Into It
Chase Atlantic ♥︎
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McLaren
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
More Kisses? - LN4 + “One kiss is just never enough.”
This Christmas - LN4 + “There’s no way I’m letting you spend Christmas alone.”
Want You - LN4 + "But I don't want them, I want you." 🥧🏈
I'm All Yours - You and Lando have been in the talking stage for some months now. After Lando's third win, he knows he's missing something important. You being his girlfriend.
My Type - where the reader thinks she isn’t Lando’s type
Our Love Is Strong - You weren't going to let your eating disorder destroy your relationship until it did.
Good Luck Kiss - Lando is a fully independent guy until you are around.
First Choice - Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship.
Gold in Snow - you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type
Sweet Pain - lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home
Sleeping Medicine - Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Spa Day - Lando tried to go to a spa to relax after his win in Hungary, he didn't think he would fall in love with his Massage Therapists.
Emotional Support - Lando hasn't spoken to anyone after leaving the parc fermé, maybe some fistbumps but not a single word. After the podium celebration, he makes sure to seek you out first.
Soft Hands - Lando Norris getting a full body massage from you after a triple header
Birthday Boy - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Our Day - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Her Type - In a gathering, Lando had heard a bit of your conversation saying that your type is black guys. He decides to try to be your friend since he found you so attractive.
His Calm - Lando has a panic attack and looks for you only.
Planning Kisses - Lando plans mistletoe around the house and kisses you all the way.
You Matter - You and Lando just started dating and everything was great until you were getting racist comments
Soft Touches - Lando's love language is touch which is something you've never been used to before
Long Way To Go - Lando is courting you and in every way, Lando's got a long way to go
Officially Whipped - Lando being whipped for you which is all the time
Worthy Of You - You don't feel like you're not worthy of being the girlfriend of the newest F1 World Champion
Favourite Girls - Lando feels like it's time for you to meet the other favourite girl in his life, his niece Mila
Let Me Help - You ate an aphrodisiac chocolate by accident before the Silverstone grand prix and Lando just wants to help you
Chat's Favourite - When Lando introduced you to his stream, they loved you more than him
Physical Touch - You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Fate I Guess? - You swapped shifts with your sister but you didn't expect to see Lando Norris waiting for you on the bed
Leaving For The Best - It's for the best that you two go your own ways. . . .
Hard Launch - Crashing your boyfriends twitch live was not how you wanted to hard launch. . . .
Leaving For The Best - Lando asks you to be friends with benefits in exchange for money and you agree so you could pay your mom's medical bills
Gazy, Dazed and In Love - Lando took his wisdom tooth out and is still not over anaesthetic when he asks you out
Latch On - It was the first night of you and Lando sleeping in your new house and he slept like a baby
Relax With Me - You've always had to be independent as an eldest daughter, Lando shows you how to relax
Teaching Amateurs - Lando tries out your sport, which is swimming and it's harder than he thought
Oscar Piastri
Mistletoe Magic - OP81 + “What are you doing with that mistletoe– oh.”
Baby Fever - OP81 + babysitting a child
24 Hours Without You - A dare from Lando led to Oscar not having any contact from you for 24 hours. Well he tried to.
My Husband - when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much
Yes To Me - OP81 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
Sleeping Medicine - Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?
Stranger Danger - What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .
Not Friends Anymore - McLaren are glad and Oscar is mad. Who can help? His bestie!
Birthday Gift - Ten years ago, two loved ones died on your birthday and you've never celebrated it ever again until Oscar came into your life....
First Dance - You and Oscar decided that the first dance would be a slow one.
Maroon String Theory - You are one of the first black families to stay in Australia. Everyone was discriminating against you except your neighbours, the Piastris.
By Your Sea - You never expected Oscar to propose you like this.
Can't Avoid - You and Oscar have been best friends for ages until your friend says she has a crush on Oscar, you backed away to give her a chance.
Quality Time - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Ride A Cowgirl - For the Austin Grand Prix, Oscar is forced by McLaren to learn how to ride a horse by a hot cowgirl.
New Conditions - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Brother's Best Friend - The first person your brother, Lando calls after your break up is Oscar.
Never Letting Go - Oscar gets drunk at a party and won't leave your side
Protector - You've never had a boyfriend that protects you every time
His Solution - When Oscar keeps getting bad results, he closes himself off from the best thing in his life, you
Right Person, Right Time - Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Come Home - You and all of Oscar's sisters go on a night out and he hears all about it when he drives you two home
Bite Me - Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Perfect Plan - You and Oscar have been shipped by your friends and they have a plan
Red Bull
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Teach Me - MV1 + “I never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up,"
My Priority - MV1 + "You're my priority." 🍂🦃
Birthday Boy - It's getting to Max's birthday and you know what he wants for it.
Love Sick - You and Max have been together for a while and you knew he loved you but you didn't know to what extent.
Favourite Smell - a pilot with max and it ends up in smut like "I love your smell" +18
Timeless Desire - You had always been Mercedes fan since you were young and it didn't change when you became Max's best friend. Based on British Grand Prix.
Power Couple - Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.
Don't Stop - "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."
Ocean Eyes - "Please stop." "Stop what? I didn't even do anything." "I can see the look you're giving me. Stop it."
His Choice & Her Choice - You are a redhead, you're dating Max but you're a WWE wrestler so you're not the influencer or model that f1 drivers "normally" date.
Bouquet Catcher - You caught the bouquet at your friend's wedding and you locked eyes with your crush, Max
Not A Burden - You had a bad racist encounter in the paddock and you hide it from Max, letting it slowly eat away at you
Real In His Eyes - Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Dirty Dancing - Max is dragged to go to a strippers club with his friends after he has been broken up with and sees you.
His Loss - After Max made the decision to get a divorce 2 years ago, he has never suffered more. When he sees you again, he can't just let go again.
Relax - After a week of working, Max puts his foot down and make you relax one way or another
Better Tool - After being caught masturbating, Max makes sure to tell you know he's better than a sex toy
Celebrations - After winning his 5th championship, you decided to treat him good
Big Family - After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Worship - You've never had a boyfriend that worshipped you
Brat - You've never had a boyfriend that knows how to handle your brattiness differently
Your Gift - For his birthday, you secretly painted him his favourite picture
ILoveItIHateItILoveIt - Max realizes how much he messed up and needs you.....
Husband? - Max realizes how much he needs you after you call him your husband.....
Daniel Ricciardo - "Honey Badger"
Fragments of Hope - You had an argument with Daniel and you decided to leave him for a while. What you didn't know is that he can't live without you.
Birthday Boy - It's Daniel's birthday and you two are still oblivious to your feelings. Time for the grid's help.
Yuki Tsunoda - "Muscle Packet"
No More Excuses - Yuki has been saying to himself, to you, to his fans that he's okay and that he just needs time to adjust to the car but after finishing out of points for the fourth time, he breaks in front of you.
Sebastian Vettel - "Baby Schumi"
Under the Radar - a fic from his red bull era maybe something likes good friends (teammates) to lovers and like everyone ships them but they still have to date secretly for a bit idk whatever you wanna do maybe like the first getting together then to her first championship or something sorry I don’t request a lot I just think the two youngest drivers who are menaces dominating the season together who be really sweet lmao
Ferrari
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
Winter Wonder - CL16 + Winter Power Outage
You Know Me Best - Charles has a bad day and you as his best friend always knows what he wants, but do you really? +18
Just One Kiss - You & Charles are just best friends but when he wins in his home for the first time, things might change
Speak Baby - you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Lose my Mind - “The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.” +18
Tell Me Your Confessions - You go on vacation with Max, who is one of your closest friends as well as with his other friends, one which just happens to make you feel like you have a high school crush.
Most Important - You knew something was wrong when Charles crashed harshly and he didn't get out of his car or reply on the radio.
Touches & Victory - "It feels like I ruin everything I touch." "If you ever wish to test that theory, you're more than welcome to do so with me."
First Time - You just got married to the love of your life. Great! Until you realise you have to do the nasty nasty and you have no experience at all.
Just A Plate - You broke a plate and you thought that Charles would hit you like your ex. But Charles is not like them.
Golden Duo - At the start of Charles's F1 career, having you as his race engineer made him win podiums and wins. You two were the unstoppable duo until you disappeared.
The Red Dress - “Move an inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”
Meeting The Parents - Charles was scared to meet your parents, being from a whole different continent and all.
Leo's Nanny - Charles is in need of a pet sitter and Leo somehow picks the best one.
Baby Leclerc - You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Favourite Interview - You are an interviewer for Sky Sports and Charles always manages to leave you flustered by the time he leaves
Favourite Duo - Charles has always had Ollie under his wing, which you think is cute
Rare Gem - Charles went to vacation in Sicily and found a rare beauty.
Only Choice - Your friends flirt with your boyfriend because they think they have a chance so Charles decides to show he only picks you
Best Friend's Brother - You've been best friends with Arthur for all your life but his brother sees you in a different light after he wins at home
Masked Singer - Your fans hear a familiar voice in one of your songs and track it down to a popular F1 driver....
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Christmas Ball - CS55 + fake dating for a Christmas party/ball
Happy Ever After - a Romeo and Juliet vibe
Golf Gurl - an AU where Carlos is attracted to the new receptionist at the golf course he and Papa Sainz frequent
Destiny's Will - You and Carlos were childhood friends until you two were separated before he got to F1. The next time they meet, they're enemies.
More Amor - you are going out with Carlos, you can speak his language, but you don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Heavy Love - Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does +18
Yes To Me - CS55 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
The Garter - You wore a garter on yours and Carlos' wedding and you didn't think it would affect him that much.
Truly Loved - You were scared to meet Carlos' family, afraid that your skin colour will make them dislike you. Turns out it's the opposite.
Calm Chaos - You are wild and independent, which drives Carlos, a control freak, insane.
Snowed In - You and Carlos were stuck in his house because the house got snowed in.
Breaking Traditions - You are the princess of Spain and your father begs you to get married but you reject all suiters except the Smooth Operator.
Better Than Him - Your man has never treated you right and Carlos is here to show you it's supposed to be
No More Stamina - You are exhausted and Carlos still has a lot more rounds in him
Shoot The Shot - Franco has been bringing his older sister to races and Carlos can't help but shoot his shot
Deserving You - When Carlos got kicked out of Ferrari, he didn't think he was worthy of anything including you
Best Honeymoon - It's you and Carlos's honeymoon and you've never been so in love with each other
Simp - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
Lost Time - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
My Darling - Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.
My Love - It was George's fathers birthday and he decided to invite the whole family to a yacht... which includes you, being 'George's love of his life'.
Kimi Antonelli - "Max's Successor"
Italian Lessons - You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.
Differences Aside - You and Kimi come from different backgrounds; rich and poor though you two met in school and Kimi hasn't let go of you since. You think that even with your love, you and Kimi would not work out because of you two differences. Here's where Kimi comes in; Operation: Get Advice on How To Ask You Out!
In His Arms - Kimi and you are in a long distance relationship because you're still in uni but when you two finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages, Kimi refuses to let you go.
Alpine
Franco Colapinto - "Il Padrino"
Dancing on Ice - FC43 + “I can’t ice skate amor, I’ll break all my bones.”
Distract You - FC43 + "Let me distract you."
Pierre Gasly - "Mr. Monza"
Accept It - You and Pierre have known each other for all your life... unfortunately for you. You two were the opposite. Grumpy with Sunshine, smart pretty with jock pretty etc. But what happens when you see him in Spa. . . .
Aston Martin
Lance Stroll - "Daddy's Cash"
No 1 Defender - Who's been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section?? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's you who is also his bestie and his biggest crush.
Williams
Alex Albon - "Albono"
You're Cute - Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.
Haas
Ollie Bearman - "The Red Baby"
My Lover - You and Ollie have been in a secret relationship for months now because of your strict parents and the potential hate from fans but what happens when someone flirts with you in the club. . . .
Take It Off - It's your birthday and you're wearing Ollie's favourite dress.
Esteban Ocon - "Estie Bestie"
Beauty Of Curls - You've been begging your boyfriend to get this haircut for months and after a while, Esteban gives in and you couldn't have fallen in love more.
Red Bull Racing
Isack Hadjar - "Le Petit Prost"
Unexpected Cupid - Isack's main goal has always been to become best friends with Lewis Hamilton and when that's achieved, Lewis invites him to meet his daughter, who just happens to be his age and very beautiful.
Podium Prize - You flew to the Netherlands in secret to surprise your boyfriend not knowing he would get his first podium in F1.
Surprise? - You've been gone 10 years, no 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. You had no right to show up at his birthday party like nothing happened.... But God he missed you.
Liam Lawson - "The Shield"
Heated Love - You were only a family friend of Liam Lawson so you didn't expect to be invited to the Bahrain Grand Prix. The heat wasn't the only thing you needed to worry about.
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
Our Doggie - Part 1 - Part 2
After McLaren let you watch your boyfriend interact with the animals from the Battersea. One dog found a clear interest in you instead....
Second Choice Best - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
Your best friend, Amelia married a mafia boss but the second in command has his eyes on you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Real Love - Part 1 - Part 2
You and Carlos were just supposed to be a PR couple for less than a year but someone decided to catch feelings....
Enemies Though Generation - Part 1 - Part 2
Out of all the people Carlos could fall in love with, he fell in love with you. Max's older sister....
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
A Lover's Touch - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4
In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one....
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Need Saving - Save You - We're Saved - My Saviour
You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay.....
Not Just Nice Part 1 - Part 2
Being Max's childhood friend means that you always get to see Max's good side but what happens when you think his true feelings are him just being 'nice'.
Real In Your Eyes - Real In His Eyes
Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Her Teammate - His Teammate
You and Max are teammates. You hated his cockiness and his flirting but when he crashes badly, you forget about everything else.
Lewis Hamilton - "Billion Dollar Man"
Wild Imagination - Show You Domination
You were just an interviewer for the Met Gala when you were able to meet the Sir Lewis Hamilton.....
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Summary: You and Oscar went on a blind date and didn't know who he was until the internet found out
Song: Do I Wanna Know? · Arctic Monkeys
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The restaurant was one of those places that prided itself on lighting so dim you had to squint to read the menu and acoustics so muffled you felt like you were dining inside a velvet-lined jewelry box.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Your best friend, Sarah, had been insistent, practically shoving you into the back of an Uber with the promise that the guy was "normal, funny, and doesn't own a mountain bike."
You were expecting a software engineer or maybe a junior accountant. You were not expecting the man who stood up as you approached the corner booth.
He was wearing a simple dark charcoal sweater and a pair of trousers that looked effortless.
His hair was slightly messy, as if he’d just run a hand through it, and his eyes—a striking, inquisitive blue—brightened the moment he saw you. He looked young, perhaps a bit nervous, which was endearing.
"You must be Y/N," he said, his voice carrying a soft, melodic Australian lilt. He stood, his movements fluid and polite. "I’m Oscar."
"Hi, Oscar," you said, sliding into the booth. "Sorry if I’m a few minutes late. Traffic was a nightmare."
"No apology necessary," he said, offering a shy, genuine smile. "I’ve just been sitting here contemplating whether ordering bread for the table makes me look too eager or just hungry."
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders dissipating. "Always order the bread. It’s the safest bet for a first date."
"Noted."
The next two hours passed with a strange, gravity-defying ease. You talked about everything and nothing. He told you he was "in sports," which sounded vague, so you assumed he was a coach or perhaps a physical therapist.
When you asked him what he did on his days off, he mentioned traveling, though he complained about the jet lag with a grimace that made you giggle.
He was observant. He noticed when you barely touched your asparagus and swapped his roasted carrots for yours without making a big deal out of it.
He listened—truly listened—to your stories about your chaotic job in marketing, asking follow-up questions that showed he wasn't just waiting for his turn to speak.
"So," he said, leaning back as the waiter cleared the plates, "what do you do when you aren’t navigating the corporate jungle?"
"I’m an amateur baker," you admitted, feeling a flush of warmth. "It’s my stress relief. Though my neighbors probably hate the smell of burnt sugar at 2 A.M."
Oscar leaned in, his elbows on the table. "I’m a fan of anything involving chocolate. If this goes well, am I at risk of being a taste-tester?"
"Careful, Oscar," you teased, raising an eyebrow. "That’s a big commitment."
He smiled, and there was something in his expression—a kind of guarded sweetness—that made your heart skip a beat. It wasn't the look of a man who was used to being the center of attention. It was the look of a man who was happy to be exactly where he was.
When the check came, he fumbled for his wallet, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting, electric second. You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
He walked you to your Uber, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne—something crisp, like cedar and rain.
"I had a really lovely time, Y/N," he said softly.
"Me too," you replied, surprising yourself with how much you meant it. "Are you… are you going to be around this week?"
"I’m heading out on Wednesday," he said, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "But I’m back in a few weeks. Could I… get your number? If you’re interested, that is."
You typed your number into his phone, and as he read your name back, his smile widened. "I’ll text you," he promised.
You got into the Uber, feeling a strange, high-frequency buzz in your chest. You didn't even know his last name. You didn't know where he lived. You just knew that you’d spent three hours talking to a guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the restaurant.
The trouble began the next morning.
You were scrolling through your phone while drinking coffee, catching up on the digital void of social media.
You were about to open your messages to see if there was a text from Oscar—there wasn’t yet, which was fine, it was barely 9 A.M.—when a notification popped up from a sports news account you vaguely remembered following during the Olympics.
“McLaren’s star driver, Oscar Piastri, spotted out in London ahead of the upcoming Grand Prix season.”
You blinked, staring at the photo attached to the headline. It was a paparazzi shot, grainy and taken from a distance, but there was no mistaking the profile.
That was the charcoal sweater. That was the messy hair. That was the man who had ordered the bread.
You clicked the link, your thumb trembling slightly. The article was a puff piece about his rise in Formula 1, his "composed demeanor," and his status as a "young prodigy."
There were links to videos of him sitting in a cockpit, wearing a fireproof suit, looking intense and unreachable.
You felt a wave of nausea. A blind date with a Formula 1 driver? You’d spent the entire night complaining about your boss’s obsession with spreadsheets while he was probably thinking about aerodynamics and G-forces.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Oscar: Good morning. I hope you slept well. I’m already missing that bread.
You stared at the message, the screen glowing mockingly. You were just a marketing coordinator who liked burnt cookies. He was… a global celebrity. A man who drove at 200 miles per hour for a living.
You didn't reply. You couldn't. You spent the rest of the day in a fugue state, staring at your monitor, wondering if the entire date had been a performance.
Had he been bored? Had he been practicing his "public relations personality"?
By the time you got home, Sarah had already seen the article. Her phone call was almost immediate.
"Y/N! Oh my god! Are you seeing this? That’s your Oscar! The Oscar!"
"I know, Sarah," you sighed, collapsing onto your sofa. "I feel like an idiot. He didn't tell me."
"Why would he?" Sarah countered, her voice buzzing with excitement. "Maybe he wanted to be normal for once. Maybe he liked you for you."
"I don't know," you whispered. "He lives in a completely different stratosphere. I’m not a WAG. I don't know anything about cars."
"You don't need to be a WAG. You just need to be you. Just text him back."
You looked at the phone. The notification was still there. I’m already missing that bread. It sounded so human. So simple.
You took a deep breath and typed, So, you drive fast cars for a living? Should I be offended that you didn't mention it?
He replied within seconds.
Oscar: I figured you’d find out eventually. I just wanted one night where someone looked at me without an agenda. Was that okay?
The vulnerability in the text stopped your heart. Without an agenda. You softened. You thought about how he’d listened to your rants, his head tilted, his expression entirely focused on your words.
It was perfect, you typed back. But I have so many questions.
The next week was a blur of digital tethering. He was in Monaco, then preparing for a test in Bahrain, but he made time.
He sent you photos of the view from his hotel, snippets of his morning coffee, and voice notes that made your skin tingle when you listened to them on the commute home.
He was funny, self-deprecating, and remarkably grounded for someone whose face was plastered on billboards across the globe.
He told you about the crushing pressure of the sport, the loneliness of living out of a suitcase, and how he struggled to find people who didn't want something from him.
"You're the first thing that's felt real in a long time," he told you on a late-night call, his voice raspy and low.
"I'm just me, Oscar," you said, curling up under your blankets. "I’m not a fan. I’m just a girl who wanted a good date."
"And that’s exactly why I like you," he said.
When he finally returned to London for a few days, the dynamic had shifted. The secrecy was gone; the reality of his life was present in the background, with his PR team sending him reminders and fans occasionally lingering near hotel exits.
But when he walked into your apartment, bringing a box of expensive pastries he’d picked up from a bakery you’d mentioned, he was just Oscar again.
He stood in your small kitchen, looking out of place amidst your mismatched mugs and flour-dusted counters. He didn't belong here, not really, but he looked at your home as if it were a sanctuary.
"I brought reinforcements," he said, holding up the box. "For the taste-testing."
"You remembered," you said, walking over to him.
"I remember everything you tell me," he replied, setting the box down and stepping into your space.
The kiss was different from the first night. It was heavier, laced with the tension of the week you’d spent apart and the strange, widening chasm between your worlds.
He kissed you like he was anchoring himself, his hands finding your waist as if he were afraid you might disappear into the fog of his fame.
"Is this weird?" he asked against your lips, his eyes searching yours. "Me being here?"
"A little," you admitted, breathless. "But the good kind of weird."
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Good. Because I don't want to be anywhere else."
The weeks that followed were a surreal dance. You tried to stay away from the F1 bubble, but it was impossible. You saw his name in headlines.
You saw the brutal criticism when he had a bad race, the way the internet turned on him, and the way the media dissected his every facial expression.
It was terrifying. You didn't like seeing the person you were falling for being picked apart by strangers.
The breaking point happened a month later. You were watching a race at a friend’s house, surrounded by people who were screaming at the TV.
You saw him spin out during a qualifying session, the car sliding into the barrier, sparks flying. Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You stayed up all night waiting for a text. When it finally came, it was curt, filled with frustration and exhaustion.
Oscar: Rough day. Sorry if I’m quiet. Need to debrief with the team.
You understood, but the distance felt like a physical wall. You sent a simple, I’m here when you’re ready, and turned your phone off.
You didn't hear from him for two days. The news sites were relentless, speculating about his performance, his contract, his future.
You felt like an outsider looking into a life that was far too loud for your quiet existence. You started to wonder if Sarah was right—if this was too much.
Then, at 3 A.M. on a Tuesday, there was a sharp knock at your door.
You threw on a robe and looked through the peephole. Oscar stood there, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face, looking shattered. He’d clearly flown in on a whim.
You opened the door, and he didn't even speak; he just fell forward, his forehead resting on your shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the sharp tension in his frame. You led him inside, not asking questions, just guiding him to the couch.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the floor.
"They just don't stop," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The expectations, the noise. It feels like every time I breathe, someone is measuring the oxygen."
You sat beside him and took his hand. It was cold. "You don't have to be everything to everyone, Oscar. You just have to be you."
He looked at you then, his brown eyes tired and raw. "That's why I come here. Because here, I’m not 'the driver.' I'm not the asset. I’m just… me."
"You're just the guy who ordered the bread," you reminded him, a small smile playing on your lips.
He let out a weak, genuine laugh. "I’m the guy who’s incredibly lucky that you took a chance on a blind date."
He shifted, leaning into you, and for the first time, he let the mask drop completely.
You spent the night talking—not about racing, not about the pressures, but about your childhood, the books he’d wanted to read but never had time for, the fear of failing, and the small, simple joys of being alive.
In the quiet of your apartment, the F1 world felt like a distant, chaotic planet, and you were the only two people left in the galaxy.
Months later, the public attention hadn't gone away, but your perspective had. You stopped googling him. You stopped reading the comments.
When you were with him, you were two people in a booth, in a car, or on a couch. The rest of it—the cameras, the crowds, the roaring engines—were just the price of the life he had chosen.
You were waiting for him in the paddock garage after a victory—one of the many he’d racked up over the season. The fans were screaming, the photographers were flashing lights like lightning strikes, and the energy was frantic.
You were standing near the hospitality suite, feeling completely out of place in your simple sundress amidst the sea of team gear and corporate sponsors.
You felt the familiar wave of impostor syndrome. What were you doing here? You were a marketing assistant. You were just the girl he’d met on a Tuesday night.
Then, the crowd shifted. Oscar emerged from the garage, sweat-streaked and grinning, his cap pulled low. He was surrounded by PR people, team principals, and cameras. He looked like the world-class athlete the magazines described.
But then his eyes scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking at the cameras; he was looking for you.
When his gaze landed on you, his entire demeanor softened. The intense, competitive fire in his eyes was replaced by something intimate and warm.
He whispered something to his team manager, pushed past the press, and walked straight toward you.
The flashing lights followed him, but he ignored them all. He reached you and took your hand, pulling you close.
"You came," he said.
"I wouldn't miss it," you replied, feeling the heat of the crowd but only focusing on the steady, grounding presence of his hand in yours.
"I have a race again in four days," he said, his voice low, intimate despite the roar of the crowd. "But tonight… tonight we’re going to find a place that serves really, really good bread."
You laughed, the sound bright and clear. "I think I know just the place."
He leaned down and kissed you, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. The cameras were clicking, the fans were cheering, and the F1 world was moving on to the next race, but in that second, there was only the two of you.
He pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ready to go?"
"Ready," you said.
You walked out of the paddock together, hand in hand. You weren't a celebrity, and you weren't an F1 star. You were just a girl and a guy, heading out into the night, looking for the simple, quiet comfort of bread and a conversation that never had to end.
The road ahead was going to be fast, loud, and complicated, but as you stepped into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain: no matter how fast he drove, he was always going to find his way back to you.
Summary: Oscar helps you overcome the fear of the sea
Song: Sure Thing · Miguel
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The Mediterranean sun is a relentless, shimmering presence, casting diamonds across the turquoise expanse of the bay. From the safety of the teak deck of the chartered yacht, the water looks deceptively inviting—a vast, sapphire cradle.
To anyone else, it’s paradise. To you, it’s a living, breathing abyss that threatens to swallow you whole.
You stand by the stern, your knuckles white as you grip the polished railing. You aren’t just looking at the horizon; you are bracing yourself against it.
"You’ve been staring at the same wave for ten minutes," a voice says, soft and steady, cutting through the rhythmic lap of water against the hull.
You don't need to turn to know it’s Oscar. Even without looking, you can feel his presence—that calm, grounded energy that seems to tether you to the earth, or in this case, the boat.
He steps up beside you, the faint scent of sea salt and his signature clean, citrus cologne mixing with the heavy heat of the afternoon.
He doesn’t mock your hesitation. He never does. He simply leans against the railing, his posture relaxed, his brown eyes scanning the water as if he’s reading a track map.
"It’s just water, Oscar," you whisper, though your voice betrays you, trembling slightly. "It’s just… infinitely deep, heavy, dark water."
Oscar turns his head, his gaze shifting from the waves to your profile. There’s a kindness in his expression that makes your chest ache.
"I know," he says quietly. "But look at it from here. It’s not attacking you. It’s just existing. Like a corner on a circuit. You don't fear the corner; you just learn how to navigate it."
You let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. "I don't think I can 'drive' my way through a phobia, Oscar."
"Maybe not," he replies, his lips twitching into that small, boyish smile that usually only appears after a successful qualifying session. "But you can take it one gear at a time."
He reaches out, his hand hovering near yours before he gently covers your knuckles with his own. His skin is warm, a sharp contrast to the cool sea breeze.
His touch is a grounding current, pulling you back from the edge of the panic attack that’s been simmering in your throat since you left the harbor.
"I’m not going to throw you in," he promises, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your skin. "I’m not even going to ask you to jump. But stay here with me? Just for a bit?"
You nod, your breath evening out. You trust him. You trust him with the secrets of your heart, the complexities of your fears, and now, with the one thing you thought you could never share: your vulnerability.
The yacht is anchored in a secluded cove off the coast of Sardinia. The water here is crystal clear, a gradient of pale aquamarine fading into a deep, mysterious indigo. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying.
For the next hour, Oscar stays by your side. He talks, not about the ocean, but about the mundane, comforting rhythm of his life—the grueling hours in the simulator, the way the tarmac smells when it rains at Spa, the quiet frustration of a car that doesn't quite handle the way he wants it to.
He weaves a cocoon of words around you, insulating you from the overwhelming vastness of the sea.
He helps you down the swim ladder, step by step. When the water begins to lap at your ankles, your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You gasp, your body instinctively recoiling, your hands reaching out to grab the ladder so hard your forearms burn.
"Hey," Oscar says, his voice dropped an octave, steady and commanding. He’s standing on the bottom rung, submerged to his waist, looking up at you with unwavering focus. "Look at me. Only at me. Don't look at the water. Look at my eyes."
You focus on him. His eyes are the color of the Mediterranean—deep, piercing, and entirely fixed on you.
"You’re safe," he says. "I’ve got you. I haven't let you down yet, have I?"
"No," you breathe.
"Then trust me now. Just one more step."
You trust him more than you trust your own survival instincts. You take the step.
The cold water rises to your knees, then your thighs. The sensation of being untethered, of feeling the weight of the water press against your skin, makes your vision swim. Your breath hitches, turning into a sob.
Oscar doesn't hesitate. He moves closer, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. He’s solid, warm, and real. He is the anchor in the middle of the shifting, unstable blue.
"I’ve got you," he whispers into your hair, his chin resting on your shoulder. "I’m not letting go. You aren't drifting. You’re right here with me."
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him stronger now, mixed with the brine of the ocean.
You sob, the fear pouring out of you, raw and ugly. You’ve carried this weight for years, the irrational terror of the abyss, and for the first time, you aren't carrying it alone.
He holds you while the waves gently rock your combined weight. He doesn't rush you. He doesn't tell you to get it together. He just stands there, anchoring you, letting the ocean move beneath you while he remains your constant.
The sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and molten gold.
You are still in the water, though you’ve moved away from the ladder. You’re holding onto a large, buoyant foam float, your hands linked with Oscar’s across the top.
The panic has receded, leaving behind a strange, quiet exhaustion. You find yourself looking down. You see your own feet, distorted by the refraction of the light, hovering above a sandy shelf that drops off into the dark.
Usually, that drop-off would send you sprinting back to the surface. Now, you watch it, your heart rate steady.
"You're doing it," Oscar murmurs. He’s watching you, his expression one of quiet pride.
"I'm looking down," you whisper, as if stating a miracle.
"You are," he agrees. He swims a little closer, his hand coming up to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your jawline, his touch feather-light. "How does it feel?"
"Different," you admit. "It’s still big. It’s still terrifying. But… it’s not me."
Oscar leans in, his forehead resting against yours. The space between you is charged, a different kind of intensity replacing the fear.
"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he says, his voice a low rasp. "You faced the thing that scares you most, and you didn't run. You stayed."
"I stayed because you were here."
He smiles, a slow, genuine expression that reaches his eyes. "Always."
He leans in, his lips brushing against yours—a tentative, salt-kissed pressure that tastes of summer and relief. It’s a kiss of gratitude, of shared silence, and of a burgeoning, quiet love.
When he pulls back, he doesn't break the contact, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, drawing you back in.
The ocean churns beneath you, vast and indifferent, but in this moment, you are the center of the world.
You aren't afraid of the depth anymore, because you realize that you don't have to swim through it alone. As long as you have him, as long as you have your anchor, the sea is just another horizon to cross.
"Ready to head back?" he asks eventually, his voice soft against your skin.
You look at the boat, then back at the horizon, realizing that for the first time in your life, you don't feel the desperate, clawing need to escape the water. You feel heavy, grounded, and strangely, perfectly at peace.
"Yeah," you say, interlacing your fingers with his. "But let’s stay for one more sunset. A few more minutes."
Oscar squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your palm. "Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere."
And as the light fades into the velvet dark, you realize that for the first time, you are finally, truly, unafraid. . . .
Summary: Winning passes to the Visa Cash App RB garage is the ultimate upgrade. But when a bold rookie spots you trying to explain the sport to your friend, he jumps at the perfect excuse to crash your lesson.
Author’s note: I loved writing this so much! Sorry if the text wasn't coming out before but I fixed it now! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 8.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
@not.y/n
liked by not.y/n, sarah.b and 2,396 others.
not.y/n: After years of watching race weekends from my couch, I’m finally here with my bestie! 😝
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It was Arvid's first time at Silverstone with Visa Cash App RB and he was grateful to represent one of his countries, though the weight of the expectation felt like an extra ten kilograms of ballast in the cockpit.
He could feel the vibration of the engine rattling through his spine, a violent, mechanical hunger that demanded more than he was currently giving it.
The English countryside was a blur of manicured green and grey asphalt, a high-speed carousel where a single inch of miscalculation would send him spinning into the gravel.
Hours later, the adrenaline of the track shifted into the electric roar of the fan zone. Arvid felt a surge of warmth, not from the engine, but from the thousands of faces screaming his name as he and Liam stepped onto the F1 Drivers' Stage.
Walking alongside the Red Bull drivers, Isack and Max, the contrast in their stature was evident—the seasoned veterans versus the fresh-faced newcomers—but the crowd didn't care about the gap in experience.
They only cared that the new blood had arrived, and the cheers were so loud they seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Arvid's bones.
He kept his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the toes of his sponsors' sneakers, the sudden spotlight feeling less like a celebration and more like an interrogation.
He had spent most of the morning trying to blend into the paddock walls, terrified that one wrong word would expose him as an impostor in a world of titans.
But as he looked up and saw the sea of blue and red banners, the genuine, raw hunger for his success reflecting in the eyes of the fans, the knot in his stomach loosened.
He was still a rookie, a novice playing a game of millimeters, but the warmth of their acceptance acted as a catalyst, pushing him to straighten his back and offer a hesitant, genuine smile.
"The car is a beast, but we're learning how to tame it together," Arvid told the interviewer, his voice steadier than he felt. He began to lean into the questions, pivoting from nervous stammers to sharp, insightful observations about the track's evolving grip and the precise moment he felt the rear end step out at Copse.
By the time the microphone was pulled away, he realized the tremor in his hands had vanished. "If the veterans think the new blood is just for show," he added with a sudden, daring glint in his eye, "they might want to check their mirrors in the final sector."
He stepped off the stage and felt the sudden, jarring silence of the backstage corridor, where the roar of the crowd became a muffled hum.
The air here was cooler, smelling of ozone and expensive espresso, and for the first time, the paddock didn't feel like a maze designed to swallow him whole.
He caught his reflection in a polished chrome panel—the team's polo clinging to his chest, the focused intensity in his own gaze—and recognized a man who belonged in the cockpit, not just as a placeholder, but as a predator.
The silence of the corridor was interrupted by a burst of laughter from a small group of VIP pass-holders lingering near the hospitality entrance.
Arvid paused, his gaze landing on a woman who was gesturing emphatically toward a faded program in her friend's hand. "For the love of God, Sarah, look at the driver list! Charles Leclerc has been the face of Ferrari for years; he didn't just suddenly vanish from the grid," she exclaimed, her voice a melodic contrast to the sterile surroundings.
Arvid didn't know them, and he certainly didn't care about Sarah's lack of sporting knowledge, but he found himself rooted to the spot, struck by the way the sunlight caught the gold in the stranger's eyes.
She was breathtaking, possessing a raw, effortless beauty that made the surrounding glitz of the paddock seem dull.
"Listen, we can make this look like a 'Fan-POV' organic discovery piece," Arvid whispered, leaning closer to the team's social media manager, Marcus, while keeping a cautious eye on you.
"If you let me bring them back for a 'surprise' tour—exclusive access, behind-the-scenes grit—it'll blow up on TikTok. The contrast of a total novice like Sarah and a superfan like her against the high-tech garage? That’s the kind of human-interest content the sponsors crave. Just call it a random act of kindness for the fans."
Marcus hesitated, glancing at the strict security protocols, but Arvid pressed on, his voice low and urgent. "Trust me, the engagement metrics on 'authentic' encounters are peaking right now. You get the views, the team looks approachable, and I get to… well, it just feels like the right thing for the brand."
You can hardly believe you’re actually here, the weight of the VIP lanyard around your neck feeling like a golden ticket to a different dimension.
Winning the competition was a fluke, a statistical miracle, but standing inside the Visa Cash App RB garage is a sensory overload of carbon fiber and high-octane ambition. Beside you, Sarah is staring blankly at a set of heat exchangers, her expression one of profound confusion.
You spend the next ten minutes in a feverish rush, explaining the difference between a soft and a hard compound, the physics of the dirty air, and why the underfloor aerodynamics are the secret weapon of the current era, relishing every second of being the expert in her eyes.
"Wait, so the tires actually melt if they get too hot, but they need to be hot to stick?" Sarah asks, tilting her head as she finally looks away from the machinery.
You laugh, leaning in closer to point out the precise wear patterns on the discarded rubber in the bin. "Exactly," you tell her, your voice animated, "it's a constant balancing act between grip and disaster; if you push too hard into the turn, the tires just give up on you."
The surrealism of the afternoon peaks when you are escorted to the Paddock Club balcony, finding yourselves sandwiched between a legendary Hollywood actor and a tech mogul who owns half of Silicon Valley.
You and Sarah exchange a frantic, wide-eyed glance, acutely aware that you are both just eighteen-year-old university freshmen who should be worrying about introductory psychology midterms rather than discussing downforce with billionaires.
There is a dizzying disconnect between the luxury of the champagne-filled lounge and the reality of the student loan applications waiting back home, making the high-society chatter feel like a movie you've been cast in without a script.
Just as you were preparing to venture further into the restricted zones, a Visa Cash App RB staff member clutching a sleek smartphone approached you both with a practiced, professional smile.
"Excuse me," he said, glancing at the device. "The drivers are available for a few moments. Would you two like a personal tour from Arvid and Liam?"
Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest, and you began to stammer, your voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear, while Sarah simply nodded with an eerie, composed grace.
"That would be lovely, thank you," she replied calmly, as if being offered a tour by F1 drivers was as mundane as a trip to the grocery store.
Before you could even process the shock, you were led through a maze of white tents and humming generators toward the hospitality room where the two pilots were waiting.
As you rounded the corner and caught sight of him, your breath hitched; you had always thought Arvid looked cool, but seeing him in person was a different kind of intensity.
Arvid and Liam were huddled in a low-voiced conversation, their heads close together, seemingly oblivious to the world until they finally pivoted toward the entrance.
The moment they looked your way, you became acutely aware of the social media manager hovering just behind you, his gimbal-stabilized camera aimed squarely at your face.
The lens felt like a predatory eye, magnifying every nervous twitch of your eyelids and the frantic pulse in your throat, and as Arvid stepped forward, his presence suddenly filling your entire field of vision, your mind went completely blank.
"Hi," he said, his voice a smooth, grounding rumble that snapped you back to reality.
You opened your mouth, but only a small, breathless sound came out, and you realized with a jolt of horror that you had completely forgotten to say your own name while he was standing mere inches away.
Liam let out a short, amused huff, leaning back against a sleek white countertop with a smirk that suggested he’d seen this particular brand of panic a thousand times before. "Easy there," Liam joked, his tone light but observant.
"We don't bite, though the engineers might if you touch their telemetry screens without permission." Arvid didn't laugh; instead, he kept his gaze locked on yours, a flicker of genuine curiosity replacing the polished PR mask he had worn on the stage earlier.
You swallowed hard, your voice finally returning, though it sounded thin and distant to your own ears. "I'm… I'm Y/N," you managed to stutter, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "And this is Sarah. We're students. From London. Well, I am, she's from…"
You trailed off as Sarah gave a small, enigmatic wave, leaving you to scramble for a conversation topic that didn't involve your own sheer terror.
Arvid’s smile widened, not in a mocking way, but with a sudden, focused intensity that made the surrounding bustle of the hospitality suite fade into a dull blur.
"Y/N," he repeated, testing the weight of the name as if it were a new piece of technical data.
He turned slightly to Marcus, the social media manager, and gave a subtle nod of approval, though his eyes never truly left yours, suggesting that the 'organic discovery' he had plotted was working exactly as intended.
"Since we've already done the garage, let's show them where we actually hide when the press gets too loud," Arvid said, gesturing toward the sleek, towering structure of the team motorhome.
As they led you and Sarah inside, the atmosphere shifted from the industrial roar of the paddock to a hushed, climate-controlled luxury that smelled of expensive leather and eucalyptus. Liam pointed toward a row of customized racing seats that looked more like spacecraft than chairs.
"These are the driver's pods," Liam explained, sliding a hand over the carbon fiber. "This is where we analyze the data and pretend to listen to the engineers while actually thinking about what we're having for dinner."
Arvid let out a soft laugh, adding, "Or where I spend an hour staring at the telemetry of Copse, trying to figure out why the car decided to dance on its own."
Sarah seemed entirely unfazed, trailing her fingers along a polished surface and asking if the espresso machine was sponsored by a rocket company, which earned a genuine, startled laugh from Liam.
"So, Y/N," Arvid started, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped slightly closer, "you mentioned you're a student in London. What are you actually studying, or is F1 just a way to avoid your textbooks this weekend?"
He asked the question while looking directly at you, ignoring the fact that Sarah was currently trying to figure out if the racing seats were heated.
"Actually, I'm in my first year of psychology," you replied, your voice gaining a bit of strength as you felt the strange, magnetic pull of his attention. "But honestly, the textbooks can wait. Well, I've loved Formula 1 my whole life, so I took the chance with both hands to come here and to meet you."
You felt your cheeks flush as you realized how forward it sounded, but Arvid didn't recoil; instead, he seemed to lean into the admission, his pupils dilating slightly.
As the group began to move toward the telemetry room, the hallway narrowed significantly. Arvid stepped in front of you to lead the way, and as he did, his hand found the small of your back.
It was a light, fleeting pressure—barely a brush of his palm through the fabric of your shirt—but it felt like a live wire.
He used the tight space as a convenient excuse, guiding you forward with a subtle nudge that felt far too intentional to be accidental, while Liam and Sarah drifted a few paces behind, locked in a debate about the aerodynamics of a hairdryer.
"Psychology, huh?" Arvid asked, slowing his pace so that he was almost walking in sync with you. "Does that mean you're currently analyzing me? Tell me the truth—do I look like a nervous wreck or a calculated risk?"
You looked up at him, catching the way his expression softened. "A bit of both, maybe," you teased, your confidence growing. "The 'predator' persona on stage was a good touch, but the way you're glancing at the exit every few minutes suggests you'd rather be anywhere but in front of a camera right now."
"Is it that obvious?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he paused in a quiet alcove of the motorhome. "Most people just see the helmet and the sponsors and assume we're made of stone. But the truth is, the silence is the only thing that actually scares me."
"Then maybe the 'calculated risk' is admitting you're human," you replied, tilting your head as you studied the tension in his jaw. "Because for someone who wants to hide from the cameras, you seem remarkably focused on making sure I'm still paying attention to you."
Arvid shifted, his shoulders curving inward as he looked down at his sneakers, the bold predator from the stage suddenly replaced by a boy who seemed unsure of where to put his hands. "Is it that obvious?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant thrum of the paddock.
"I'm not usually this… forward. I just felt like, for once, I didn't want to be the one being analyzed." He stole a quick glance up at you, his eyes flickering with a vulnerability that felt far more intimate than any scripted interview.
"I… I didn't mean to call you out," you whispered, your voice trailing off as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling the heat climb up your neck. "It's just that you have this way of… looking at people. Like you're trying to memorize them."
Arvid let out a soft, shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before snapping back to your eyes. "Maybe I am," he replied, his tone tentative, almost pleading, as the space between you shrank to a mere breath of air.
The fragile bubble of intimacy was abruptly popped by a loud, theatrical cough from behind you. You both jumped, spinning around to find Liam and Sarah standing there with their arms crossed, wearing identical expressions of amused skepticism.
"Am I interrupting a telemetry meeting, or has the 'calculated risk' finally paid off?" Liam asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow while Sarah leaned in, her eyes darting between the two of you with a knowing, mischievous glint.
Arvid cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to regain his composure, though his chest was still heaving slightly from the sudden proximity.
He tried to summon his usual poise, but the tips of his ears were a vivid shade of crimson that betrayed him completely.
"We were just… discussing the psychological pressure of the first corner," he lied poorly, his voice cracking slightly, which only prompted Liam to let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the sterile white hallway.
The sudden attention of the group, coupled with the realization that Marcus was still hovering nearby with the camera rolling, sent a wave of heat crashing over you. Suddenly feeling exposed, you retreated toward Sarah, subconsciously pulling your shoulders in as if to hide.
You fell into step beside her, pretending to be deeply interested in the way Liam was gesturing wildly toward the telemetry screens, desperately trying to fade into the background.
Sarah leaned in, her shoulder brushing yours, and whispered with a wicked grin, "Wow, look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl. I didn't know you had a 'type,' but apparently, it's 'brooding F1 driver with a savior complex.'"
Liam continued his tour with an infectious energy, pointing out the precise calibration of the steering wheel and the sheer madness of the G-forces, but you could feel Arvid’s presence like a physical weight behind you.
Even as he spoke to the group, his body remained oriented toward you; while his head turned to explain the brake ducts, his torso and feet remained angled firmly in your direction.
"So, Liam," you asked, stepping closer to the screen and narrowing your eyes at a jagged spike in the data, "when you hit the apex at Copse, are you fighting a snap-oversteer caused by the rear-end instability, or is it more of a gradual wash-out because the front wing is losing load under the rotation?"
Liam stopped mid-sentence, his hand freezing in mid-air. He blinked, his smirk faltering as he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. "I… sorry, what? Where did a psych student learn about load loss during rotation?" he asked, his voice sounding genuinely bewildered.
Sarah leaned over, glancing at the complex graph and then back at Liam's bewildered expression. "She's basically asking if you're actually driving the car or just riding it like a passenger on a very expensive rollercoaster," she joked, nudging your shoulder with a mischievous wink.
Liam let out a loud bark of a laugh, shaking his head as he looked at Arvid, who was staring at you with an expression that hovered somewhere between shock and profound admiration.
"Wait, you actually understand the telemetry?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping the rehearsed PR tone and becoming something raw and curious. "Most people just ask about the speed, but you're talking about the rotation of the front axle under load. Where the hell did you learn to read a data trace like that?"
"My dad was a mechanic for a local karting circuit back home," you replied, leaning closer to the screen to point out the exact millisecond the line dipped. "He used to let me sit in on the debriefs when I was ten. He always said if you can't read the graph, you're just guessing where the grip is, and he hated guessing."
"Wait, so you've actually been analyzing racing lines since you were in primary school?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping into a low, focused register. "That's practically a crime. You've been hiding this kind of knowledge while pretending to be a bewildered tourist?"
"I didn't think it was relevant to the 'fan experience' tour," you teased, glancing up at him, only to find him standing much closer than before. "Besides, I figured the 'calculated risk' was more interested in my psychology degree than my knowledge of understeer."
"I'm starting to think the psychology is just a cover for a secret racing strategist," Liam chimed in, crossing his arms with a grin as he looked between the two of you. "Honestly, Arvid, if she can spot a load-loss rotation from a static screen, she’s probably better suited for the pit wall than you are on some Tuesdays."
Sarah let out a loud, delighted snort and nudged you hard in the ribs, pointing at Arvid’s wide-eyed expression. You couldn't help yourself, breaking into a fit of giggles at the sight of the normally composed driver looking completely flustered by a university student's technical prowess.
You and Sarah laughed together, the sound echoing through the sterile white corridor, while Arvid looked embarrassed, his gaze darting from the telemetry screen to the floor as he struggled to find a witty comeback.
"It's okay, Arvid, I won't take your seat yet," you joked, glancing over your shoulder at the customized carbon fiber bucket seat of his car, which sat waiting in the garage.
You gave him a playful wink, the tension between you shifting from nervous electricity to a sort of competitive chemistry. Arvid let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound genuine and light, as he finally found his footing, shaking his head in disbelief at your boldness.
He leaned back toward Marcus, who was still capturing every micro-expression for the social media feed, and let out a loud, theatrical sigh.
"I can't believe this," Arvid said, his voice projecting for the camera but his eyes locked firmly on yours. "We thought we were just doing a nice PR stunt, but it turns out we picked the craziest fan to give a tour to; she's probably trying to steal my telemetry data to start her own team."
The tour was winding down as the five of you walked back toward the hospitality suite, the atmosphere buzzing with Sarah and Liam's loud banter.
Just as you rounded a sharp corner near the service elevators, a firm hand caught your arm, pulling you back and halting your momentum.
You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs, to find Arvid standing inches away. He pressed a finger to his lips, a silent command for secrecy, before sliding his hand into yours and guiding you away from the group and toward a narrow, dim corridor.
"Come with me," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that felt like it was echoing in your very marrow, "before Marcus realizes his 'organic discovery' is about to go off-script."
The corridor was narrow, smelling of old rubber and industrial wax, far removed from the sterile luxury of the main suite.
He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he laced his fingers through yours, the warmth of his palm anchoring you as he led you toward a small, secluded balcony overlooking the track.
The roar of the engines in the distance felt like a heartbeat, rhythmic and urgent, mirroring the sudden tension that crackled between the two of you in the sudden silence.
Then, as if remembering the dozens of cameras and prying eyes that governed his every move, Arvid dropped your hand.
"I'm sorry for kidnapping you from your friend, but the camera was really pissing me off and I could use you as an excuse to lose them," Arvid admitted, his voice dropping the polished facade of a public figure.
He leaned back against the railing, the sunlight filtering through the overhead canopy and casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his face.
You looked at him, seeing the subtle tremor in his fingers and the way he seemed to deflate now that the gaze of a thousand fans and a gimbal-stabilized lens had finally vanished. "Fair enough, I don't know how you guys can do it 24/7…. it sounds exhausting."
Arvid nodded and you joined him by leaning against the railing, the cold metal pressing through your clothes as you both looked out over the shimmering asphalt of the Silverstone circuit.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with the kind of anticipation that usually precedes a green light on the starting grid.
"Do you usually take your fans here, or am I the lucky one?" you asked, not looking at him, instead focusing on a distant marshal waving a yellow flag in the pit lane.
"This is the first and probably the only one after we get caught," Arvid replied, his voice barely a whisper as he shifted his weight, closing the remaining few inches between you.
"Then we should go meet them right? I don't want you to get in trouble," you said, moving from the railing to head back toward the group, but a hand stopped you, his fingers curling firmly around your wrist to pull you back into his space.
"For a psychology student, you really can't read the room," Arvid admitted shyly, his voice barely audible over the distant scream of an engine.
You paused, tilting your head in confusion as you tried to decipher the sudden shift in his energy. Then you looked closer.
His face was flushed, an almost red hue creeping up from his collar to the tips of his ears, and as he leaned in, you noticed his pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hem of his team polo and wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow despite the cool breeze of the balcony.
The realization hit you like a physical wave: he wasn't nervous about the press or the race—he was nervous about you.
A hot prickle of embarrassment washed over you, and you let out a small, soft "oh" of discovery.
Arvid let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked everywhere but your eyes. "I'm sorry, this is probably the first time an F1 driver tried to flirt with you," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to reclaim some shred of the confidence he’d projected on stage. "And based on your face, I'm doing a pretty terrible job of it."
You felt a sudden, daring surge of confidence, stepping back into his personal space until you could smell the faint, metallic scent of the paddock clinging to his skin.
You reached out, your fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve, and looked up at him with a crooked smile. "Actually," you whispered, "the vulnerability is way more effective than the 'predator' act. It's a much better strategy."
Arvid froze as you reached up and casually adjusted the collar of his polo, your fingers lingering just a second too long against the warmth of his neck.
He looked as though he’d been hit by a sudden surge of G-force, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes widening in genuine shock.
He had spent the last hour trying to maintain a shred of control over the interaction, but in one simple, tactile gesture, you had completely dismantled his composure, leaving him momentarily speechless and staring at you as if you were the most unpredictable variable in his entire race weekend.
The silence stretched between you, thick with an honesty that no PR script could ever capture. Arvid looked away, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon of the track before snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, raw intensity.
"I really thought you were beautiful, so I made an excuse to give you a tour," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper and stripped of all pretense.
You laughed, the sound light and genuine, breaking the heavy tension that had settled over the balcony.
It wasn't a mocking sound, but one of sheer amusement at the idea of a world-class athlete, used to battling the most dangerous corners in the world at two hundred miles per hour, being completely undone by a girl who knew a little bit about tire wear and psychology.
"You're a terrible liar, Arvid," you teased, your voice softening as you stepped back just enough to give him air, though you didn't let go of the tension between you. "The 'organic discovery' for the sponsors? The 'human interest' content? You just wanted a reason to talk to me without a camera in your face."
Arvid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for minutes, a small, crooked smile finally breaking through the remnants of his nervousness. "Guilty as charged," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, renewed focus.
He didn't move away; instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a register that felt like a secret shared in the middle of a storm. "But for the record, the strategy worked. You're still here."
The moment was shattered by the distant, distorted crackle of a walkie-talkie from the corridor and Marcus's muffled voice calling out for them, sounding increasingly impatient.
A sudden jolt of adrenaline hit you, and you realized with a dizzying rush that you were currently tucked away in a blind spot of the paddock, completely alone with an F1 driver.
"What do you want to do?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you looked from the distant call of the social media manager back to the raw, expectant look in Arvid's eyes.
"Well, I didn't kidnap you not to get your number," he joked, though the playful glint in his eyes was underscored by a desperate kind of hope.
He reached into the pocket of his racing trousers and pulled out a phone, holding it out with a hand that still trembled slightly, the screen glowing white against the dimming light of the balcony.
You took the device, your fingertips brushing his as you typed in your digits, the small contact of skin-on-skin feeling like a final confirmation of something neither of you had dared to name.
You handed it back, noting how he stared at the screen for a heartbeat as if he were verifying a winning lottery ticket before slipping it back into his pocket with a satisfied sigh.
Before he could find the words to invite you back, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin radiating against your lips.
"Wipe it off before Marcus sees and thinks you've had some kind of allergic reaction to the excitement," you whispered with a playful grin, glancing back toward the corridor where the search party was likely closing in.
Arvid stood frozen, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as he instinctively touched the spot where your lips had lingered, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face.
He looked like a man who had just experienced a sudden loss of traction at three hundred kilometers per hour, completely blindsided by the sudden shift in momentum.
"Y/N! Arvid! If you've eloped, please just let us know so we can update the press release!" Liam's voice boomed from the end of the hallway, followed by the rhythmic clicking of Marcus's gimbal as the camera rounded the corner.
Arvid quickly straightened his posture, though the dazed, smitten expression remained etched into his features as he stepped back to lead you toward the light.
He paused for a split second, glancing back at the secluded nook and then at the bewildered look on Marcus's face. "Sorry about that, we just got lost," Arvid lied with a sudden, newfound confidence, throwing a casual arm over your shoulder to guide you back into the flow of the group.
He used the excuse of the confusing motorhome layout to mask the lingering scent of your perfume on his collar, his thumb tracing a small, hidden circle against your arm that only you could feel.
As the walk back to the main paddock continued, the air seemed to vibrate with a different kind of energy, the professional distance between driver and fan having dissolved into something far more precarious.
You walked in a comfortable silence, your shoulder brushing his with every step, while Sarah kept shooting you knowing looks that suggested she had seen every single micro-expression of the last ten minutes.
By the time the five of you finally stepped back into the plush, white-walled sanctuary of the hospitality suite, Marcus was already repositioning his lighting for the final shot.
Liam stepped center-frame with a mischievous grin, leaning in toward the camera as Arvid slid in beside him, his arm still draped loosely and possessively across your shoulders.
"Alright, that's a wrap on the exclusive behind-the-scenes look!" Liam announced to the lens, his voice booming with theatrical energy. "Now, for the moment of truth—Y/N, Sarah, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the tour? Be honest, or Arvid might actually cry."
Sarah didn't hesitate, giving a thumbs-up and a laugh that suggested the chaos of the afternoon was a ten out of ten.
You felt Arvid's gaze shift from the camera to you, his eyes searching yours for an answer that had nothing to do with the garage or the telemetry screens.
You leaned toward the microphone, a playful glint in your eyes as you caught the way his grip on your shoulder tightened slightly. "The technical side was a solid eight," you teased, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum, "but the personal guidance? That definitely earns a bonus point."
The video cut and Sarah was thanking Liam for the tour while Marcus began packing away the gimbal, his movements efficient and detached.
The artificial bubble of the 'content shoot' burst, leaving the five of you in a sudden, heavy silence that felt far more honest than the noise of the crowd.
Sarah’s voice drifted over the sound of the receding crew, but your focus was entirely on the way Arvid was looking at you—no longer as a driver to a fan, but as a boy who had just discovered something he wasn't prepared to let go of.
"Do you… do you actually think the bonus point was…?" Arvid started, his voice barely a thread, his gaze dropping to the polished floor.
He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching against the seam of his trousers as he struggled to find the words. "I mean, if you were just being nice for the camera, I probably wouldn't… it's just that the way you said it sounded… real."
The suddenness of his vulnerability caught you off guard, the confident facade of the "predator" from the stage now completely replaced by a boy who looked like he was holding his breath for a signal that might never come.
You reached out and gently caught his hand, your thumb grazing the back of his knuckles in a slow, rhythmic motion.
"Arvid, look at me," you whispered, waiting until he finally lifted his eyes, his pupils wide and searching. "I don't do 'nice for the camera'—I'm a psychology student, remember? I'm far too observant for that."
"Oh," he breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. He looked away for a split second, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register that made the bustling paddock around you feel miles away.
You giggled before leaving, "i'll text you before the race," as you stepped back from him, the distance between you feeling like a physical ache the moment you broke contact.
You gave his hand one last squeeze, a silent promise that the chemistry you'd sparked in the shadows of the motorhome wasn't just a fluke of the adrenaline.
"Come on, let's get out of here before the crowds swallow us whole," Sarah said, hooking her arm through yours and steering you toward the exit.
As you walked with Sarah back to the garage to retrieve your bags, she didn't even let you speak before leaning in with a predatory grin. "So, are we just going to ignore the fact that you basically just seduced the next big thing in Formula 1, or are we going to talk about how he was looking at you like you were the only person in the entire stadium?"
"I don't even know what happened," you admitted, your voice breathless as you felt the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. You leaned your head against Sarah's shoulder, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a dizzying sense of disbelief.
"One minute I'm explaining tire compounds, and the next, he's taking me to a secret balcony and looking at me like… well, like I actually mattered."
"Did he actually give you his number, or did you just imagine the part where he looked like a lost puppy?" Sarah asked, her eyes dancing with mischief as she practically skipped toward the luggage area.
"Because if you're lying, I'm claiming the bonus points for myself, and if you're telling the truth, you've officially won the weekend without even needing a ticket to the final lap."
"He did, and for the record, he was the one who was nervous," you replied, glancing back over your shoulder to see Arvid still standing by the motorhome, a solitary figure amidst the chaos of mechanics and engineers. "He’s not exactly the 'cool, collected' type when the cameras aren't rolling, which is honestly the most surprising thing about the whole day."
The walk back to the garage was a blur of neon colors and the scent of burnt fuel, and just as you retrieved your belongings, you and Arvid found yourselves side-by-side once more.
You settled into a quiet corner of the garage, the air thick with the rhythmic thrum of air guns and the frantic energy of the final preparations, and as you turned toward the monitor, the drivers' parade started as you watched on the screen.
Seeing him there, waving to the crowd with that practiced, professional smile, felt like watching a different person entirely—the public face of a rising star, while you held the secret of the shaking hands and the whispered confessions.
Afterwards, the drivers headed to their final debrief to review the strategy one last time before disappearing into their private rooms to change into their race suits.
As you waited by the hospitality entrance, you felt the vibration of your phone and quickly typed out a message.
“Don’t let the nerves get to you out there. Just remember the 'calculated risk' part. Good luck, Arvid,” you sent, watching the three dots appear almost instantly.
His reply was short but breathless: "I've got the best kind of luck on my side today. See you later."
The tension in the paddock shifted into a heavy, electric silence as the engines began to scream in unison, a primal roar that vibrated through the very soles of your shoes.
You watched from the pit wall, your knuckles white as you gripped the railing, tracking the blue-and-yellow blur of the RB car as it sliced through the air at Copse.
Every time he braked late into a corner or danced the car on the edge of the gravel, your heart hammered against your ribs, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, terrifying understanding of the stakes he played for every single Sunday.
When the checkered flag finally waved, the roar of the crowd drowned out the telemetry, but you didn't need the big screens to know the result.
He had secured 3rd place, a staggering achievement for a rookie that represented the best score of his career and a seismic shift in the team's standings.
The paddock erupted into a frenzy of celebration, the engineers screaming into their headsets as Arvid’s car slowed, the blue-and-yellow livery dusted with the grit of a hard-fought battle.
You were screaming with Sarah in the garage, the two of you clinging to each other in a chaotic blur of adrenaline and sheer disbelief as the roar of the fans surged through the open bays like a tidal wave.
Your voice was gone, replaced by a raw, throat-tearing cheer that competed with the high-pitched whine of the cooling engines, both of you jumping in synchronized frantic energy as the telemetry screens flashed his final position in bold, triumphant digits.
"I can't believe he actually did it, Y/N, he actually pulled it off!" Sarah yelled over the noise, her face flushed with a reflected victory.
You didn't answer immediately, your eyes locked on the monitor where Arvid was climbing out of the cockpit, his movements slow and heavy with exhaustion, the helmet still obscuring his face but his body language radiating a sudden, violent release of tension.
Despite the euphoria, you felt a sudden, grounding chill as you watched the swarm of PR agents, engineers, and eager journalists descend upon him like a pack of wolves.
You knew the machinery of a podium finish; the immediate debriefs, the mandatory weighing, the endless cycle of flashing bulbs and rehearsed quotes that would stretch well into the night.
You knew it would be a long time before Arvid would have time to breathe, let alone find a quiet moment to reach for his phone and text you.
While the team celebrated in the inner sanctum of the garage, you drifted toward the fan-zone barriers, letting the adrenaline settle into a warm, buzzing glow.
You spent the next few hours immersed in the electric camaraderie of the crowd, swapping theories about the final lap with a group of Swedish fans who had flown halfway across the world to see him.
By the time the sun began to dip, you had exchanged Instagram handles with a few fellow psychology students who had also won the competition, turning a whirlwind of professional chaos into a genuine circle of new friends who were just as shell-shocked by the day's events as you were.
"Do you think he's actually going to remember us in the middle of all that champagne and flashing lights?" Sarah asked, leaning her head against your shoulder as you both walked toward the parking lot, her voice sounding tired but satisfied.
You looked down at your phone, the screen still dark, the silence of the device contrasting sharply with the lingering roar of the engines. "He'll remember," you replied, though a small, cautious knot of doubt tightened in your stomach.
"Arvid doesn't do things by halves; if he can handle a three-hundred-kilometer-per-hour slide into a hairpin, he can manage a text message."
Your phone suddenly buzzed, the vibration jarring against your palm.
It was a message from Arvid: “Please tell me you haven't gone home yet. I can't deal with the PR people for another second. Meet me in my garage? I'll make sure the security lets you back in.”
You stared at the words, a small, triumphant smile tugging at your lips. The "predator" was officially off the clock, and he was calling for a rescue.
Sarah caught a glimpse of the screen over your shoulder and let out a low, dramatic whistle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. He’s literally a podium finisher and he’s already acting like a lovestruck puppy," she remarked, stepping back and beginning to veer toward the ride-share area.
"Look, I love a good romance, but I am physically exhausted and my feet are killing me. You’re on your own for this one—go get your man, and just make sure you text me every single detail tomorrow morning. I'm going home to sleep for a decade."
As you waved her off and turned back toward the paddock, the atmosphere had shifted from the chaotic noise of the race to a heavy, expectant stillness.
The crowds were thinning, leaving behind a trail of confetti and discarded programs that crunched beneath your sneakers. Passing through the security gate felt like crossing a border into a private world, the silence of the cooling engines creating a strange, cathedral-like hush.
Your heart began to race again, not from the adrenaline of the track, but from the anticipation of seeing him without the helmet, without the cameras, and without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
You navigated the labyrinth of the garage, weaving past stacks of carbon-fiber winglets and rows of pristine tool chests, until you spotted a slumped figure tucked away in the shadow of a towering pile of Pirelli softs.
"Got you," you whispered, reaching out to tap his shoulder. Arvid jumped, nearly slipping off the tire wall, but as his gaze cleared and landed on you, a look of pure, unfiltered relief washed over his face.
You opened your arms wide, and he didn't hesitate, lunging forward to pull you against him; you melted into the hug with a long, shuddering sigh, your head resting against the cool fabric of his team kit while the scent of Nomex and sweat clung to him like a second skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes bloodshot from the exertion of the race but shimmering with a quiet intensity.
"I thought they'd never let me get away," he murmured, his voice raspy and stripped of the polished confidence he'd used for the press. "Every time I tried to slip out the back, some journalist would appear out of thin air asking about my sector three times. I think I actually started hallucinating the sound of your voice over the team radio."
You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the cavernous, empty garage, and reached up to brush a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead.
For a moment, the prestige of the podium and the roar of the thousands of fans felt like a distant, irrelevant memory, leaving only the two of you in the dim light of the paddock, caught in the fragile space between a public triumph and a private longing.
"I… I didn't know if you'd actually come back," Arvid murmured, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register as he looked down at his shoes, his fingers nervously picking at the velcro of his racing suit.
You shifted your weight, suddenly feeling the familiar prickle of shyness return, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I told you I'd text you… though I didn't think you'd actually be hiding behind a pile of tires."
He let out a small, self-conscious chuckle, glancing at you through his lashes, and for a few seconds, neither of you knew where to put your hands, the electric tension between you thickening into a heavy, sweet silence.
"I know the way today went though, this probably feels weird and sudden—" Arvid ranted, his words spilling out in a hurried, anxious rush as he finally looked back up at you. "The podium, the cameras, the whole… 'organic' thing with Marcus. I just don't want you to think this was all some PR stunt or that I'm just riding the high-"
"Arvid," you interrupted softly, the shyness making your voice tremble just enough to match his. "Stop thinking for a second."
You stepped into his space, the air between you humming with a different kind of frequency than the race track, and leaned in to press a lingering, tentative kiss against his cheek.
He froze, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually forget how to breathe, his face flushing a deep, vivid crimson that put his team colors to shame.
"I… I didn't think you'd actually…" he started, his voice cracking slightly. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with a clumsy movement, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips.
"You're not… you're not just being nice because I got a trophy, are you?"
You felt a soft giggle bubble up in your throat, your own gaze dropping to the scuffed toes of your shoes as you murmured, "Maybe the trophy helped, but you're the one who's actually a calculated risk."
Arvid let out a nervous, airy chuckle, the sound echoing softly in the hollow garage. "Would you want to go out tomorrow then? With me, of course," he asked, his eyes flickering back to yours with a tentative, hopeful intensity.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, the shyness returning in a wave. "Where to?" you asked softly.
Arvid opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, his expression blank as he realized he hadn't actually thought this far ahead. "Umm… the skatepark?" he finally suggested, his voice sounding uncertain.
You beamed at him and replied, "Okay! I've never been to any skate park or rode a skateboard before," which earned a surprised, genuine grin from him.
The prospect of a skatepark felt absurdly grounded compared to the high-velocity glamour of the paddock, and the contrast made the moment feel even more real. He reached out, his fingers tentatively brushing against your wrist, a silent request for connection that felt more honest than any podium celebration.
"I can teach you," he whispered, "or we can both just fall over together."
You laughed, the sound filling the space between you, and for the first time that day, the noise of the outside world—the PR agents, the telemetry, the crushing weight of expectations—felt completely irrelevant.
As the security guard gave a distant, impatient shout from the garage entrance, reminding Arvid that his debrief was still pending, he didn't move to leave immediately.
He stayed anchored in your space, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in the dim light. He stepped back slowly, his hand sliding away from yours with a reluctant hesitation, leaving a cold void where the warmth had been.
"I'll text you the time," he promised, his voice regaining a hint of that "predator" confidence, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed the boy who had just been rescued from a pile of tires.
"Wait, are you actually a good skater, or is this just another 'calculated risk' where you're hoping I won't notice you falling?" you teased, stepping back toward the garage exit.
"Hey, I have a very high center of gravity and a lot of balance," Arvid retorted with a playful scoff, though he was already imagining the sheer chaos of trying to balance a novice on a board. "Just don't expect me to catch you every single time you wipe out—though, knowing me, I probably will."
"Is that a challenge?" you asked, crossing your arms and tilting your head. "Because if we're talking about risk management, I think my psychology degree gives me a strategic advantage in predicting exactly when you're going to lose your balance."
He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that didn't belong in a press conference, and for a moment, the gap between a global sports star and a university freshman vanished entirely. . . .
@not.y/n
liked by not.y/n, sarah.b, arvid.lindblad and 5,746 others.
Summary: You and Oscar have been shipped by your friends and they have a plan
Song: Don't · Bryson Tiller
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 1.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock at Silverstone is a sensory overload: the high-pitched whine of engines testing, the smell of burnt rubber and expensive espresso, and the constant, rhythmic thrum of adrenaline.
For you, it’s home. As a strategist for the team, your life is measured in milliseconds and tire degradation curves.
But lately, your life has been measured in something else: the way Oscar Piastri looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.
You’ve been friends for two years. You’ve shared post-race beers in humid motorhomes, navigated the chaotic airport lounges of the calendar, and laughed until your ribs ached after disastrous qualifying sessions.
But your friends—a tight-knit group of engineers and media personnel—have decided that "friends" has become an obsolete label.
They’ve been whispering, nudging, and orchestrating scenarios that feel less like accidents and more like a carefully constructed social experiment.
"You’re staring," a voice drawls.
You blink, snapping your gaze away from the McLaren garage where Oscar is currently debriefing with Mark Webber.
You turn to find Sarah, your best friend and the team’s lead aerodynamicist, grinning at you with the expression of a cat who has spent far too long eyeing a particularly plump canary.
"I’m looking at data," you lie, clutching your tablet to your chest like a shield.
"The data is in the garage, darling. You’re staring at the driver," Sarah says, bumping your shoulder. "And today is the day. We’re tired of the dance. We’ve set the stage."
"What stage?" you ask, a cold prickle of dread mixing with the heat of anticipation.
"The gala dinner tonight. The charity auction. We’ve managed to 'accidentally' arrange the seating chart so that you and Oscar are at the head table. Alone. Well, not alone, but—"
"Sarah, if you rigged the seating chart, I’m going to kill you."
"It’s for your own good," she chirps, already walking away to check on a piece of sidepod geometry. "Wear the navy dress. The one that makes you look like you own the pit lane."
The gala is held in a ballroom that feels miles away from the grit and grime of the race track. The air is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
You feel out of place in your navy silk dress, your heels clicking against the marble floor with a precision that mimics your own mental spreadsheets.
When you reach the head table, you find him already there. Oscar is wearing a charcoal suit that fits him with a terrifying perfection.
His hair is slightly tussled, his tie loosened just a fraction—the only sign that he’s been battling the corporate world all day.
He looks up, and his face softens, that characteristic calm settling over his features like a blanket.
"You look…" He pauses, searching for the word, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbone before snapping back to your face. "You look incredible."
"And you look like you’d rather be anywhere else," you tease, sliding into the chair beside him.
"True," he laughs, a low, melodic sound that makes your pulse hitch. "But if I have to be anywhere, I suppose this is the best table."
As the dinner progresses, you realize the extent of your friends' plot.
The table, which was supposed to seat eight, is conveniently occupied by only four people—you, Oscar, and two high-ranking team sponsors who spend the entire meal engrossed in a deep, private conversation about stock portfolios, effectively ignoring you both.
It is a bubble. A perfect, secluded bubble in the middle of a crowded room.
The conversation flows easily, as it always does. You talk about the track, the upcoming triple-header, the ridiculousness of the media circus.
But there’s a current running beneath the surface—a layer of subtext that hadn’t been there a week ago.
"You’ve been distracted all night," Oscar says, leaning in closer. His cologne, woodsy and sharp, hits you all at once. "Is it the race? Or is it… us?"
"Us?" You mirror his posture, the distance between you narrowing until you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Don’t act like you haven’t noticed, Y/N. Your friends have been hovering like vultures for weeks. Pushing us together, leaving us in rooms, 'accidentally' sending us the same itineraries."
He smirks, a playful, self-deprecating light in his gaze. "I think they’re tired of playing wingman."
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "You noticed?"
"I’m a racing driver. Observation is half the job." He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist, a touch so light it could have been a draft of air. "Are you annoyed?"
"A little," you confess, your heart hammering against your ribs. "But mostly… I’m relieved."
"Relieved?"
"That I wasn't just imagining it," you whisper.
Oscar’s expression shifts. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a quiet, searing intensity. He doesn't pull his hand away.
Instead, he turns his palm up, his fingers looping around your wrist, his thumb tracing the soft skin there. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"You were never imagining it," he says softly. "I’ve been trying to find the right moment for months. But with the racing, the pressure… I didn’t want to ruin the friendship if I was wrong."
"You weren't wrong," you say, your voice barely audible over the clinking of silverware and the low buzz of the room.
"Good," he says. He stands up, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "This place is stifling. Come with me?"
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Just out of here."
You don't hesitate. You leave your clutch on the chair and follow him through the crowd. You catch a glimpse of Sarah near the bar, watching you two with a triumphant, shit-eating grin.
You shoot her a look—a mix of fake-annoyance and genuine gratitude—before disappearing into the cool night air of the terrace.
The Silverstone night is crisp, the sky a vast stretch of velvet peppered with stars. The sound of the party is muffled now, replaced by the distant chirp of crickets and the wind rustling the trees.
Oscar stops at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the darkened expanse of the track. He looks small against the vastness of the circuit, yet entirely at home.
"I hate playing games," he says, turning to face you. "I like things clear. I like things honest."
He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until there is almost none left. He’s looking at you with that same unwavering focus he uses when he’s eyeing a corner, when he’s setting a fastest lap.
"I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time," he continues, his voice rough. "You’re the first person I want to talk to after a win, and the only person I want to be around after a crash. You’re my favorite part of all of this."
You reach out, your hand finding the lapel of his jacket. "Oscar—"
"Don't," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Just… can I?"
You answer by closing the gap.
The kiss is tentative at first, a discovery, then deepens into something urgent and hungry. It tastes like the wine you shared at dinner and the cooling night air.
His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his touch firm and possessive. It’s better than any thrill the track has ever given you—a different kind of speed, a different kind of precision.
When you eventually pull apart, you’re both breathless. Oscar rests his forehead against yours, a soft, genuine smile breaking across his face.
"So," he whispers, his nose brushing against yours. "The friends were right."
"Don't ever tell them," you laugh, breathless, your hands still tangled in his tie. "They’ll never let us live it down."
"I think," he says, kissing the corner of your mouth, "I can live with that."
Behind you, back in the ballroom, you know the group is watching. You know there will be questions tomorrow, knowing smirks, and endless 'I told you so's.'
But as Oscar takes your hand and pulls you away from the gala, walking toward the quiet sanctuary of the pits, you realize you don’t care.
For the first time in your career, the race is over, the checkered flag has fallen, and you’ve already won. . . .
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Summary: Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 18+ ONLY! 🤭🫶
Word count: 3.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of fruit you’re trying to decide whether to buy," Oscar muttered, though he didn't move his shoulder away from your reach.
He was still in his team kit, the fire-retardant fabric stiff and smelling of ozone and spent rubber, a sharp contrast to the sterile, chilled air of the motorhome.
He kept his gaze fixed on the telemetry data on the screen, but the slight tremor in his jaw gave him away; he was vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the qualifying lap he’d just nailed.
"I'm not looking at you like fruit, Oscar," you replied, your voice dropping an octave, trailing a finger along the sensitive line where his neck met his collarbone. "I'm looking at you like someone who knows exactly what you're suppressing."
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, a sound that was half-sigh and half-groan. "It's animalistic," he whispered, finally turning to face you, his eyes dark and clouded with a guilt that only served to make the air between you thicker. "It's not… it's not polished. It's not how I'm supposed to be."
"Who decided you had to be polished in this room?" You didn't wait for an answer, sliding your hand up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down until his breath hitched against your skin.
You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish intensity that broke through his carefully curated composure. When his lips finally brushed yours, it wasn't a kiss—it was a reconnaissance mission, hesitant and searching, until you tilted your head, exposing the pale, vulnerable stretch of your throat as a silent invitation.
The shift was instantaneous; the restraint snapped with an audible sharpness. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed a territory, his teeth grazing the junction of your shoulder and neck with a predatory precision that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pelvis.
You gasped, your fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he sank his teeth in—not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a deep, blooming ache.
The sensation was a bruising pressure, a rhythmic pulsing of heat that radiated outward, leaving a searing map of ownership across your skin that would take days to fade.
"Is this what you're afraid of?" you managed to choke out, your voice trembling under the weight of his intensity. "That you're not… polished enough?"
You tilted your head further back, offering him more space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Because I don't want polished, Oscar. I want the parts of you that you try to hide from the cameras."
He let out a sound that was less a word and more a guttural vibration, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat of suffocating silence.
"It feels like losing control," he admitted, his voice rough, stripped of its usual composure. "Once I start, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be gentle when the only thing I can think about is how much you're shaking for me."
He didn't move away, but instead shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against yours with a slow, deliberate friction that made your breath hitch. He began to trace the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, the pressure barely there, a ghost of a touch that felt like a live wire sparking against your skin.
Every millimeter of contact felt amplified, the static electricity between you humming louder than the distant roar of the idling engines outside the motorhome.
His fingertips dipped lower, grazing the hollow of your throat where your pulse was hammering a frantic rhythm, his touch hesitant, almost questioning, as if he were waiting for you to recoil from the hunger he couldn't quite mask.
The tension snapped when he finally lunged, not for your lips, but for the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. This time, there was no hesitation; he sank his teeth in with a focused, deliberate intensity that elicited a sharp, involuntary cry from your lungs.
The sting was immediate and electric, a searing point of contact that bloomed into a deep, thrumming heat.
He sucked the skin upward, the pressure creating a vacuum that pulled the blood to the surface, marking you in a way that was visceral and undeniable, a bruised signature of his hidden nature.
You arched into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, pulling him flush against you until there wasn't a sliver of air left between your bodies.
The smell of him—salt, adrenaline, and a hint of expensive cologne—filled your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. As he moved to the other side of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin with a predatory precision, you felt the low growl vibrating in his chest, a sound of surrender to the very instinct he had spent his entire career suppressing.
He paused, his lips hovering just millimeters from a fresh patch of skin, and for a heartbeat, the silence in the motorhome became a physical weight.
He didn't commit; instead, he let his hot breath ghost over the surface, a teasing torture that made your skin prickle and your core ache with a demanding void.
His hand slid from your neck down to the small of your back, his palm pressing firm and heavy, anchoring you to him while the anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, a spring wound too far, waiting for the slightest trigger to snap.
The friction of his team kit against your thighs was a coarse reminder of where you were, a stark contrast to the wet, sliding heat where his mouth finally clamped down again.
He didn't just bite this time; he lingered, swirling his tongue around the mark he'd made, tasting the salt of your skin before pulling back with a sharp, sudden nip that elicited a strangled gasp from your throat.
It was a calculated rhythm of pain and pleasure, a silent dialogue of hunger that bypassed words entirely, leaving only the visceral evidence of his desperation.
"You're shaking," he whispered, the words vibrating against your collarbone, his voice now a dark, honeyed rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers splaying across your hip to pull you tighter against the hard line of his body, ensuring you felt every erratic beat of his heart.
The control he prized so highly was fraying at the edges, replaced by a raw, urgent need to leave a map of his desire across your skin, one bruising mark at a time.
He didn't go back to your neck immediately; instead, he began a slow, agonizing descent, his fingertips tracing the ribs beneath your shirt with a lightness that felt like a dare.
It was a sensory contradiction—the heavy, possessive weight of his body pinning you back against the cold wall of the motorhome, while his touch remained teasingly tentative, barely grazing the surface.
The friction of his calloused fingertips against your skin sent tremors through your thighs, a starving kind of tension that made you want to scream for him to either stop or shatter you completely.
You reached for him, your palms sliding over the slick, fire-retardant material of his sleeves, trying to find purchase, to pull him back into the violence of the moment.
When your fingers finally locked behind his neck, pulling his face back up to yours, you caught the flash of something primal in his gaze—a hunger that was stripped of all apology.
He didn't kiss you; he simply leaned in until his nose brushed yours, his breath mingling with your own in short, jagged bursts, the air between your lips charged with a static that felt thick enough to taste.
The silence was punctured by the distant, metallic clatter of a tool trolley in the paddock, a sudden reminder of the world outside their sterile sanctuary. Oscar flinched, the sound momentarily snapping him back to the persona of the poised athlete, but the instinct won.
With a low, guttural sound, he bypassed your lips entirely and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth finding a fresh, unmarked stretch of skin.
He clamped down hard, a sudden, sharp pressure that forced a broken moan from your throat, the pain blossoming instantly into a searing, concentrated heat that radiated down your spine.
"Does it make you feel like you're losing it?" you gasped, your voice a fractured wreck of its former self. You tilted your head back, offering him a wider canvas, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the wet, heavy suction of his mouth claiming the mark. "Does it make you feel like you're finally not in control, Oscar?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless pits of hunger. "I hate how much I like the way you look when I do it," he admitted, the words barely audible, stripped of any pretense. "The way your breath hitches, the way you stop thinking… it's the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet."
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, arching you into him with a force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.
The coarse fabric of his racing suit scraped against your skin, a tactile friction that served only to heighten the sensitivity of every nerve ending. He didn't wait for a response; he simply lunged forward again, his teeth grazing the underside of your jaw with a slow, deliberate precision that promised a slow descent into a very beautiful, very bruised kind of chaos.
As he shifted his weight to anchor you more firmly against the wall, the heavy muscle of his inner thigh drove upward, his legs pressing against your pussy with a blunt, insistent pressure.
The heat of him soaked through the layers of fabric, a searing weight that mirrored the pulsing throb between your legs. Every time he breathed, every time he shifted to find a new patch of skin to claim, that relentless pressure ground deeper, creating a friction that felt like a slow-burning fuse leading straight to your core.
The sensation was an anchor, grounding the dizzying vertigo of his bites with a visceral, physical demand. You could feel the hard line of him, the sheer strength of his legs pinning you in place, making it impossible to retreat even if you wanted to.
It was a territorial claim of a different sort—not the visible marks he was leaving on your neck, but a hidden, crushing intimacy that left you breathless.
You let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-sigh, as you wrapped your own legs around his waist, pulling that heavy pressure closer, desperate to collapse the final sliver of space between you.
Oscar paused, his lips hovering just above a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, his chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tremor in his thigh, the way the muscle jumped against your heat, betraying the fragility of his remaining composure.
The silence of the motorhome felt heavy, saturated with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of desire, as he waited for the exact moment your resistance would snap and you would beg for the very thing he was too ashamed to name.
"You're not even trying to stop me," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to echo inside your own chest. The admission was stripped of his usual calculated poise, replaced by a raw curiosity that made his teeth graze the surface of your skin once more, a teasing promise of a deeper pressure.
"Most people would tell me I'm being too much. They'd tell me to dial it back, to be careful with the skin."
"Who is 'most people'?" you countered, your voice a strained, breathless wreck as you arched your back, practically shoving your throat into the path of his hunger. "I'm not most people, Oscar. I'm the person who wants to wake up tomorrow and see exactly where you’ve been, in a way that no amount of concealer can hide."
You felt him shudder against you, a sudden, violent ripple of surrender that made him growl, the sound vibrating through your ribs. "Do it again," you whispered, "and don't you dare be gentle about it."
The command acted like a trigger, snapping the last thread of his restraint. He lunged forward, his teeth sinking into the juncture of your shoulder with a sudden, bruising force that made your vision blur and your toes curl against the backs of his calves.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a claim, a sharp, focused point of intensity that sent a cascade of white-hot sparks radiating down your spine and pooling in the heavy ache of your pelvis. T
he sensation was visceral and grounding, a rhythmic thrum of pressure and release that left you gasping, your fingers locking into the muscles of his shoulders as he began to systematically map the territory of your skin with a desperate, starving hunger.
As he shifted his focus, his mouth sliding toward the sensitive dip of your collarbone, a low, fractured sound escaped you—a moan that started in the depths of your belly and tore through your throat, raw and unplanned.
It wasn't a soft sound; it was a jagged, guttural admission of how much you craved the violence of his touch. The vibration of it seemed to electrify him, causing his grip on your hips to tighten until his knuckles went white, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that mirrored the frantic cadence of your own heart.
He answered that sound with one of his own, a deep, resonant vibration that felt less like a voice and more like a physical weight pressing against your chest. It was a sound of absolute surrender, the noise of a man who had stopped fighting the animal inside him and had finally decided to let it lead.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, the friction of his stubble scraping against your skin, and let out a shuddering, half-smothered sound that vibrated through your entire frame, a sonic reflection of the bruising pressure he was applying to your skin.
His hand slid lower, the rough material of his racing suit scraping against the silk of your underwear as he pressed you harder into the wall, his thigh now a relentless, grinding force against your center.
The contrast was dizzying—the cold, sterile air of the motorhome biting at your exposed skin and the searing, concentrated heat of Oscar’s mouth wherever he chose to land.
He began to suck a long, slow line from your jaw down to the valley of your chest, his teeth grazing the surface just enough to leave a stinging trail of anticipation, ensuring that by the time he reached the soft swell of your breast, you were trembling with a need that felt like a physical hunger.
The sudden, sharp rap of knuckles against the door shattered the silence, followed by the muffled, insistent voice of his engineer. "Oscar? You in there? We need to go over the turn-four data before the press conference, Zac is already in the briefing room."
The voice was casual, oblivious to the wreckage of composure occurring inches away, but the sound caused Oscar to freeze, his lips still clamped firmly onto the curve of your shoulder.
He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he let out a low, frustrated hiss, the sound of a man caught between two different worlds, his forehead leaning heavily against yours while his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"Just a minute!" Oscar called back, his voice a jagged, strained rasp that sounded nothing like his usual measured tone. He didn't move an inch away from you, his eyes dark and searching, his teeth still grazing the skin of your neck in a silent, stubborn refusal to let go.
"Give us two minutes!"
The engineer paused, the silence in the hallway heavy with a sudden, flickering curiosity. "Everything alright? You sound… strained. You're not having a panic attack about the tires, are you?"
You let out a stifled, shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s chest as you felt him tighten his grip on your hips, a silent promise that this was far from over.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghost of a whisper that sent a fresh shiver cascading down your spine.
"He has no idea," he murmured, the words tasting of hunger and desperation, "that I’m currently trying to decide exactly how many more marks I can leave before I have to put the helmet back on."
"Then stop deciding and start doing," you breathed, your voice a fractured sliver of its usual self, your fingers digging into the fire-retardant fabric of his shoulders.
You could feel the heat of him, the sheer, concentrated intensity of his focus shifting from the door back to the pale, bruised expanse of your skin. "Let him wait. Let Zac wait. Let the whole world wait while you figure out exactly how much of me you can claim."
"You're a menace," he rasped, though the way he looked at you—pupils blown wide, eyes dark with a raw, unvarnished need—betrayed the fact that he was completely undone.
He didn't move away; instead, he shifted his weight, the heavy, hard muscle of his thigh grinding deeper into your center with a slow, deliberate friction that made your vision swim. "You want me to lose my mind in front of the telemetry screens, don't you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his mouth crashing back into the hollow of your throat with a sudden, bruising force that stole the air from your lungs.
This wasn't the tentative exploration of a man ashamed of his urges; it was a calculated demolition of restraint, his teeth sinking in with a sharp, rhythmic precision that sent a jolt of electric heat straight to your core.
You arched into him, your heels digging into his calves, the sensation of his teeth clamping down creating a searing, focused point of pleasure that blurred the edges of the room until there was nothing left but the scent of ozone and the visceral, bruising weight of him claiming you.
He began to work his way downward, his lips leaving a trail of scorching heat across the pale expanse of your chest, each touch a deliberate mark of ownership.
Every time he pulled back, it felt like a physical loss, a sudden void that made your skin prickle with a desperate need for the pressure to return. He wasn't just kissing you; he was carving a map of his desperation into your skin, leaving deep, blooming hickeys that felt like warm embers glowing against your flesh.
The friction of his racing suit against your thighs was a coarse, grounding reminder of the ticking clock outside, yet the way he lingered on the curve of your collarbone felt like a defiance of time itself.
The engineer’s voice drifted back, more insistent now, the sound of a world demanding Oscar’s return to the polished, calculated version of himself.
But as Oscar sank his teeth into the soft dip of your shoulder one last time, he didn't pull away with the suddenness of a man caught; instead, he let the pressure linger, leaving a bruised signature that pulsed in time with your own frantic heartbeat.
He lingered in the space between the public and the private, his breath a ragged heat against your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the exact scent of your surrender before the sterile air of the paddock claimed him.
He eventually stepped back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling exposed and shivering, though your skin was humming with a thousand electric needles.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of his uneven breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the paddock. He didn't look at you as he smoothed the front of his kit, his fingers trembling slightly, the ghost of his hunger still flickering in the dark intensity of his gaze.
He was leaving the room, but he was leaving something behind—a map of heat and soreness that burned through your clothes, a secret language written in purple and red across your collarbone. . . .
Summary: Lando tries out your sport, which is swimming and it's harder than he thought
Song: You Know You Like It · DJ Snake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The chlorine-rich air of the Olympic Training Center is a scent you’ve known since you were six years old.
To you, it smells like home, like victory, and like the grueling, beautiful discipline that led you to stand atop the podium in Paris with a gold medal weighing heavy and cool against your collarbone.
Today, however, the pool deck smells a little different. It smells like expensive cologne and the restless, kinetic energy of someone who is used to moving at two hundred miles per hour.
Lando Norris stands at the edge of the deep end, looking down into the shimmering blue expanse with an expression that can only be described as wary.
He’s traded his racing overalls for a pair of high-performance jammers that show off the lean, muscular build he keeps hidden under layers of fireproof gear. He looks athletic, sure, but he looks entirely out of his element.
You walk toward him, the soles of your feet slapping softly against the tiled deck. You’re wearing your racing suit, your hair tucked tightly under a silicone cap, your goggles resting around your neck.
Even with the height difference, you carry an air of absolute command.
"You look like you're deciding whether or not to jump into a vat of acid," you tease, stopping a few feet away.
Lando turns, a grin spreading across his face—that signature, boyish smile that softens the sharp focus he usually wears in the cockpit. "Oh, it feels like acid, doesn't it? Just looking at it. I’ve seen you do your laps, you know. You make it look like you’re flying. I’m starting to think the water is actually solid and you’re just a magician."
You laugh, a short, melodic sound that echoes off the high ceilings. "It’s not magic, Lando. It’s mechanics. But since you insisted on this 'cross-training' session, let’s see if your F1 reflexes translate to the lane."
"I've got the heart rate for it," he says, puffing out his chest playfully as he steps up to the starting block. "I deal with G-forces. This is just… water."
"Famous last words," you mutter.
The first ten minutes are a lesson in humility.
You watch from the water as Lando pushes off the wall. He launches himself with the explosive power of a racing driver, his body cutting a clean line for the first three meters. But then, reality hits.
Lando has spent his entire life working on neck strength, core stability for cornering, and twitch-speed reflexes. He hasn't spent his life learning how to rotate his torso to breathe without breaking his stroke, or how to pull against the resistance of the water with perfect catch-and-push technique.
He struggles. He thrashes a bit, his stroke losing its rhythm after the first twenty-five meters. By the time he reaches the far end of the pool, he flips his goggles up, gasping for air, his chest heaving. He looks like a fish out of water—literally.
You swim over to him, your movements fluid and silent, like a shadow gliding through the deep. You stop in front of him, bracing your arms on the gutter, looking up at him as he clings to the side.
"Breathe, Lando," you say, your voice calm and steady. "You’re fighting the water. You can’t win a fight against the ocean, and you definitely can’t win one against a 50-meter pool."
He wipes water from his eyes, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looks exhausted, his skin flushed, but his eyes are bright, fixed on you with an intensity that has nothing to do with training.
"Bloody hell," he pants. "That was… harder than a qualifying lap under pressure. My lungs feel like they're going to collapse."
"That’s because you’re holding your breath," you note, reaching out to tuck a stray damp hair behind his ear. The contact feels electric, a stark contrast to the cool pool water. "You’re so used to being in control, to commanding the machine. Here, you have to surrender."
He leans in, his face inches from yours. The distance between you disappears in the quiet, humid space of the training center.
"Surrender?" he echoes, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "I think you might be the only person in the world who could convince me to do that."
The rest of the morning is a blur of instruction and intimacy. You find yourself teaching him more than just strokes; you’re teaching him how to trust the water, how to find the 'glide' point where you stop fighting and start moving with the current.
You hold his waist to correct his hip rotation, your skin warm against his. He watches you intently, his focus entirely on your hands, on the way you explain the mechanics of the stroke.
Every time he gets it right, he looks at you for validation, his eyes shining with a pride that is entirely earned.
"Again," you command, your fingers lingering on his lower back just a second longer than necessary.
He pushes off again. This time, he’s slower, more intentional. He rotates his body, he finds the catch, and he pulls. He glides. When he reaches the wall, he doesn't gasp for air. He looks at you, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much better," you say, swimming closer until you’re floating right in front of him.
The silence of the pool is heavy now, filled with the sound of your combined breathing. He reaches out, his hand wet and cool, and rests it on your shoulder, sliding down to your waist.
He pulls you closer, and for a moment, the gold medal, the podiums, and the grandstands fade away. There is only the two of you, suspended in the blue.
"I think I’m done with swimming for today," he whispers, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip.
"Giving up already?" you tease, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
"No," he says, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes. "I think I’ve found a much better way to spend the afternoon."
He leans down, and when he kisses you, it tastes like chlorine and adrenaline. It’s a messy, frantic kiss, the kind that happens when two people who are used to living life at the absolute limit finally stop running and find a place to land.
His hands are firm, grounding you, while your own fingers tangle in his wet hair.
You pull back just an inch, breathless. "You know, for a guy who couldn't keep his stroke for twenty-five meters, you’re pretty good at this."
He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. "I’ve had a very good teacher."
As you stand there in the center of the pool, the champion and the driver, you realize that for the first time in your life, you don't care about the clocks on the wall or the lap times.
You’ve spent your career chasing perfection, chasing the gold, chasing the next finish line. But here, in the quiet blue, with Lando’s arms around you, you realize you’ve finally found something that feels much more like winning.
"Come on," you whisper, pulling him toward the shallow end. "I’ll show you how to cool down."
"Cool down?" Lando asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I think we’re just getting started."
And as you lead him toward the shallow stairs, you know that the pool is no longer just a place of training. It’s the place where the world slowed down, where the fast lane met the deep water, and where you, the golden girl of the pool, found a partner who was finally willing to dive into the deep end with you.
The evening light begins to stream through the high, frosted windows of the aquatic center, casting long, amber bars of light across the water.
You sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling in the cool water, watching Lando try to wring out his towel. He’s surprisingly domestic, humming a tune under his breath, his movements relaxed in a way they rarely are when he’s around the paddock.
He sits down beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. The physical fatigue of the workout is catching up to both of you, but it’s a good kind of tired—a clean, honest exhaustion.
"You really are incredible, you know," Lando says suddenly, staring out at the surface of the water, which is now perfectly still, mirroring the amber light. "I watched the replays of your 100m freestyle. The way you exploded off the block—it’s like you’re not even human. It’s raw power, but it’s so controlled. It’s art."
You look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. You’re used to the interviews, the questions about your training regimen and your diet.
You aren’t used to this kind of quiet observation. "It’s hard work, Lando. It’s years of waking up at 4:30 AM to hit the water when it’s so cold it makes your teeth ache. It’s missing birthdays, weddings, anniversaries. People see the medal, but they don't see the sacrifice."
He turns to look at you, his eyes serious, devoid of the teasing spark they held earlier. "I know. I know exactly what that sacrifice is. It’s the same one, just a different arena. The travel, the noise, the pressure to be perfect for everyone else. Sometimes, I think I’m going to lose my mind if I have to talk about downforce one more time."
He reaches out and takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. His palm is calloused, a mark of the steering wheel, just as yours are marked by the water. "But being here with you… doing something that has nothing to do with the track… it’s the most peaceful I’ve felt in months."
You squeeze his hand. "I’m glad you came, Lando. Even if you were a disaster in the lane."
He lets out a sharp laugh, throwing his head back. "A disaster? I’ll have you know I think I improved significantly. My dolphin kick is becoming quite legendary."
"Your dolphin kick looks like a seizure, darling," you laugh, nudging him with your shoulder.
"I’ll work on it!" he protests, leaning his head against yours. "I’ll book a private coach. I’ll be the fastest non-Olympic swimmer in the world by the time you're back from your next training camp."
"Is that a promise?"
"A challenge," he corrects, shifting to look at you again. The playfulness is back, but it’s underscored by a genuine, growing affection. "And I don't back down from challenges."
You look at him, really look at him, and see the man behind the helmet. You see the curiosity, the drive, and the vulnerability that he usually hides behind a fast car and a charming smile.
You see someone who understands the weight of expectation, someone who knows exactly why you choose the path you’ve walked.
"You know," you say softly, "if you’re going to be a swimmer, you’re going to need to work on your discipline. No more skipping cool-downs."
"Is that right?" He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And what happens if I refuse?"
You smile, a slow, deliberate expression. "Then I don't let you back in the pool."
He grins, leaning in until his lips brush against your jawline. "I think I can live with that. As long as you’re the one deciding the curriculum."
The atmosphere in the room shifts, the air growing heavy with unspoken promises. You aren't in the pool anymore, but the sensation of being adrift remains—a comfortable, drifting contentment that you’ve never allowed yourself to feel because you were always too busy looking for the next turn.
"Lando," you say, your voice barely a breath.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming today."
He pulls back to look at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Thank you for letting me in."
He leans down, and this time, the kiss is slow, deliberate, and lingering. It’s a kiss that acknowledges the busy, hectic, demanding lives you both lead, and the rare, fragile space you’ve managed to carve out for each other. It’s a moment of stillness in a world that never stops moving.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, not from the swimming, but from the realization of what this could be. You stand up, reaching down to help him up. As he takes your hand, he doesn't let go, his grip firm and steady.
"Dinner?" he asks. "I know a place that doesn't serve protein shakes or energy gels. Real food. Maybe even a dessert that wasn't approved by a nutritionist."
You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the quiet building. "You’re a bad influence, Norris."
"I try my best," he winks, pulling you toward the locker rooms.
As you walk out of the aquatic center together, the cool night air hits your skin, a sharp contrast to the humid heat of the pool. Walking toward the parking lot, you feel a strange, new lightness in your step.
For the first time, you aren't thinking about the next meet or the next morning’s workout. You’re thinking about dinner, about the way his hand feels in yours, and about how, for all your speed and strength, the best part of your life might just be the moments where you finally stop moving.
"So," he says as he opens the door to his car for you, "if I learn to flip-turn correctly by next week, what’s the prize?"
You slide into the passenger seat, looking up at him as he leans against the frame of the car. "I’ll think about it."
He chuckles, closing the door and walking around to the driver's side. As the engine purrs to life, you look out the window at the Olympic center, already fading into the dark, and you know that tomorrow will come, and with it, the cold water and the grueling hours.
But you also know that you’ll be coming back here, and he’ll be waiting for you, and for the first time, the finish line isn't the only thing worth aiming for.
The weeks pass, and a routine settles between you—a rhythm as steady as the tide. Lando becomes a fixture at the training center. He’s still erratic in the pool, his form a constant battle between his natural athleticism and his lack of aquatic grace, but he’s persistent.
He shows up at dawn, shivering in the cool air, determined to master the flip-turn, to master the reach, to master the grace you display so effortlessly.
He brings you coffee—the high-end, overpriced kind he likes—and you bring him back-to-basics drills that make him groan in frustration. But he does them.
He does them because you asked, and he does them because he wants to understand the life you’ve built, the life that demands so much of you.
In return, you find yourself at the track. You stand in the pit lane, the roar of the engines vibrating in your chest, the smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel cloying in your throat.
You watch him in the cockpit, a man transformed, his movements precise, calculated, and dangerous. You watch him navigate the turns, the G-forces pulling at his body, the focus in his eyes absolute.
You start to see the similarities. It’s not just the adrenaline; it’s the obsession. It’s the willingness to push until there is nothing left to give.
It’s the understanding that the smallest detail—a millisecond, a millimeter, a breath—can be the difference between everything and nothing.
One Tuesday, after a particularly grueling session where Lando finally nails a perfect, fluid sequence of laps, he climbs out of the water, his hair wild, his lungs finally quiet. He walks over to where you’re sitting on the bench, toweling off.
"I think I’ve got it," he says, a genuine, focused pride in his voice. "I didn't panic. I just… I let the water take me."
You smile, reaching out to pat his arm. "You did great today, Lando. Really."
He sits down next to you, his heart rate clearly slowing. He looks at you, his gaze intense. "I think you’ve ruined me for other sports. I’ve realized that I don't actually care about being fast in the water. I just care about being here with you."
The honesty of the statement catches you off guard. You’ve spent your life being guarded, keeping a wall between your professional identity and your personal one. But Lando has a way of dismantling those walls, piece by piece, without ever forcing the issue.
"You’re a terrible swimmer, Norris," you tease, but your voice is soft.
"But I’m a great student," he counters, reaching out to take your hand. "And I think I’ve learned all the lessons I came here for."
"Oh? And what was that?"
He leans in, his face inches from yours. "That the best part of the day isn't the race or the goal or the medal. It’s the person you’re racing toward."
You feel a warmth bloom in your chest that has nothing to do with the heated pool. You lean in, closing the distance between you, and kiss him. It’s not a kiss of adrenaline or discovery anymore; it’s a kiss of comfort, of recognition, of two people who have found a place where they don't have to be anything other than themselves.
In the quiet, echoing acoustics of the center, with the smell of chlorine and the sound of dripping water, you realize that you’ve stopped looking for the next big thing.
You’ve stopped searching for the next victory, the next championship, the next gold.
Because you’ve found something that feels like the ultimate prize: someone who knows your strength, respects your discipline, and loves you in the moments when you’re not performing, when you’re just a person, breathing the same air, under the same roof, at the end of a long, exhausting, beautiful day.
"So," you murmur, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "If you’re done learning, does that mean you’re going to quit? Give up the pool?"
Lando laughs, a bright, genuine sound that makes your heart ache with how much you’ve come to love it. "No chance. I think I’ve decided to make this a permanent fixture of my schedule. I’m going to need a lot more lessons if I’m going to keep up with you."
"Keep up with me?" you laugh. "Lando, you’re a Formula 1 driver. You’re literally designed to keep up with everyone."
"Not with you," he says, his hand gentle on your cheek. "You’re moving at a pace I’m still trying to figure out how to match."
You lean into his touch, closing your eyes and exhaling a breath you feel you’ve been holding for a lifetime. "Well, you have all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere."
"Good," he says. "Because I’m not, either."
As you sit there together in the fading afternoon light, the Olympic training center feels less like a fortress of solitude and more like a home. You’ve spent your life in the water, a solitary existence defined by distance and speed.
But now, as you walk out with Lando, you know that you’re no longer swimming alone. And for the first time, you finally understand what it means to truly, fully, let go. . . .
Summary: You've always had to be independent as an eldest daughter, Lando shows you how to relax
Song: Feels Like Summer · Childish Gambino
Author’s note: TO ALL THE ELDEST DAUGHTERS (including me) this is for YOU! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The weight of the world always felt like it had been custom-made for your shoulders.
As the eldest daughter, your life had been a masterclass in hyper-vigilance. You were the one who checked the locks, the one who managed the schedules, the one who smoothed over the rough edges of everyone else’s existence.
Your spine was forged of iron, perpetually braced for the next crisis, the next demand, the next "I need you to just handle this."
Even now, sitting in the sleek, minimalist silence of the McLaren motorhome in the middle of a frantic race weekend, your hands were moving.
You were organizing the files on your laptop, double-checking flight itineraries for your team, and mentally recalculating your budget for the next quarter.
Deep breath, you told yourself. Just finish the email. Then you can rest.
But you knew yourself better. Once the email was finished, there would be a Slack message. Once the Slack message was cleared, there would be a reminder to call your sister. The cycle of productivity was a cage you’d built for yourself, and you had long ago lost the key.
"You’re doing it again," a soft, British-accented voice murmured.
You didn't look up immediately, your fingers still dancing across the trackpad. "Doing what, Lando?"
A shadow fell over your screen. You looked up to see Lando Norris leaning against the doorframe of the small lounge area. He was dressed in his team kit, his hair a mess of chestnut curls that looked like he’d been running his own hands through them in frustration.
But his eyes—those bright, observant eyes—were fixed on you with an intensity that made you pull back.
"The brow thing," Lando said, stepping fully into the room. He walked over and sat on the ottoman in front of you, crowding your space just enough to force you to stop typing. "The 'I’m going to solve every problem in the universe by 4:00 PM' look."
You felt a flicker of annoyance, buried deep under a layer of exhaustion. "I have things to do, Lando. Some of us don't get to just drive cars in circles for a living."
Lando laughed, a low, easy sound. He didn't take the bait. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently closed your laptop lid. The screen went black, and the silence in the room suddenly felt very loud.
"The world isn't going to end if you take twenty minutes," he said softly.
"You don't know that," you countered, though your voice lacked its usual edge. "I have a lot of moving parts in my life. If I stop, the gears grind to a halt."
Lando tilted his head, his expression shifting from playful to something tender. He’d spent months watching you—watching the way you navigated rooms like a soldier on patrol, the way you were always the last one to eat, the way you carried the burdens of everyone around you as if they were holy relics.
"You’re always the one taking care of everyone," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Who takes care of you?"
You opened your mouth to give him a sharp, independent answer—something about how you were built for this, how you didn't need taking care of—but the words caught in your throat. They felt like a lie. A heavy, suffocating lie.
You looked at your hands. They were strong, capable hands. They had built everything you had. But God, they were tired.
"I don't know how to turn it off," you admitted, the confession barely audible.
Lando stood up and held out a hand. It was a gesture of invitation, not command. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere where the WiFi doesn't reach."
You followed him through the labyrinthine paddock, past the shouting mechanics and the frantic media teams. He led you toward the edge of the circuit, through a small, overgrown gate that looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
Beyond it was a quiet, grassy embankment overlooking a stretch of the track that was currently empty. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the asphalt. The air smelled of burnt rubber and oncoming dusk.
Lando sat down on the grass, heedless of his team gear. He patted the spot next to him.
You hesitated, your skirt bunching as you sat down, tucking your legs beneath you. You instinctively started scanning the horizon, your brain already trying to figure out what time the sunset would end and what you needed to do afterward.
"Nope," Lando said, nudging your shoulder with his. "Look at the sky. Don't look at the track, don't think about the race. Just look at the clouds."
You looked up. They were streaks of violet and burnt orange, painting the sky with a beauty that felt entirely detached from the adrenaline-soaked world you lived in.
"My sister called me this morning," you said, unbidden. "She’s stressed about her exams. I spent an hour talking her through her study schedule."
"And?"
"And I realized I was doing the same thing for her that our mother did for us. I'm just… living in the future, Lando. I’m always five steps ahead of myself."
Lando pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. He looked at you, really looked at you. "You know, when I’m in the car, I have to be hyper-focused. Every millisecond counts. If I start thinking about the race in three weeks, or the mistake I made in the last session, I crash. For me, being in the car is the only time I’m actually present."
"Is that why you do it?"
"Partly," he admitted. "But when I’m out of the car, I have to learn how to be just as present, just in a different way. I have to learn how to be 'Lando,' not 'Lando the driver.' And you? You never get to be just 'you.' You’re always 'the eldest,' 'the responsible one,' 'the fixer.'"
He reached out and took your hand. His skin was warm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, grounding motion. "What if you just let the gears grind for a second? What’s the worst that happens?"
"Everything breaks," you whispered.
"No," he corrected. "Everything shifts. Maybe it shifts into something better."
You closed your eyes, leaning back on your elbows. The sun felt warm on your face. You felt the texture of the grass under your palms, the solid earth beneath you.
For the first time in years, the voice in your head that whispered what’s next was silenced by the simple, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you.
Lando leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. He smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely him—a mix of sunshine and ambition.
"You don't have to carry it all," he murmured against your skin. "I have broad shoulders, too. Let me carry some of it."
He didn't mean his cars or his money. He meant the weight. He meant the fear of failing those you loved. He meant the exhaustion that had settled into your bones like winter ice.
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for a decade. Your muscles, usually coiled like a spring, finally began to unspool. You rested your head against his shoulder, letting the frantic noise of the paddock fade into a dull, distant hum.
"This is weird," you joked weakly. "I feel like I'm forgetting something."
"You are," Lando laughed. "You're forgetting to worry. It’s a good look on you."
He shifted, pulling you tighter against him, his arm draping across your back. You felt a wave of vulnerability so sharp it almost hurt, but it was followed by a profound, overwhelming sense of relief.
You weren't the protector today. You weren't the strategist. You were just you, sitting in the grass with a man who saw the girl beneath the iron armor.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Lando didn't say anything for a long time. He just watched the sun disappear, his hand tracing lazy, soothing circles on your back. In the distance, a jet took off from a nearby airfield, but for once, you didn't track it. You didn't wonder where it was going or how long it would take to get there.
You were exactly where you were. And for the first time in your life, that was enough.
The following weeks were a blur of travel, hospitality suites, and the unrelenting pace of the Formula 1 circus. But something in you had shifted.
You still managed the itineraries. You still checked the locks. You still listened to your sister’s breathless updates about her exams. But you had developed a new ritual.
Every evening, regardless of the chaos, you would find Lando. Sometimes it was in the back of the garage, sometimes in the quiet corner of a media room, and sometimes just a text message, a simple 'Breathe. I'm here.'
One evening, at the Singapore Grand Prix, the humidity was thick enough to swim in. The paddock was a pressure cooker of heat and intensity. You were exhausted, your head throbbing from the relentless glare of the lights and the constant chatter of team radios.
You walked toward the McLaren garage, your heels clicking against the concrete, your mind already compartmentalizing the next twelve hours. You saw Lando near the hospitality entrance, talking to his engineer. He looked drained, his face slick with sweat, his eyes focused.
He caught sight of you, and his entire demeanor changed. The tension in his shoulders dropped instantly. He said something to his engineer, gave him a quick pat on the arm, and walked straight over to you.
He didn't say a word. He just took your hand and pulled you away from the crowd, toward an empty balcony overlooking the track. The city lights of Singapore were blinding, a dizzying sprawl of neon and ambition.
"You're doing it," he said, tapping your temple. "The gears are turning."
You leaned against the railing, feeling the damp night air on your skin. "I have to deal with the logistics for the flight to Japan tomorrow. And the team lead is asking about the budget readjustments—"
Lando stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
"Stop," he commanded, though it was gentle. "Look at the lights."
You did. You looked at the skyline, the glittering towers, the way the light reflected off the river. You leaned back into him, letting the sturdy, unyielding weight of him anchor you.
"Do you know why I like the night races?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your back.
"Because the views are better?" you teased, though your voice was soft.
"Because the world looks like a dream," he said. "It’s not real. It’s a simulation. The problems, the schedules, the stress? It’s all just background noise. The only thing that’s real is this moment. Right here. With you."
He turned you around, his hands framing your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his gaze searching yours. You saw everything you needed in those eyes: patience, admiration, and a quiet, steadfast love that asked for nothing in return.
"You spend your whole life being the anchor," he said. "Let someone be the anchor for you for once."
You reached up, your fingers curling into the fabric of his team shirt. You felt the rapid, steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm scared that if I stop, I'll never be able to start again."
"Good," Lando whispered, leaning in until his lips were inches from yours. "Then we’ll start something else instead."
He kissed you then—a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and entirely free of the frantic pace of your life. It was a kiss that tasted of quiet evenings, of stolen moments, and the promise that you didn't have to face the world alone.
As he pulled back, you felt the last of the tightness in your chest finally loosen. You weren't a project to be fixed. You were a woman who had earned the right to rest, to love, and to be held.
"Ready?" he asked, his forehead resting against yours.
"For what?"
"To go to dinner. Nowhere fancy. Just somewhere quiet where we can talk about nothing at all."
You smiled, and for the first time, it reached your eyes. "I think I'd like that."
As you walked with him through the paddock, his hand firmly interlaced with yours, you realized that you hadn't checked your phone in three hours. You hadn't thought about the morning’s itinerary. You hadn't felt the need to protect or manage or solve.
You were simply walking with Lando, moving at his pace, in his world, and for the first time in your life, you weren't the one carrying the weight. You were just a girl, in love, enjoying the cool night air and the beautiful, simple reality of being present.
And for the first time, the future didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a blank page, and you were finally, finally ready to stop writing, and just start living.
The transition back to reality was rarely seamless, but you were getting better at the art of the pause.
Two weeks later, back at the factory in Woking, you were sitting in your office when the inevitable pile-up of requests landed on your desk. Your instinct—that old, ingrained reaction—was to leap, to solve, to be the hero of the department.
You picked up your phone, ready to send a flurry of directives. Then, you saw a notification on your screen.
Lando: '3:00 PM. The garden. Don't be late. I'm bringing tea.'
You looked at the clock. It was 2:45.
You looked at the emails. They would still be there at 4:30. They would still be there tomorrow. The crises would cycle, the problems would replenish themselves, and the world would continue to spin, regardless of whether you spent the next hour hyperventilating over a spreadsheet or sitting in the sun with the man who had taught you how to breathe.
You stood up, closed your laptop, and grabbed your coat.
As you walked out of the office, your colleague called out, "Wait, where are you going? We need your sign-off on the quarterly reports!"
You didn't break your stride. You didn't even look back.
"It can wait," you called out, your voice steady and light. "I have an appointment."
The garden was tucked behind the facility, a quiet, meticulously manicured space that felt worlds away from the high-tech roar of the wind tunnels and the stress of the engineering bays. Lando was already there, sitting on a wooden bench, two mugs of tea resting on the table in front of him.
He looked up as you approached, a wide, boyish grin breaking out across his face.
"You came," he said, standing up to meet you.
"I came," you repeated, feeling a lightness in your chest that you were finally learning to identify as happiness.
He leaned down and kissed you, a lingering, sweet gesture that made the rest of the world vanish entirely. When he pulled back, he held your hands, his thumbs tracing the skin of your palms.
"How’s the brain?" he asked. "Still racing?"
"Slowing down," you admitted, sitting down beside him. You picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into your cold fingers. "I left the reports."
"And?"
"The world hasn't ended. The building is still standing."
Lando laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet garden. "See? I told you."
He leaned his head on your shoulder, and you rested your cheek against the top of his head. You watched the leaves sway in the breeze, the light filtering through the trees in dappled patterns of gold and green.
You were the eldest daughter. You were the protector. You were the one who always knew what to do. But here, with Lando, you were allowed to be something else. You were allowed to be soft. You were allowed to be still.
You looked at your hands again—the hands that had worked so hard, for so long—and you realized they were finally resting. You weren't holding the world up anymore.
You were just holding a cup of tea, and the hand of someone who loved you enough to remind you that you didn't have to be everything, all the time.
"What are you thinking about?" Lando asked softly.
"I was thinking," you murmured, closing your eyes and leaning into the warmth of the afternoon, "that for the first time, I’m not waiting for something to go wrong."
Lando pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around you, firm and protective. "Don't wait for it. It won't find us here."
You knew, deep down, that life would always be a series of challenges. There would be more races, more deadlines, more moments where the weight of expectations would try to settle back onto your shoulders.
But you also knew that you had a sanctuary now. You had a partner who knew the rhythm of your heart and the burden of your history.
You took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through your body, banishing the last of the winter ice.
You weren't just the eldest daughter anymore. You were yours. And for right now, that was enough.
The wind sighed through the trees, a gentle, rhythmic sound that seemed to hum in harmony with your own breathing. You felt the space beside you, the solid, unmoving presence of the man who had taught you how to stop running.
You weren't waiting. You weren't planning. You weren't checking the time.
You were just here.
And as the sun began its slow descent, bathing the garden in a soft, amber glow, you finally understood what Lando had been trying to show you all along.
Reality wasn't the noise. Reality was the silence between the beats. Reality was the hand in yours. Reality was the ability to stop, when everyone else expected you to keep going.
"I love you," you whispered, the words feeling new and terrifying and perfect all at once.
Lando squeezed your hand, his gaze filled with a quiet intensity that mirrored your own. "I love you, too."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. He just held you, and in the quiet of the garden, for the first time, you felt completely, utterly, and beautifully free.
The world would keep spinning. The gears would keep turning. And you would eventually have to go back to being the person who held it all together. But you would go back changed.
You would go back with the memory of this peace, with the knowledge that you had a place to rest, and with the realization that, no matter what, you were never going to be alone with the weight again.
You were a woman of strength, a woman of purpose, and a woman of power. But you were also a woman who had learned how to be held.
And that, you realized as you watched the shadows lengthen across the grass, was the greatest power of all. . . .
Summary: It was the first night of you and Lando sleeping in your new house and he slept like a baby
Song: Latch · Sam Smith
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air inside the house smells like cedarwood, fresh paint, and the faint, lingering scent of the cardboard boxes that had dominated your lives for the better part of a week.
It is a quiet, heavy, expensive sort of silence—the kind that only exists in a space that hasn’t yet been filled with enough memories to feel lived-in.
You stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your bedroom, watching the moonlight pool across the hardwood floors of your new life.
Outside, the Monaco coastline is a jagged shadow against the ink-black Mediterranean, but you aren’t looking at the view. You are looking at the reflection in the glass: the silhouette of the man currently sprawled across your king-sized bed.
Lando is motionless. That is the first thing that strikes you. Usually, his energy is kinetic—a constant buzzing of limbs, a nervous tapping of fingers against a steering wheel, a restless shifting during meetings or dinners.
But here, in the sanctuary you’ve built together, he is anchored.
You turn away from the window, your footsteps silent on the plush rug. You move toward the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle into your shoulders.
Moving is a monumental task, a brutal orchestration of logistics and stress, but tonight, the adrenaline has finally curdled into exhaustion.
You climb onto the mattress, the high-thread-count sheets cool against your skin. You shift, trying to find a comfortable position, a little wary of encroaching on his space.
But Lando, even in his deepest oblivion, seems to sense the displacement of air. One of his arms snakes out, heavy and warm, hooking around your waist with instinctive precision.
He pulls you back against his chest without opening his eyes, his breathing so rhythmic and deep that it feels like a lullaby.
He is sleeping like a baby.
It is a jarring sight, given the life he leads. You think about the man the world sees—the Lando Norris who is constantly scrutinized by cameras, the one who carries the weight of a racing team on his shoulders, the one who spends his Sundays balancing on the razor-thin edge of disaster at two hundred miles per hour.
That man is perpetually alert, muscles coiled, eyes scanning for the next turn, for the next gap, for the next critique.
But here, under the soft glow of the minimalist bedside lamp, that version of him has completely dissolved. His mouth is slightly parted, his hair a chaotic, soft nest against the pillow. His face, usually defined by the intense focus of a competitor, is slackened, innocent, and profoundly peaceful.
You turn your head slightly, pressing your cheek against the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm, radiating a soft, steady heat that chases away the lingering chill of the night.
You close your eyes, listening to the cadence of his heart—a steady thump-thump, thump-thump—that serves as the metronome for your new reality.
This is it. This is the "after."
For months, you had talked about this. You had spent hours on FaceTime calls while he was in different time zones, scrolling through real estate listings, arguing over paint swatches, and dreaming of a place that didn’t belong to a hotel franchise or a team hospitality suite.
You had dreamt of a place where the door locked behind you and the world stayed on the other side.
And now, here it is.
The silence of the house feels like a blanket. You realize, with a sudden, sharp pang of affection, that he hasn’t moved an inch since he hit the pillow. There is no tossing, no turning, no murmuring about qualifying laps or telemetry data.
He is simply here. He is surrendered to the exhaustion, trusting the space around him enough to let his guard drop entirely.
It is the highest compliment he could ever pay you—the fact that in your presence, in this home, his brain finally stops racing.
You reach up, tracing the line of his forearm with your fingertips. His skin is smooth, marked only by the faint, sun-drenched tan he’s acquired over the season.
You move your hand to his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. His grip is loose, his muscles limp, yet he holds on to you with a subconscious certainty.
You start to think about the journey that brought you to this bed. You think of the early days, the tentative glances in the paddock, the way you had to guard your private moments like fragile treasures.
You think of the compromises—the long-distance, the missed birthdays, the anxiety of watching him race, the way you’d hold your breath every time he rounded a corner on a wet track. It had been worth it, all of it, just for this moment of domestic stillness.
A soft, contented sigh escapes Lando’s lips, and he nuzzles closer into the nape of your neck. The stubble on his cheek grazes your skin, a rough, grounding texture that makes you smile.
He smells like the expensive, clean scent of the sheets and the lingering notes of the cologne he wore to dinner—something citrusy and sharp that has softened into something intimate and sweet.
You find yourself drifting, the boundaries between your thoughts and your dreams starting to blur. The house, which had felt so unfamiliar a few hours ago, now feels like an extension of the two of you.
Every corner, every box yet to be unpacked in the garage, every light switch—it’s all a promise of the future.
You wonder if he’s dreaming of racing. Do drivers dream of the track? Or does he dream of this? Of the simplicity of waking up and finding you there?
You hope it’s the latter. You hope he knows that, win or lose, pole position or back of the grid, this house is the only place that truly matters.
His arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s so warm, so solid. You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, a synchronization that makes you feel invincible. For the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.
You don’t need to plan the next trip, check the itinerary, or worry about the logistics of his schedule. You just need to be exactly where you are.
The moonlight shifts across the room, tracing the contours of the furniture you picked together. Everything here is a compromise, a blend of his sterile, modern tastes and your desire for warmth. It’s a perfect home.
Lando mumurs something in his sleep, a low, incomprehensible sound that borders on a chuckle. Perhaps he’s winning in his dreams. Or perhaps he’s just happy. The thought brings a warmth to your chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
You finally let your eyes drift shut, succumbing to the heavy, velvet pull of sleep. You realize that this is the best part of the relationship—the mundane, the quiet, the boring, the settled. The world is loud, and Lando’s life is a whirlwind of noise and motion, but this room is the eye of the storm.
As you drift off, the last thing you feel is his hand squeezing yours, a silent promise made in the deepest part of the night. He is sleeping like a baby, and for the first time in your lives, you are sleeping like one, too.
The sun finds you first.
It leaks through the gap in the heavy curtains, painting a sharp, golden line across the floor. You wake up before him, as always. For a moment, you stay perfectly still, afraid that even a muscle twitch might break the spell.
He is still there. He has shifted slightly, his face now buried in the pillow next to yours, his breath still steady and deep. He looks younger in the sunrise, the shadows pulling back to reveal the soft vulnerability he hides behind his racing helmet.
You carefully extract yourself from his arm, moving with the grace of someone who doesn't want to wake a sleeping giant. Lando reacts only by shifting his head, his brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing out again.
You slip out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the chair you’d haphazardly tossed it over the night before. The floorboards creak—a sound that, in a few years, will be a nostalgic marker of this exact moment.
You walk into the kitchen, the sunlight hitting the marble countertops and turning the new space into a cathedral of morning light.
You make coffee. The ritual is the same, no matter the house, no matter the country. The sound of the machine whirring, the smell of the dark roast—it’s the grounding agent of your day.
You lean against the counter, looking out at the terrace. The Mediterranean is a brilliant, shimmering peridot under the morning sun. It’s a beautiful view, but you’re already looking toward the bedroom door, wondering when he’ll wake up.
A few minutes later, you hear it—the soft rustle of sheets, the thud of feet hitting the floor, the groggy, confused shuffle of someone experiencing the first morning in a new home.
Lando appears in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair standing up in every direction, his eyes struggling to focus against the brightness of the morning. He looks like a boy, not the man who commands thousands of horsepower.
He stops when he sees you. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, letting the reality of the room sink in.
"Morning," you say softly, holding out the mug of coffee.
He takes it, his fingers brushing yours. He doesn't drink it immediately; he just holds the warmth of the mug, looking at you with a look of profound disbelief. "We’re really here, aren't we?" he asks, his voice raspy with sleep.
"We’re really here."
He walks over to you, wrapping his free arm around your waist and burying his face into your shoulder. He stays there for a long time, the silence of the house stretching between you, filled with the promise of a thousand mornings to come.
"I slept," he mumbles into your robe. "I haven't slept that well in… I don't even know how long."
"I noticed."
He pulls back to look at you, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. It’s the look he gives you when he’s truly happy—no cameras, no press, no fans. Just Lando. "It’s the quiet," he says, gesturing to the house. "It’s just us."
You lean into him, the smell of coffee and his skin wrapping around you like a cocoon. "It’s our home, Lando."
He nods, his expression sobering into something intense and sincere. He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a beat. "Our home," he repeats, testing the words as if they were a new gear he’s just starting to get the feel of.
The world outside is waiting. There are practice sessions to attend, media obligations to fulfill, flights to catch, and thousands of miles to cover. But for this morning, in this slice of time, the world is locked out.
You spend the next few hours doing nothing. It’s a luxury neither of you is used to.
You unpack a few boxes, finding things you’d forgotten you’d even packed—framed photos from your first trip to Japan, a random assortment of books, the oversized mugs you bought at a seaside shop in Italy.
Each object is a shard of memory, and as you place them on the shelves, you are anchoring yourselves to this place. Lando helps, though "helps" is a loose term.
He mostly ends up sitting on the floor, distracted by a model car he found in a box, or coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you’re trying to find a home for the kitchenware.
"We need to buy new curtains," he says at one point, looking up at the ones you’ve temporarily hung.
"You hate curtains," you remind him.
"I hate these curtains," he corrects, grinning. "They’re too thin. We need ones that block out the world. I want to sleep until noon on my days off."
"Maybe we should get ones that let the light in, so you don't turn into a vampire."
He laughs, a loud, genuine sound that echoes off the high, bare walls of the living room. It’s a sound that makes the house feel like it’s finally breathing.
By the afternoon, the initial rush of movement has faded into a comfortable rhythm. You’ve moved from the chaos of unpacking to the intimacy of simply existing in the same space. You find yourself watching him more than you realize.
You watch the way he moves through the rooms, the way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, the way he constantly seeks you out, needing the reassurance of your presence.
It strikes you, again, how much he needs this. The life he lives is one of extreme highs and crushing lows, a life of constant external validation and scrutiny.
But here, the only validation he needs is the sight of you in the kitchen, or the feeling of your hand in his as you sit on the terrace.
As evening approaches, the sky begins to bruise with shades of violet and orange. You move out to the terrace, two glasses of wine in hand.
The breeze is cooler now, carrying the scent of salt and blooming jasmine from the gardens below.
Lando leans against the glass railing, looking out over the water. He isn't wearing his usual armor—the team gear, the sponsor logos, the carefully curated public image. He is just a man in a t-shirt and jeans, watching the sunset.
"Do you think we can handle it?" he asks suddenly, his voice quiet.
"Handle what?"
"This," he gestures to the house, to the life you’ve built away from the track. "Being 'us' without the racing. Can we be this… normal?"
You step up beside him, resting your hand on his arm. "Normal is what we make it, Lando. We don't have to be anything other than what we are right now."
He turns to look at you, his eyes reflecting the dying light of the sun. He looks searchingly at your face, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this specific light. The intensity of it—the raw, unfiltered affection—makes your heart ache.
"I like 'us,'" he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I like this version of us."
"Me too."
He leans down, and his lips find yours. It isn't a racing-driver kiss—urgent, desperate, fueled by the adrenaline of a win or the frustration of a loss. It’s slow, deliberate, and deeply grounded. It’s a kiss that tastes like wine and the future.
When you pull away, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. You can feel his heart beating—not the frantic rhythm of the starting grid, but the slow, grounded pace of a man who is finally home.
"I think I could get used to this," he says, a small, shy smile touching his lips.
"You're going to have to," you tease. "You're stuck with me now."
He laughs, and the sound is carried away by the Mediterranean breeze. He pulls you against him, his arms strong and protective. You look out over the water, the darkness beginning to fall, feeling the absolute, unshakable certainty that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
The house behind you is quiet, filled with the promise of the lives you’ll lead within its walls. There will be bad days, of course.
There will be races where he finishes at the back, days when the pressure is too much, days when the world feels too big and too loud. But you know now that no matter how hard the storm blows, there is a harbor.
There is this house. There is this bed. There is the way he sleeps like a baby when he knows you’re within reach.
The stars begin to prick through the velvet canopy of the sky, one by one. Lando points to a distant light, a ship moving slowly across the horizon. "Where's that going?" he asks.
"Anywhere it wants," you reply.
He smiles, and his thumb brushes the side of your face. "I think I'm already where I want to be."
You stay there for a long time, watching the night take hold. The house behind you is dark, save for the soft glow of the kitchen light, a beacon in the twilight. Everything is soft. Everything is right.
When you finally head back inside, the house feels even more like a sanctuary. You move through the rooms, turning off the lights one by one, leaving the house in a state of quiet grace.
In the bedroom, the moonlight has shifted again, casting long, silver fingers across the bed. You undress in the dim light, the silence of the house pressing in, not as a weight, but as a comfort.
Lando is already lying in bed, watching you. He’s propped up on one elbow, his expression one of quiet adoration. He doesn't say anything, but as you approach the bed, he lifts the duvet, a silent invitation that you accept without hesitation.
You slide under the covers, the fabric cool and crisp against your skin. You curl into him, feeling the familiar, grounding weight of his arm as he pulls you closer. He’s warm, his body like a furnace against yours, and his breathing is already beginning to deepen.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice thick with the onset of sleep.
"I'm perfect," you whisper back.
He hums, a satisfied little sound, and kisses the top of your head. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't reach for his phone to check the news, or the standings, or the social media feeds. He just lets himself go.
He is asleep in seconds. His breathing rhythm takes over, slow and steady, a lullaby that pulls you under with it.
You lie there for a while, listening to the house settle. The wood expands and contracts in the cooling air, the wind whistles softly against the glass, and in the distance, the faint, rhythmic sound of the ocean hitting the cliffs provides a constant, gentle pulse.
You look at him, his face peaceful, his muscles relaxed, his brow smooth. He is a man who carries the world on his shoulders, but tonight, he has laid it down.
You feel a swell of pride in your chest—pride in him, pride in the life you’ve built, pride in the sanctuary you’ve created together.
You close your eyes, the last of the day’s tension evaporating. You know that tomorrow morning, the sun will rise and the world will start spinning again.
There will be meetings, and travel, and pressure, and the relentless, demanding tempo of his life. But for tonight, the clock has stopped.
You drift off, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady, reliable thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You are safe. You are home. And as you fall into the deep, dreamless void of sleep, you know that when you wake up, he will be right there, and you will be with him.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
The house is quiet, the night is deep, and he sleeps like a baby, tucked into the arms of the life he chose, in the arms of the person who chose it with him.
The following weeks are a blur of unpacking, decorating, and finding the rhythm of a life that is truly yours.
There are moments of chaos, of course—the stray boxes that seem to multiply in the corners of the office, the arguments over where to hang a piece of art, the frantic scrambles to find a passport before a flight. But through it all, there is the house.
It becomes a living thing, a third member of your relationship. You find your favorite spots—the reading nook by the window, the terrace for morning coffee, the kitchen island where you talk for hours into the night. And then there is the bedroom.
The bedroom is sacred. No work allowed. No phones allowed. Just the two of you, the quiet, and the moonlight.
One night, after a particularly grueling stretch of races, he comes home exhausted. You can see it in the way he walks, the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes lose their focus. He doesn't say a word, just walks through the front door, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the living room sofa.
You don't pressure him. You just bring him a glass of water, sit beside him, and start to rub his temples. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing, a low groan escaping his throat.
"It was a long one," he says, his voice barely audible.
"I know. But you're home now."
He opens his eyes, looking at you with a look of such raw, unfiltered gratitude that it makes your chest tighten. "I missed this. I missed you."
"I was right here."
"I know. But it’s not the same when I'm away. When I'm away, I feel like I'm drifting. Like I'm losing my anchor."
You look at him, the man who is known for his lightning-fast reflexes and his ability to hold a line through the most treacherous corners, and you realize how much he needs the stability of what you’ve built.
"You're not drifting," you promise him. "You're just traveling. And the anchor is always here, waiting for you."
He smiles, a slow, tired, genuine smile. "I know. That's what keeps me going. Knowing I have this. Knowing I have you."
He pulls you down onto the sofa, curling around you, his head resting in your lap. The living room is bathed in the soft glow of the table lamps, the rest of the house silent and welcoming.
He stays there for a long time, his breathing regulated, his body slowly shedding the weight of the track.
Eventually, you carry him to bed. He’s half-asleep by the time you reach the room, letting you guide him, letting you take the lead. You help him get settled, tuck the duvet around him, and climb in beside him.
He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. And again, he is still. He is peaceful. He is sound.
You lie there, watching him, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. You realize that you’ve done it. You’ve created a space where the most energized, high-pressure, non-stop person you know can actually find peace. You’ve created a space where he can be just Lando.
And as you drift off to sleep, feeling his hand move to yours in the dark, you know that this is the best part of the relationship. It’s not the cameras, or the crowds, or the roar of the engines. It’s the silence.
It’s the way he sleeps like a baby. It’s the way, no matter how fast he drives when the lights go out on Sunday, he always finds his way back here.
He is home. And so are you.
The bedroom is dark, the house is still, and outside, the moon continues its slow, silent transit across the sky. You fall asleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow, the world will start again, but tonight, you have everything you need.
Everything is perfect. Everything is peace. And he is sleeping, deeply and soundly, in the quiet of the home you built together, the man who drives the world, finally at rest. . . .
Summary: Lando took his wisdom tooth out and is still not over anaesthetic when he asks you out
Song: Belong To The City · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The fluorescent lights of the private surgical suite hum with a sterile, clinical indifference that makes your skin crawl. You are sitting in a stiff, uncomfortable leather chair in the corner of the recovery room, a stack of racing magazines you didn’t read resting on your lap.
Your phone buzzed thirty minutes ago—a notification from the team’s press officer asking where the hell Lando was—but you silenced it, keeping your eyes trained on the man currently slumped in the clinical bed.
Lando Norris, the man who navigates the tight, unforgiving corners of Monaco at two hundred miles per hour with the precision of a surgeon, currently looks like a chipmunk who has been hit by a wrecking ball.
His cheeks are packed with gauze, his face swollen into a soft, puffy caricature of his usual sharp-jawed self.
The surgeon exits, offering you a weary smile and a packet of instructions about ice packs and pain management.
"He'll be groggy for a while," the doctor says, his voice hushed. "The sedation was quite strong. He might be… talkative. Or he might sleep for the next six hours. Just keep an eye on his breathing."
You nod, standing up as the doctor leaves. You walk over to the bedside, your heart pulling in a way that feels dangerously like a confession.
You’ve been Lando’s assistant, his confidante, and his best friend for three years. You’ve held his helmet, managed his media, and wiped the sweat from his brow after grueling podium finishes. But you have never seen him this vulnerable. This exposed.
Lando’s eyelashes flutter. They are long, dark, and currently trembling. With a groan that sounds like a rusted hinge, he cracks one blue eye open. It’s unfocused, glassy, and swimming in a haze of propofol.
"Lando?" you whisper, leaning closer. "Hey. You’re done. It’s over."
He blinks, his head lolling to the side. He stares at you for a long, agonizing moment before his pupils dilate. A slow, lopsided, and entirely ridiculous grin spreads across his face, hindered by the gauze.
"You," he slurs, his voice a thick, gravelly mess. "You’re… you’re the angel."
You laugh, a soft, nervous sound. "I’m not an angel, Lando. I’m just Y/N. You’re just loopy from the drugs."
He tries to lift a hand, but his arm wavers and drops back onto the starched sheets. "No," he insists, his words tripping over each other. "You’re the… the sky. The whole sky. Why are you so bright? Did you eat the sun? You shouldn’t eat the sun, Y/N. It’s too crunchy."
You bite your lip to stop from giggling, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. His skin is warm, flushed from the anesthesia. "I didn't eat the sun, Lando. Drink some water."
He ignores the water, his gaze locked intensely onto yours. His expression shifts from confused whimsy to something startlingly earnest. The anesthesia takes away the filter, the British reserve, the carefully curated media personality. It leaves only the raw impulse.
"I have a secret," he whispers, leaning his head toward your hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He pauses, struggling to form the consonants. "My mouth feels like a balloon. A big, sad balloon. But my heart…" He taps a finger clumsily against his chest. "My heart is doing flips. Like a car in a wall. Ker-choo."
"Ker-choo?" you repeat, your heart hammering against your own ribs.
"It’s because of you," he says. The seriousness in his voice is jarring, even through the slurring. "I drive really fast. I’m fast, right? Everyone says I’m fast."
"You’re very fast, Lando."
"But I’m slow at this," he mutters, furrowing his brows. "I’m so slow at telling you. It’s been three years. Three whole racing seasons of me being a complete… a complete… what’s the word? A total pillock."
You feel your breath hitch. You knew he loved you—you hoped it, at least—but hearing it while he was under the influence of heavy sedatives felt like opening a letter you were never meant to read.
"Lando, maybe you should rest," you say gently, your voice trembling.
"No, wait," he grabs at your sleeve, his grip weak but persistent. "I have to ask. My brain is all fog, but the truth is… it’s glowing in the fog. Like a neon sign in the rain."
He looks at you, his eyes searching your face with a desperation that makes your chest ache. "Go out with me."
The room goes silent. You can hear the distant hum of the hospital’s HVAC system and the muffled sounds of the hallway. You stare at him, stunned.
"Lando, you’re high on anesthesia," you whisper, though your hand stays in his.
"I’m high on you," he counters, trying to look suave and failing miserably as his mouth hangs slightly open. "Is that a pickup line? It sounds like a pickup line. I’m a professional athlete, I should have better lines. But you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything hurts. The dentist—he was mean. He took my tooth. But he can’t take… he can’t take this."
"Take what?"
"Us," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. "Please. Just say yes before I forget how to speak English entirely."
You look down at him. Even with the gauze, even with the drool beginning to dampen the collar of his hospital gown, he is the only person you have ever wanted. You’ve spent years suppressing this, keeping the line sharp and defined between assistant and driver. But looking at him now—so unguarded, so painfully honest—the line doesn’t just blur; it vanishes.
"Lando," you say, leaning down until your forehead rests against his. "You’re asking me out while you’re recovering from oral surgery."
"Best time to ask," he mumbles, his voice fading into sleep. "Can’t say no… when I’m this… this cute…"
He drifts off, his breathing evening out into a deep, rhythmic slumber. You stay there for a long time, sitting in the silence of the room, your hand still laced with his. Outside, the world goes on—the press wants their statements, the engineers want to debrief, the fans want their updates. But in here, under the hum of the lights, everything is quiet.
You know that when he wakes up, the fog will lift. The inhibition will return. He might be embarrassed. He might pretend it was the drugs talking.
But as you look at his sleeping face, you decide that you’re not going to let him forget. You’re going to hold him to it. You’re going to be his sky, and his neon sign in the rain, and everything else he needs.
You squeeze his hand, leaning in to whisper against his ear, "Ask me again when you're sober, Norris. And I’ll say yes then, too."
The next morning, the sunlight streaming into Lando’s home studio is blinding. You’re sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching him gingerly sip a smoothie through a straw.
His cheeks are still bruised and swollen, and he looks like he’s been through a war, but the manic, glassy look is gone. He looks human again. He looks like Lando.
He stops drinking, his eyes meeting yours. He looks down, a flush creeping up his neck.
"So," he starts, then winces as the movement pulls at his stitches. He clears his throat, his ears turning bright red. "I remember…"
You don't let him finish. You stand up, walking over to the coffee table, and pick up the notebook where you’d jotted down some notes for his next press appearance. You close it and set it aside, facing him fully.
"You remember the part about being a pillock?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.
He groans, burying his face in his hands. "Oh god. It was exactly that bad, wasn't it? I think I called you a piece of the sky or something? I’m mortified. I’m going to retire. I’m retiring from everything."
"You called me the sky," you confirm, stepping closer. "And then you told me that your heart felt like a car in a wall."
He lowers his hands, his blue eyes wide with panic. "I am so sorry. The drugs—they make you say the weirdest things. I just—I didn't mean to make things awkward. I know the professional boundary is important, and—"
"Lando," you interrupt, placing a hand on his knee. He freezes, his breath hitching. "Are you retracting it?"
He looks at you, his gaze searching your face for a sign of mockery, but finding only the same quiet, steady hope he’s carried for years. His expression softens, the panic fading into something more familiar, more grounded.
"Retracting it?" he repeats, his voice low. "No. I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you for two years. I just didn't expect the catalyst to be a dental drill and some heavy-duty sedation."
"It was effective," you tease, feeling your pulse jump.
"Was it?" He leans forward, wincing slightly but not pulling away. "If I were to ask you again—properly, this time, without the drool and the anesthesia—would the answer stay the same?"
You look at him, really look at him. You see the man who worries about his lap times, the man who loves video games, the man who cares for his team, and the man who has spent three years looking at you like you’re the only thing in the paddock that matters.
"If you ask me properly," you say, your voice steady despite the nervousness fluttering in your stomach, "I’ll say yes. Over and over again."
Lando lets out a breath he seems to have been holding since the hospital. A slow, genuine smile breaks across his face—the one he saves for when he’s truly happy, away from the cameras and the noise.
"Okay," he says, reaching out to take your hand. His grip is warm, firm, and fully conscious. "Let’s start over then. Properly."
He doesn't ask right then, though. He just pulls your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s a promise, written in the quiet space between you.
"I’m still on painkillers," he mutters, a mischievous glint back in his eyes. "Does that mean I get a sympathy kiss?"
You roll your eyes, but you lean down anyway, brushing your lips against his. It’s light, careful of his mouth, and tastes like the start of something you’ve been writing in your head for years.
"You're a menace, Norris," you whisper.
"Yeah," he agrees, pulling you closer until you’re sitting on the edge of the sofa beside him. "But I’m your menace now."
The silence in the room is no longer heavy with what wasn't said; it's filled with the quiet, electric hum of what is finally beginning. You rest your head on his shoulder, his arm coming around to pull you against his side.
The racing season is coming up, the pressure will be immense, and the cameras will be everywhere. But for now, in the stillness of the afternoon, there is only the two of you—and the realization that sometimes, the best way to move forward is to let the anesthesia wear off and finally speak the truth.
"You really did eat the sun, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice sleepy and content.
"Shut up, Lando."
"Make me."
You smile, closing your eyes and leaning into him. The race, for the first time, feels like it can wait. You’ve already won. . . .
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Request: I’m dying for a fic from his red bull era maybe something likes good friends (teammates) to lovers and like everyone ships them but they still have to date secretly for a bit idk whatever you wanna do maybe like the first getting together then to her first championship or something sorry I don’t request a lot I just think the two youngest drivers who are menaces dominating the season together who be really sweet lmao
Song: Meddle About · Chase Atlantic
Author’s note: I REALLY LOVED WRITING THIS! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 22.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
7th September 2009
@redbullracing and @yourusername
liked by yourusername, sebastianvettel, lewishamilton, and 1,102,396 others.
tagged; yourusername
redbullracing: We are beyond hyped to officially welcome our newest racer, Y/N Y/L/N to the Oracle Red Bull Racing family! The grid just got a serious upgrade. 💙
view comments below
@f1_fan_99: SHUT UP, IT'S ACTUALLY HAPPENING!!! Y/N in a Red Bull?! 🤯💙
*liked by yourusername*
@rbr_girl: Someone pinch me. So incredibly proud of Y/N!
*liked by yourusername*
@motorhead_mike: The grid truly just got a serious upgrade. Let’s gooo! 🐂
*liked by yourusername*
@oracle_redbull_racing: Let’s gooo! 🐂💙
*liked by yourusername*
@sebastianvettel: Yes, absolutely brilliant news! Welcome to the team, Y/N! 🏆
The headphones were glued to your ears when Christian Horner first called your name—not that you heard him.
It took three sharp raps on the paddock table, the vibration shuddering up your arms, for you to finally glance up from your phone.
"You're late," Horner said, though his smirk betrayed amusement. Late? You'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, drowning out the world with afrobeats.
The headquarters smelled like stale energy drinks and ambition. You shuffled behind Horner, headphones still on but volume lowered just enough to catch his mutter of, "Christ, you’re worse than Sebastian."
Then, like a sunbeam crashing into a shadow, there he was—Vettel, mid-laugh, golden hair messy under a backwards cap, gesturing wildly at some poor engineer.
He turned, spotted you, and the grin didn’t falter. "Finally!" he crowed, as if you were an old friend and not a stranger who’d rather be anywhere else.
"Sebastian, meet your new teammate," Horner said dryly. You nodded once, already calculating escape routes.
But Vettel leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint smudge of oil on his cheekbone, and said, "You’re taller than I thought. Good. I need someone who can reach the top shelf for my sweets."
Your fingers twitched toward your volume button. "I’m not your personal ladder," you deadpanned.
The words slipped out before you could choke them back—a reflex honed by years of deflecting your parents’ expectations.
Vettel’s laugh bounced off the garage walls. "See?" he announced to no one in particular. "I told you they’d be fun."
You blinked. "They?"
"Media," Sebastian clarified, leaning against the wall.
His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against it. "They said you’d be quiet. Boring." His grin turned conspiratorial. "I think you’re terrifying."
You yanked your headphones down around your neck, the sudden silence making your own pulse too loud. "Terrifying?" The word tasted unfamiliar—no one had ever called you anything but too much or not enough.
Sebastian shrugged, but his eyes flicked to where your fingers were clenched around your phone. "You don’t smile," he said, as if diagnosing an engine failure. "It’s unsettling."
The engineers scattered like startled birds when you took a step forward. "Maybe I don’t have anything to smile about," you muttered, but Sebastian just tilted his head, considering.
"Bullshit," he said cheerfully. "You’re here, aren’t you? Against all odds." His voice dropped, just for you. "That’s worth grinning for."
A beat. Then, against every instinct, you snorted.
Sebastian lit up like you’d handed him a trophy. "There!" he crowed, pointing at your face. "I knew you were in there somewhere." You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you—twitching upward.
Horner cleared his throat from the doorway. "If you two are done bonding over existential dread," he drawled, "we’ve got sponsors to appease." Sebastian groaned dramatically, slinging an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You stiffened, but didn’t shake him off. "Come on, Schatz," he whispered, German curling warm around the word. "Let’s go scare the money men."
You wondered what that word meant—Schatz. It sounded like something stolen from a fairytale, soft and glittering.
Sebastian’s thumb brushed your collarbone absently as he steered you toward the conference room, and you decided you didn’t hate it.
The stage lights were blinding. You squinted at the sea of suits and Rolexes, sponsors murmuring behind champagne flutes. "Introducing Red Bull’s youngest—and most chaotic—driver lineup," Horner announced, like he was presenting a pair of feral kittens.
Sebastian bounded onto the stage with the grace of a golden retriever off its leash. You followed, hands shoved in your pockets, headphones dangling like a noose.
Someone in the front row—a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a watch worth more than your contract—leaned to his companion and muttered, "They really let that race with us?" The word that curled like smoke. You pretended not to hear.
Sebastian’s grin didn’t waver, but his fingers twitched against the microphone. "Ah, yes! My teammate," he said, too loudly, slinging an arm around your shoulders like a human shield. "The one who’ll make me look slow." Laughter rippled through the crowd, uneasy.
A woman in a pencil skirt raised her hand. "How does it feel," she asked sweetly, "being the only one like you here?" The pause stretched.
Sebastian opened his mouth—but you got there first. "Feels like being the fastest," you said flatly. The room froze.
Then Sebastian barked a laugh so sudden it startled the mic into feedback. "See?" he crowed, shaking you slightly. "Terrifying."
The Q&A limped on. Someone asked Sebastian about his "realistic goals for the season." They asked you about "handling the pressure of representing your people."
Sebastian’s smile had turned razor-sharp. "Funny," he mused, tapping the mic. "No one ever asks me that."
The moderator coughed. "Well, Sebastian, you’re not exactly—" "Ah! Exactly,"
Sebastian interrupted, nodding sagely. "Because racing is about speed, not passports, yes?"
You didn't want his protection—didn't need it. His arm around your shoulders suddenly felt suffocating, like another cage dressed up as concern.
You ducked out from under his grip, stepping forward until you could see your own reflection in the journalist's sunglasses. "Next question," you said, and your voice didn't waver.
The room exhaled. Someone coughed. Sebastian, for once, stayed quiet—but when you risked a glance sideways, he was watching you with something dangerously close to pride.
The afterparty was worse. Cameras flashed like a swarm of fireflies, catching the way Sebastian kept "accidentally" stepping between you and the salt-and-pepper man from earlier.
You grabbed a glass of champagne just to have something to hold, the bubbles stinging your tongue. "You don’t have to do that," you muttered when Sebastian sidled up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.
He clinked his glass against yours, deliberately careless. "Do what?"
"Play bodyguard."
Sebastian took a long sip, eyes scanning the crowd over the rim. "Who said I was playing?"
You snorted into your drink—half exasperation, half something warmer you refused to name. . . .
7th - 9th September 2009
The internet, predictably, lost its collective mind. A blurry paparazzi shot of Sebastian’s hand lingering on your elbow during the press conference surfaced on Twitter by midnight.
The replies read like a fever dream:
"THEY'RE SO CUTE. LOOK AT THE WAY SEB KEEPS TOUCHING HER LIKE A VICTORIAN HUSBAND"
"Nah, it’s one-sided. New driver looks like she’d rather eat glass than make eye contact"
"Bullshit. Did you SEE them at the afterparty? Seb literally followed her around everywhere"
You disabled notifications before dawn. By sunrise, you were in the simulator, headphones clamped over your ears like armor, running Italy’s Sector 2 until your palms blistered.
Romance? You scoffed at the thought, wrenching the wheel through Turn 10’s brutal left-hander until your shoulders screamed.
You were here to race, not to be some tabloid’s manic pixie dream girl—certainly not Sebastian Vettel’s.
The gym reeked of sweat and determination. You ignored the physiotherapist’s protests, stacking another weight onto the neck harness.
"Again," you ground out, teeth clenched as resistance bands pulled your head sideways. Your core burned; every muscle fiber screamed.
But pain was familiar—easier to parse than the way Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you in meetings, brighter than the Alpine sun slanting through the conference room blinds. You avoided those, too.
Italy loomed like a specter. In stolen moments between sessions, you studied Monza’s layout until the curves imprinted behind your eyelids. The team whispered—about your silence, about Sebastian’s uncharacteristic quiet whenever you entered a room.
Only Helmut Marko dared say it aloud: "They’re either fucking or fighting," he snorted to Horner, loud enough for you to hear. You didn’t dignify it with a response, just adjusted your headphones and walked out.
Sebastian wasn’t even your type. Too loud, too golden, too everything—a human sunbeam who didn’t understand shadows. You preferred quiet corners and calculated risks, not whatever chaotic orbit he existed in.
Which made the fact that you were currently strapped into a first-class seat next to him, en route to Italy, all the more unbearable. "Stop fidgeting," you muttered, eyes fixed on the inflight magazine without reading a word.
Sebastian’s knee hadn’t stopped bouncing since takeoff, his fingers drumming arrhythmically against the armrest between you.
"Can’t," he chirped, popping a gummy bear into his mouth—his third packet since Zurich. "Pre-race jitters."
You swallowed hard as the plane shuddered through turbulence, your nails digging into the armrests. Flying was your dirty little secret, the one weakness you’d never admit to the press—not when they already saw you as some fragile novelty act.
Sebastian’s hand suddenly covered yours, warm and steady.
"Hey," he said, softer than you’d ever heard him. "Look at me." You turned, and his thumb brushed your knuckles, feather-light. "Pretend we’re in the car," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "Just another lap."
You kept your distance after that. Not physically—the plane’s cramped cabin saw to that—but in every way that mattered. You yanked your hand back like he’d burned you, twisting toward the window as if Italy’s cloud cover held the answers to why your pulse still hadn’t slowed.
Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose, retreating into his seat with an uncharacteristic quiet. The gummy bears stayed untouched for the rest of the flight. . . .
10th September 2009
The hotel room was blessedly silent. You collapsed face-first onto the stiff mattress, still in your travel clothes, and slept like the dead until your alarm screamed at 6AM. Press day.
The Red Bull uniform clung to you like a second skin as you slipped out alone, dodging the team breakfast where Sebastian would inevitably hold court over pancakes.
You fixed your braids in the elevator mirror—tight, neat rows your mother would’ve approved of—just as two engineers stepped in. Their conversation cut off abruptly.
One cleared his throat. The other stared resolutely at his shoes. You turned up your headphones, but not before catching "…shouldn’t even be here…" hissed under someone’s breath. The doors opened. You walked out without looking back.
Monza’s paddock hummed with pre-race chaos. You kept to the edges, dodging cameras and clutching your paddock pass like a shield. A group of mechanics from another team snickered as you passed—one mimed steering an invisible wheel with exaggerated, flailing motions.
"Careful, she might crash into your dignity," someone stage-whispered. Your jaw ached from clenching it.
The press conference room was half-empty when you slipped in—just Hamilton lounging in a corner, scrolling his phone. He glanced up, and something flickered in his expression: surprise, then recognition, then something warmer.
"Well," he said, tossing his phone aside with a grin. "Look who finally showed up to the party."
You hesitated, then sat beside him—close enough that your shoulders brushed. Lewis exhaled, low and weary. "Welcome to hell," he muttered, just for you.
You introduced yourself stiffly—name, team, the usual robotic script. Lewis' grin sharpened. "Oh, I know," he drawled, stretching his legs. "They've been whispering about you in the Mercedes garage." His voice dropped. "Too aggressive. Not a team player. Doesn't belong here."
The mimicry was pitch-perfect—right down to the clipped, colonial vowels. You stiffened. Lewis just nudged your knee with his own, casual as anything. "Ignore them," he said lightly. "They said the same shit about me."
More drivers filtered in—Alonso with his shark-tooth smile, Button nodding politely, Rosberg's handshake limp as wet paper. Each acknowledged you with varying degrees of forced politeness, their gazes skittering away too fast.
The chair beside you—reserved for Red Bull, reserved for Sebastian—remained conspicuously empty. Someone coughed pointedly.
A photographer leaned in to whisper to his assistant, "Wonder if the golden boy's finally realized who he's sharing a garage with."
Lewis' fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his knee. "Breathe," he murmured, just for you. The room was filling now, a sea of white shirts and sponsor logos, but no flash of Red Bull blue. Then—commotion at the door.
Sebastian barreled in, hair mussed like he'd run here, cheeks flushed. His gaze locked onto you instantly, and something in his expression fractured.
"Sorry," he panted to the room at large, but his eyes never left yours. "Traffic."
The moderator cleared his throat. The press conference began—and immediately, the pattern emerged.
Questions rained down on Lewis ("Do you really think you can challenge Ferrari here?"), Jenson ("How does it feel defending your championship?"), Kimi ("Any comment on the rumors about your contract?").
You sat perfectly still, hands folded, while Sebastian shifted beside you like his seat was electrified. Then—a pause. A journalist in the front row adjusted her glasses.
"For the rookie," she said, the word dripping with something saccharine. "How does it feel being the only woman of color in this paddock?" The room hushed.
Sebastian's knee knocked against yours under the table—sharp, deliberate. You inhaled. "Feels like being the only one who earned it," you said, voice steady as a qualifying lap.
Someone in the back choked on their coffee. Sebastian's shoulders shook—not with laughter, but with something fiercer.
The journalist blinked. "That's—not what I—" "I know," you interrupted, smiling sweetly. "You asked how it feels. That's how."
The moderator coughed. Sebastian leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the mic caught his whisper: "Told you. Terrifying." You didn't look at him, but your fingers—hidden beneath the table—brushed his wrist.
Just once. Just enough. Sebastian went utterly still. The next question was for Kimi. The moment passed. But when you risked a glance sideways, Sebastian's profile was lit with something bright and reckless—like he'd just spotted the checkered flag.
You zoned out after that. The voices blurred into white noise—another question about tire compounds, some inane debate about team orders.
Your PR manager's gaze burned into the side of your face from the front row, her pen tapping impatiently against her clipboard. You knew that rhythm—disapproval. Too sharp, too honest, too you.
The conference ended with a flurry of camera shutters. You stood before the moderator dismissed you, chair screeching. Sebastian's fingers caught your sleeve—quick, fleeting—but you were already moving, already weaving through the crowd toward the exit.
The Red Bull staff caught you by the hospitality tent, out of breath like she'd sprinted after you.
"Meeting," she panted, jerking her head toward the motorhome. "Now. PR isn't—" She swallowed the rest, but you heard it anyway: happy.
The walk felt longer than Monza's main straight. Inside, your PR manager was already pacing, her heels clicking against the floor like a ticking bomb.
"What the hell was that?" she hissed the moment the door shut. "We discussed this. You were supposed to—"
"—be grateful?" you finished flatly. Her nostrils flared. "Appealing," she corrected, jabbing a finger at you. "Sponsors don't pay for attitude. They pay for—"
You laughed—sharp, humorless. "A black girl who knows her place?"
Silence. The PR manager's mouth opened. Closed.
Sebastian chose that moment to barrel in, still sweaty from the paddock, hair sticking up in every direction. "Helmut wants us for—"
He froze, eyes darting between you and the PR manager. "Scheiße," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. "Am I interrupting a murder?"
Your PR manager exhaled sharply through her nose. "Sebastian. Out."
Sebastian didn't move. His gaze locked onto yours—waiting. You lifted your chin. He grinned, sharp as a knife. "Nein," he said cheerfully, plopping onto the couch like he owned it. "I live here now."
The PR manager groaned. Sebastian kicked his feet up on the coffee table, scattering papers. "Besides," he added, eyes gleaming, "you should hear what they're saying about her in the Ferrari garage."
He jerked a thumb at you. "Too fast. Too bold. Exactly what this sport needs."
The PR manager's grip on her clipboard tightened. Sebastian winked at you over her shoulder. You looked the other way in disgust.
The meeting ended with your PR manager dismissing you—not with words, but with the sharp flick of her wrist toward the door.
You were halfway to the motorhome exit when you overheard her mutter to Sebastian, "This is why we didn't want a girl like her representing the brand." The words slithered under your skin like oil.
You skipped the team debrief. Instead, you found yourself outside Ferrari’s hospitality unit, drawn by the low hum of Italian voices inside. The door was ajar—enough to catch snippets: "—disrespectful, that one. No discipline. And with Vettel? A liability."
You recognized the voice—the salt-and-pepper man from the press conference. Someone chuckled. "Maybe she’s fast in bed, if not on track." Your fingers curled into fists.
Lewis found you ten minutes later, pacing the paddock like a caged animal. He took one look at your face and sighed.
"Ah," he said, falling into step beside you. "You heard them too." His voice was calm, but his jaw worked like he was chewing glass. You didn’t answer.
Lewis nudged your shoulder. "Ignore them. They’re dinosaurs."
You whirled on him. "Why?" The word ripped out of you, raw. "Why do I have to be the one who ignores it? Why isn’t anyone calling them out?"
Lewis studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Because the sport isn’t ready for that fight yet."
The hotel room smelled like stale air and frustration. You tossed your phone onto the bed and booted up your laptop, pulling up the data from your last simulator runs at Monza—lap times, braking points, every millimeter of track you’d memorized.
The numbers glared back at you, pristine and unfeeling. Faster than Sebastian in Sector 2 by three-tenths. Faster than half the grid in the final chicane.
None of it mattered if they only saw your skin, your braids, the way your lips curled when someone asked if you really belonged here.
You rubbed your temples, headphones abandoned for once. The silence was worse. Outside, laughter spilled from an open window—Sebastian, probably, holding court with the mechanics over espresso shots.
You could almost hear his voice, bright as sunlight, insisting you join them. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, pulling up the FIA’s disciplinary reports from last season.
Scrolled until you found it: Driver penalized for using racial slurs during qualifying. A slap on the wrist. A fine worth less than their watch. The screen blurred. You slammed the laptop shut.
"Why are you here?" The question hissed in your ear like tire screech. Not just from the journalists, the engineers, the men who sized you up like a malfunctioning part—but from your parents’ last phone call, your mother’s voice tight with disapproval.
"Medicine is respectable," she’d said, as if you’d chosen crime. You traced the Red Bull logo on your sleeve, the fabric still stiff with newness.
The answer thrummed in your pulse: Because they said I couldn’t. Because every lap is a middle finger.
A knock rattled the door. "Yo." Sebastian’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. "I stole focaccia." You didn’t move. The knob jiggled. "Scheiße—locked?"
A pause. Then a rustle, and an envelope slid under the door. Inside: a grease-stained napkin cradling still-warm bread, and a note in his messy scrawl. Eat. Then destroy them tomorrow.
You stared at it until the ink smudged under your thumb. Outside, Sebastian’s footsteps retreated—but not before you heard him mutter, "Dummkopf," fond as a curse.
The bread tasted like salt and butter. You swallowed it standing at the window, watching the paddock lights flicker to life below. Somewhere out there, the salt-and-pepper man was probably holding court too, swirling his whiskey and lamenting how F1 wasn’t what it used to be.
Your fingers curled around the napkin. Tomorrow, you’d tear through Monza’s straights like a blade. Let them choke on your dust. . . .
11th September 2009
FP1 dawned sticky with humidity. You arrived before anyone else, tracing Monza’s curves in the quiet—the way the kerbs rattled teeth, how the Ascari chicane flirted with disaster.
The engineers avoided you during setup, whispering over telemetry like you wouldn’t notice their sidelong glances.
One mechanic “accidentally” handed you Sebastian’s helmet. You stared at him until he reddened and swapped it.
Once ready, you got into the car and prayed to God to protect you—but to also give you strength. The words slipped out in Yoruba, a habit from childhood races in Lagos alleyways where the stakes were just as high.
The engine snarled to life beneath you, vibrating up your spine like a live wire. You exhaled. The world narrowed to tarmac and torque.
You waited for your turn to leave the garage, fingers tapping the wheel impatiently while testing your radio. Static hissed, then cleared to Elijah’s calm baritone—half London, half Accra, all business. "Radio check. You hearing me, superstar?"
The nickname was dry as dust, no trace of the syrupy condescension others used. You flicked the mic twice—your signal for loud and clear.
Elijah chuckled. "Good. Now stop grinding your teeth and breathe. It’s just another lap." Outside, Sebastian’s car roared past, his visor tipped toward you in a wordless salute.
The light went green. You launched forward like a bullet, G-force slamming you back into the seat as Monza’s straights blurred into a tunnel of speed. Elijah’s voice cut through the adrenaline, crisp and clinical: "Brake late for Turn 1, mind the marbles outside. Alonso’s on a hot lap behind—don’t let him push you off your line."
You obeyed instinctively, muscles remembering what your mind couldn’t—the exact pressure needed to brake without locking up, the millimeter-perfect turn-in for the Curva Grande.
The Ferrari in your mirrors loomed larger, Alonso’s red helmet glaring like a warning. You held your line.
The car shuddered beneath you through the Ascari chicane, the rear stepping out just enough to make your pulse spike. "Oversteer," you barked into the mic, wrestling the wheel as the tires protested. Elijah’s response was instant: "Adjust diff setting two clicks rearward. We’ll fix it next pit."
You obeyed, fingers flying over the controls without lifting off the throttle. The car settled—not perfect, but manageable. Your lap times were decent, but not stellar; mid-pack at best.
Yet when the session ended, the timing screen flashed your position: P5. You blinked. Behind you, Alonso’s Ferrari sat P6.
The second you killed the engine, the garage erupted into chaos. Someone yanked off your steering wheel before you could unbuckle, hands pulling at your belts, your helmet, your gloves—like you were a doll they needed to undress.
You shoved them off with a snarl, ripping your own balaclava off with shaking hands. The air smelled like burnt rubber and hot metal, acrid in your throat.
"Good run," Elijah murmured over the radio as you hauled yourself out, legs wobbling. "Seb’s P2. Debrief in five." You nodded, already calculating sector times in your head.
You got out of the car and went straight to your debrief, dodging the swarm of engineers hovering near the data screens. Their whispers followed you—too aggressive in Turn 8, too cautious on exit—but you tuned them out, focusing instead on the telemetry sheets Elijah shoved into your hands.
Sebastian was already there, sprawled in a chair with his feet propped on the table, scarfing down an energy bar like he hadn’t eaten in days.
"Scheiße," he mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs spraying as he jabbed at your lap times. "You were faster than me in Sector 2." His grin was equal parts admiration and challenge.
You snatched the printout from his sticky fingers, scanning the numbers—three-tenths up on Sebastian through the Lesmo corners, despite your car’s nervous rear.
The realization prickled your skin: you’d outdriven him. The team principal cleared his throat, but you barely heard him over the blood rushing in your ears.
The meeting was quick—a blur of technical jargon and clipped instructions—before you were hustled back into your car for FP2. The seat still held your body’s heat as you strapped in, fingers tightening around the wheel.
FP2 ended with you in P3 and Sebastian in P2, his lap time just three-hundredths faster than yours. You stared at the timing screen, lips pressed tight—so close you could taste it.
Not good enough.
The thought hissed through your veins like carbon monoxide as you peeled off your gloves after FP2, fingers trembling with exhaustion.
Three-hundredths. A blink. A breath. The difference between champagne and silence.
You got out of the car and went straight to your driver room, kicking the door shut behind you with a force that rattled the water bottles on the counter.
You ripped off your balaclava, the fabric sticking to your sweat-slicked skin, and caught your reflection in the mirror: braids fraying at the edges, lips bitten raw, eyes burning with something feral. Terrifying, indeed.
The shower ran cold, but you didn’t adjust it—let the icy spray shock the adrenaline from your muscles until your hands stopped shaking. Three-hundredths. You could’ve clawed that back in Sector 1 if you’d braked later, turned in sharper.
The water turned your skin to gooseflesh, but the frustration simmered hotter. Outside, muffled voices drifted past your door—Sebastian’s laughter, the mechanics ribbing him about his "near-death experience" with Alonso.
You turned your face into the spray until your lungs burned.
This week had already gone worse than expected. The press had crucified you after the conference ("arrogant," "ungrateful"), the team was walking on eggshells around you, and now Ferrari’s engineers were spreading rumors about your "reckless" driving style.
Even the paddock cats avoided you, slinking away when you crouched to offer scraps.
Only Sebastian still treated you like a human—which was somehow worse, because every time he grinned at you like you hadn’t shattered his sector record, something in your chest twisted painfully.
As you were walking through the paddock, some black fans stopped you—three girls in Red Bull merch, their braids beaded with the colors of the Nigerian flag.
"You’re her," the tallest breathed, clutching a Sharpie like a holy relic. "You’re the one who told that journalist to fuck off." You froze.
They didn’t want Sebastian’s autograph. They wanted yours. The shortest girl shoved a program under your nose, her grin splitting her face. "My mum said you’d be mean," she confessed. "I hoped you would be."
Sebastian materialized beside you like a sunburn, sweaty from his post-session debrief. He opened his mouth—probably to charm them with some German nonsense—but the girls ignored him completely.
"Can you sign this?" the third asked, turning so you could scribble on the back of her jacket, right over the Red Bull logo.
Your Sharpie hovered. "You sure?" you muttered. "Might devalue it."
The tallest girl scoffed. "Nah. Makes it priceless."
Sebastian watched, uncharacteristically silent, as they snapped selfies with you—not him. As they chattered about your sector times like they’d memorized them. As the shortest whispered, fierce as a prayer: "Win on Sunday."
You nodded, throat tight. When they left, Sebastian exhaled like he’d been punched. "Well," he said, voice oddly rough. "That’s new."
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The Sharpie still smelled like ink and hope.
12th September 2009
Sebastian woke before dawn, already reaching for his phone to text you—Meet you downstairs?—but his thumb hovered over send.
Maybe today would be the day you didn’t disappear into the paddock like smoke. Maybe today you’d finally walk in together, shoulders brushing, like teammates who weren’t strangers.
He dressed too fast, popped two gummy bears for breakfast (balanced diet), and knocked on your door. Silence. The maid passed by with a trolley.
"Gone already," she said in broken English. Sebastian’s stomach dropped. Again.
The paddock was buzzing when he arrived, Red Bull shirts weaving through the crowd like flashes of lightning. Sebastian scanned every face—mechanics, journalists, even the damn catering staff—but you were nowhere.
Then he spotted you: perched on the pit wall alone, headphones on, braids coiled tight against your nape. Studying telemetry like it held the secrets of the universe.
Sebastian’s chest ached. You looked up. Saw him. For a heartbeat, something flickered in your eyes—warmth?—before you schooled your face blank and looked away.
He sometimes wondered why you acted like this to him. It wasn’t like he’d ever been anything but good to you—bringing you sweets, defending you in meetings, even letting you steal his favorite setup for Sector 2.
Yet every time he got close, you recoiled like he was made of fire. Maybe you hated Germans. Maybe you thought he was an idiot. Or maybe—his stomach twisted—you just hated him.
Sebastian forced a grin and bounded over, plopping onto the pit wall beside you like he belonged there. "Morning, Schatz," he chirped, nudging your knee with his. "Sleep well?"
You stiffened, fingers tightening around the telemetry sheets. "No," you muttered, not looking up.
Sebastian’s grin didn’t falter. "Me neither," he lied cheerfully. "Dreamt about the Lesmo corners. Kept hitting the wall."
You snorted despite yourself, and Sebastian’s pulse jumped—victory.
He left you to get suited up for qualifying, but not before stealing one last glance over his shoulder. You were still hunched over the data, sunlight catching the silver studs in your ears, lips moving silently as you traced braking points with your fingertip.
Sebastian’s chest tightened. He wanted to memorize you like this—all sharp edges and quiet intensity—before the cameras found you, before the world tried to smooth you into something palatable.
Back in the garage, the engineers buzzed around him like worker ants, strapping him into the car with practiced efficiency. Sebastian flexed his fingers around the wheel, but his mind was still outside—
Over the radio, Rocky's voice crackled: "Seb, focus. Q1 in two minutes." Sebastian exhaled, shaking his head to clear it.
The session was a blur—tire squeal, adrenaline, the roar of engines echoing off Monza’s old walls. Barrichello’s Brawn Mercedes streaked past like a red comet, stealing provisional pole with a lap so smooth it hurt to watch.
Sebastian gritted his teeth and pushed harder, carving through Ascari’s chicanes until the car shuddered beneath him. "P2," Rocky announced as he crossed the line. "Three-tenths down on Rubens."
You materialized beside the timing screen, helmet tucked under your arm, still breathing hard from your own lap. P3. A miracle for a rookie’s first qualifying—but your mouth was a tight line, eyes fixed on Barrichello’s name glowing above yours.
Sebastian bumped your shoulder with his. "Not bad for a debut," he teased, voice light despite the jealousy gnawing his ribs. You didn’t smile.
"Not good enough," you muttered, and walked away before he could reply.
You thought of your mom’s words—"Medicine is respectable," she’d hissed the night you left for Milton Keynes, her grip bruising your wrist. "This? This is selfish."
The memory tasted like bitter herbs. You swallowed it down, fingers tightening around your gloves until the seams threatened to burst. Selfish? Fine. You’d be selfish enough for both of them.
You felt someone smack your shoulder, turned around to see Lewis grinning at you, his helmet tucked under one arm. "Good job, Y/N," he said, nodding toward the timing screen where your P3 glowed like a beacon.
You blinked, caught off guard. "Thanks," you muttered, ducking your head before he could see the warmth prickling your cheeks.
Lewis’ smile sharpened. "Nah, thank you," he corrected, jerking his chin toward the Mercedes garage where Barrichello was holding court. "Watching you scare the shit out of Rubens? Priceless."
Sebastian watched from across the garage, his stomach twisting into knots. He’d never seen you smile like that—not at him, not at anyone. It was small, barely there, but it lit up your whole face in a way that made his chest ache.
Someone clapped his shoulder hard—"Scheiße!"—and Sebastian spun to find Nico Rosberg grinning, his blond hair still damp from the podium spray.
"Sieht aus, als hättest du Konkurrenz," Nico teased in German, nodding toward where Lewis was leaning into your space like he belonged there. Looks like you've got competition.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. "Halt die Klappe," he muttered, shoving Nico away. Keep your mouth shut.
Nico just laughed, flicking Sebastian’s forehead. "Oh, jetzt ist es ernst?" he mocked, stepping back as Sebastian swatted at him. Oh, so it's getting serious now?
"Pass auf, sonst schnappt sie dir womöglich noch deine Titelchancen weg." The words stung more than they should have.
Sebastian glanced back at you—now laughing outright at something Lewis said, the sound bright and unfamiliar—and something hot coiled in his ribs. Watch out, or she might just snatch your title chances away.
You didn’t notice Sebastian watching. Didn’t see the way his fingers clenched around his gloves, or how his smile faltered when Lewis leaned in to whisper something that made you snort.
Sebastian turned away before you could catch him staring, stomping toward his driver room like a storm cloud.
Behind him, Nico’s laughter followed, sharp as a knife. "Viel Glück, Seb," he called after him. "Du wirst es brauchen." Good luck, Seb. You're going to need it.
Lewis’ advice rattled in your skull like loose change—"Brake later than you think you can. Trust the car. And for fuck’s sake, stop being so polite."—as you slipped into Red Bull’s simulator long after midnight.
The paddock was eerily quiet, save for the hum of servers and the occasional clatter of a cleaning crew. You ran Monza’s Sector 2 until your eyelids burned, shaving milliseconds off each lap by braking millimeters later than before.
The screen flashed green—NEW BEST—and you exhaled, shoulders slumping. Three-hundredths. Gone.
The door creaked open. You didn’t turn, assuming it was Elijah coming to drag you to bed—until a familiar citrusy cologne hit your nose. Sebastian hovered in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clutching two energy drinks like a peace offering.
"Saw the light on," he mumbled, shoving one at you. The can was ice-cold, condensation dripping onto your knee. You stared at it, then at him.
Sebastian shrugged, avoiding your eyes. "You were right," he muttered. "About Sector 2."
The admission hung between you, fragile as a soap bubble. You cracked the can open, the fizz loud in the silent room. "Yeah," you said finally. "I know." Sebastian’s laugh was startled, warm—the first real sound either of you had made in hours.
He flopped into the chair beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and reached for the keyboard. "Show me," he said, and for once, it wasn’t a challenge. It was an offering.
His fingers flew over the controls, resetting the sim to your fastest lap. The screen flickered, Monza’s curves stretching before you like a ribbon.
Sebastian leaned in, his breath ghosting over your temple as he pointed to the braking marker. "Here," he murmured. "You’re lifting too early."
His hand covered yours on the wheel, guiding it through the turn—his palm rough with calluses, his touch feather-light. You held your breath.
The car obeyed, slicing through the chicane like a knife. The timer flashed—another three-hundredths shaved off. Sebastian whooped, his joy bouncing off the walls, and you—against every instinct—grinned back.
His smile faltered, then softened, his thumb brushing your knuckles where they still gripped the wheel. "There you are," he whispered, like he’d found something precious.
"We should probably go to sleep," you said, getting up too fast, the chair screeching. Your pulse roared in your ears—not from the sim, not from the caffeine.
Sebastian blinked up at you, his hair haloed by the screen’s glow, lips parted like he wanted to say something dangerous. Instead, he just nodded and stood, his shoulder brushing yours as he reached past you to power down the system.
The scent of his shampoo—something citrusy and warm—lingered in the space between you.
The walk back to your rooms was silent save for the hum of vending machines and your own traitorous heartbeat. At your door, Sebastian hesitated, fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you.
"Do you want to eat breakfast with me?" Sebastian asked, shifting his weight between socked feet. The hallway lights caught the gold stubble along his jaw.
"I don't eat breakfast," you replied truthfully, turning your keycard over in your palm. His face fell for a fraction of a second before smoothing into that familiar, infuriating grin.
"Right," he said, rocking back on his heels. "Race day rituals. I get it." He didn't move. The space between you crackled like live wires. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed, startling you both.
Sebastian laughed—too loud, too bright—and raked a hand through his messy hair. "Well. Goodnight, Schatz," he murmured, already retreating.
You watched him go, the word wait clotting in your throat like unshed tears. . . .
13th September 2009
You woke later than usual, groggy from too little sleep, to find a small paper bag slid under your door. Inside: two almond croissants, still warm, and a crumpled Post-it with "Race day fuel – S" scrawled in messy handwriting.
Your stomach growled traitorously as you unfolded the note, fingers brushing the flaky pastry.
No one had brought you breakfast since Lagos—since your brother used to sneak you puff-puff before school, whispering "Don’t tell Mama" with flour on his nose.
You ate it as you dressed, flakes dusting your black Red Bull polo, the sweetness lingering on your tongue as you hurried to the paddock. The energy was different today—charged, restless—the air thick with burnt rubber and anticipation.
Mechanics shouted over revving engines, journalists clustered like vultures, and somewhere in the chaos, Sebastian’s laughter cut through the din like sunlight through storm clouds.
The strategy meeting was brief and brutal. Christian’s voice was crisp over the radio as you tugged on your race suit, the fabric sticking to your skin in the Italian heat. "Start on softs, aggressive first stint—Sebastian leads, you cover Alonso."
You nodded, fingers flying over the tablet, absorbing every curve of Monza’s telemetry like scripture. Three-hundredths. That’s all you needed. Three-hundredths, and you’d be ahead of Barrichello. Ahead of him.
Getting into the car was a ritual—gloves first, then balaclava, then helmet. The mechanics strapped you in tight, their hands firm but fleeting.
Sebastian was already settled in his cockpit, fingers drumming an arrhythmic prayer against the wheel as the team murmured in German around him.
Monza roared to life around you, the stands a blur of red and blue. You inhaled sharply through your nose—burning fuel, hot tarmac, the faintest hint of Sebastian’s citrus shampoo clinging to your balaclava. The formation lap crawled by, tires squealing as they warmed.
Then—green. Chaos. Your car shot forward like a bullet, elbows out as you swerved around Alonso’s sluggish Ferrari. Sebastian’s Red Bull streaked ahead, a flash of neon in your periphery, but you barely noticed.
Your world narrowed to Turn 1’s brutal chicane, the g-force slamming you sideways as you braked later than anyone dared.
Barrichello’s puncture happened halfway through Lap 12—a sudden plume of rubber smoke as his left rear gave way in the Parabolica. The Brawn veered violently, barely missing the barriers, and you seized the opening like a predator, slicing past him into P2 before the yellow flags even waved.
Your engineer whooped over the radio, but you barely heard him. Sebastian’s gap was 1.8 seconds. Growing.
The checkered flag came too soon. Sebastian’s car crossed first, his fist already pumping in triumph, while you trailed by 2.3 seconds—close enough to taste victory, far enough to choke on it.
You unbuckled your helmet mechanically, the sweat cooling on your neck as the team’s cheers washed over you. Disappointment curdled in your gut. P2 was good. P2 wasn’t enough.
Then—warmth. Arms wrapping around you from behind, lifting you clean off the ground. Sebastian’s laughter buzzed against your ear as he spun you once, twice, your boots dangling above the tarmac.
“Scheiße, you were brilliant!” he crowed, setting you down only to grip your face with both hands, his thumbs smudging sweat across your cheekbones.
You froze, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and throat, as Sebastian beamed at you like you’d hung the stars instead of lost by two damn seconds.
You hugged him back. It was instinct, muscle memory—your arms sliding around his waist as your helmet clunked against his shoulder.
The embrace was too tight, too sudden, your pulse hammering where your chest pressed against his. Sebastian stiffened for a heartbeat, then melted into it, his fingers tangling in the back of your fireproof suit like he was afraid you’d vanish.
The scent of his sweat—citrus and adrenaline—filled your nose, and something in your chest cracked open like an overripe fruit.
Then you broke away, ducking your head as the crowd roared around you. Sebastian let go reluctantly, his hands hovering near your shoulders for a second too long before he turned to the team, bounding into their arms like a golden retriever off its leash.
You wiped your palms on your thighs and walked toward Alonso instead, his Renault cap pulled low over tired eyes. "Bravo," he murmured in that gravelly voice, clasping your forearm.
His grip was warm, familiar—a racer’s handshake. You nodded once, throat too tight for words.
Christian Horner was practically vibrating by the time you reached him. "Bloody hell," he breathed, gripping your shoulders like he wanted to shake you.
His eyes flicked between you and Sebastian, who was currently trying to lift Rocky off the ground in a bear hug. "You two—" Christian shook his head, laughing disbelievingly. "You absolute madmen."
You shrugged, but your lips twitched when Sebastian caught your eye over Christian’s shoulder, grinning like he’d just won the lottery instead of a single race.
The podium interview was worse. You stood stiffly beside Sebastian and Alonso, sweat dripping down your neck as the presenter leaned in with a microphone.
"So, Y/N," she chirped, eyes flicking between you and Sebastian. "Your first podium—and with your teammate no less! Any thoughts?" The crowd tittered.
"Thoughts?" you repeated flatly. "Yeah. Next time, I’ll be in the middle." The crowd roared. Sebastian choked on his champagne.
The German anthem blared, tinny through the speakers. You stood at attention beside Sebastian, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he mouthed the words silently.
His eyes shone suspiciously bright—not from victory, you realized, but from hearing his country’s anthem play for both of you for the first time. The trophy felt heavier than expected when they placed it in your hands.
You turned it over, tracing the engraving—Gran Premio d’Italia—with your thumb. Your parents would never see this. Your brother probably would.
Sebastian popped the champagne first, the cork ricocheting off the ceiling. The spray hit you square in the face—cold, stinging, bubbling into your mouth as you sputtered. Sebastian whooped, already drenched himself, shaking the bottle like a man possessed
"Drink!" he crowed, shoving the neck toward your lips. You took a defiant swig straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning your throat, then yanked it away to pour the rest over his head.
Sebastian gasped when the chilled liquid hit his scalp, his blond hair instantly plastered to his forehead. He stood frozen for a beat—mouth open, eyelashes dripping—before lunging at you with a laugh that sounded more like a sob.
The crowd roared as you dodged behind Alonso’s broad frame, using the Spaniard as a human shield while Sebastian skidded on the slick podium. Alonso rolled his eyes but obligingly spread his arms, his biceps blocking Sebastian’s path like a bullfighter taunting a calf.
"Pathetic," Alonso muttered, but his mouth twitched when you peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Sebastian slip again, arms pinwheeling wildly.
The rest of the team celebrations flew by—champagne-soaked embraces with mechanics, Christian Horner’s proud grip on your shoulders, Helmut Marko’s begrudging nod—and you felt yourself relax for the first time since Melbourne.
Someone shoved another bottle into your hands, the glass slippery with condensation, and you drank greedily, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue like liquid victory.
The garage was a mess of discarded energy drink cans and crumpled telemetry sheets when the engineers finally began clearing up the last debrief. "Meet at La Luna in an hour," Rocky announced, already stripping off his sweaty polo as he headed for the showers.
The team whooped, high-fiving over your heads while Sebastian bounced on his toes beside you, his grin contagious. "You're coming, right?" he asked, nudging your shoulder with his own.
His skin was still tacky with champagne, his hair a disaster of dried foam, and he smelled like citrus and exhaustion. You hesitated—clubs meant crowds, crowds meant noise—but Sebastian’s hopeful expression made your stomach twist.
"Yeah," you muttered, ducking your head. "Just… don't expect me to dance."
Sebastian grinned like you'd promised him a podium, squeezing your wrist before bounding off toward the driver rooms. You lingered for a second, watching his retreating back—the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the smudge of tire rubber still on his neck—before turning sharply toward your own room.
The shower was scalding, the water sluicing away Monza’s grime and the phantom press of Sebastian’s fingers on your skin.
You dug through your suitcase for something—anything—that didn’t smell like champagne and burnt rubber. The backless halter top was an impulse buy from a Milan boutique, black as your race suit but cut to show the twin scars along your shoulder blades—remnants of your first karting crash.
The shorts were barely legal, riding high on your thighs as you twisted to check the mirror. Not bad for someone who spent most days in fireproof overalls.
You were halfway out the door when your phone buzzed—unknown number, Lagos area code. You hesitated, then answered. Static crackled first, then a burst of Wande Coal before your brother’s voice cut through.
"You looked fast," he crowed, sounding younger than his seventeen years. The background noise suggested a crowded viewing party—likely at Uncle Tunde’s, where the satellite dish actually worked.
"Mama watched," he added, lower now. Your fingers tightened around the phone. "She said—" A pause. Someone shushed him in Yoruba. "Anyway, congrats. Just… maybe don’t call home yet."
The voices in the background sharpened suddenly—your mother’s fury slicing through the muffled cheers. "That stupid girl!" she spat, the words like shrapnel. "She thinks she’s won it all by getting second place!"
Someone—Uncle Tunde, maybe—tried to intervene: "Aṣeyi—it’s her first race!" Your mother’s scoff was venomous. "By this time, she could have medical school and a husband!"
"Now she is making friends with her enemy, she better not bring this kind of attitude back into this house," she finished before there was footsteps and Eseosa was moving the phone—the muffled sounds of protest, a door slamming, then silence.
You stood frozen in the hotel hallway, clutching your phone like a grenade with the pin pulled. The champagne victory in your mouth turned to ash.
"I'm so sorry, sis," Eseosa whispered through the line, his voice cracking. "You didn't need to hear that."
You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead against the cold hotel wallpaper. "I knew what she'd say before I answered." The lie tasted bitter—you'd hoped, just this once, she might be proud.
Eseosa exhaled shakily. "Sebastian seems nice," he offered, a clumsy olive branch. You snorted despite yourself—your little brother, always trying to fix things with optimism.
"He's annoying," you muttered, but your fingers twitched toward your collarbone, where Sebastian's thumb had brushed hours earlier.
You said goodbye too quickly, hanging up before Eseosa could hear your voice break. The hotel room blurred as you slid down the wall, phone clattering to the carpet.
The tears came hot and silent—not for the salt-and-pepper men who muttered behind Rolexes, not for the mechanics who flinched when you passed, but for the woman who'd birthed you and still couldn't say well done.
Sebastian was already at the club—you saw the Instagram story as soon as you opened the app, his golden hair haloed by strobe lights, arms slung around Rocky and Christian as they toasted with Red Bull-laced vodka.
You muted the notification and turned off your phone. Let them celebrate him. Let them crown their golden boy without the shadow of you lingering at his elbow, scowling into your drink.
The tears didn’t stop even when you pressed your palms into your eyes hard enough to see stars. You cried ugly—shoulders shaking, nose running, the back of your throat burning with swallowed sobs.
Somewhere beneath the grief was anger, white-hot and familiar: anger at your mother for making victories taste like failure, at Sebastian for making kindness feel like a trap, at yourself for wanting something you couldn’t name.
Self-doubt slithered in as you scrubbed your face raw with hotel tissues. What are you even doing here? The question echoed louder than Monza’s roar.
You weren’t Lewis, with his effortless grace and unshakable legacy. You weren’t Sebastian, with his golden-boy charm and generational talent.
You were just you—too quiet, too sharp, too much and never enough. The podium suddenly felt like a fluke, the champagne like borrowed glitter.
Your reflection in the bathroom mirror was a stranger—smudged eyeliner, braids fraying at the roots, lips bitten raw. You gripped the sink until your knuckles blanched. They’ll figure you out soon.
The engineers, the sponsors, Sebastian. They’d realize you were just a girl who got lucky, who didn’t belong in their gilded world of private jets and paddock politics.
Your mother’s voice hissed in your skull: "Stupid girl, playing with cars instead of scalpels.".
You made sure to leave Italy as early as possible and didn’t tell anyone. The flight to your London flat was a blur of turbulence and tepid airplane coffee, your knees jammed against the seat in front of you.
The cab ride home smelled like stale cigarettes and regret. When the driver asked if you were "that F1 lass," you cranked your headphones to max volume and stared out the window until he gave up.
Your apartment was exactly as you’d left it—cold, sparse, the fridge humming ominously empty. You kicked off your shoes and let your duffel bag slump to the floor, the weight of Monza’s trophy inside thudding dully against the hardwood.
The silence was louder than Tifosi cheers. You peeled off your travel clothes like a second skin and stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing at Sebastian’s champagne still sticky in your hair.
You went to sleep. You hadn’t been here for months—not since testing, when this flat still smelled like new paint and your best friend's nervous laughter as she helped you assemble IKEA furniture. The sheets were stale, the pillow too firm, but you buried your face in it anyways.
Somewhere across the sea, Sebastian was probably still dancing, his laughter bouncing off some VIP booth’s velvet ropes while photographers flashed.
You wondered if he’d noticed you were gone. . . .
13th September 2009
The pounding started at 3AM. At first, you thought it was jetlag-induced delirium—some cruel trick of your exhausted brain—but then it came again, sharp and insistent.
You dragged yourself upright, blinking at the peephole’s fisheye distortion. A blur of dark curls, red lipstick smudged at the corner. Isabella.
Your best friend since university, the one who’d smuggled contraband energy drinks into your dorm during finals, now stood on your doorstep in a rain-soaked leather jacket, clutching two bottles of wine like grenades.
"You," she declared, shoving past you the second you cracked the door, "are a ghosting bastard."
The wine bottle clattered onto your counter as Isabella spun, taking in the barren flat, the unpacked duffel, the trophy still wrapped in a hotel towel like some shameful secret.
Her expression softened. "Eseosa called me," she said quietly, toeing off her boots. "Said you sounded like shit." You stiffened, but Isabella was already uncorking the wine with her teeth, spitting the cork onto your floor.
"So," she said, thrusting a glass into your hand, "tell me about him."
You choked on your first sip. "Who?"
Isabella rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "The German golden retriever whose entire Instagram story is him sulking in a club corner asking ‘where is she?’ like some melodramatic telenovela."
She leaned in, her knee bumping yours. "The one," she added pointedly, "who held your face after the race like you’d hung the moon."
You opened your mouth—to deflect, to deny—but the words died when Isabella’s phone buzzed.
A new notification: @sebastianvettel tagged you in a story.
You grabbed it before she could, heart hammering. The video was shaky, dimly lit—Sebastian, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed as he stared into the camera. "Schatz," he mumbled, half-slurred, "where did you go?" You threw the phone back like it burned.
Isabella’s grin was wicked. "Oh," she purred, topping up your glass. "Him."
You groaned, pressing your forehead against the cool countertop. The wine tasted sour, too sharp—nothing like the champagne Sebastian had sprayed down your throat. "It’s not—he doesn’t—"
Isabella slapped her palm against your mouth, cutting you off. "Save it," she muttered, dragging you toward the couch by your wrist. "You’ve been emotionally constipated since secondary school."
She flopped beside you, her thigh warm against yours. "Now. Did you want him to hold your face like that?"
You swallowed, the lie sour on your tongue. "No," you started—then choked when Isabella jabbed her finger into your ribs. "No, that is not why I’m racing in Red Bull for—" you hissed, twisting away.
"Bullshit," Isabella spat, sloshing wine onto your couch. She grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze—dark as Lagos midnight and twice as knowing.
"You think I didn’t see your face when he popped that champagne?" Her thumb brushed your jaw, mimicking Sebastian’s touch with terrifying accuracy. "You lit up. Like someone finally saw you."
You wrenched away, pacing the cramped living room until your bare feet burned against the hardwood. "It doesn’t matter," you pushed through gritted teeth, fingers twitching toward your headphones—still dangling around your neck like a noose.
Isabella scoffed, kicking her feet up on your coffee table. "Oh, it matters," she drawled, swirling her wine. "Otherwise you wouldn’t be vibrating out of your skin every time his name comes up."
The silence stretched, thick as the humidity before monsoon season. Outside, London rain smeared the streetlights into golden streaks. You stared at your reflection in the dark window—a shadow with braids, someone’s daughter, someone’s teammate, never quite yourself.
Isabella’s voice cut through the static: "You know what your problem is?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "You think wanting things makes you weak."
You scoffed, twisting the headphones cord around your wrist like shackles. "I don’t want him." The lie tasted like flat champagne.
Isabella arched one perfect eyebrow, sipping her wine with the smugness of a woman who’d seen you cry over calculus at 3AM. "Bullshit," she said pleasantly. "You just don’t want to admit it."
"He’s loud," you muttered, as if volume was the crime. "And reckless. And—"
"And he calls you Schatz," Isabella interrupted, her grin sharp as a scalpel. She leaned in, wine sloshing dangerously close to your lap. "Do you even know what that means?"
You shook your head, fingers tightening around your glass. Isabella’s smirk deepened. "It literally translates to 'treasure' or 'precious.'" She paused, letting the words sink in like rain into parched earth. "He likes you."
You snorted, but your pulse betrayed you—rabbiting beneath your skin like a cornered thing. "Don’t be ridiculous," you snapped, too fast. "It’s just—German. They say that to everyone."
Isabella arched a brow. "Is it because of your mom?" she asked, softer now, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. "The way she’d hiss ‘men will ruin you’ every time you glanced at a boy in secondary school?"
The memory hit like a gut punch—your mother’s nails digging into your wrist at the mall, dragging you away from some uni boy’s lingering stare. "Focus on your books," she’d spat. "Not distractions."
You thought back to her words after Monza—"She thinks she’s won it all by getting second place"—and suddenly the wine tasted like bile. Your breath hitched; your vision blurred.
Isabella didn’t reach for you—knew better than to cross that line—so the tears fell unchecked, scalding tracks down your cheeks. "I just want someone to be proud of me," you whispered, voice cracking like old pavement. The confession hung between you, raw and trembling.
She knew you hated touch—had watched you recoil from casual hugs, flinch at unexpected brushes—so why did you allow Sebastian?
His fingers on your wrist after the flight, his palm cradling your cheek in parc fermé, his thumb tracing idle circles on your collarbone when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
You didn’t pull away then. Didn’t even want to.
Isabella exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she was diffusing a bomb. "I’m proud of you," she said finally, fingers tightening around her wineglass. "You would know that if you’d look at your messages. Eseosa is proud of you. All the women of colour back home are proud of you—and I know Sebastian is definitely proud of you."
She snorted, shaking her head. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? You can handle the bastards—the ones who sneer and mutter. But him?" Her grin turned wicked. "Him looking at you like you hung the fucking stars? That terrifies you."
"It does," you muttered, pressing your palms into your eyelids until colors bloomed.
"Look, you seem really tired by it all," Isabella sighed, dragging a throw blanket over your legs with the practiced ease of someone who'd nursed you through too many existential crises. "Why don't you get more rest? Tomorrow we'll figure everything out."
You nodded, suddenly grateful she'd moved to London after graduation—close enough to barge in at 3AM with cheap wine and sharper truths.
Morning came with a vengeance—sunlight slicing through your blinds like a scalpel, your phone vibrating off the nightstand with a barrage of missed calls.
Sebastian Vettel (12) flashed on the screen, but nothing from Red Bull.
Right—they'd given you a week's break before Singapore, still two weeks away. You thumbed through the notifications: voicemails ranging from cheerful ("Schatz, answer your phone!") to increasingly slurry ("Are you dead? Please don’t be dead.").
You did not answer any of them, watching all the videos from the clubs instead—Sebastian's Instagram was a carousel of strobe-lit chaos, his golden hair matted with sweat as he danced with Rocky on tabletops, Christian Horner egging him on with a bottle of vodka.
The tenth story cut abruptly to Sebastian slumped in a VIP booth, eyes glassy as he mumbled into the camera, "Where’d you go?" before the video cut out.
Your thumb hovered over the heart button for a dangerous second before you chucked your phone across the bed.
Isabella had gone to get breakfast for the two of you—"Proper Nigerian food, none of that British nonsense," she'd declared before vanishing into the London drizzle.
The silence left room for ghosts: your mother's voice hissing disgrace, Sebastian's laugh bouncing off Monza's podium, the salt-and-pepper man's muttered they let that race with us? You dug your nails into your palms until the thoughts scattered.
The bathroom mirror showed the aftermath—braids frizzing at the roots, dark circles bruising your under-eyes, lips chapped from biting.
You splashed water on your face, but the reflection still whispered fraud. Champions didn’t cry in hotel showers or flee countries without telling their teams. Champions were Sebastian, golden and grinning, untouchable even when he lost.
You were just you—a shadow with a trophy you hadn’t earned, a girl your mother couldn’t love.
Isabella came back with jollof rice steaming in takeout containers and plantains glistening with oil. "Eat," she ordered, shoving a fork into your hand.
The spices hit your tongue like a memory—home, before the contracts and cameras, when racing was just you and your brother sneaking out to karting tracks at dawn. Isabella watched you devour it, her smirk softening.
"Your mom’s a bitch," she said casually, like commenting on the weather. "But you already knew that."
You stabbed a plantain harder than necessary. "She just wants the best for me," you muttered, the lie tasting stale. "I heard Eseosa is going into computer engineering. She must be ecstatic for him."
The words curled bitter in your mouth—your little brother, the golden child, pursuing the safe career your mother had mapped out for both of you.
Isabella snorted, flicking a grain of rice at you. "Bullshit. She’s ecstatic he’s obedient." Her fingers brushed yours as she stole a plantain slice. "You terrify her. You always have."
The truth settled like ash in your lungs. Your mother had clutched Eseosa’s acceptance letter like a trophy while your F1 contract gathered dust on the kitchen table.
"This is what real success looks like," she’d hissed, jabbing a manicured finger at the university crest. You’d packed your bags that night—left the headphones she’d given you ("So you’ll stop talking back") on your childhood bed and never looked back.
Isabella’s reply was sharp as a scalpel: "She’s scared you’ll fly higher than her prayers can reach." She flicked another grain of rice at you, this one hitting your forehead with pinpoint accuracy. "And look at you—already stratospheric with your pretty German boy trailing behind you like a lost puppy."
You groaned, tossing a plantain slice at her face, but she caught it midair with her teeth, grinning around the mouthful. "Admit it," she mumbled, "you like when he follows you around like you’re the sun."
You rolled your eyes so hard your skull ached. "I won’t agree nor deny," you joked, voice flat, but your fingers twitched around your fork—betrayal in the way your pulse jumped at the mention of him.
Isabella laughed, moving onto finishing her food and clearing your house, thinking of things to do for a free week. "We should go clubbing," she announced, stacking empty containers with the precision of a surgeon. "Somewhere terrible—the kind of place they’d never let an F1 driver in. I want to see you drunk enough to dance on tables."
You groaned, but she bulldozed on, tossing a dish towel at your face. "Or we could stalk your golden retriever. I bet he’s still sulking in some Berlin nightclub."
"Stop calling him that," you muttered, but your traitorous thumb hovered over the playback button. Isabella’s grin widened. "Make me," she singsonged, flicking soapy water at you from the sink.
"Fine," she conceded, drying her hands on her jeans. "But first we need to go shopping—your wardrobe looks like a funeral director’s clearance sale."
You scoffed, but she was already dragging you toward the door, her grip ironclad. "And no," she added, tossing your headphones onto the couch with terrifying accuracy, "you can’t wear those. Today, you live."
The high street was a sensory assault—neon signs screaming sale prices, perfumed air thick as syrup, bodies jostling past in a blur of rushed errands.
You flinched when a stranger’s elbow brushed yours, but Isabella just laced her fingers through yours and towed you into the nearest boutique like a warship into harbor.
"Trust me," she murmured, plucking a leather jacket off the rack and holding it up to your frame. "You’re going to want to look devastating when you inevitably run into him."
The changing room mirror showed a stranger—sharp collarbones peeking through the jacket’s deep V, the silver zipper glinting like a blade.
Isabella wolf-whistled, but your pulse hammered for entirely different reasons: this wasn’t the uniform Red Bull had tailored for cameras. This was you, unapologetic and unchained.
Sebastian’s knee bounced against the first-class seat as the plane banked over Frankfurt, his thumb hovering over your contact for the seventeenth time. No reply.
Nico smirked from across the aisle, swirling his whiskey. “They told you she went home, mein Freund,” he drawled, kicking Sebastian’s shin lightly. “Stop sulking.” Sebastian scowled, but his fingers tightened around his phone—like it might vibrate any second.
"I'm not sulking," he muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool window. "I'm just worried." The admission tasted sour—too vulnerable for someone who usually laughed off everything.
Nico arched a brow, sipping his drink with theatrical slowness. "Ah," he said, nodding sagely. "Because normally when women ghost you, you're thrilled."
Sebastian flipped him off, but his pulse betrayed him—rabbiting beneath his skin like a cornered thing.
Nico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "She's different," Sebastian muttered, fingers twitching around his phone. The words slipped out before he could choke them back—a reflex honed by years of deflecting questions about why he never settled down.
Nico’s smirk faltered. "Yeah," he agreed softly, swirling his whiskey. "She looks at you like you're just some guy."
Sebastian exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his phone. "She doesn’t look at me at all," he muttered, the lie bitter on his tongue.
Nico rolled his eyes, tossing a peanut at Sebastian’s forehead. "She looks at you a lot with fury," he corrected, smirking when Sebastian’s head snapped up.
Sebastian blinked—then beamed, sudden and blinding. "She looks at me?!" he crowed, loud enough that the flight attendant shot him a glare. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless energy buzzing under his skin like a live wire.
Nico groaned, rubbing his temples. "You are one love-sick puppy," he muttered, shaking his head. "It's pathetic." Sebastian just grinned wider, his knee bouncing faster.
"She looks at me," he repeated, softer now, like he was savoring the words.
"I have to tell Lewis about this," Nico muttered, thinking about his best friend. Lewis would howl at this—the Sebastian Vettel reduced to a lovesick mess over his brooding teammate. The irony was too rich.
Sebastian didn't text you again. But he checked his phone every five minutes while sprawled across his childhood bed in Heppenheim, surrounded by his sisters and brother's discarded sweaters and his father's racing memorabilia.
"Who died?" Fabian teased, tossing a sock at Sebastian's head as he scrolled past your Instagram for the thirtieth time. Sebastian grunted, rolling onto his stomach to avoid Melanie stealing his phone.
"No one," he lied, thumb hovering over your latest story—just a blurry London skyline, no caption.
Heike noticed first. "You're sulking," she announced, dumping a basket of laundry onto his lap during Sunday dinner. Sebastian scowled as Stefanie cackled into her schnitzel.
"I don't sulk," he protested, but his fork scraped his plate with unusual violence. Norbert glanced up from the newspaper, eyes flicking between his son and the phone clutched like a lifeline.
"Ah," he said mildly, turning a page. "The Nigerian driver." Sebastian choked on his beer.
The silence stretched like Monza's pit straight. Then Melanie gasped, slapping her palms on the table. "Wait—you like her!"
Sebastian's ears burned crimson as his sisters exploded into gleeful chaos. "Oh my God," Stefanie wheezed, clutching Fabian's shoulder. "Seb has a crush!" His mother's lips twitched as she passed the potatoes.
Sebastian scowled into his beer. "I don't—she's my teammate." The word teammate curled awkwardly in his mouth, too stiff for the way his pulse jumped whenever your name flashed on his screen.
Norbert folded his newspaper with deliberate slowness. "Mm. And does your teammate know you're"—he gestured at Sebastian's death grip on his phone—"like this?"
Fabian snorted into his schnitzel. "Doubt it. His game is tragic."
Sebastian flipped him off, but his fingers tightened around his phone—still silent. Stefanie leaned in, wine sloshing dangerously close to his lap.
"What's her name mean?" she stage-whispered, like they weren't all crammed around the same table. Sebastian blinked. "Uh." He'd never actually asked.
Melanie groaned, tossing a bread roll at his head. "Christ, Seb. You call her Schatz but don't even—"
"I know what it means!" he yelped, ducking the next roll. His ears burned hotter than Monza's asphalt. "It's—Nigerian. Obviously."
The table erupted into laughter. Sebastian slumped lower in his chair, glaring at his phone like it might spontaneously combust with a message from you.
"Google it," Fabian wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. Sebastian’s thumb twitched toward his browser—but stopped. If he looked it up now, his sisters would never let him live it down.
Melanie leaned in, resting her chin on her palm. "Tell us about her," she coaxed, batting her eyelashes like she wasn’t about to weaponize every word.
Sebastian hesitated—then the dam broke. "She’s terrifying," he blurted, eyes lighting up. "Like—she doesn’t even try to be scary, she just is. And her hands? When she grips the wheel, it’s like—" He mimed throttling someone, making his sisters snort.
Norbert sighed, folding his newspaper. "God help us," he muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips as Sebastian launched into another animated tangent about your braking technique.
Fabian groaned, slumping back in his chair. "You're so fucked," he announced, tossing a bread roll at Sebastian's head.
Sebastian caught it absently, still grinning like an idiot. "I know," he admitted, softer than expected—voice cracking around the edges. The admission hung in the air, fragile as the silence that followed.
"Are we even going to meet this terrifying young woman?" his mom asked, stirring her coffee with deliberate calm. Sebastian froze mid-bite, fork scraping against his plate like a record scratch.
Melanie kicked him under the table—hard—but his pulse was already rabbiting, loud enough to drown out his sisters' sudden whispering.
"Maybe," he hedged, eyes flicking to his phone again. "If she ever answers my texts."
23rd - 27th September 2009
For the whole break there was nothing. No texts, no calls, not even a stray Instagram like. Sebastian wore a groove in his childhood bedroom floor pacing, his phone clutched like a rosary.
He couldn't wait until he landed into Singapore—couldn't wait to see you in the paddock, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, even if you ignored him. The thought alone made his palms sweat.
He played FIFA until his thumbs ached, trained until his muscles screamed, laughed too loud with friends who didn't know why he kept staring at his silent phone.
Anything to scrub you from his mind—but your smirk lingered behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Someone joked about how he kept checking his phone like a lovesick teenager, and Sebastian's laughter cracked right down the middle.
The flight to Singapore felt longer than the offseason. Sebastian bounced his knee through the entire fourteen hours, Nico elbowing him whenever he checked his phone for the fiftieth time.
"Relax," Nico muttered, smacking Sebastian's thigh. "She can't avoid you forever." Sebastian's fingers tightened around his armrest.
That was the problem—he wasn't sure which terrified him more: you avoiding him, or you finally looking at him like he was more than just Red Bull's golden boy.
He got settled into his hotel room with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel, dumping his suitcase on the bed without bothering to unpack. The balcony overlooked the Marina Bay circuit, neon lights already flickering against the dusk.
Sebastian pressed his forehead to the glass, tracing the track layout with one restless finger. You were here somewhere—probably already scowling at your engineers, headphones clamped over your ears like armor. The thought made his stomach twist.
But you hadn’t arrived yet. That was the text he finally got from your PR manager, clipped and impersonal. Sebastian stared at it like the words might rearrange themselves into something kinder.
Your flight was delayed, or maybe you’d chosen to come later on purpose—anything to avoid the awkward press ops where journalists would inevitably ask why the two youngest drivers on the grid weren’t acting like the inseparable duo everyone expected.
The next day he couldn’t wait to see you at the press conference, arriving early just to stake out a good seat where he could catch your eye. He was already deep in conversation with Nico, laughing too loudly at some dumb joke, when you finally walked in.
The room hushed for half a second—your entrance always had that effect—but Sebastian’s breath caught. You looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes, your usual sharpness dulled into something flat and distant.
Your headphones hung loose around your neck instead of clamped over your ears, which was almost worse. Like you didn’t even have the energy to armor up.
Sebastian’s fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to reach across the table, wanted to say something stupid like did you sleep at all? but you weren’t looking at him.
You weren’t looking at anyone. Just slumped into your chair like your bones were too heavy, staring at the microphone in front of you like it might bite.
Nico nudged him—hard—and Sebastian realized he’d been staring. He swallowed and turned back to the reporter’s question, but his brain was static.
The only coherent thought: what happened to you?
The press conference dragged like a funeral. Every time Sebastian stole a glance at you, your expression stayed blank, even when journalists asked about your rivalry with him—the question everyone always asked, the one you usually answered with a smirk that could cut glass.
Today, you just shrugged. “We’re teammates,” you said, voice monotone, and Sebastian’s chest ached like he’d been sucker-punched.
Teammates. That was all. He’d known that, of course, but hearing you say it like it meant nothing—like he meant nothing—was worse than the silence of the past two weeks.
Afterward, you vanished before anyone could stop you, slipping out the side door while Sebastian was still stuck shaking hands with some corporate sponsor.
By the time he escaped, the hallway was empty except for Nico leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re pathetic,” Nico said, but there was no bite to it.
Sebastian didn’t answer. His throat felt tight. He stared at the spot where you’d disappeared, the imprint of your sneakers still faint on the tile, and wondered when everything got so fucking complicated.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of missed cues. You showed up to debriefs late, if at all, and when you did, you slumped in your chair like a ghost, fingers tapping restlessly against your knee.
The engineers kept glancing at Sebastian like he might know why you weren’t biting back about setup changes—why you just nodded mechanically, your gaze fixed on the table.
Even Helmut noticed, his eyebrows knitting together when you muttered a one-word answer to his question about tire strategy. Sebastian’s pen dug into his notepad until the paper tore.
Singapore’s humidity clung to everything, but you moved through the paddock like you were underwater—slow, deliberate, detached. At one point, Sebastian caught you staring blankly at a monitor displaying your own lap times, your headphones dangling from one hand.
He almost approached, almost said something, but then your trainer appeared with a protein shake and you drank it robotically, your throat working around each sip like it was a chore. Sebastian’s chest ached.
This wasn’t the you who’d scoffed at his jokes in Melbourne, who’d flicked his ear when he bragged about pole position. This was someone hollowed out.
Race day arrived like an execution. You suited up in silence, ignoring the usual pre-race chatter. When Sebastian tried to bump your shoulder—their old ritual—you stiffened and stepped away, adjusting your gloves with too much focus.
The cameras caught it, of course, and the commentators’ voices dipped into speculation. Sebastian forced a smile through gritted teeth, but his stomach churned.
Whatever was wrong with you, it was worse than he’d thought. And he had no idea how to fix it.
The grid formed up under the searing floodlights. Sebastian stole one last glance at you from his car, but you were already strapped in, visor down, a closed fortress.
The red lights blinked on. Five. Four. Three. Sebastian exhaled sharply. Two. One. The engines screamed—and then you were gone, tearing down the straight with a ferocity that made his breath catch.
For a heartbeat, he saw it: the flicker of the old you, the one who raced like fire. But then the first corner swallowed you whole, and Sebastian was left chasing a ghost again.
By lap fifteen, he was clinging to fourth, your rear wing just out of reach in fifth. The gap between you yawned like a wound. Every time Sebastian closed in, you’d flicker ahead again, just enough to keep him tasting your exhaust.
It was maddening. Not just the racing—but the way you moved, like every shift of the wheel cost you something vital. Your engineer crackled over the radio, voice tight, but you didn’t respond.
Sebastian’s own engineer muttered something about tire wear, but all he could think was why won’t you look at me?
The checkered flag came too soon. Sebastian crossed fourth, you fifth, the space between you both a chasm and a cage. He ripped off his helmet in parc fermé, sweat stinging his eyes, but you were already stalking toward the scales, shoulders hunched.
Someone shouted your name—a reporter, maybe—but you didn’t slow. Sebastian watched you go, your gloves clenched into fists, and felt something inside him splinter.
This wasn’t rivalry. This wasn’t even indifference. This was something raw and ragged, and he had no map for it.
Sebastian tried to catch you in the paddock afterward, weaving through mechanics and cameras, but Nico got to you first.
He saw it from across the garage: Nico slinging an arm around your shoulders, murmuring something that made you duck your head—but then, impossibly, your lips curled.
Just a flicker, just a ghost of a smile, but it was enough to make Sebastian’s stomach drop. He’d spent this whole week trying to coax that expression from you, and Nico got it in seconds.
The unfairness of it lodged in his throat like glass.
You looked up then, catching Sebastian staring, and the smile vanished. For a heartbeat, you just watched each other—him frozen by a stack of tires, you half-leaning into Nico’s grip—before you turned sharply away, shrugging off Nico’s arm.
Sebastian pretended not to see how your fingers trembled when you reached for your water bottle. Pretended not to care.
He went up to Nico later, when the paddock had emptied to hushed murmurs and shifting shadows. "What did you say to her?" Sebastian demanded, voice too loud in the quiet.
Nico blinked, then smirked, slow and knowing. "Nothing you wouldn’t have," he said, shrugging. Then, softer: "I just asked if she wanted to join the plane with me and Lewis tomorrow. Said she looked like she could use a break."
Sebastian’s stomach twisted. Of course. Nico always knew what to say—always knew how to reach you when Sebastian just fumbled.
The garage lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across Nico’s face. "She said no," he added, quieter now.
Sebastian exhaled sharply, relief and frustration tangling in his chest. Of course you’d said no. You always did.
But then Nico’s voice dropped lower, almost hesitant: "But she looked like she wanted to say yes."
Sebastian’s breath caught. That was worse. That meant you were considering it—considering leaving, even for a day. Considering letting someone else in. The thought burned hotter than Singapore’s asphalt.
He turned away before Nico could see his face crumple, but the damage was done. The truth hung between them, sharp as carbon fiber: Sebastian didn’t know how to fix this.
Didn’t even know where to start.
He went back to the hotel alone, the elevator ride stretching into eternity. When the doors slid open on his floor, he hesitated—then walked past his own room, drawn like a moth to your door.
He told himself he’d knock, tell you something, even if it was just good race.
But then he heard it—the muffled sob, the hitch of breath behind the wood. Sebastian froze. His fist hovered inches from the door, shaking.
He should knock. He should say I’m here. But the fear coiled in his gut, venomous. What if you didn’t want him to hear? What if you slammed the door in his face? What if he made it worse?
He was a coward. He let his hand drop, the knuckles white and trembling, and he turned away.
He walked back toward his room, the sound of your breaking heart echoing in the silence of the corridor, leaving you alone in a room that felt like a fortress of grief.
29th September - 4th October 2009
Japan came and went with hardly a word between you. The silence was a living thing now, slithering into every garage, every debrief.
Sebastian caught himself watching your hands instead of your face—how they clenched around your steering wheel, how they hesitated before signing autographs.
Like even your body wasn’t sure how to act around him anymore. The team noticed, of course. The whispers grew teeth. But no one dared ask—not even Helmut, who watched you both with narrowed eyes.
Then, on Thursday, PR cornered you both for a promotional shoot—traditional Japanese clothing, they said, for the local sponsors. Sebastian fumbled with his yukata ties, his fingers clumsy with nerves.
He kept stealing glances at the dressing room door, wondering if you’d bail last minute.
But then you stepped out, and his brain short-circuited. The kimono draped over your frame like liquid midnight, the gold embroidery catching the light with every slight movement.
You scowled at the fabric fussing around your ankles, but Sebastian couldn’t breathe. You looked—unreal. Like something from a woodblock print, all sharp edges softened by silk.
The cameras clicked away, but Sebastian barely registered them. His pulse hammered in his throat every time you shifted, the obi cinching your waist just so. He wanted to say something—anything—but his tongue felt too big for his mouth.
You caught him staring once, your eyes flickering with something unreadable before you turned sharply away, adjusting your sleeve with more force than necessary.
The air between you crackled, thick with everything unsaid. Sebastian’s fingers twitched at his sides. He should’ve told you then.
Should’ve said you’re beautiful or I miss you or please look at me like I’m still someone you know. But the moment slipped through his fingers like sand, and the shoot ended with you vanishing into the changing room before he could blink.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of missed chances. Sebastian trailed after you like a shadow—through sponsor meetings, through the paddock, even to the catering tent where you picked at your food like it was ash on your tongue.
Once, your shoulders brushed in the narrow garage corridor, and Sebastian swore his heart stopped. You stiffened immediately, sidestepping him with a muttered apology that sounded more like a curse.
His chest ached. This wasn’t just silence anymore—this was a chasm, and he was falling.
By qualifying, the tension had reached a fever pitch. Sebastian watched from his cockpit as you stormed past his car, helmet clutched like a weapon, your kimono’s memory clinging to the edges of his vision.
The engineers exchanged glances. Even the tires seemed to hold their breath. When you finally slid into your own car, Sebastian let out a shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding.
The visor hid your face, but he knew—knew the exact curve of your scowl beneath it, knew how your jaw tightened before a flying lap. The knowledge was a knife in his ribs.
He still knew you. Even now. Even like this.
Race day was a blur of adrenaline and asphalt. Sebastian took first with a clinical precision that left no room for error—no room for thoughts of you, stranded in fourth after a botched pit stop that wasn’t your fault.
He should’ve felt triumph. Should’ve reveled in the champagne spray, the podium confetti. But all he could think about was your silent garage, the way you’d ripped off your gloves and stalked out before the cameras could catch the tremor in your hands.
Fourth place. It wasn’t even bad—not really—but the way you’d clenched your steering wheel after crossing the line made his stomach drop. Like you’d failed something. Like you’d failed him.
He didn’t find you after celebrating forcefully by the team. Not in your driver’s room, not in the hospitality suite, not even lurking by the paddock gates like you sometimes did after bad races.
Just emptiness where you should’ve been—your chair untouched, your headphones left abandoned on the counter like you’d shed your skin and vanished.
Sebastian’s victory champagne turned to acid in his throat. Someone handed him another bottle, laughing, and he forced a smile so wide his cheeks ached.
The cameras loved it. The team loved it. But all he could think was where are you?
13th - 18th October 2009
Brazil was different. Interlagos hit like a punch to the chest—humid, chaotic, alive in a way Singapore never was. The grandstands roared when you and Lewis walked out together for the fan zone, a rare moment of solidarity between the youngest champions on the grid.
The Brazilian fans adored you both, chanting your names like a prayer, and for the first time in months, you didn’t flinch. Just ducked your head, shy but smiling, as a little girl thrust a handmade flag into your hands.
Sebastian watched from the shadows, his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe. You looked happy. It was the first real emotion he’d seen from you since Italy, and it shattered him.
Back in the garage, you were quieter but softer, your usual sharp edges dulled by the afternoon sun. Sebastian hovered by your side, pretending to check tire data while stealing glances at the way your fingers traced the flag’s stitches.
“They love you here,” he blurted, then winced at how loud it sounded. You didn’t look up, but your shoulders relaxed—just a fraction. “Yeah,” you murmured, so low he almost missed it. “Feels… different.”
Sebastian’s pulse spiked. It was the first time you’d spoken directly to him in weeks that wasn’t a curse or a monosyllable. He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know—but your engineer called you away, and the moment splintered.
That night, all the teams dragged everyone out to a churrascaria, the air thick with smoke and laughter. You sat at the far end of the table, picking at your food, but when someone passed you a caipirinha, you didn’t refuse.
Sebastian watched, mesmerized, as you took a sip—then another, your nose scrunching at the strength. Across the table, Lewis caught his eye and smirked, raising his glass in a silent toast.
Sebastian flushed and looked away, but not before he saw you glance at him, your eyes dark and unreadable in the flickering candlelight. The space between you felt charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Race day dawned with a vengeance. The track was slick from overnight rain, the air heavy with the promise of chaos. Sebastian stole glances at you in the garage, your fingers flexing inside your gloves as the engineers rattled off last-minute adjustments.
When the lights went out, Lewis shot into the lead like a bullet, but you clung to his gearbox like a shadow, carving through the spray with a precision that made Sebastian’s breath catch.
By lap thirty, Lewis had P1, you were P2, and Sebastian—fighting tooth and nail—finally wrestled P3 from Button’s grip. The crowd roared as you crossed the line, your helmet tipped back in a rare show of exhilaration.
Sebastian’s chest ached. This was the you he remembered—the one who raced like fire, who made his pulse stutter with every daring overtake.
Parc fermé was a blur of champagne and confetti. Lewis hoisted the trophy with his usual swagger, but Sebastian only had eyes for you—the way your shoulders relaxed as the Brazilian sun warmed your back, the way you didn’t flinch when he sidled up beside you on the podium.
“Good race,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the crowd. You hesitated—then nodded, your gaze flicking to his for the first time in weeks.
“You too,” you said, so softly he almost missed it. The words lodged in his ribs like a promise.
Back in the paddock, the team’s energy fizzed like shaken soda. Someone shoved a drink into your hand, and for once, you didn’t refuse—just took a long swig, your throat working around the burn.
Sebastian watched, mesmerized, as a drop of liquid trailed down your chin. You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, your old smirk finally resurfacing.
“What?” you challenged, voice rough. Sebastian’s mouth went dry. “Nothing,” he lied, fingers tightening around his own bottle.
The lie tasted bitter.
You turned away first, drawn into a conversation with Lewis that left you laughing—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of your eyes. Sebastian lingered nearby, pretending to examine a tire mark while eavesdropping shamelessly.
Lewis said something that made you snort into your drink, and Sebastian’s stomach twisted.
He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted it so badly his teeth ached.
1st November 2009
Then at the last race of 2009 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Sebastian’s family decided to come watch him. He hadn’t seen you before then—only in meetings and press conferences, where you spoke in clipped monosyllables—and his sister was dying to meet you. Unfortunately.
Sebastian distracted them by talking about the race—his strategy, the tire compounds, anything to keep their attention away from scanning the paddock for you.
"The softs will degrade faster here," he babbled, steering his youngest sister away from the hospitality area just as your name was mentioned over the team radio.
Fortunately, she was nowhere to be found when they finally circled back—just a half-empty water bottle left on the engineering desk, still sweating condensation.
His sister pouted, but Sebastian exhaled in relief. He wasn't ready for them to see you like this—hollow-eyed and sharp-edged, a shadow of the teammate who'd once had a reaction to his terrible jokes.
Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the junior mechanics—pale-faced, fingers twitching against his clipboard. "Seb," the kid hissed, eyes darting toward Sebastian's family before leaning in.
"It's—it's her. She's locked herself in the simulator room, and no one can get her out. She's—" The mechanic swallowed hard. "She's not okay."
Sebastian's stomach dropped. He turned to his sisters with a too-bright smile, already backing away. "Sorry, gotta—team emergency," he lied smoothly, ignoring their confused protests as he followed the mechanic at a near-sprint.
The cold tile pressed into your back as you slid down the wall, knees drawn tight to your chest. The simulator room smelled like stale sweat and ozone, the screens still flickering with Abu Dhabi’s sunset-lit track.
The breath catches in your throat, refusing to go any deeper than your collarbone. You squeeze your eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the room from tilting on its axis, the dark space spinning violently around you.
A cold, heavy wave of sweat breaks across your forehead, slicking your palms as you begin to tremble uncontrollably. A sharp, stinging ache tightens behind your breastbone, squeezing your lungs until you are gasping for air, a bitter, acidic wave of nausea rising in the back of your throat.
For weeks, you had convinced yourself that you were coping. That burying yourself in telemetry, steering angles, and rubber compounds was enough.
But then you saw him through the glass partition. You watched Sebastian talking, laughing, and stepping into the glowing warmth of his family’s embrace.
Seeing him lean his head back, entirely unguarded, shattered the armor you had built.
It brought everything rushing to the surface. Your father. The man who had sat on milk crates in the freezing rain of junior karting circuits, holding an umbrella over your head and telling you—with a stubborn, absolute certainty—that you were going to be great.
He was the anchor that kept you tethered to the ground, the only person who truly believed you belonged in the brutal, unforgiving paddock.
He was gone, and you hadn't even been there to say goodbye.
The calendar was a tyrant, demanding every ounce of your time, forcing you onto the next flight, the next track, the next qualifying session. You had swallowed the grief to keep your seat, pretending you were fine, acting like a machine made of carbon fiber and cold precision.
But now, in the silence of the dark simulator room, the reality of it hits you with suffocating force.
You press the heels of your hands against your eyelids until colors burst behind them—anything to stop the tears. But they come anyway, hot and relentless, streaking down your face like rain on a helmet visor.
You don’t sob—you don’t make a sound—but your ribs shudder with the effort of keeping it all locked inside.
The banging starts suddenly, sharp knocks rattling the door. "Hey—open up!" A voice—young, nervous. One of the junior mechanics. "The engineers need the sim for setup—"
You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The knocking grows more insistent. "Are you okay in there?" The question hangs in the air like a challenge.
You bite down on your sleeve to muffle the ragged inhale that escapes. Silence stretches. Then footsteps retreating.
The relief is short-lived. New footsteps—heavier, faster—approach. A different knock, this one softer but deliberate. "Schatz."
Sebastian’s voice slips under the door like smoke. Not a question. Just your name—or whatever that word means—spoken like he already knows you’re falling apart.
Your chest caves. You press your forehead to your knees, fingers twisting in your braids until the scalp stings.
The door handle jiggles—locked, thankfully. Sebastian exhales sharply, his shoulder thumping against the frame. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of his breathing and yours, out of sync.
Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Let me in."
Not an order. A plea. Your fingers twitch toward the lock—but you curl them into fists instead. The silence between you stretches like a live wire, humming with everything you can’t say.
Sebastian’s breath hitches. You hear the rustle of fabric as he slides down the opposite side of the door, his back pressing against yours through the thin wood.
His voice cracks when he speaks next: "Tell me to leave." You swallow hard. The words stick in your throat—go away, stay, I can’t do this—but all that comes out is a shuddering exhale.
Sebastian’s head thunks against the door. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."
Then—a scrape of metal. A click. The door swings open just enough to reveal Sebastian kneeling there, holding a key he must’ve stolen from the engineers.
Your breath vanishes. He looks wrecked. "Hi," he croaks, offering the key like a peace offering. His fingers tremble.
You should say something. Should scream or push him away or—something. But your body moves before your brain catches up.
Your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist so hard his pulse jumps under your thumb. Sebastian freezes.
For one suspended second, you’re both holding your breath. Then you yank him forward, and he stumbles into you with a gasp, his knees hitting the floor between yours.
The sob that tears out of you is ugly, raw—a sound you’ve never let anyone hear. Sebastian makes a wounded noise and folds himself around you, his arms locking tight across your back.
His lips brush your temple, feather-light. "I know," he whispers, though he doesn’t. Not really.
But his hands are steady where yours shake, his heartbeat loud where yours stutters. You bury your face in his shoulder and let the dam break.
Sebastian doesn’t know about the funeral you missed. Doesn’t know about the hospital bed or the way your father’s last words were a lie—I’ll be there for your first win.
But he holds you like he understands the weight of it anyway, his fingers tangling in your braids like he’s trying to anchor you to the earth. His breath hitches when you clutch at his shirt, your nails biting into his ribs.
You’re not breathing—can’t, won’t, the air trapped somewhere between your lungs and the scream building in your throat. Sebastian’s palm slides up your spine, pressing hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to jumpstart your diaphragm.
"Breathe," he murmurs against your temple, his voice fraying at the edges. You shake your head violently, teeth clenched so tight your jaw creaks. The sob locked in your chest feels like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Sebastian’s fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back until you’re forced to meet his eyes—red-rimmed, desperate. "Look at me," he rasps.
His thumb brushes the hollow under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. "Just—just fucking look at me." His voice cracks on the last word, raw with something too close to fear.
You stare up at him, chest heaving silently, and realize with dull shock that he’s crying too.
His breath hitches when your fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer until your foreheads press together. The salt of his tears mingles with yours, his exhale hot against your lips.
"I got you," he whispers, shaky but fierce. His hands slide down to cradle your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hinge like he’s trying to hold you together by force. "I got you."
The words unlock something primal in your chest—a sob tears free, violent enough to shake you both. Sebastian makes a wounded noise and hauls you into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips as he wraps around you like human armor.
His lips move against your temple, murmuring in rapid-fire German—nonsense or prayers or promises, you can’t tell. The vibrations of his voice travel through your skin, settling somewhere behind your ribs.
Outside, the paddock hums with pre-race chaos—engines revving, radios crackling, the distant roar of the crowd. But in this dim-lit room, time fractures. Sebastian’s pulse thrums against your wrist where your hand grips his, too fast and unsteady.
You focus on that rhythm, on the way his breath gusts warm against your neck, until the world stops spinning quite so violently. His fingers trace the knobs of your spine through your fireproofs, tentative, like he’s mapping a constellation.
"You’re shaking," he murmurs, lips brushing your hairline. His voice is wrecked, rough with unshed tears. You don’t answer—can’t—just press your forehead harder into his collarbone until the bone digs into your skin.
Sebastian exhales sharply through his nose, his arms tightening around you like he’s trying to fuse your ribs together. The scent of his sweat—familiar, sharp with adrenaline—anchors you better than any deep breathing exercise ever could.
Sebastian helps you without asking, without needing you to articulate the grief strangling your throat.
His palm slides up your spine, pressing firm between your shoulder blades until your lungs finally unlock with a ragged gasp.
"There you go," he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers card through your braids, gentle but insistent, untangling knots you didn’t know were there.
When your next inhale hitches, he matches it deliberately, his chest expanding against yours like a metronome. "Copy me," he whispers, and you do—breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat.
When you finally calm down, you apologize profusely—mumbled into the damp fabric of his fireproofs, your voice wrecked beyond recognition. Sebastian stiffens, then exhales sharply through his nose.
"Don’t," he says, too harsh, before softening his grip. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw where tears have dried tacky. "Just—don’t."
The words land like a command, but his eyes betray him—wide and wounded, like your apology physically pains him. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and nod once. Sebastian’s shoulders sag in relief.
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. Sebastian’s pulse thrums against your palm where it rests against his neck, too fast for someone sitting still.
You trace the jump of his Adam’s apple with your thumb, watching his breath stutter. His grip tightens fractionally around your waist—not restraining, just there, solid and real.
Outside, an engine revs, the sound rattling the glass partition. Sebastian’s gaze flicks toward it instinctively, but his body doesn’t budge, anchored to yours.
You should move. Should untangle yourself from his lap, wipe your face, walk out like none of this ever happened. But Sebastian’s fingers flex against your hipbone, tentative but firm, like he’s testing the weight of you.
Your breath catches. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and searching.
"Can you please tell me what’s going on with you?" he asks, voice rough like gravel. Not demanding—pleading.
His thumb brushes the damp curve of your cheekbone, and you realize with dull shock that he’s still crying too. The sight lodges in your throat like a stone.
You open your mouth—to lie, to deflect, to do what you’ve always done—but the truth spills out instead: "I wasn’t there when he died."
The words taste like ash. Sebastian’s breath hitches. His grip tightens around your wrist but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t flinch away. Just waits, steady as a metronome, while you shatter in his arms.
"My father died and I wasn’t there to say goodbye," you mutter, voice cracking under the weight of it. The admission claws its way up your throat like something feral, leaving you raw and bleeding.
Sebastian makes a wounded noise deep in his chest, his forehead pressing harder against yours. His thumbs swipe roughly under your eyes, smearing tears you didn’t realize were still falling.
"He lied to me," you whisper. "Said he’d be there for my first win."
Sebastian’s breath hitches—sharp, like you’ve punched him. His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like you might vanish.
"When?" he rasps, voice scraped raw. You shake your head, your nose brushing his. The dates don’t matter. The funeral you missed, the hospital bed that haunted your dreams—none of it changes the ending.
His exhale trembles against your lips. You expect pity, but Sebastian’s eyes blaze with something fiercer—rage, grief, a protectiveness that makes your ribs ache.
"You raced Brazil," he realizes suddenly, voice cracking. "With that—with this inside you?" His palm presses over your sternum, right where the pain lives.
You flinch. The memory of Interlagos’ podium—how you’d smiled through the nausea, how no one noticed your hands shaking under the champagne spray—slices through you fresh.
Sebastian makes a sound like he’s been gutted. His grip on your jaw tightens, not painful, just present, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You should’ve told me," he rasps.
There’s no accusation in it—just anguish, the kind that carves canyons between ribs.
You press your forehead back against his, your breath mingling in the scant space between you. His pulse thrums wild under your fingertips, a frantic counterpoint to your own sluggish heartbeat.
The reply comes without thought—honest, jagged, torn from somewhere deep: "I didn’t know how." Your voice fractures on the admission.
Sebastian makes a noise like he’s been punched, fingers tightening in your hair—not pulling, just anchoring. His breath hitches against your lips, uneven and warm.
"You don’t have to know," he murmurs, German bleeding into the words like an old bruise. "Just—just let me in next time."
His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, hesitant. "Please."
The overhead light flickers, casting shadows that make Sebastian’s eyelashes look impossibly long, his tears catching the gold like track markings under floodlights.
You swallow hard, your throat raw, and nod once—a jerky, graceless thing. Sebastian exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping like he’s just finished a marathon.
His forehead drops to yours again, his nose brushing your cheekbone. "Good," he whispers, lips grazing your temple. "That’s good.".
"I don't know if it would be a good idea but my family would love to meet you today, it's okay if you don't want to," Sebastian said after silence.
His voice is small, stripped of all the golden-retriever bravado he usually wears like a shield. He doesn't move his hand from your jaw, but his thumb begins a slow, rhythmic circle, as if he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal.
You freeze, the thought of the Vettel family—bright, supportive, and loud—colliding with your current state of emotional wreckage feeling like a crash at Turn 1.
You pull back just enough to see his expression; he looks terrified that you’ll say no, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of a recoil.
The silence in the room thickens, vibrating with the distance between your world—where family was a source of pressure and sudden loss—and his, where it was a safety net.
You think of your parents’ disappointed silences and the ghost of your father’s smile, and then you look at Sebastian, whose heart is practically drumming against your ribs.
"They'll think I'm a mess," you mutter, your voice still sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. You shift, the fireproofs rustling, as you lean your weight back into him, the warmth of his body the only thing keeping the cold from seeping back in.
You don't want to be perceived, not when your eyes are puffed and your spirit feels like a crushed soda can, but the idea of facing the paddock alone after this feels impossible.
Sebastian’s grin returns, though it’s muted, soft around the edges. "They'll think you're a legend for putting up with me," he counters, his hand sliding from your jaw to squeeze your shoulder.
He doesn't push, doesn't demand an answer, he just waits with that maddening, patient stillness that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world who matters.
You let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension in your spine finally snapping. "Fine," you whisper. "But if your mom asks why I'm crying, you're telling her you did something stupid."
Sebastian doesn't move a muscle, remaining a steady anchor beneath you as the last of the tremors subside. He waits with an agonizingly gentle patience, refusing to shift or pull away until your breathing has leveled out and the frantic drumming of your heart slows to match his.
Only when you finally lean back and slide off his lap, your shoes finding the cold floor with a tentative stability, does he slowly push himself up.
He stands with a soft exhale, his movements cautious, as if he’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile peace you've just managed to carve out of the chaos.
He reaches out to check your reflection in the mirror, and for a heartbeat, you hold your breath, expecting the telltale puffiness of a breakdown.
Your eyes were not red when you left; thank god.
He guides you out of the dim room and toward the private sanctuary of the Red Bull garage, where the air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber and expensive fuel.
His family are huddled in a small circle, talking to themselves in a blur of rapid-fire German and laughter, until his sister Melanie looks up and spots you.
"Sebastian! You finally brought the mystery teammate out of the shadows!" she beams, her voice echoing with a brightness that makes you instinctively reach for your headphones.
"Mel, give it a rest," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into that familiar, protective rhythm that had anchored you just moments ago. He shot his sister a look that was part warning, part fond exasperation, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
"This is…" He paused, his gaze briefly flicking to you to check your comfort level, before his hand slid forward to gently link his fingers with yours. "Well, you all know who this is."
You felt the weight of their collective gaze, a stark contrast to the cold indifference of the paddock. You stepped forward, your voice barely a murmur, but you forced yourself to look Melanie in the eye.
"My name is Y/N Y/L/N," you said, the syllables of your name feeling heavy and honest in the air.
Norbert and Heike Vettel looked up from their coffees, their expressions shifting instantly from casual amusement to warm concern as they took in your quiet demeanor and slightly pale face.
"Ach, Sebastian," Heike murmured, rising from her folding chair with a soft, sympathetic look.
Her eyes darted from your flushed cheeks to Sebastian’s determined gaze, and she seemed to understand the heavy emotional gravity hanging between you both. "Come here, Liebchen."
You stepped forward, the mechanical hum of the garage fading into the background as Heike enveloped you in a warm, enveloping embrace that smelled faintly of coffee and expensive perfume.
"It is so good to finally put a face to the name," she whispered against your shoulder, her voice gentle but firm. "He talks about you constantly, you know. Only good things. Though he is an idiot sometimes, yes?"
A small, genuine huff of a laugh escaped your throat, the tension in your shoulders uncoiling slightly against your will.
Pulling back, you offered a polite but tired smile to Norbert, who was already extending a welcoming hand. "It's very nice to meet you all," you said, your voice still carrying a faint, gravelly trace of the tears you’d shed. "I'm sorry I’m not exactly… presentable today."
"Nonsense," Norbert boomed gently, his grip warm and calloused around your hand.
He cast a sharp, knowing glance at his son, who stood protectively at your side. "You are here. That is all that matters to us. And Sebastian looks after you, ja?"
Melanie stepped closer, her earlier teasing tone replaced by a warm, conspiratorial grin. "She's right, you know. He’s been a nervous wreck all weekend, but now he looks like he can finally breathe."
She nudged her brother playfully before turning her bright blue eyes onto you. "I'm Melanie. We’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to the chaos.
The immediate, unforced warmth of them—the way they made space for you in their tight-knit circle without demanding explanations or apologies for your red-rimmed eyes—settled over you like a heavy, comforting blanket.
You were still exhausted, your heart still bruised and raw from the conversation in the back room, but standing here, with Sebastian’s thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles against the back of your knuckles, the crushing isolation of the day finally began to fade.
But the emotional sanctuary of the Vettel family was a luxury you couldn't afford to linger in.
The day wasn't over yet; you still had to finish the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix before you could think of getting rest or go home. The shimmering heat haze of the Yas Marina circuit was already calling, a reminder that the world outside this small circle of kindness was still waiting for you to perform, to fight for position, and to prove that you belonged in a seat they had spent all weekend questioning.
You gave a quiet, lingering wave to the Vettels, the warmth of Heike’s last hug still clinging to your shoulders, and slipped away to get ready.
The walk back to your own side of the garage felt shorter, the air humming with the electric tension of the final grid preparations. You stepped into your suit, the fabric snapping tight against your skin, and felt the weight of the helmet in your hands.
You were starting P3, a position that offered a glimpse of the podium but left you vulnerable to the chaos of the first corner.
As you pulled the balaclava over your face, the world narrowed down to the smell of Nomex and the rhythmic thrum of the idling engines.
The visor of your helmet snapped shut with a definitive click, sealing you into a vacuum of your own making. You saw Sebastian in his car, his head nodding in a slow, steady cadence as he focused on the lights.
He didn’t look your way, but as you rolled out into the pit lane, he flicked his hand once—a sharp, quick gesture of solidarity that felt more honest than any press release.
Then, the lights go out.
You launched brilliantly, the rear tires digging into the fresh asphalt. Turn 1 was a chaotic swirl of brake dust and dancing carbon fiber as the twilight faded into artificial floodlights. You held your nerve, tucking into the slipstream of the leading cars.
By lap 15, the race had settled into a high-speed chess match. You were glued to Sebastian’s gearbox. He pushed his RB5 hard, defending the racing line with that familiar, aggressive precision.
The gap between you hovered at a knife-edge of 0.5 seconds as your tires began to hit their optimal window.
On lap 22, Sebastian ran slightly deep into the chicane, his rear tires lighting up in a puff of smoke.
You seized the moment. You threw your car down his inside, the tires howling as you claimed the apex. He gave you just enough room—a testament to the solidarity you shared—and you powered through, taking P2 and cleanly slotting into the pursuit of the race leader.
The radio crackled in your ear, the voice of your engineer trying to manage your gap, but you tuned it out. You focused on the vibration of the chassis, the way the car felt like a living extension of your own skin.
For the first time in years, the noise in your head—the ghosts of your father’s expectations and the sneers of the paddock—was silenced by the sheer, violent velocity of the car.
The hunt for P1 became a brutal war of attrition against Lewis, who defended the line with a surgical precision that left no room for error. You spent ten laps breathing down his neck, the air between your front wing and his rear diffuser feeling like a physical tension, a wire pulled tight until it screamed.
Every time you lunged for the inside, he closed the door with a flick of the wrist, forcing you to dance on the absolute edge of the curb, your tires screaming in protest as you fought for every millimeter of asphalt.
It was a high-speed ballet of carbon fiber and ego, where a single centimeter of misjudgment would send both of you spinning into the barrier.
You could feel the heat from his exhaust searing your cockpit, the roar of the engines blending into a singular, violent vibration that rattled your teeth.
You didn't want a gift; you wanted the win. On the penultimate lap, you braked later than humanly possible into the hairpin, your wheels locking for a terrifying heartbeat as you dove inside him.
You felt the slight, jarring shudder of wheel-to-wheel contact—a kiss of rubber and metal—but you held the line, powering out of the apex with a visceral surge of torque that finally catapulted you ahead.
Now you were P1, the lead of the race, but the victory was a fragile thing. You could see the silver streak of the chasing pack in your mirrors, the gap closing as you fought to keep the car balanced on a knife-edge.
Your tires were shot, the rubber disintegrating under the brutal torque of the RB5, and every corner felt like a gamble with gravity.
You drove the car like a weapon, placing the machine with surgical precision to block every potential overtaking spot, refusing to give an inch to the ghosts behind you.
The final lap was a blur of white noise and adrenaline, your vision narrowing until the world was nothing but the apex of the next turn. When you finally crossed the finish line, the checkered flag waving in a frenzy, you didn't celebrate immediately.
You let out a long, shuddering breath into your helmet, the silence of the cockpit returning as the engine finally cut. The weight of the win felt strange—not like a trophy, but like a shield you had finally forged for yourself.
You didn't even know what to say as you parked in the parc ferme, waving numbly at the roaring crowd. The adrenaline was receding, leaving you hollow and shaking, and as you climbed out and pulled off your helmet, you paused to wipe the sweat and grime from your face.
Before you could even find your footing, a blur of navy blue and white collided with you, Sebastian tackling you into a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.
He was laughing, his chest heaving against yours, his arms locked around you as if he were afraid you might float away if he let go for even a second.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, and you saw that his face was streaked with tears, his expression a raw mixture of agony and adoration. "Your father would be so proud of you," he whispered, crying.
The words hit you harder than any G-force ever could, slicing through the armor you had spent years building.
You froze, the ghosts of your parents' disappointment suddenly silenced by the sheer, honest conviction in Sebastian's voice, and for the first time since you had stepped into a cockpit, you let yourself lean into him and sob.
The podium ceremony was a blur of champagne and blinding flashbulbs, the noise of the crowd sounding like a distant ocean through the ringing in your ears.
You stood there, the heavy trophy weighing down your arms, but you felt an unfamiliar lightness in your chest as you glanced at Sebastian standing on the step below you.
He wasn't looking at the cameras or the dignitaries; he was staring at you with a focused, quiet intensity that made the thousands of screaming fans disappear.
As the music began to swell for the national anthem of Nigeria, the first few notes of Arise, O Compatriots echoed across the Abu Dhabi circuit.
For years, that melody had felt like a demand—a reminder of the duty you owed to a heritage your parents wanted you to honor through a stethoscope rather than a steering wheel.
But as the notes climbed, you didn't feel the usual weight of expectation or the sting of being an outlier in a white-dominated paddock. Instead, you felt a strange, grounding pride, your gaze locking onto Sebastian’s, and you realized he was humming along, his expression one of genuine, clumsy reverence for the song of the home you had fought so hard to represent.
The solemnity lasted only as long as the final note. The second the ceremony shifted into chaos, the champagne arrived in a violent, sparkling torrent.
Lewis was the first to strike, catching you square in the chest with a bottle’s worth of foam, and Sebastian followed immediately after, laughing like a maniac as he drenched your hair in gold bubbles. You sputtered, the sudden cold shock breaking your trance, and instinctively tried to run, your boots slipping on the wet podium.
You scrambled to dodge their onslaught, your arms flailing as you tried to shield your face, but Sebastian was quicker, catching you by the waist and pulling you back into the line of fire with a triumphant crow.
Between the gasps of laughter and the stinging scent of alcohol, you found yourself pinned against the railing, breathless and soaking wet.
Sebastian’s face was inches from yours, his blue eyes dancing with a mischief that bordered on predatory, yet his grip on your waist was surprisingly tender.
The post-race interview came right after, still dripping champagne. "Honestly, the pace was unbelievable," Lewis said, leaning into the microphone with a genuine, tired smile. "Seeing that drive—the sheer grit to take P1 in that fashion—it's inspiring. I'm incredibly proud of her."
Sebastian beamed, practically vibrating with vicarious energy. "Proud? I'm obsessed!" he crowed, his voice loud and proud. "I told you all they were terrifying, yes? To see that win… it is the most deserved thing in this paddock."
While Sebastian kept the media's attention focused on his animated storytelling, you leaned over the edge of the podium, scanning the sea of navy blue.
You spotted Elijah, your race engineer, standing with his arms crossed and a look of sheer disbelief on his face. You hoisted the heavy gold trophy high above your head, waving it frantically to get his attention.
"Look at it, Elijah!" you shouted over the roar of the crowd, a rare, jagged grin splitting your face.
"I see it, you lunatic, now move back from the railing before you fall over!" Elijah yelled back, though his voice was thick with a pride he only ever showed in the garage.
Then it was your turn to step toward the microphones, the damp Nomex of your suit clinging to your skin and the trophy still humming in your grip.
You looked into the lens of the primary camera, the red light blinking like a steady heartbeat, and felt the collective breath of the press corps hitch as they waited for your usual curtness.
You didn't look at the sponsors or the journalists who had doubted your place here; instead, you thought of the quiet phone calls to your father, the ones filled with heavy silences and the unspoken grief of a man who didn't understand why his child chose the asphalt over the anatomy lab.
"Y/N Y/L/N! Amazing win at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix! Is there anything you would like to say?" the interviewer beamed, thrusting the mic toward your chin.
You took a slow breath, the scent of champagne and burnt rubber filling your lungs.
"I want to dedicate this win to my father," you said, your voice clear and devoid of its usual defensive edge. "He wanted me to save lives as a doctor, but I hope this shows him that I can find a different way to be a healer—by proving that we belong in these seats, no matter where we come from."
The silence that followed was brief but heavy, a momentary vacuum before the crowd erupted into a roar that felt less like applause and more like an acknowledgement.
The interviewer beamed, leaning in with a curious glint in her eye. "This is great to hear. Fans have been seeing a change to your emotions—was it because of the win, or because you have started to get out of your shell more?"
You glanced at Sebastian before replying, noting the way he was practically vibrating with anticipation, his shoulder leaning heavily into yours as if trying to physically push you toward a confession.
"Maybe," you murmured, your voice returning to its usual low, guarded tone, "I just figured the trophy would make people stop asking so many questions."
The crowd laughed, the tension breaking, but the interviewer wasn't finished, her eyes flicking between your stoic expression and Sebastian’s radiating warmth.
"There are rumors, of course, about the… chemistry in the Red Bull garage. The fans are calling it 'the chaos duo.' Would you say there's more to the partnership than just a shared hunger for the podium?"
Sebastian leaned in, his voice a playful stage-whisper that the microphone caught perfectly. "Oh, they are absolutely obsessed with me," he joked, nudging your shoulder with a grin that could light up a city.
You felt a surge of warmth prickle the back of your neck, and for a fleeting second, your guard dropped, a genuine, soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"We're just friends," you replied, the denial slipping out with a lightness that betrayed you.
Sebastian’s laugh was a sudden, sharp chord of music. For a second, the roar of the Abu Dhabi crowd faded into a dull hum, leaving only the scent of champagne and the electric, terrifying pull of something that felt far more dangerous than a 200-mile-per-hour chicane.
9th November 2009
The flight back to Nigeria was a blur of jet lag and heavy silence, a short trip that felt like a plunge into an ice-cold lake. You had booked the ticket on a whim, a sudden need to touch the red earth and breathe the humid air of home before the next season's madness began, yet the closer you got to the tarmac, the more you realized you still didn't know what to do.
You had only sent a clipped, hurried text to your brother, Eseosa, telling him you were coming; he had responded with a string of chaotic emojis and a voice note that nearly blew out your phone's speakers in sheer excitement.
But as the plane descended, the familiar knot of anxiety tightened in your gut—you had no idea what you were going to say to your mother, who still viewed your racing suit as a costume and your victory as a stubborn rebellion.
You stepped off the plane and were immediately swallowed by the oppressive, wonderful heat of Lagos, the air thick with the smell of diesel fumes and roasted corn.
You kept your headphones clamped tight over your ears, the volume cranked high to drown out the sudden surge of sensory overload, acting as a portable wall between you and the world.
You felt like a ghost returning to a house that had already forgotten how to hold you, your fingers tracing the cold metal of the trophy tucked securely in your luggage.
Every step toward the waiting car felt like a gamble, a slow walk toward a collision you weren't sure you could survive.
By the time you reached the front gate, Eseosa was already there, a blur of limbs and loud shouting as he practically tackled you into the dust. He didn't care about the prestige of the podium or the politics of the paddock; he just gripped your shoulders and beamed, his eyes wide with a pride that didn't require a press conference.
You let yourself lean into him for a moment, the armor slipping just enough for a jagged breath to escape.
But then, the front door creaked open, and your mother stepped out into the sunlight, her face a mask of stern expectations and silent questions, and you realized the hardest race of your life hadn't even started yet.
"You are home," she said, her voice flat and devoid of the celebration you had imagined. She didn't look at the luggage, and she certainly didn't look at the gold trophy peeking out from the bag.
Her gaze remained fixed on your face, noting the exhaustion in your eyes and the headphones still hugging your ears like a shield. "Why are you here, and why are you not in a lecture hall?"
You felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, the weight of a thousand medical textbooks pressing down on your shoulders. You slowly lowered the headphones, the silence of the yard feeling heavier than any G-force you'd ever pulled in a turn.
"I won, Mama," you whispered, your voice cracking as you reached into the bag and held out the trophy, its gold surface reflecting the harsh Nigerian sun. "I actually won."
"A trophy is not a degree, and gold does not heal a broken bone," she replied, her voice cutting through the humid air with clinical precision. "Do you think the people in this neighborhood care about a fast car when they are sick? Do you think your father's heart had been beating faster because you drove in a circle?"
She stepped closer, her eyes scanning your lean frame as if looking for the failure she had already decided was there. "When your father died, where were you?"
The question was a blunt force trauma, a sudden collision that left you breathless and reeling
You looked at your mother's eyes—hard, glittering, and brimming with a grief that had no place for a podium finish.
The victory that had felt like a shield in Abu Dhabi was now nothing more than a piece of polished metal, incapable of bridging the chasm between you.
"I was in the car, Mama, I was fighting for my life!" you snapped, the anger finally bubbling over the surface of your shock. "Did you even watch? Did you even check the results, or were you too busy calculating which medical school would have been more prestigious?"
She didn't flinch, her expression remaining as static as a frozen frame. "The world does not stop for a race, and a family does not wait for a trophy to come home and mourn."
"But I did it for him!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat and echoing off the compound walls. "He was the one who told me the wind felt like music, he was the one who didn't care about the degree!"
Your mother paused, her gaze flickering toward the gold trophy in your shaking hands, and for a fleeting second, the mask of clinical indifference cracked, revealing a raw, bleeding wound of loss.
She didn't speak, but the silence was more suffocating than any helmet, a heavy blanket of unspoken grief that made the humid air feel like lead in your lungs.
"Mama, please, just look at it!" Eseosa shouted, stepping between you both and nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
He grabbed the trophy from your grip, hoisting it high with a manic grin, his voice cracking with a desperate need to bridge the gap. "She didn't just drive in circles, she beat the best in the world!?"
Your mother didn't answer him; she simply turned on her heel and walked back into the house, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the courtyard.
The sudden vacuum of her presence left the air shimmering with heat and tension, leaving you and your brother standing in a silence so thick it felt like water.
You let out a long, shuddering sigh, the adrenaline of the argument evaporating into a cold, hollow ache in your chest. "That went better than expected," you muttered, glancing at the closed door. "Can we go see father?"
Eseosa’s expression softened, his manic energy dipping into something quieter and more somber as he led you toward the back of the property.
The garden was overgrown, the scent of damp earth and jasmine clashing with the lingering smell of exhaust that seemed to cling to your skin regardless of how many times you showered.
You walked past the rows of neatly trimmed hedges to the small, shaded alcove where your father’s memorial stone sat, half-hidden by a weeping fig tree.
You knelt in the dirt, the expensive fabric of your trousers staining brown, and carefully placed the gold trophy at the base of the marble.
For a long time, you just stayed there, your forehead resting against the cool stone, letting the silence of the garden swallow the noise of the world.
You didn't pray but you whispered the telemetry of the final lap, the exact pressure of the brake pedal at turn seven, and the way the air felt when you finally crossed the line.
You told him about the champagne and the roar of the crowd, and how for one singular moment, you felt like you weren't just a passenger in your own life. As you pulled away, the dirt beneath your fingernails felt more honest than any handshake you'd received in the paddock.
The quiet of the afternoon was punctured by the sharp, frantic vibration of your phone in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a string of messages from Sebastian, his texts arriving in a chaotic barrage of emojis and frantic questioning.
“WHERE ARE YOU??”
“Is the jet okay??”
“Did you eat? I bet you haven’t eaten. Please tell me you’re eating that jollof rice and not just staring at a wall.”
You stared at the screen, the blue light clashing with the orange hue of the setting sun, and felt a sudden, sharp ache of longing for the golden noise he brought into every room.
You looked back at the marble stone, the gold of the trophy reflecting the last of the daylight.
You smiled. "Father, i wish you could have met Sebastian, you would have liked him so much," you whispered, the words feeling light and effortless in the stillness.
You imagined him here, in this humid garden, probably trying to explain the aerodynamics of a front wing to a headstone while accidentally knocking over a vase of lilies.
He was the only person who didn't ask you to be a version of yourself that fit into a pre-cut mold, and in the silence of the memorial, you realized that was the only kind of validation that actually mattered. . . .
Summary: Lando asks you to be friends with benefits in exchange for money and you agree so you could pay your mom's medical bills
Song: Belong To The City · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room hummed with a sound that seemed to vibrate directly inside your skull. You stared at the stack of invoices on your lap, the numbers blurring into a mocking stream of zeros.
Your mother’s recovery was no longer a matter of medicine; it was a matter of logistics, and you were running out of ways to manufacture hope.
You were working three jobs, but the math never favored you. That was when the offer came—not from a loan shark, but from the person whose face was plastered on every billboard in Monaco.
Lando Norris.
You had met him through a freelance graphic design gig for his racing team. He was charming, albeit guarded, hidden behind the polished veneer of a global superstar.
When he found you crying in the back of the hospitality tent, he didn't offer empty platitudes. He offered a transaction.
"I need someone," he had said, his eyes scanning the room to ensure no one was listening. "No strings, no prying eyes, no dating rumors that stick. Just… benefits. I’ll pay whatever debt you’re hiding. I know you’re struggling."
It felt transactional, cold, almost insulting. But when the hospital called to say the billing department was cutting off her physical therapy, you didn't have the luxury of pride.
"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll do it."
The arrangement was clinical at first. You would arrive at his apartment late at night, the security guards waving you through like a ghost. You were a secret kept in the dark, a phantom lover for a man who lived his life in the glare of the spotlight.
For the first few weeks, it was easy to keep your heart locked away. You looked at the wire transfers in your bank account, watched the medical bills vanish one by one, and felt a sense of relief so profound it eclipsed everything else.
He was a good lover—attentive, gentle, and surprisingly lonely. He talked to you about the pressure of the track, the crushing weight of public expectation, and the way he felt like he was constantly performing.
You listened, not because you wanted to, but because you were there. But somewhere around the third month, the lines began to blur.
You started remembering the way he pushed his hair out of his eyes when he was focused on his sim rig. You started remembering the specific, soft sound of his laugh—not the one he gave for the cameras, but the one he gave when you told him a joke about your neighbor’s cat.
The money stopped being the point.
One Tuesday in November, as he slept beside you, you watched the moonlight catch the sharp line of his jaw. You realized with a jolt of terror that you were no longer staying for the money.
You were staying because you wanted to hold him when he woke up. You were falling in love with a man who viewed you, fundamentally, as a necessity to cope with his fame.
The realization made your chest ache. You knew how this ended. You were a temporary fix for a permanent struggle. The next day, you left.
You didn't leave a note; you just emptied your locker at the team office, changed your number, and fled to a small coastal town three hours away, taking a job at a quiet bookstore.
Two months passed. You lived in a fragile bubble of peace, reading books and trying to piece your heart back together. Then, on a rainy Thursday, the bell above the bookstore door chimed.
You were behind the counter, reorganizing a stack of thrillers, when the air in the shop seemed to shift. You looked up, and your breath hitched.
Lando was standing there, drenched, his racing jacket soaked through. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with a familiar, restless red. He didn't look like a celebrity; he looked like a man who had been searching for something he couldn't name.
"I have a lot of security," he said, his voice raw. "But I told them to stay in the car. I just wanted to see if you’d run."
You gripped the counter to stop your hands from trembling. "Lando. You shouldn't be here."
"Why?" he asked, stepping closer. The smell of rain and expensive cologne clung to him. "Why did you disappear? I kept paying the bills, you know. I assumed you were still using the account, but you haven't touched it."
"I don't need it," you said, your voice shaking. "My mom… she’s stable now. A clinical trial opened up, and the insurance covered it. I don't need your money, Lando."
He stared at you, his brow furrowed. "So that was it? It was just the money? You let me think—" He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. "I thought I’d done something. I thought you were just tired of the arrangement."
"I was tired of the arrangement," you admitted, the truth tearing its way out of your throat. "But not because of the money. I was tired because I was falling for you, and you were paying me to be a side-effect of your life. I couldn't do it anymore."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the rhythmic tapping of rain against the window. Lando blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to something much more vulnerable.
"You were falling for me?" he whispered.
"It’s not hard to do," you said, turning your head away to hide the tears. "You’re lonely, and you’re kind, and you’re so incredibly human when the helmet is off. But I’m not a contract, Lando. I’m a person."
He stepped around the counter, ignoring the personal space you tried to maintain. He reached out, his hand hovering before he finally took yours. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold rain on his jacket.
"I didn't offer you that deal to be cruel," he said, his gaze locked intensely with yours. "I offered it because I didn't know how else to get close to you. I was terrified of rejection. I’m an idiot, I know. I’m great at driving cars, but I’m absolute garbage at being a person."
You looked up at him, shocked. "What?"
"I’ve liked you since the first day you walked into the hospitality tent," he confessed, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "I saw you trying to handle your life, trying to be strong, and all I wanted was to protect you. I used the money as a shield. I thought if there was a transaction involved, you wouldn't be able to just leave. I was wrong."
He squeezed your hand, his thumb tracing the pulse at your wrist. "I don't want friends with benefits, Y/N. I want… I want to be the person you come to when you’re not struggling. I want to be the one you talk to when the day is good, too."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "You mean that?"
"I’ve spent the last two months miserable," he said, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "I realized that the money didn't matter. The fame didn't matter. I just kept looking for your face in every crowd. I’m not asking you to take my money. I’m asking you to take my hand."
You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the sincerity in his eyes. The transaction was over. The debt was settled, but the history remained. You realized then that you didn't have to choose between your dignity and your heart.
"You're a mess, Lando Norris," you whispered, a smile finally breaking through your defenses.
"A mess who's absolutely in love with you," he countered, stepping closer until his forehead rested against yours. "Is that enough of a confession, or do I need to win a championship to prove it?"
You laughed, a genuine, light sound that filled the quiet bookstore. "I think this is a pretty good start."
He leaned in, his kiss hesitant at first, then deepening with a promise that had nothing to do with contracts or zeros in a bank account. It was the beginning of something real, something that didn't need to be kept in the dark.
As the rain continued to fall outside, you realized that the hospital bills had been the cost of entry, but the life you were about to build with him was the reward you never expected to earn. . . .
Summary: Crashing your boyfriends twitch live was not how you wanted to hard launch. . . .
Song: 22 · JayO
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hum of the high-end gaming PC in Lando’s Monaco apartment was a sound you had grown accustomed to over the last six months.
It was a low, rhythmic vibration that usually signaled quiet nights in, takeaway boxes on the coffee table, and the two of you curled up on the oversized white sectional while he finished his post-race analysis or idled in a lobby with his friends.
But tonight, the air felt different. Thicker.
You were in the kitchen, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea and wearing nothing more than one of Lando’s oversized, charcoal-gray team hoodies and a pair of fuzzy socks.
You’d spent the last hour trying to finish a book, but the faint, rapid-fire sound of Lando’s voice drifting from his office had caught your ear. He was live.
You knew he’d mentioned a stream, but you’d assumed it was a solo session—something lighthearted before the Grand Prix weekend in Silverstone.
You stood up, intending to head to the bedroom to give him privacy, but a sudden jolt of hunger—the kind only a 2:00 AM snack could cure—sent you veering toward the fridge instead.
Mistake number one.
You grabbed a carton of orange juice, forgetting to check if the office door was closed. It was ajar, a sliver of blue LED light cutting through the dim hallway.
You walked past, thinking nothing of it, until you heard the distinct, sharp click-clack of his mechanical keyboard cease.
"Wait, guys, hold on," Lando said. His voice was bright, full of the effortless charm he reserved for his fans.
You stopped, frozen in the doorway. You were mid-sip, the carton pressed to your lips, hair messy from a nap, wearing his hoodie that swallowed your frame.
Mistake number two.
You didn’t just walk past. You stumbled. You had tripped over your own fuzzy-socked feet, letting out a sharp "Oof!" as you pitched forward, instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.
Your hand landed squarely on the doorframe, swinging it wide open with a creak that sounded like a gunshot in the silent apartment.
In your disorientation, you didn't look at the screen. You looked at Lando. He was sitting there in his headset, his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, his mouth slightly agape.
"Lando, I—" you started, your voice raspy.
"Oh, shit," he breathed, but it wasn't an angry sound. It was the sound of a man watching his entire carefully constructed private life implode in four-K resolution.
He didn't move to hide the screen. He didn't slam the door. He just sat there, frozen, staring at you, while the chat on his second monitor began to scroll so fast it looked like a flickering waterfall of white light.
Even from the doorway, your eyes caught a few phrases: 'WHO IS THAT?', 'LANDO??', 'IS THAT A GIRL?', 'WAIT, NO WAY.'
"You're live," you whispered, the realization dawning on you with the cold dread of a thousand icy needles.
Lando finally blinked, his gaze darting from you to the camera, then back to you. A slow, panicked grin began to spread across his face—the kind he usually reserved for when he’d locked up his tires on the final lap.
"Yeah," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I am. I, uh… I think the whole world knows, actually."
You felt your face go hot, a deep, burning crimson that surely went all the way to your ears. You tried to retreat, to back out of the room like a ghost, but your socks betrayed you again, slipping on the hardwood floor.
You let out a squeak of embarrassment, clutching the orange juice to your chest like a shield.
Lando let out a laugh—a genuine, breathless sound that didn't belong in a professional stream. He pulled his headset down around his neck, looking at his chat for a split second before ignoring it entirely to look at you.
"Don't run away," he said, his tone softening, losing the performative edge.
"Lando, I’m wearing your hoodie," you hissed, gesturing wildly at your attire. "I look like a swamp creature. People are going to—everyone is going to—"
"Everyone is going to see that you’re perfect?" he countered, standing up from his chair.
The chat was a riot. You could hear the faint dings of donations coming in, each one tagged with increasingly frantic messages. Lando didn't care. He walked toward you, his movements fluid and calm.
When he reached you, he didn't try to hide you from the camera's line of sight. Instead, he reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
"They've been asking me for months if I'm seeing anyone," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "I think you just did the hard launch for me. Saved me the effort of a press release."
"I am going to kill you," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs, a mixture of adrenaline and terrifying affection.
"Come here," he said.
He didn't pull you into the frame, but he turned slightly, shielding you from the direct angle of the lens while remaining visible himself. He looked into the camera, his expression shifting from panic to a sort of defiant, boyish pride.
The boy who usually kept his cards close to his chest, who warded off tabloid rumors with jokes and deflections, was suddenly dropping the act.
"Right," Lando said to the stream, his voice steadying. "So. That happened."
He looked back at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Guys, I’d introduce you properly, but I have a feeling she’s going to make me sleep on the couch if I do. So, let’s just call this the most chaotic stream of the year and move on, yeah?"
He looked at you, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous light. "You want orange juice?"
You let out a laugh, the tension finally snapping. You looked at him—really looked at him—the man who belonged to the world, the man who was currently trying to navigate the biggest social media dumpster fire of his career just to make you feel comfortable.
"I want to go back to bed," you said, stepping back and tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands.
"Fair," he said. He glanced at the camera one last time, gave a quick, sheepish wave, and reached for his mouse. "Stream’s over, guys. Seriously. Go get some sleep. I’ve clearly got a situation to handle."
With a swift motion, he clicked End Stream.
The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. The blue light died, replaced by the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp. You stood there, the orange juice carton still clutched in your hand, watching him as he turned back to you.
"Well," he said, stepping into your personal space and wrapping his arms around your waist. "That was definitely a way to do it."
"I am so sorry," you laughed, leaning your forehead against his chest. "I didn't mean to destroy your reputation."
Lando hummed, pulling you tighter until the scent of his cologne filled your senses, masking the smell of the room. "My reputation is fine. If anything, it’s improved. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, and frankly, I was getting tired of pretending I wasn't the luckiest guy in the paddock."
He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hands rubbing circles into your back.
"Besides," he whispered against your skin, "the internet is going to go crazy for twenty-four hours, and then they'll move on to the next thing. But you? You’re staying right here."
You looked up at him, seeing the genuine relief in his eyes—not just that the stream was over, but that the secret was out. The hard launch hadn't been a red-carpet event or a staged paparazzi shot. It had been messy, loud, and entirely you.
"You're not mad?" you asked.
"Mad?" He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "I’m relieved. Now I don’t have to keep checking the locks on the doors when I want to order dinner for two."
He took the orange juice from your hand and set it on the nearby side table. "Come on. Let’s go watch something mindless until the sun comes up. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night."
As he guided you out of the office, you caught a glimpse of his monitor, frozen on the chat window. A final, stray message caught your eye before the screen went black: 'Okay, they're actually cute. I'll allow it.'
You smiled, burying your face in his shirt. The world might have just found out, but in the quiet of the apartment, it felt like nothing had changed at all—except that the secret was finally yours to share.
The next morning, the world didn't just move on. It exploded.
You woke up to the soft, rhythmic buzzing of your phone on the bedside table. Lando was still fast asleep, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his breathing steady and rhythmic. You reached out, your movements sluggish, and tapped the screen.
Twitter, Instagram, TikTok.
The notifications were endless. Someone had screen-recorded the moment of your 'arrival.' It was being remixed with dramatic music, slowed down, zoomed in, and analyzed pixel by pixel.
'Lando Girlfriend was trending number one in the UK, Italy, and half of Europe.'
You sat up, the duvet pooling around your waist, and scrolls through the madness. There were memes of you tripping, memes of Lando’s face, and, surprisingly, a sea of comments that were… kind?
“He looks so happy, though,” one comment read. “Look at his eyes when he turns around.”
“The hoodie! It’s the team-issued one from 2022. They’ve been together for ages!”
“I’m just glad he has someone to look after him after a race.”
You felt a strange, warm sensation in your chest. You’d always feared this—the scrutiny, the comparison to the glamour of the paddock, the inevitable judgment.
But looking at the clips, seeing the way Lando hadn’t hesitated, hadn't tried to distance himself or make a joke of your appearance, you felt a new layer of security settle into your bones.
Lando stirred, his hand sliding across the sheets to find you. He groaned, eyes still squeezed shut, and pulled you back down toward him.
"What time is it?" he mumbled against your neck, his voice thick with sleep.
"Late," you whispered. "And the internet has officially lost its mind."
Lando let out a short, sleepy laugh, his arms tightening around you. "Let them. They have nothing better to do." He opened one eye, peering at your phone screen before swatting it away onto the rug. "Stop reading it. I told you, they don’t matter."
"People want to know who I am," you said, resting your chin on his chest.
"And I’m going to tell them," he said, finally opening both eyes. He looked at you with such intensity that the noise of the internet seemed to vanish. "When I’m ready. And when you’re ready. But for now, they can just keep guessing."
He pulled the duvet up over both of your heads, creating a small, dark sanctuary away from the light of the bedroom.
"Does this mean I have to hide if you go on stream again?" you asked, leaning in closer.
Lando chuckled, a vibration you could feel through his chest. "No. It means next time, I’m going to make sure you’re sitting right next to me."
You spent the rest of the morning in the cocoon of his room, the world clamoring for a piece of the story, while you stayed tucked away in the reality of it.
You watched him struggle to navigate his messages, his phone buzzing incessantly until he finally threw it into the bathroom.
"Turn it off," he commanded, pulling you into his arms. "Today is for us. Silverstone is tomorrow, and the media pen is going to be a nightmare. I’m claiming today as a neutral ground."
You laughed, the sound muffled by his hoodie—the same one you’d worn the night before, still smelling faintly of his laundry detergent.
As the afternoon light began to shift, casting long shadows across the room, the reality of the weekend started to sink in. Silverstone. The home race.
The pressure of the fans, the intensity of the team, the sheer scale of the event you were about to walk into, now with the world watching through a different lens.
Lando seemed to sense your hesitation. He shifted, lifting your chin with his fingers so you were forced to look at him.
"Hey," he said softly. "Whatever happens at the track, you stick with me. You know how the garage works. Stay in the hospitality, stay behind the scenes if you want. Nobody touches you. If anyone asks, you’re my guest, you’re my world, and they can deal with it."
"I'm not scared," you lied, though your heart was doing a frantic dance. "I'm just…"
"Overwhelmed?" he finished for you, his gaze compassionate.
You nodded. "Yeah. That."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "We’ll take it one corner at a time. Like I do. Just keep your eyes on me, and don't listen to the grandstands."
That night, you didn't go out. You ordered food—two pizzas, extra cheese, just like he liked—and spent hours talking about everything except racing.
You talked about the books you were reading, the places you wanted to travel to when the season finally ended, and the mundane, boring things that make a relationship real.
It was during one of these moments, while you were arguing over the best way to slice the pizza, that he stopped. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the playfulness in his eyes faded into something deeper, something permanent.
"You know," he started, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’ve been waiting for a reason to stop trying to be the 'Lando' everyone expects. You’re the only person who sees the guy behind the helmet. And I’m so glad you’re here."
"I’m not going anywhere," you promised, feeling the weight of the last twenty-four hours lift. "Even if I accidentally crash every stream you ever do."
Lando laughed, a loud, unbridled sound that echoed in the quiet living room. "If you do, I’ll just make sure the camera is pointed at us next time."
He leaned over and kissed you, slow and deliberate, a grounding force in the middle of a world that had suddenly decided to rotate around the two of you.
The next morning, the reality of Silverstone began. The drive to the track was a blur of security and fast cars, but as you stepped out of the SUV and saw the sea of orange jerseys stretching toward the horizon, you realized something.
Lando was right. The fans weren't there to judge you. They were there for him. And as he reached out, taking your hand in front of the team principals and the assembled media, he didn't look at them. He looked at you.
He squeezed your hand, a silent message that traveled from his palm to yours, a promise you had made in the dark of his apartment.
One corner at a time.
As he walked you toward the paddock, the flashing of cameras began—a rhythmic, blinding strobe light that would have terrified you yesterday.
But Lando didn't flinch. He walked with his head held high, his grip on your hand firm and unapologetic.
He didn't make a speech. He didn't issue a statement. He simply existed, with you by his side, proving that the 'hard launch' wasn't the end of the world. It was just the beginning of a life you’d get to live together, right in the middle of the noise.
And as you passed the final turn, heading into the heart of the paddock, you realized that the most important thing wasn't the cameras, or the fans, or the headlines.
It was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching—with a pride that made you feel like you were the only person in the entire world.
He slowed down near his garage, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.
"Ready?" he asked, his eyes dancing.
You looked at the crowd, then back at him, and smiled.
Hi, I don't know if you saw the Barcelona Fan Zone video of last year, where Lewis says that Charles is a great singer, that he can sing, so thinking about it, I was thinking about a story in which the reader is close to Charles (she can be the Leclerc sister or his partner) and she is a singer and she releases a new album where in this album there is some music where there is a background voice, a male voice and it's Charles, but no one knows and someone found out or she tells in some podcast or something like that. (I'm sorry for the bad English. English is not my first language. I'm trying not to use the translator)
—🇧🇷🦚
Masked Singer
Summary: Your fans hear a familiar voice in one of your songs and track it down to a popular F1 driver....
Song: Brazil · Declan McKenna
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
The first time you heard Charles Leclerc sing, it wasn't on a stage or in a studio—it was in the shower of his Monaco apartment, steam fogging the mirrors as his off-key rendition of Queen’s "Somebody to Love" echoed off the tiles.
You’d been dating for three months, still in that secret, giddy phase where every stolen kiss felt like a rebellion against the world, and his terrible, enthusiastic vocals only made your chest ache with affection.
"You’re murdering Freddie Mercury," you’d laughed, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, but he’d just grinned, soapy hair dripping, and belted the chorus louder.
Months later, when you were hunched over your laptop in a dimly lit recording studio, wrestling with the final track of your album, it hit you—the raw, unfiltered warmth of his voice was exactly what the song needed.
Not the polished perfection of a session singer, but something alive, something real.
You didn’t tell him when you slipped the recording into the mix, just layered his harmonies under yours like a secret pressed between the pages of a book.
The album blew up faster than anyone expected. Critics raved about the "mysterious, haunting" backing vocals on Silhouettes, your breakout single, and fans dissected every note, speculating about the unnamed collaborator.
You bit your tongue through interviews, deflecting questions with practiced smiles, until the night a podcast host slid a question across the table like a loaded gun: "Who’s the man on track seven? The internet’s losing its mind."
Your pulse thudded in your throat. Charles was halfway across the world, preparing for qualifying in Singapore, blissfully unaware that his shower singing was about to become a global mystery.
The host leaned in, eyebrows raised. "Come on," they teased. "Who’s your secret weapon?"
You exhaled, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The truth tasted electric on your tongue—how Charles had protested when you first asked him ("I sound like a dying goat!"), how he’d eventually caved after two glasses of wine, laughing into the mic as you hit record.
"Someone very special," you said carefully, and the host’s eyes lit up like you’d handed them a map to buried treasure.
You didn’t say his name, didn’t even hint at the way his voice cracked on the high notes when he got nervous, or how he’d buried his face in your shoulder afterward, groaning about how he’d "ruined your career."
The podcast buzzed with speculation—was it a famous producer? A childhood friend?—while you traced the rim of your water glass, biting back a smile.
Charles called you that night, breathless between practice laps. "They’re saying it’s Ed Sheeran," he hissed, and you could hear the grin in his voice, the way he was trying so hard not to laugh. "Should I tell them it’s just me?"
"Don’t you dare," you warned, but your voice was soft, fond. The secret thrummed between you like a live wire, exhilarating and dangerous.
By morning, the internet had spun a dozen theories, but no one guessed the truth—that the voice haunting every chorus belonged to Ferrari’s golden boy, who’d sung it barefoot in your kitchen at 3 AM, half-asleep and achingly sincere.
You spent the next few days holed up in his Monaco apartment, curtains drawn against the paparazzi’s lenses, playing the album on loop just to watch his reactions.
Charles would freeze mid-bite of croissant when his own voice floated through the speakers, cheeks flushing as if he couldn’t believe it was really him layered under yours.
"It sounds… professional," he mumbled once, staring at the ceiling like the words embarrassed him, and you laughed, pressing replay on Silhouettes just to hear him groan.
The third night, wine-drunk and giddy, you caught him humming your bridge in the shower—this time on-key, like he’d practiced when no one was listening.
You recorded it on your phone, the steam distorting his voice into something dreamlike, and sent it to your producer with a single line: Next album’s secret weapon. He replied with a string of exclamation marks.
Then came the tour.
You knew Charles would be watching from home—he’d texted you a blurry selfie from his couch, grinning with the TV remote in hand—but nothing prepared you for the moment the backing track for Silhouettes cut out mid-chorus.
The crowd’s murmur swelled as your own voice faltered—then his voice surged through the speakers, live and raw, harmonizing with yours like he was standing right there.
The audience gasped. You whirled toward the wings, heart hammering, just as a figure stepped onto the stage—hooded, masked, gripping a mic like he owned it.
The spotlight caught the glint of his Rolex as he lifted the mic to his lips, and you knew. Charles’ voice, unpracticed and achingly familiar, filled the arena as he slid into the verse you’d written about him.
The mask hid his face, but not the way his free hand found yours in the darkness, squeezing tight.
Later, backstage, he’d yank the mask off with a breathless laugh, hair mussed from the fabric. "I panicked," he admitted, pressing his forehead to yours. "Forgot the words."
You kissed him, tasting adrenaline and the champagne he’d stolen from your rider. The crowd was still screaming—for an encore, for answers—but all you heard was his whisper: Again?
Two days later, a paparazzi shot of Charles leaving your tour bus at dawn went viral—his jacket zipped to his chin, your lipstick smudged on his collar—and the internet imploded.
Fans spliced the podcast audio with clips of him singing karaoke in Monaco bars years ago, the evidence damning in its imperfection. Ferrari’s PR team sent seventeen unanswered texts, while your manager screamed into her phone about "leverage" and "brand synergy."
You ignored them all, curled in the hollow of Charles’ chest as he scrolled through memes comparing his vocals to "a lovesick seagull."
don’t know if requests are allowed, but if they are, can you please do a max x yn version of the my husband one shot you wrote for oscar x yn? love all your works btw ❤️
Husband?
Summary: Max realizes how much he needs you after you call him your husband.....
Song: Starboy· The Weeknd
Author’s note: I LOVE this idea! Thanks for requesting it! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Husband," you murmur sleepily into the phone at 3 AM, your voice thick with exhaustion and the remnants of a dream you can't quite remember.
Then silence—not the comfortable kind, but the heavy, breathless pause where you both realize what you've said, what slipped out unfiltered in that hazy twilight between sleep and waking.
The line crackles, and you can practically feel Max freeze on the other end, his usual quick-fire Dutch sarcasm nowhere to be found.
You scramble upright so fast you knee your laptop off the bed, the thud loud enough to cover your choked, "I mean—shit, sorry, I didn’t—" but Max still doesn’t speak.
You can hear the distant hum of his simulator rig in the background, the faint tap of his fingers against the steering wheel—nervous, restless. You’ve heard that sound enough times after bad quali sessions to know what it means.
"Did you just—" he starts, stops, then exhales sharply through his nose, and oh God, you know that sound too.
That’s his I’m-not-laughing-but-I-want-to exhale, the one he does when he’s trying not to give you the satisfaction. Except this isn’t a joke. You weren’t joking. And he knows it.
You press your forehead into your palm, fingertips digging into your scalp hard enough to hurt. You need to backtrack, to laugh it off, but your throat won’t cooperate.
Because the truth is, you’ve thought it before. Not the word, maybe, but the weight of it—the stupid, reckless want of it, curled up in the dark corners of your chest every time he calls you after races, voice raw with adrenaline and something softer, something just for you.
And now he’s still not speaking. And you’re not breathing. And the silence stretches like the longest straight at Monza, endless and terrifying and—
"You’re an idiot," Max finally says, but his voice is all wrong—not sharp, not teasing, just quiet. Like he’s holding something fragile between his teeth and doesn’t know whether to bite down or let go.
You hear the creak of his simulator seat as he shifts, the rustle of fabric against the mic, and then, softer: "Say it again."
Your lungs stop. Your fingers tremble. Because that’s not a question. It’s not a joke. It’s a dare—the kind he only throws down when he’s already decided he’s winning, when he’s got the inside line and he’s daring you to try and take it from him.
So you do. You swallow the lump in your throat, dig your nails deeper into your palm, and whisper, "Husband," like it’s a secret, like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.
And this time, the silence doesn’t scare you. This time, you can hear him smiling.
Max exhales sharply—not the controlled, measured breath of a driver on lap fifty-eight, but something raw and unguarded, something human.
"Fuck," he mutters, and you can hear the grin in it, the way his voice dips and curls around the word like he’s savoring it. "You’re lucky I’m not there right now."
You know exactly what he means. You can picture it too clearly—the way his hands would slide over your hips, the way he’d crowd you against the nearest surface, the way he’d kiss you like he’s trying to prove something.
But he’s not here. He’s in Milton Keynes, and you’re in Monaco, and the distance between you has never felt heavier.
"Tell me anyway," you say, and it’s barely a challenge, just a plea. Because you need to hear it—the way his voice goes rough when he’s imagining it, the way he’ll describe every filthy, perfect detail like he’s mapping out a new racing line. A
nd Max, because he’s Max, doesn’t hesitate. "Okay," he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s already picturing it. "But you’re not allowed to hang up."
You can hear him shifting again, the creak of his seat, the rustle of fabric as he adjusts—like he’s settling in for this, like he’s making space for you in the middle of his night.
"First," he starts, voice dropping lower, "I’d pin you against the door before you could even apologize." His thumb taps the wheel again—restless, impatient. "And then I’d make you say it again. Properly."
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. Because you know that tone. That’s his I’m-winning-this voice, the one he uses when he’s got DRS and he’s not letting go.
"And then?" you prompt, just to hear him growl.
Max laughs, dark and warm, and you can almost feel it against your skin. "Then," he murmurs, "I’d remind you what happens when you call me that." The line crackles with static, or maybe it’s just your pulse in your ears. "Starting with your mouth."
Your breath hitches. He’s never talked like this before—not outright, not like he’s peeling back layers of himself just to see you squirm. You hear the clink of his water bottle hitting the desk, the scrape of his chair as he leans back.
"Would you let me?" you ask, because you’re already sinking into the fantasy, already picturing the way his hands would tighten in your hair.
"Let you?" Max echoes, incredulous. "No." The word lands like a slap, delicious and sharp. "I’d make you." His voice drops to a whisper, so low you have to press the phone tighter to your ear. "Just like I’d make you say it again after. And again. Until you forgot any other word."
You swallow hard. The silence stretches, charged and electric, until Max exhales—long and slow, like he’s trying to steady himself. "Fuck," he mutters again, but this time it sounds like surrender. "You’re really not hanging up, are you?"
"No," you whisper, because you’re not sure you could even if you wanted to. Your fingers are numb where they clutch the phone, your pulse hammering in your throat. "Neither are you."
He huffs a laugh—short, breathless. "No," he admits, and the honesty in it is staggering. "But we should." Neither of you moves. The simulator hums in the background, a distant, mechanical heartbeat.
Then Max’s voice drops, rough and urgent, like he’s leaning closer even though he’s miles away. "Say it one more time," he demands, and it’s not a request. It’s a last-ditch plea, a final gamble before the checkered flag. "Just once."
You hesitate—not because you don’t want to, but because you know what it’ll do to him, to you, to whatever thin veneer of control you’ve both been clinging to.
But then you hear him shift again, hear the soft curse under his breath, and you cave. "Husband," you murmur, dragging the word out slow, deliberate, just to feel him unravel.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, you think he’s hung up. Then— "Fucking hell," he grits out, his accent thickening around the edges. "You’re killing me."
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s thick with everything unsaid, every unspooled thread of want between you. You can hear the faintest tap of his fingers against the wheel again, restless, like he’s searching for something to grip.
"Max," you start, but he cuts you off with a quiet, ragged laugh. "Don’t," he says. "Not unless you want me on the next flight to Monaco."
The threat—no, the promise—hangs between you, electric. You picture him already halfway out of his seat, keys in hand, that same reckless determination he wears on track flashing in his eyes.
You bite your lip harder. "You wouldn’t."
"Try me," he shoots back, and you can hear the grin in his voice, the challenge. It’s the same tone he uses when he’s daring you to bet against him, when he knows he’s already won.
You swallow hard, your throat dry. The line crackles with static, or maybe it’s just the sound of your resolve crumbling.
Then, softer, almost hesitant: "Would you want me to?"
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s so painfully honest. No bravado, no games. Just Max, laid bare, waiting for your answer like it’s the only thing that matters.
You press the phone tighter to your ear, as if closing the distance between you could somehow make this easier. Your pulse thrums in your throat, wild and insistent.
"Yes," you admit, the word cracking down the middle. "God, yes."
The silence that follows is deafening. Then—the scrape of his chair, the jangle of keys, the muffled thud of something hitting the floor.
"Then pack a bag," he says, voice rough with urgency. "I’m not waiting until morning."
Your breath stutters. This isn’t hypothetical anymore. This is Max, barreling toward you at full throttle, no safety net, no second thoughts.
You can already picture him—jaw set, hands tight on the wheel, the same unshakable focus he reserves for pole laps now laser-locked on you. "You’re serious," you whisper, half-disbelief, half-giddy terror.
"Dead serious," he growls, and the line goes abruptly silent—not because he’s hung up, but because he’s already moving, already halfway out the door.
You hear the distant beep of his car unlocking, the engine roaring to life like a promise. Then, just before the call cuts out: "Say it again when I get there."
You’re left clutching your phone, your chest heaving like you’ve just sprinted the length of the pit lane. The room spins, or maybe it’s just your head, dizzy with the sheer impossibility of what’s happening.
Max Verstappen—stubborn, relentless, impossible Max—is coming for you in the middle of the night because of one stupid, accidental word.
You don’t pack a bag. You don’t even move. You just stand there, pulse hammering, staring at the door like you can already see him through it—like he’s already winning, already taking the corner at full throttle, already yours.
And then you laugh, sharp and disbelieving, because of course he would. Of course he’d turn a slip of the tongue into a checkpoint, a finish line, a reason to burn rubber across two countries just to prove a point.
Because that’s Max. That’s always been Max. And you—god help you—you’re already waiting.
The clock ticks past 4 AM, the numbers glowing mockingly bright in the dark. You should sit. You should sleep.
But your body thrums with restless energy, fingers tapping against your thigh in time with the imagined rhythm of his car eating up the miles between you. You wonder if he’s speeding. You know he is.
Your phone buzzes—a single text, no words, just a location pin moving steadily closer. You bite your lip hard enough to sting. It’s reckless. It’s ridiculous.
It’s the most Max thing he’s ever done. And when the doorbell finally rings, shockingly loud in the silent apartment, you realize you’re smiling.
You don’t run. You take your time, savoring the way your pulse kicks when you hear his impatient knock—two sharp raps, just like his driving style. No finesse, all intent.
You open the door, and there he is: windswept, wild-eyed, still in his home clothes like he left in such a hurry he forgot to change. His chest heaves. You don’t breathe at all.
Max steps forward before you can speak, crowding you back into the apartment with the same single-minded focus he reserves for overtakes.
His hands find your hips instantly, fingers digging in like he’s memorizing the shape of you. "Say it," he demands, voice rough with the drive, with the want, with everything he’s been holding back for months.
You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze—blue as a Monza morning, just as dangerous. "Husband," you whisper, and the word lands like a starting light, like a green flag.
He growls, low in his throat, and then his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s been waiting for this since the first time you called him yours.
Behind him, the door slams shut—his doing, probably, because Max has never been one to leave exits open. His hands slide up your sides, possessive and sure, and you realize, distantly, that you’re still smiling.
He nips at your lip, sharp enough to sting. "Stop laughing," he mutters, but he’s grinning too, breathless and bright, like he’s just taken the checkered flag.
The apartment smells like coffee and exhaustion, but Max—Max smells like speed and restless energy, like leather seats and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline.
You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging just to hear him hiss, and he retaliates by pushing you back against the nearest wall, his body flush against yours.
"You’re impossible," you gasp, but he just hums, already ducking his head to your neck, teeth scraping skin like he’s marking territory.
Then his mouth is on yours again, hot and insistent, and this time, it’s not a kiss—it’s a claim. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s mapping every inch, like he’s memorizing the taste of you, and you whimper, arching into him.
He groans, low and rough, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, tilting your head back so he can deepen the angle, so he can take more. It’s messy, desperate, perfect—like he’s been waiting forever for this, like he’s been starving.
You break for air, panting, and Max doesn’t let you go far—just enough to murmur, "Say it again," against your lips, his voice wrecked. You shiver, pressing closer, and this time, when you whisper, "Husband," it’s not an accident.
It’s a vow. His breath stutters, his grip tightening almost painfully, and then he’s kissing you again, slower this time, savoring, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into it.
Somewhere distant, his phone buzzes—probably his team, probably the world reminding him he has a race tomorrow. He ignores it, his thumb brushing your cheekbone instead, his touch unbearably soft for someone who drives like a storm.
"You’re trouble," he mutters, but he’s smiling when he says it, his nose bumping yours.
You grin back, dizzy with it, with him. "You love it." He doesn’t deny it. . .
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Hey, I had an idea for a fic for either Max or lando. From iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay " Oh, fuck it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it when we fight, and I like it when you're mean We don't have to get into what that says about meOh, shut it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I'm a couple minutes out from relapsing
Do you remember the last time this happened?" Where the driver and the reader are in a kinda toxic realtionship where they aren't in a fully committed realtionship yet and are maybe hiding the realtionship from everyone. Maybe the reader is a Charles younger sister if you're doing max but for lando it could be another driver's sister.The reader tries to end it but the driver realizes how much they messed up and need the reader?
ILoveItIHateItILoveIt
Summary: Max realizes how much he messed up and needs you.....
Song: Sweater Weather · The Neighborhood
Author’s note: I LOVE this idea! Thanks for requesting it! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The smell of burnt rubber and expensive espresso usually calms you, but today, standing in the shadows of the Red Bull hospitality motorhome, it just makes your stomach twist.
You pull your oversized designer sunglasses further down your nose, praying that nobody from the Ferrari Ferrari garage spots you here.
Nobody is supposed to know. Not the mechanics, not the media, and certainly not Charles. Your brother is fiercely protective, and if he ever found out that his younger sister was the secret outlet for Max Verstappen’s relentless intensity—the one he turns to when the track gets too suffocating—he would lose his mind.
And you? You are supposed to be smarter than this.
You hear the heavy, familiar crunch of gravel behind the motorhome. A familiar figure rounds the corner, the red and blue of his team kit smeared with grease from the simulator session.
Max’s hair is wind-whipped and messy, his blue eyes sharp and searching until they land on you. When he sees you, the sharp edges of his face soften just a fraction, a subtle change that only you are meant to catch.
"You're late," you say, your voice barely a whisper against the low hum of the air conditioning units. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to build a wall of air between you two. "I told you I was done, Max. I meant it."
Max stops a few feet away. He doesn’t crowd you, which is rare for him. Usually, he takes up all the oxygen in the room, his presence heavy and demanding. Today, he looks almost… unsteady. He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture erratic.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice gravelly from hours of radio chatter. "You can't just leave a text like that and then ignore me for twenty-four hours."
"Watch me," you retort, though your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It's over, Max. This... whatever this is. Sneaking around, fighting like we hate each other, and then pretending we don't exist the moment a camera points our way. It's toxic. You don’t even want to claim me."
A flicker of raw, unadulterated panic flashes across his face. He takes one sharp step forward, invading your space this time, his scent a mix of familiar expensive cologne and the sterile air of the paddock.
"Toxic? You think this is toxic?" Max scoffs, though there is no malice in it, only a desperate kind of fear. "Is it toxic that I need to see you before a race to clear my head? Is it toxic that all I think about when I'm on the grid is getting back to the motorhome so I can find you?"
"Yes," you hiss, refusing to look away, though your eyes are stinging with unshed tears.
"Because when the helmet comes off, I’m just your dirty little secret. You're so afraid of Charles, so afraid of what the media will say, that I'm only allowed to exist in the dark. I'm a couple of minutes out from completely breaking, Max. I can't keep relapsing into this."
Max flinches at your words, as if you’d physically struck him. He closes the distance completely, his hands hovering tentatively near your waist before he gently takes your wrists in his grip. His touch is warm, grounding, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Baby, don't say that," he pleads, his voice losing every ounce of its characteristic championship arrogance.
He looks down at you, searching your eyes as if looking for a lifeline. "I messed up. I know I did. I was so caught up in the championship, so used to keeping everything locked down and controlled, that I didn't realize what I was doing to you. I took you for granted. I thought you'd always just be there, waiting in the wings."
You pull your wrists back, but he doesn't let go—he just shifts his grip so his calloused palms hold your hands securely. "I'm not a pit stop, Max. I'm not something you visit when you need to refuel."
"I know," he whispers, leaning down so his forehead rests against yours. You close your eyes, the warmth of his breath washing over your face. "I know. Look at me, please."
You open your eyes, finding yourself drowning in his intense gaze. Max looks terrified. It’s a side of him the world never gets to see—the dominant, aggressive driver is stripped away, leaving only a boy who is genuinely scared of losing the one person who truly knows him.
"I need you," he says, the words coming out rough, as if they are physically painful for him to admit. "It’s not about hiding you. I just... I was so afraid of ruining things between us, so afraid of bringing you into this circus full-time, that I handled it in the worst way possible. I need you in my corner. I don't know how to do this without you. When you're not there, the silence is too loud."
You let out a shaky breath, the fight draining from your limbs, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness that scares you almost as much as the toxicity did. "Max, we can't just keep doing this cycle. It's destroying me."
"We won't," he promises, his thumbs gently caressing the backs of your hands. "We won't hide anymore. Not from Charles, not from anyone. If I have to fight everyone in the paddock to keep you, I will. But I need you to stay. Please. Just give me the chance to do this right."
He searches your face, his expression so open and raw that the lingering anger in your chest begins to dissolve into a heavy, quiet understanding.
You’ve both been dancing this dangerous, magnetic dance for months, pulled into each other’s orbits by the same reckless momentum that drives his car. But looking at him now, seeing the genuine remorse and need in his eyes, you realize that neither of you is ready to walk away.
You sigh, the sound trembling in the quiet space behind the motorhome. "If we do this, if we try... it has to be different, Max. No more secrets. I won't be your secret."
"No more secrets," he repeats, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips—a rare sight that makes your heart skip a beat.
He releases your hands only to wrap his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent that has become your undoing. "I'll tell Charles tonight."
You tense in his arms, pulling back slightly to look up at him. "Tonight? Are you serious?"
"Yes," Max says, his jaw tightening with determination. "I'm not losing you over a stupid fear of confrontation. I'll go to him, I'll explain. He’ll be angry, but he’ll get it eventually."
"He'll probably try to punch you," you warn, though a small, fond smile tugs at the corner of your lips.
Max chuckles—a low, quiet sound against your ear—and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "I deserve it. But I'll take whatever comes, as long as you're with me when the dust settles."
You wrap your arms around his neck, finally giving in to the overwhelming relief washing over you. The toxicity of the past few months seems to evaporate, replaced by the heavy, steady weight of his commitment.
You know there will be mountains to climb—the press, the paddock whispers, and an inevitable, explosive confrontation with your brother—but standing here in Max’s arms, none of that seems to matter.
"Okay," you murmur against his chest. "Let's do it."
Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity that promises a completely different kind of relationship. He leans down and captures your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss—not the frantic, hurried kisses you've shared in the past to hide from prying eyes, but a slow, unhurried claim that tastes of absolute certainty.
When you finally pull apart, Max keeps a protective arm around your waist, his thumb stroking your hip. He doesn't let you go, and you don't want him to.
"Come inside," he says softly, guiding you toward the steps of the Red Bull motorhome. "I need to clean up and do a debrief, and then we're going to talk to your brother. Wait for me inside?"
You nod, squeezing his hand. "I'll wait."
The interior of the Red Bull motorhome is sleek, quiet, and meticulously organized. You sit on one of the plush, grey leather sofas, watching as Max efficiently gathers his things.
It’s strange to see him in this environment—stripped of the racing suit, his athletic frame dressed in simple team wear, yet still radiating the hyper-focused energy that defines him.
He moves with purpose, but every few minutes, his eyes dart over to where you are sitting, as if checking to make sure you haven't vanished. Each time your eyes meet, he offers a small, reassuring smile that warms you from the inside out.
Eventually, the door opens and Christian Horner steps inside, a stack of papers in his hands.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the sofa, his sharp eyes flicking from you to Max, who immediately steps in front of you in a subtle, protective gesture.
"Ah," Christian says, a knowing, slightly amused expression crossing his face. He raises an eyebrow at Max. "I see we're having a rather productive weekend, then."
Max doesn't look away or stammer. He holds his boss's gaze, his posture rigid and uncompromising. "We'll be in the media pen later, Christian. But right now, we have personal things to sort out."
"Of course," Christian replies, a dry smile touching his lips. He glances at you with a polite nod before turning and exiting the motorhome, leaving a heavy, expectant silence in his wake.
Max lets out a breath he seemed to be holding, turning to you with a slight chuckle. "Well, that's one person who knows."
"Probably," Max admits, walking over to the sofa and sitting down beside you. He takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles on your skin. "I'm sorry about before. I was an idiot. I was so tunnel-visioned on the races that I forgot to race for the things that actually matter."
"Is that your way of being romantic, Verstappen?" you ask, a playful smile on your lips as you tilt your head.
"Maybe," he says, a rare, genuine blush creeping up his neck. He leans in closer, his blue eyes searching yours with an earnestness that makes your breath hitch. "I love you. I'm terrible at saying it, and I'm probably even worse at showing it when I'm under pressure, but I do. I need you to know that."
The words hang in the air, heavy and precious. You’ve known for a long time how deeply your feelings ran, but hearing him say it—stripped of all the adrenaline and the games—leaves you entirely speechless. Your heart swells, erasing the last lingering doubts in your mind.
"I love you too," you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly roughened by the wind and the sun. "Even when you're mean."
Max chuckles, leaning into your touch. "I'm only mean because I get frustrated. When you're around, I just... I forget how to be normal. I want to be better for you."
"Good," you say, your voice dropping to a softer tone. "Because I'm holding you to that."
The two of you sit in the quiet for a long time, talking in hushed tones about the past few months. It's a strange kind of therapy, dissecting the arguments and the secretive dates, unearthing all the ugly parts of your relationship that you both had tried to sweep under the rug.
In the past, your interactions were often defined by arguments and a fierce, electric tension, fueled by the fact that you both wanted more but were too afraid to ask for it. Now, talking openly, that tension melts into something steady and comfortable.
The sound of the paddock outside gradually begins to quiet down as the sun dips lower in the sky. The evening light filters through the motorhome windows, casting long, golden shadows across the grey leather.
"Are you ready?" Max asks eventually, looking at his watch. He laces his fingers through yours, his grip tightening.
You take a deep breath, your heart beginning to hammer again, though the nervous dread has transformed into a sharp, thrilling kind of anticipation. "As ready as I'll ever be. Where is he?"
"The Ferrari hospitality," Max says, standing up and pulling you gently to your feet. He doesn't let go of your hand, holding it firmly as the two of you walk toward the door. "I'll do the talking. You just stand there and make sure he doesn't kill me."
"Oh, I think he's definitely going to try," you say, a nervous but fond laugh escaping your lips as you step out into the cooling evening air of the paddock.
The walk to the Ferrari hospitality area feels agonizingly short. The paddock is mostly empty now, save for a few mechanics cleaning up equipment and the occasional journalist rushing to catch a flight.
Max walks with a determined stride, his broad shoulders shielding you from the slight evening breeze. He holds your hand with a possessive, unyielding grip, a silent declaration that he has no intention of letting you go.
When you reach the sleek, red-and-white motorhome, you see Charles standing outside on the terrace, talking animatedly with a few team members.
He looks relaxed, a glass of water in his hand, laughing at something his engineer just said.
As you approach, the group disperses, and Charles’s eyes land on you. His smile is warm and bright, but as his gaze shifts to the man walking beside you—and more importantly, to the way Max Verstappen is holding your hand—his expression shifts in an instant.
The laughter dies in his throat. His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow, the friendly, relaxed demeanor evaporating in a split second. He sets his glass down on the table with a sharp, metallic clink.
"Max," Charles says, his voice dangerously calm. He steps to the edge of the terrace, looking down at the two of you. His eyes flick to your intertwined hands before locking onto Max’s face. "What are you doing with my sister?"
You feel a ripple of tension run through Max's hand, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he steps slightly in front of you, his posture squaring off.
"We need to talk," Max says, his voice level and devoid of its usual sharp edge. He looks at your brother with a quiet, unwavering focus. "We've been seeing each other for a while. I wanted to come and tell you myself."
For a moment, the silence is deafening. Charles stares at Max as if he has just spoken in a foreign language. His gaze darts to you, searching your face for confirmation, his eyes wide and incredulous.
"Seeing each other?" Charles repeats, his voice rising a notch. He steps down the stairs of the terrace, moving quickly until he is standing directly in front of you both.
He looks at you, a mixture of hurt and disbelief in his dark eyes. "You've been seeing Max? For how long? And you didn't tell me?"
"Charles..." you start, stepping out from behind Max's shoulder, though you keep your hand firmly in his. Your heart is pounding, but you meet your brother's gaze directly. "We were going to tell you. We just... we didn't know how."
"You didn't know how?" Charles scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his signature Monegasque temper finally beginning to show.
He glares at Max, stepping into his personal space. "You've been sneaking around behind my back? With Verstappen? Do you have any idea what the press would do if they found out? You're my sister. He's my rival. This is... it's a joke."
"It's not a joke," Max says, his voice perfectly calm and steady, refusing to back down even an inch. "I know how it looks, Charles. And I know you have every right to be angry with me. I should have told you months ago instead of hiding it. That was my mistake."
"Your mistake?" Charles snaps, his voice rising, drawing the attention of a few remaining people in the paddock. "You treat her like a secret. I've seen how you two act in the paddock—like strangers. If you actually cared about her, you wouldn't have kept her in the dark."
"I do care about her," Max interrupts, his voice low and fiercely intense.
The champion's fire that you know so well is back, but it's not directed at an opponent on the track—it’s directed at protecting what’s his. "That's exactly why I'm here. I didn't come to ask for your permission, and I didn't come to make excuses. I came because I love her, and I'm not going to hide her anymore."
Charles falls silent, staring at Max with a look of pure shock. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, the anger in his eyes warring with pure, unadulterated disbelief.
He looks over at you, his expression softening just a fraction, the protective older brother shining through the frustration.
"Is this what you want, Y/N?" Charles asks, his voice quieter now, filled with genuine concern. "Are you happy with him? He's..."
"He makes me happy, Charles," you say, stepping forward and letting go of Max's hand for a moment to place it gently on your brother's arm. "I know it’s a lot to process, and I know it’s messy. But it’s real. We wanted to tell you."
Charles looks down at your hand on his arm, the tension in his shoulders slowly beginning to dissipate. He sighs—a long, heavy, defeated sound that echoes the exhaustion of the race weekend. He turns his head back to Max, who stands there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on Charles.
"If you hurt her," Charles says, pointing a firm finger at Max's chest, "I don't care about the FIA, I don't care about the contracts. I will end you. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Max says, his voice solemn and sincere. He takes your hand again, his fingers lacing tightly through yours. "I won't hurt her."
Charles lets out another breath, looking at the two of you, shaking his head in a mixture of resignation and lingering annoyance. "I can't believe you. My sister and Max Verstappen. It's a nightmare."
"It's your reality now, Charles," you tease gently, though your eyes are shining with gratitude. "We're all going to make it work."
"Go away," Charles grumbles, though a small, begrudging smile finally touches the corners of his lips. He looks at Max with a pointed stare. "We'll talk about this more next week. And no more hiding. If I see you two acting like strangers in the paddock again, I'm going to personally crash into your car in Monaco."
"Understood," Max says, a slight, rare grin breaking across his face.
You step forward and wrap your arms around Charles, hugging him tightly. He holds you back, kissing the side of your head before pulling away and giving Max one final, warning look.
The three of you stand there for a moment in the fading light, the heavy, secretive tension that has hung over you for months officially broken.
Later that evening, you find yourself on the balcony of your brother's suite, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city. The noise of the paddock is miles away, replaced by the gentle evening breeze and the distant sound of the ocean.
The sliding glass door opens, and Max steps out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of cold water. He’s dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower.
He hands you one of the glasses before stepping up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.
You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, watching the city lights.
"That went better than expected," Max murmurs against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. "I thought he was actually going to swing at me."
"He thought about it," you say, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid refreshing against your throat. "But he loves you really. In his own, incredibly competitive, Ferrari-loving way."
Max chuckles, his arms tightening around your waist. "I think he just hates the idea of me being right about anything. But it’s done. No more hiding."
"No more hiding," you repeat, the words feeling incredibly sweet on your tongue.
The toxicity of the past few months—the late-night arguments, the fear of being discovered, the constant push and pull of an undefined relationship—feels like a distant memory.
Standing here in the quiet, with Max’s steady heartbeat against your back and his chin resting on your shoulder, you realize that the chaos of the racing world only makes the peace you've found with him that much sweeter.
"I need to tell you something else," Max says, his voice suddenly shifting to a more serious, quiet tone. He turns you around in his arms so you are facing him, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.
"What is it?" you ask, a small frown of concern forming on your lips.
"I was an idiot before," he says, his hands reaching up to gently cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "I was so focused on the racing, so scared of changing the dynamic, that I let you believe you were just an option. But I've been thinking about this all day. I don't want just a couple of weeks with you, Y/n. I want all of it. I want a future."
Your heart misses a beat, the quiet sincerity in his voice making your knees go weak. You look up at him, your eyes shining in the moonlight. "Max..."
"Let me finish," he whispers, a small, nervous smile touching his lips. "I love you. I need you in my life, not just in the motorhome when the cameras are off. I want to do this properly. Move in with me. In Monaco."
The offer hangs in the air, heavy and beautiful. It's a massive step—a commitment that goes far beyond secretive dates and stolen kisses in the paddock. It’s an acknowledgment that the dark, undefined period of your relationship is officially over.
"Are you serious?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
"Never more serious in my life," Max says, his gaze locked onto yours with absolute certainty. "I'll talk to Charles about it tomorrow, make sure he knows I'm not playing games. But I want you with me."
You look at him, seeing the genuine love and need in his eyes, and any lingering doubts in your mind completely disappear. You’ve both weathered the storm of his intensity, the paddock whispers, and your brother's temper, and you’ve come out on the other side.
"Yes," you say, a radiant smile breaking across your lips. "I'll move in with you."
Max lets out a breath of pure relief, his face lighting up with a rare, dazzling grin. He pulls you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the ground as his lips crash into yours. It's a kiss that tastes of absolute certainty, of the future you are about to build together, and the end of all the secrets.
When he finally sets you back on your feet, he keeps his arms securely around your waist, his eyes burning with a quiet, fierce passion that has always drawn you to him.
"Come inside," he whispers, his voice low and husky against your ear as he guides you toward the suite. "We have a lot of lost time to make up for."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest, and let him pull you inside, knowing that whatever chaos the racing season brings, you'll be facing it together.
No more hiding. No more toxic games. Just you, and Max, and the life you're finally ready to build. . . .
Hiii I’m not sure if your taking requests but can you write a lando story based on the song staying by lizzy mcAlpine, creative liberty is up to you!! Tyyy
Leaving For The Best
Summary: It's for the best that you two go your own ways. . . .
Song: Body · Summer Walker
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The heavy Monaco air clings to you both as Lando pulls into the deserted driveway of his apartment. The deafening echo of the race weekend fades, leaving only the sound of ticking mechanics cooling in the night and the crushing weight of a conversation that neither of you wants to start.
The lift doors glide open with a cheerful ding that feels entirely out of place. You walk into his apartment, the sleek, minimalist living room looking less like a home and more like a high-end showroom. He doesn’t turn the overhead lights on.
Instead, the soft glow from the expansive windows spills into the room, silhouetting the floor-to-ceiling glass and the faint lights of the yachts bobbing in the marina below.
Lando drops his race weekend bag by the door. It hits the floor with a dull thump. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, raking a hand through his damp hair.
The stress of the season—the constant media scrutiny, the championship fight, the travel—seems to radiate off him in waves.
You walk over to the kitchen island, placing your clutch on the marble. The silence between you is deafening.
It’s the kind of silence that’s been building for months, a quiet accumulation of missed calls, time zone differences, and unspoken fears.
"Do you want a drink?" his voice breaks the quiet, sounding unusually raspy and small.
You nod, turning to face him. He’s already walking to the wine fridge, his shoulders slightly hunched. He pulls out a bottle of white wine, his movements mechanical.
He pours two glasses, his hand slightly unsteady. He doesn't look at you as he hands you one across the counter.
"Tough weekend," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lando scoffs, a dry, humorless sound. He takes a long gulp of his wine before setting the glass down hard on the marble. "Tough weekend. Yeah. That's one way to put it."
He finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. There’s a raw, vulnerable look in them that makes your chest ache. "I feel like I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Everything is moving so fast. The racing, the fans, the pressure... and then I come home, and I don't even know what's real anymore."
You walk around the counter, stepping into his space. The scent of him—a familiar mix of race fuel, expensive cologne, and sweat—was your safe haven for so long.
Now, it just feels heavy. You place a gentle hand on his arm. "You're just overwhelmed, Lando. It's been a crazy few months."
He looks down at your hand, his jaw tightening. "It's not just the racing, Y/N. It's us."
The words hang in the air, cold and undeniable. You pull your hand back slightly, the cold glass of your wine suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in your fingers. "Us?"
Lando turns away from the counter, pacing a few steps toward the dark window, running both hands over his face. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at balancing everything. I feel like I'm dragging you down with me. You're constantly waiting for me. Waiting for a call, waiting for me to be present, waiting for a version of me that isn't completely consumed by this sport."
"I don't mind waiting, Lando," you counter, though the quiet conviction in your own voice is wavering. "I love you."
He stops pacing and turns back to you, a look of anguish crossing his features. "That's exactly it! You love me, and what do I give you in return? Half-assed conversations at 2 A.M., canceled plans, and a guy who can barely string two words together when he's exhausted."
He walks closer, his eyes searching yours desperately. "You deserve someone who can be here. Someone who can give you the time and attention you need. I'm not that person right now. I don't know when I will be."
A tear slips down your cheek, hot against your skin. You quickly wipe it away. "Are you saying you want to break up?"
Lando closes his eyes tightly, the silence answering your question more painfully than any words could. You stand in the quiet room, the ticking of the clock in the background marking the seconds of your unraveling life together.
"I don't want to," Lando whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he opens his eyes. "God, I don't want to. I love you more than I can even express. But I also know that keeping you here, tethered to this chaotic life of mine... it's not fair to you."
"Let me decide what's fair for me," you say, taking a step toward him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a frantic, painful rhythm. "We can make it work, Lando. We just have to communicate better. We can find a way."
He shakes his head, stepping backward, putting distance between you. The physical rejection stings more than a slap. "We can't. It doesn't work like that. The racing... it always comes first. It has to. And I can't keep asking you to be second best. You're not a second-best option."
You look at him, the man you’ve built a life with, the man who holds your heart in his hands. Seeing him standing there, looking so defeated and broken, makes you realize that he's already made his decision. He's already letting go.
"Is there someone else?" the question slips out before you can stop it, the insecurity that’s been plaguing you for weeks finally bubbling to the surface.
Lando's eyes widen, and he looks at you with absolute shock and hurt. "What? No. God, no, Y/N. There's nobody else. How could you even think that?"
"Because you're pushing me away so easily," you reply, the tears now falling freely. "Because it feels like you're already halfway out the door."
"I'm not pushing you away because I don't care," he says, his voice breaking as he steps forward to grab your hands. His grip is firm, anchoring you to him.
"I'm pushing you away because I love you too much to watch you fade away while waiting for me to figure my life out. I'm staying in my own head, and I'm dragging you down with me. You deserve the world, Y/N. And the world is not this apartment, and it's not me coming home drained and distant every other week."
He lets go of one of your hands to gently cup your cheek, his thumb catching a stray tear. The touch is so tender, so painfully familiar, that it makes you sob. "I just want you to be happy," he whispers.
"You make me happy," you choke out, leaning slightly into his touch.
Lando gives you a sad, broken smile. "But I also make you cry. A lot. And I can't do that to you anymore."
He pulls his hand back, the warmth of his touch fading. You stand there in the dim light of the living room, the weight of the inevitable pressing down on you both. You know there’s nothing left to say. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, in the way he can’t hold your gaze for too long. He’s already mourning the end of you.
"I need you to stay," you whisper, the desperation in your voice echoing the title of the song playing in the back of your mind.
Lando looks at the floor, shaking his head. "I can't, Y/N. If I stay, we'll just keep doing this. We'll keep hurting each other. I need to go. I need to be alone."
The finality in his words cuts through you. You wrap your arms around your midriff, feeling incredibly cold and small in the middle of his sprawling apartment. The reality of the situation sets in. He’s leaving. The man who was your home, your confidant, and your biggest supporter is walking out the door.
"So, this is it?" you ask, your voice trembling. "Just like that?"
Lando looks at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He takes one final step toward you, pulling you into a tight, desperate embrace.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing in his scent for the last time. His arms wrap around you tightly, holding you as if letting go will cause him to physically shatter.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your hair, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry."
You pull back slightly, looking up at him through your tears. You memorize every detail of his face—the familiar furrow of his brow, the color of his eyes in the dim light.
He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. It’s not a kiss of passion, but a kiss of goodbye. It’s slow, tender, and absolutely heartbreaking.
He pulls away and takes a step toward the bedroom, picking up his racing bag as he goes. "I'll get my things from the guest room tomorrow," he says quietly, not looking back at you. "Or I can have my manager..."
"Don't," you interrupt, the finality of the situation becoming too much to bear. "Just take them. Just take everything."
Lando stops at the doorway to the hallway, looking back at you one last time. The expression on his face is a mix of love, regret, and sorrow. He turns and walks out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
The silence that follows is absolute.
You stand in the middle of the living room, the city lights below continuing to twinkle, completely oblivious to your heartbreak. The glass of wine sits untouched on the marble island.
The reality of the empty apartment presses down on you, the realization that he is truly gone settling deep into your bones.
You slowly walk over to the sofa and sit down, pulling your knees to your chest.
You curl into a ball, the warmth of his embrace still lingering on your skin, and let yourself cry. You cry for the missed opportunities, the unfulfilled promises, and the man who loved you enough to let you go.
The Monaco night continues, quiet and still, as you sit in the darkness, learning how to be alone. . . .
