to the team!

hulkhulkenberg Best view from the cockpit today ❤

user @ hulkhulkenberg HE IS SO OBSESSED WITH HER I AM SCREAMING❗❗❗

user THE AUDI ERA IS OFFICIALLY HERE!! And Y/N in the pastel pink dress?! She is the ultimate WAG 💅🚨

user I have followed this man’s entire career and I have genuinely never seen him smile this much on a race weekend. She really fixed him 😭🤍

user The contrast of the soft pink dress against the literal carbon fiber and engineering equipment... frame this immediately!!!!!!!!!

user Okay but the way Audi is already claiming her as family. They know who brings in the PR metrics!! 😂

gigihadid Absolutely stunning, angel! Show them how it's done! ✨

yncooper @ gigihadid Wish you were here, G! 🥺

user we used to pray for times like this. From hiding in service elevators to getting official team debut posts. We survived the trenches

bcooperfans She looks so focused on the team radio! I bet Bradley is watching the timing screens from LA right now

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