You blinked slowly. “I look a bit what?”

“Knackered,” he repeated, as if it was the most normal word in the world.

“I don’t know what that means. Do I look sick?”

“No, baby. Just tired. Fancy a cuppa?”

You stared at him, still half-asleep, his words feeling like a foreign language.

“Genuinely, what are you saying?” you asked, looking at him in confusion.

Lando had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much.

“Nothing complicated,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Just asking if you want tea.”

“Then say tea,” you muttered.

“I did.”

“No, you said… cuppa.”

“That is tea.”

You stared at him. Properly stared. “Did you hit your head?”

He tilted his head, still fighting his grin. “Nah, I’m sound.”

You squinted. “You’re… sound?”

“Yeah. Fine. All good.”

“…That’s not a real sentence. You are not a musical instrument, Lando.”

That did it.

Lando broke.

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, and he quickly turned his face away like the counter was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“I’m not a musical instrument,” he repeated, still laughing under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re the one speaking in riddles,” you said, pointing at him accusingly. “First knackered, then cuppa, now… I’m sound? What’s next, are you going to tell me you’re chuffed about the kettle?”

He turned back, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yeah. The kettle’s class.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“No, wait—” he said quickly, stepping closer, but the grin on his face ruined any seriousness. “I’m only joking.”

Your eyes narrowed. “So you are making things up.”

“Not making them up,” he corrected. “Just… British-ing them up.”

“British-ing them up,” you repeated flatly.

He nodded proudly.

You sighed. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“…I strongly dislike you.” You said, mocking his accent. 

“Bit dramatic, that.”

You grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing properly now, completely unbothered.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.

“Yeah,” he admitted, setting the pillow aside. “Bit of fun, innit.”

You pointed at him again. “Don’t.”

He leaned in slightly, voice softer but still teasing. “Fancy a brew, then?”

You froze.

“…A brew is tea, isn’t it?” You were guessing, or you heard it somewhere before, you weren’t really sure.

He smiled like he’d just won something.

“Finally!”

“Just because I guessed one word doesn’t mean you’ll speak British. We speak English in this household, babe,” you warned him.

Lando pressed a hand to his chest like you’d deeply offended him.

“English?” he repeated. “I am speaking English.”

“No, you’re speaking British.”

“I remember how you told me my British accent is hot.”

“Two years ago.”

He gasped. Properly dramatic.

“So now it’s expired?”

“Yes.”

“Like milk?”

You pointed at him. “Exactly like milk.”

A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen making coffee for both of you. Not tea. You had trauma now.

You turned slightly toward the couch where Lando was sprawled, watching TV like he hadn’t just mentally destabilised your entire morning.

“Want some biscuits, baby?” you called out.

Silence.

Then—

Lando slowly turned his head.

“Biscuits?” he repeated, a grin already spreading across his face.

You froze.

“I meant cookies,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Don’t think much of it.”

“I’d love to fancy a cuppa with biscuits, darlin’,” Lando said with a smug little smile, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

You stared at him for a second.

Then you pointed a spoon in his direction.

“I hate you.”

Lando laughed, pushing himself off the couch and walking over, still grinning like he’d just won a race.

“No you don’t,” he said softly, taking the spoon from your hand before you could accidentally weaponise it further.

You tried to stay annoyed. You really did.

But then he bumped his shoulder lightly against yours, voice dropping into something gentler.

“You’re just upset you’re losing the British language battle.”

“There is no battle.”

“There is now.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando noticed immediately.

“Oh, look, she’s smiling,” he whispered. “That means I win.”

“You are unbearable.”

“And you love me.”

A pause.

“…Unfortunately.”

He laughed, pulling you into him before you could protest, arms wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. In fact, it was.

“Fancy that cuppa anyway?” he murmured against your hair.

You sighed into his hoodie.

“…Yeah. But you’re making it.”

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.

You both looked up.

A guy had just slid into the conversation like he belonged there, leaning slightly on the counter with an offended little smile.

“You think golf is boring?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said immediately.

“Very,” your friend added.

He looked personally attacked.

“It is not boring,” he said. “You just don’t understand it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing to understand. It’s slow.”

“It’s strategic,” he corrected, instantly more animated. “It’s precision. It’s pressure. It’s—”

“Sleepy,” you interrupted.

He gasped like you’d insulted his entire family tree.

“Okay, no,” he said, pointing at you. “That’s just wrong.”

You stared at him. “Are you… arguing with us right now?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

Your friend leaned back slightly. “Who even are you?”

He paused.

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world:

“Lando.”

That should’ve meant something.

It did not, to you.

“So, Lando,” you said slowly, “do you always join strangers’ conversations to defend golf?”

“Only when they’re wrong,” he said immediately.

You scoffed. “Confident.”

He grinned.

“Yeah, well,” he said, eyes flicking to you, “you looked like you needed someone to make this conversation more interesting.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Lando added casually, leaning a little closer, “you’re arguing about golf in a café. That’s kind of impressive in a sad way.”

Your mouth opened.

Your friend made a sound like they were trying not to laugh.

“You’re so annoying,” you said.

His grin widened instantly.

“Yeah?” he said. “You’re kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”

Silence.

Your friend slowly looked between you two like she were witnessing something illegal.

You pointed at him. “Shut up.”

You did not, in fact, want him to shut up. 

“You should come play sometime,” he said casually. “Then you can tell me it’s boring.”

You blinked. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not,” he replied immediately. “It’s an invitation.”

Your friend looked at you like don’t you dare.

So of course you did.

“Fine,” you said. “But I’m only coming to prove you wrong.”

His grin widened instantly.

“Perfect,” Lando said. “I’ll book you in.”

Why were you actually excited?

OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You didn’t mean to end up sitting on the pavement.

It just… happened.

One minute you were upright, convinced you were absolutely fine, and the next your legs had decided they were no longer participating in reality.

The pavement was cold. A little uncomfortable. But stable. Which, at the moment, felt like a fair trade.

You blinked slowly at the blurry streetlights above you, trying to remember where your friends had gone. Or where you were. Or what direction “forward” meant.

“Are you okay?”

The voice came from somewhere above you.

Male. Calm. Way too calm.

You looked up slowly.

There was a guy standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at you like you were a mildly concerning but manageable situation.

Tall. Dark hair. Expression unreadable.

You squinted.

“…Yeah,” you said immediately, because that felt like the correct answer to everything.

He didn’t look convinced.

“You’re sitting on the pavement,” he pointed out.

“I’m resting,” you corrected firmly.

A pause.

“Right,” he said, like he was filing that information under not true, but okay.

You tried to stand up to prove your point. Your body disagreed halfway through the attempt, and you immediately sat back down like nothing happened.

The silence that followed was loud.

Then he crouched slightly so he was closer to your eye level.

“I’m Oscar,” he said simply. “Do you know where your friends are?”

You stared at him for a moment.

Oscar. That sounded like a responsible name.

You nodded slowly. “Lost them.”

“Okay,” he said, still calm. “Do you know where you’re going?”

You considered this very seriously.

“…Home?”

“Good start.”

Another pause.

He exhaled softly, like he had accepted something about his evening had just changed.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

You did not, in fact, stand.

Oscar nodded once, like he’d expected that answer.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m going to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” you informed him.

Oscar crouched anyway, and before you could properly argue, he lifted you up like it was nothing.

“Hey—”

“Yeah,” he said calmly. “I’ve got you.”

“This is so embarrassing,” you mumbled, hiding your face.

“It’s fine.”

“It is not fine.”

“You’ll think it’s funny tomorrow,” he added.

“I won’t.” 

“You might.”

You squinted at him. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll get to know you when you’re sober.” he said simply, like it was a fact.

….oh?

CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You were standing in the pasta aisle for way too long.

Not because there weren’t options—there were too many. Too many shapes, too many brands, too many “authentic Italian recipes” staring back at you like you were supposed to have an opinion on them.

You sighed, shifting your basket.

“Why is this so complicated?” you muttered to yourself.

“It’s not.”

You turned your head.

A guy had appeared beside you like it was completely normal to join someone mid-crisis in a grocery store aisle. Calm posture, easy expression, like he wasn’t also standing in front of twenty kinds of pasta.

You frowned. “It kind of is.”

He looked at the shelf once, very quickly, like he already understood everything.

“That one,” he said, pointing.

You blinked. “Why that one?”

“It’s the best.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged slightly. “It is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you work here or something?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

A pause.

Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world:

“Because I know. By the way, I’m Charles.”

You stared at him.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It does,” he said, completely serious.

You looked back at the pasta, then at him again. He didn’t look like he was joking. That somehow made it worse.

“…Fine,” you said slowly, grabbing the one he pointed at. “If this is bad, I’m blaming you.”

“It won’t be,” he replied immediately.

You walked forward, expecting that to be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Because Charles followed.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“I was just buying pasta,” you said.

He nodded like that was an insufficient plan for life.

“You can do sauce,” he added.

You stopped walking. “Are you… giving me a full meal plan right now?”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “I can cook dinner for you with it. Friends say I’m a good cook.”

That made you turn fully toward him.

“…Is this your way of inviting me on a date?” you asked slowly.

There was a beat. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just him considering the question like it already had a simple answer.

Then he smiled a little.

“Absolutely yes.”

Even though you knew this Charles for like a minute, you were absolutely saying yes. 

MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ Rain had a way of making everything more difficult.

The bus was late, your umbrella had given up twenty minutes ago, and your shoes were making that annoying squelching sound every time you took a step. At this point, you were less of a person and more of a walking puddle.

A car pulled up beside the curb. You ignored it.

Then the window rolled down.

“Do you need a ride?”

You stopped walking and looked over. The driver was a guy around your age, one hand resting on the steering wheel, looking completely unbothered by the fact he was talking to a stranger standing in the rain.

Immediately, your suspicion levels reached dangerous heights.

“No, thanks.”

He glanced outside at the weather before looking back at you. “You’re soaked.”

“I noticed.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Get in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”

To your surprise, he laughed. Not an awkward laugh or an offended one—an actual laugh.

“Fair point.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Rain continued hitting the pavement between you while you considered your options.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “I’ll try again. I’m Max.”

You stared at him. “That doesn’t make it less suspicious.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. Somehow, that was what convinced you. Not the introduction, not the insanely expensive car, but the fact he wasn’t trying so hard to get you to trust him.

So a few seconds later, you were sitting in the passenger seat with the heater blasting warm air at you.

“You know,” you said, “most people would just keep driving.”

Max shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You looked miserable.”

“That’s not a reason to pick up strangers.”

“It was for me.”

The strange thing was that the longer you sat there, the less nervous you felt. The conversation came surprisingly easily. You talked about work, about the weather, about random things that didn’t matter. Max wasn’t overly talkative, but whenever the conversation slowed, he’d ask another question, like he was genuinely interested in the answer.

By the time your destination came into view, the ride didn’t feel nearly long enough.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said as he pulled over.

“No problem.”

You reached for the door handle, but before you could open it, he spoke again.

“If it rains tomorrow too,” he said casually, “I can give you another ride.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Something told you this wasn’t going to be the last time you saw him.

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.

The car accelerated—on purpose, of course. Not a mistake. Just Lando deciding that normal driving speed was, in fact, deeply offensive to his character.

“Lando.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. The worst kind of grin—the one that already meant he had decided to ignore whatever you were about to say.

“You know we’re not on track, right?”

“I’m aware,” he said, far too calm for someone currently treating a normal road like a qualifying lap.

“Then why are you driving like we’re fighting for pole?”

His grin only widened, like that was exactly the reaction he wanted.

And there it was. The reason.

He was showing off.

Like a twelve-year-old boy with a brand-new bicycle, desperate for someone to watch.

“You know I’m not impressed by this,” you said, trying to sound firm, even as you kept your eyes on the road ahead.

“Really?” he asked, glancing at you briefly, grin still there.

“Really.”

The car took the next corner just a little too fast—completely unnecessary, completely intentional.

You immediately grabbed the door handle.

“Lando Norris!”

He laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “We’ve been dating for too long for you not to be used to my driving, baby.”

What he didn’t say—but absolutely knew—was that you were used to it. That you did think it was a little impressive. That you hated how much you secretly liked the confidence, the control, the way he made everything feel a bit too fast and a bit too exciting.

And that was the real problem. Because he knew it.

“I am used to it. I just value my life,” you said, still holding onto the door handle like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Some people would kill for having an F1 driver as a chauffeur, you know,” Lando said, glancing at you with that smug little half-smile that meant he was enjoying this far too much.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I should drive next time.”

The smirk on your face made it worse.

Lando went completely still for half a second—then slowly turned his head toward you like you’d just suggested something deeply personal and deeply dangerous.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I value my life too,” he replied, way too quickly.

That made you laugh, because for all his confidence on the road, the idea of you behind the wheel clearly terrified him more than any corner at high speed ever could.

“Interesting,” you said softly, leaning back into the seat. “So you trust yourself with my life… but not me with yours?”

“Exactly.” 

OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You breaking your phone should not have been a big deal.

In theory.

In reality, it absolutely was.

One second it was in your hand, the next it was slipping, hitting the floor, and lighting up one last time like it was saying goodbye before completely dying.

“No—no, no, no,” you gasped, crouching down immediately. “Are you serious right now?”

You pressed the power button. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

“Oh my God.”

Oscar looked over from where he was sitting, your panic barely registering on his face yet. “What happened?”

“My phone just died,” you said, voice rising slightly. “Like properly died. It’s gone. Everything is gone!”

“It’s fine,” he said calmly.

“It’s not fine,” you snapped instantly. “There are photos, messages, everything—this is literally my whole life.”

Oscar stood up, walked over, and gently took the phone from your hands like it wasn’t currently a disaster.

“Calm down,” he said simply. “We’ll buy a new one.”

“That’s not the point!”

He glanced at the screen, then back at you. Still completely unbothered. “It kind of is the point.”

You stared at him. “How are you so calm right now?”

Oscar shrugged slightly, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s just a phone.”

That made you stop.

Just for a second.

Because to you, it felt like everything crashing at once. To him, it was just… a thing that broke.

He reached for your hand without making a big deal out of it, tugging you slightly closer.

“We can back it up,” he added. “Get a new one. Nothing’s actually ruined.”

You wanted to argue.

You really did.

But the longer you stood there, the more your breathing slowed to match his. The more your panic felt a little… too big for the situation.

And that was the thing with Oscar.

He never made your feelings feel stupid.

He just quietly showed you when they were bigger than reality.

Later, when you had a new phone and everything was fine again, you still thought about it.

How he didn’t panic. How he didn’t make it worse.

How he just stayed calm until you could be calm too.

And annoyingly enough…

You loved that about him.

CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t even notice it at first.

It started small.

Harmless, almost.

You were sitting nearby when Charles was on a call with one of his sponsors, speaking in that smooth, professional tone you’d only ever hear him use in interviews.

Everything about him looked serious. Focused. Perfectly composed.

Until you heard it.

“Yeah, it’s been a busy week,” he said into the phone, nodding slightly. “Me and Y/n went to dinner after training, it was… nice.”

You blinked.

Me and Y/n?

You weren’t even part of the conversation.

You were literally just sitting there drinking water.

The call continued, and you tried to ignore it. Maybe it was a one-off thing. A slip. Nothing weird.

It wasn’t.

“Me and Y/n were in Paris last weekend actually,” he added later, like it was completely relevant to business strategy. “She loves it there, you know?” You slowly lowered your bottle.

Excuse me?

He smiled slightly at something the person said on the other end, completely unaware that your soul was leaving your body in real time.

It became a pattern.

Work interviews. Sponsor calls. Random media bits you weren’t even present for.

Somehow, everything circled back to you.

“How do you handle pressure?” “Honestly, it helps when I’m with Y/n”.

“What do you do to relax?” “Usually just spend time with Y/n.”

You finally confronted him about it one night.

“You know not every answer has to include me, right?” you said, leaning against the counter as he scrolled through his phone.

Charles looked up, confused. “Why not?”

“Because sometimes they’re asking about you.”

He frowned slightly, like that concept didn’t really compute. “But I am me and you are part of my life.”

“That’s not the point,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

But he just shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s honest.”

And the worst part?

It was.

Because when he wasn’t talking about racing, or sponsors, or anything else in his world…

He was thinking about you anyway.

Always you.

So eventually, you stopped fighting it. You just accepted it and eventually started loving it.

MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You had barely survived the week.

Emails, deadlines, mistakes you didn’t even make but somehow had to fix anyway. By Friday you were exhausted in a way that made even sitting on the couch feel like effort.

So when Max asked how it went, you just sighed.

“Bad week,” you said simply. “Everything went wrong.”

You didn’t think much of it after that.

Max nodded once, like he’d registered the information, then pulled you into his side without saying anything else.

You assumed that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Two days later, he came home and handed you a small box like it was nothing. No explanation. No warning. Just that calm, unreadable expression he always wore when he’d already decided something.

You opened it.

And froze.

A diamond necklace.

Not subtle. Not small. Not remotely casual.

“What is this?” you asked immediately, sitting up straight. “Max—no. This is too much.”

“It’s fine,” he said, already taking off his jacket.

“This is not fine,” you shot back, still staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked. “This is a necklace for a major life event. Not a… not a bad week at work.”

He glanced at you, completely unbothered. “You had a bad week.”

“Yes, so I get like—chocolate. Or takeout. Not… jewelry that looks like it belongs in a museum.”

Max shrugged slightly, like the scale of it made perfect sense in his world. “It’s just a necklace.”

You stared at him.

“It is not just a necklace.”

But he was already walking past you, like the conversation was done in his mind.

And that was the thing with Max.

He didn’t do small gestures when it came to you.

There was no mental scale where “bad week” sat at “reasonable comfort.”

To him, if something made you tired, annoyed, stressed—he fixed it in the biggest way possible.

Like anything less wouldn’t be enough.

You looked back down at the necklace, then toward him.

“You know,” you muttered, “normal people get flowers.”

Max paused. “Do you want flowers as well?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

Because of course he would take it literally.

And of course, tomorrow there would probably be both.

You looked at him again, still holding the box like it might suddenly become less expensive if you stared at it long enough.

“Thank you, Max,” you said softly. Then, a little more serious, “I love you, but you really don’t know what to do with your money.”

Max just shrugged, completely unbothered, like that wasn’t even a problem worth solving.

“Does this mean I can buy another sim?” he asked, a faint grin forming as he leaned back against the counter.

You blinked at him.

Of course that was where his brain went.

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately, but you were already laughing despite yourself. “Not even a little bit.”

His grin widened like he’d at least tried his luck and was satisfied with the answer anyway.

“Worth asking,” he said.

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.