LadyforLando

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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

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

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

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.

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

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

Mercedes

Lewis Hamilton - "Billion Dollar Man"

NY Kisses - LH44 + New Year Kisses

Birthday Wishes - LH44 + Birthday Wishes

His Feast - LH44 + slow feasting on you +18

George Russell - "Mr. Saturday"

Start Something - GR63 + "Don't start something you can't finish." 🥧🏈

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.....

Marriage of Convenience

PT1 - PT2 - PT3 - PT4 - PT5 - PT6 - PT7 - PT8 - PT9 - PT10

Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life….

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. . . .

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. . . .

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! 🐂💙

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@sebastianvettel: Yes, absolutely brilliant news! Welcome to the team, Y/N! 🏆

₊ ˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵ ୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧ ‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚ ₊ ₊ ˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵ ୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧ ‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚ ₊

1st September 2009

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. . . .

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. . . .

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.

"Ready," you said.

And together, you kept walking. . . .

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."

"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. . .

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."

"You didn't exactly hide it," you tease, laughing softly. "He probably guessed months ago."

"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. . . .

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. . . .

The first time you told Oscar you loved him, it wasn’t in the champagne-soaked chaos of a podium celebration or the whispered intimacy of a hotel room at 3 AM.

It was in the middle of a grocery store aisle, your fingers sticky from a burst packet of powdered donuts, his laugh ringing louder than the tinny supermarket speakers.

He’d just knocked over an entire display of cereal boxes trying to reach for the last bag of your favorite chips, and you thought, Christ, this is the man I’m going to marry.

After the triple-header, you and Oscar decided to visit Nicole Piastri and Tim, the kind of unplanned detour that usually ended with someone crying into a bowl of pasta.

But when you pushed open the front door—still sticky from the donuts, still buzzing from the race—the house was already alive. Nicole’s laughter tangled with Tim’s deep voice, the clatter of plates echoing from the kitchen, and underneath it all, the steady hum of a family that had somehow become yours too.

Oscar’s hand brushed against yours, warm and sure, like he’d known this would happen all along.

Edie was the first to spot you, her grin sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion clinging to your bones. “Took you long enough,” she said, tossing a tea towel over her shoulder. “Mum’s been pacing since quali.”

Behind her, Hattie was elbow-deep in flour, her hair dusted white, while Mae lounged on the countertop, swinging her legs like she owned the place. Oscar rolled his eyes, but you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he leaned into the noise like it was something solid he could hold onto.

Nicole emerged from the hallway, her arms already outstretched, and you realized, with a sudden ache, that this was what home felt like—not a place, but the way Oscar’s mother hugged you like you were hers, the way Tim ruffled his son’s hair with the same rough affection he’d had since Oscar was sixteen and stubborn.

There was no ceremony, no fanfare, just the quiet certainty of belonging. You thought of the cereal boxes, the powdered sugar on your fingers, the way Oscar had looked at you like you’d hung the stars.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the stories had spun themselves into something wilder than truth, Mae would corner you by the sink, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“You’re stuck with us now,” she’d say, flicking water at your shirt. And you’d laugh, because it wasn’t a threat—it was a promise, the kind that settled deep in your chest and stayed.

Oscar found you like that, still damp and grinning, and pressed his forehead against yours like he could read every thought humming under your skin.

“Told you they’d love you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. You didn’t mention how your hands shook a little, how the weight of it—of this—felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.

Tim clapped Oscar on the back, hard enough to make him stumble into you, and the moment shattered into laughter.

“Stop hogging her,” he grumbled, though his eyes were soft. Nicole swatted at him with a dish towel, but you caught the way she watched you, like she was memorizing the way you fit into the chaos.

And when Edie shoved a glass of wine into your hand and Hattie dragged you into a debate about the worst F1 liveries of all time, you realized you weren’t just with Oscar anymore—you were part of the rhythm, the mess, the unspoken shorthand of a family that had somehow decided you were theirs.

The donut powder was long gone, but the sweetness of it lingered, sticky and bright.

"You should join us for dinner," Hattie suggested later, elbow-deep in dishwater, her voice pitched low enough that Oscar wouldn’t hear from where he was sprawled on the couch, Tim’s arm slung around his shoulders.

"Just us four—me, Mae, Edie, you. No boyfriends, no brothers, no dads who still think carbonara is just bacon and cream." You hesitated, glancing at Oscar, but Mae was already nodding, her grin sharp.

"It’s a rite of passage," she said, flicking suds at you. "We’ll tell you all his embarrassing childhood stories. The ones even Mum doesn’t know."

Nicole caught your eye from across the room, her smile knowing, and you felt it again—that ache, that terrifying warmth. This wasn’t just about loving Oscar; it was about letting his people love you too, letting them carve out a space for you in their history.

You nodded, and Hattie whooped, nearly upending the sink. "Saturday," she declared, like it was a binding contract.

Mae leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He used to sleepwalk," she said, and you snorted, imagining a teenage Oscar wandering the halls in his pajamas.

"One time he ended up in the garden with a potted plant, insisting it was his 'co-driver.'" Edie cackled, slamming a glass down on the counter hard enough to make Oscar jerk his head up from the couch. "Oi," he called, squinting at you all, "what’re you plotting?"

The answer came in the form of Tim lobbing a bread roll at his head, and suddenly the room dissolved into chaos—Nicole shrieking, Mae ducking behind you, Edie brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword.

Oscar lunged, catching you around the waist, and you yelped as he dragged you onto his lap, his laughter vibrating against your back.

"Traitor," he muttered into your hair, but his hands were gentle, his grip loose enough that you could’ve pulled away if you wanted. You didn’t.

Later, when the last of the dishes were dried and the wine had settled into a pleasant buzz behind your ribs, you’d find yourself tucked against Oscar’s side on the porch, the night air cool against your skin.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering like a question. You didn’t answer, just tangled your fingers with his, listening to the distant sounds of his family still bickering inside.

The donut powder was gone, but the sweetness of it—the rightness—was everywhere.

Back in your apartment—not his childhood home, but the one you’d carved out together, with its mismatched mugs and the faint smell of burnt toast that never quite faded—Oscar would collapse onto the couch with a groan, dragging you down with him.

"They’re exhausting," he’d mutter, but you’d see the way his mouth curled at the corners, the way his thumb traced idle circles over your wrist.

You’d laugh, nudging him with your knee. "You love it," you’d say, and he wouldn’t deny it, just pull you closer until your breath mingled in the quiet dark.

The invitation from his sisters would arrive the next morning, a flurry of texts lighting up your phone while Oscar was still asleep beside you, his hair a mess against the pillow.

SATURDAY. 7PM. NO CANCELLING, Hattie had written, followed by a string of emojis that made precisely zero sense. You’d bite your lip, staring at the screen, the weight of it settling somewhere between your ribs—not heavy, but there, undeniable.

You’d never done this before. Not with your ex, not with anyone. Dinner with the sisters was uncharted territory, the kind of thing that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

What did you even wear? Something casual enough to say I’m not trying too hard but polished enough to whisper I respect you, please don’t judge me? You’d stand in front of your closet for twenty minutes, tossing shirts onto the bed like they’d committed treason, until Oscar would finally roll over, squinting at the carnage.

“Babe,” he’d say, voice thick with sleep, “they’ve seen you covered in champagne and jet lag. Just wear the green shirt.” You’d glare at him, but he’d already be pulling you back down into the sheets, his laugh muffled against your shoulder.

The green shirt would end up on the floor by Saturday evening, replaced by something softer, something that felt more you—a blouse with sleeves that rolled up at the wrists, the one Oscar always said made your collarbones look like they’d been designed by someone who knew what they were doing.

You’d twist your rings around your fingers in the Uber, rehearsing answers to questions they might not even ask. No, I don’t think Monaco is overrated. Yes, I know he snores. No, I won’t tell you about the time he— The car would lurch to a stop, and you’d realize, with a jolt, that you were here.

Mae would be the one to open the door, her grin sharp as a scalpel. “Took you long enough,” she’d say, dragging you inside before you could overthink it.

The smell of garlic and wine would hit you like a wall, and behind her, Edie would already be pouring a glass too full, Hattie waving you toward a chair like she’d been waiting years.

You’d catch your reflection in the hallway mirror—flushed, a little wide-eyed, but there, unmistakably part of the scene—and for the first time, it wouldn’t feel like a costume.

“Right,” Mae would say, clapping her hands. “Let’s ruin his life.”

The stories would come fast and merciless: Oscar at twelve, crying over a ruined model car; Oscar at fifteen, attempting to bleach his hair and ending up with orange streaks for months.

Hattie would lean in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He used to write poetry,” she’d confess, and you’d choke on your wine, imagining him hunched over a notebook, scowling at rhymes.

Edie would toss a bread roll at Mae’s head when she tried to embellish, and the argument that followed would be so familiar it’d ache—like you’d been hearing it for years.

Halfway through dessert, Nicole would appear in the doorway, her arms crossed but her eyes soft. “Don’t torment her,” she’d say, though she wouldn’t move to stop them.

You’d catch the way she lingered, the way her gaze flicked between you and her daughters like she was slotting a puzzle piece into place. Mae would groan, throwing a grape at her mother.

“We’re initiating her,” she’d protest, and Nicole would just sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the wine was gone, you’d find yourself sandwiched between Hattie and Edie on the couch, Mae sprawled across your laps like a cat.

Your phone would buzz—Oscar, texting are you alive??—and you’d grin, typing back no, your sisters killed me just to hear his groan through the wall.

Hattie would snatch the phone, adding a string of eggplant emojis before you could stop her, and the resulting chaos—Mae’s cackling, Edie’s threats, your half-hearted attempts to wrestle it back—would feel like something you’d done a hundred times before. Like something you’d do a hundred times again.

Oscar’s next message would be simple: on my way to pick you up.

Hattie would read it aloud, her smirk widening as she elbowed you. “Aw, he’s worried,” she’d croon, dragging out the last word until Edie threw a cushion at her.

Mae would roll her eyes, but you’d catch the way she nudged your knee, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s been texting me every ten minutes asking if you’re having fun.”

You’d bite your lip, but the warmth in your chest would be impossible to hide.

The teasing would escalate—Edie miming Oscar’s race-day focus face, Hattie launching into an impression of him pacing the room—until the front door swung open and he appeared, hair mussed from running his hands through it.

“Alright, alright,” he’d grumble, but you’d see the way his shoulders relaxed when he spotted you, the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

Mae would fake-gag, flopping onto Edie’s lap. “Gross,” she’d declare, but Oscar would just roll his eyes, reaching for your hand like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The wine hit you then, warm and syrupy in your veins, and before he could protest, you’d flung yourself at him, your arms looping around his neck with a force that nearly toppled you both.

He’d staggered back, laughing into your hair, his hands steadying your hips. “Someone’s had a good night,” he’d murmur, and you’d bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his stupidly expensive cologne mixed with the faintest trace of motor oil.

Behind you, Hattie would wolf-whistle, but you wouldn’t care, not when Oscar’s fingers were tracing idle circles against the small of your back, not when he was pressing a kiss to your temple like you were something precious.

“How are you guys getting home?” you heard Oscar ask, pulling back just enough to glance at his sisters. Hattie rolled her eyes, waving her phone.

“Tim is coming to pick us up,” she said, jerking her chin toward the driveway where headlights were already cutting through the dark. Mae groaned, flopping onto Edie’s shoulder.

“Dad’s gonna lecture us about drinking on a school night again,” she muttered, and you’d snorted, because it was Wednesday and Mae hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom in years.

Oscar’s thumb brushed against your wrist, his grip tightening just enough to make you glance up. “Ready?” he’d asked, quiet, just for you, and you’d nodded, because the answer was always yes when it came to him.

Tim’s car rumbled to a stop at the curb, the passenger window rolling down to reveal his raised eyebrows. “You lot look like you’ve been through a war,” he said, and Hattie cackled, tossing her bag into the backseat.

“We have,” Edie declared, dragging Mae toward the car. “Your son’s embarrassing childhood trauma nearly killed us.” Tim’s gaze flicked to you, something unreadable in his expression, before he huffed a laugh.

“Welcome to the family,” he said, and the words settled in your chest like a promise.

You said bye to Hattie’s dramatic air kisses, to Edie’s lingering squeeze of your hand, to Mae’s whispered next time, we’ll tell you about the time he got stuck in a tree.

Oscar groaned, dragging you away before they could elaborate, but you were still grinning.

Oscar tugged you toward his car, his fingers laced through yours, the night air cool against your flushed skin. You could still hear Hattie’s laughter, Tim’s gruff admonishments, the distant clatter of the Piastris winding down—but here, in the quiet dark of the parking lot, it was just you and him, the weight of the evening humming between you.

He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm against your skin. “Told you they’d love you,” he murmured again, and this time, you believed him.

The drive home was quiet, the hum of the engine blending with the soft sound of Oscar’s breathing beside you. You traced idle patterns on his thigh, watching the streetlights flicker past the window like stars.

He’d glance at you every so often, his expression soft in the dim glow of the dashboard, and you’d smile, because this—the quiet, the knowing, the way he always reached for you—was the part you loved most.

Not the podiums, not the flashbulbs, just this: Oscar’s hand on your knee, the city sliding by outside, and the certainty that wherever he was, you were home.

You told him everything—how Mae had mimicked his teenage sulk with terrifying accuracy, how Hattie had sworn you to secrecy about the poetry, how Edie had threatened to dig out the photo of him in braces if he ever annoyed you.

Oscar groaned, tipping his head back against the seat, but you saw the way his mouth twitched, the way his fingers tightened around the wheel just slightly. “They’re menaces,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just the same fond exasperation that had settled into his voice whenever he talked about them.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm like an apology. “You’re one of them now,” he said, and you grinned, because it was true.

"You're acting like we're already married," you joked, flicking his knee, but the words hung in the air between you, heavier than you’d meant them to be. Oscar didn’t laugh. Instead, his grip on the wheel tightened, his gaze fixed on the road ahead like it held the answers to something unspoken.

The silence stretched, taut and humming, until you almost regretted saying it—almost. Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate, and glanced at you, his eyes dark in the dim light.

“Yeah,” he said, simple as that, like it was the easiest truth in the world. Your breath caught.

The apartment was quiet when you got back, the only sound the distant hum of the city through the open window. Oscar kicked off his shoes by the door, his movements lazy with exhaustion, but when he turned to you, his expression was anything but tired.

He reached for you, his hands settling on your hips like they belonged there, and you let him pull you close, your forehead resting against his.

“You good?” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, and you nodded, because how could you not be? His family loved you. He loved you. It was enough—more than enough.

Later, tangled in the sheets with his heartbeat steady under your palm, you’d trace the lines of his face in the dark, memorizing the way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks, the way his mouth softened in sleep.

He’d shift, pulling you closer, his arm slung heavy over your waist, and you’d think, This is it.

Not the podiums, not the champagne, just this—Oscar’s breath against your neck, the weight of his body beside yours, the quiet certainty that wherever he was, you’d follow.

Soft kisses pressed to the hollow of his throat, to the scar above his eyebrow from that karting accident at fourteen, to the pulse point at his wrist where his veins stood stark against his skin.

He’d stir, his fingers twitching against your hip, and you’d press another to the corner of his mouth, savoring the way he sighed into it, half-asleep and wholly yours.

“Mm,” he’d murmur, his voice rough with sleep, “s’nice.”

You’d grin, biting back a laugh, and he’d chase your lips with his own, clumsy and warm, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in the dark.

Outside, the city would hum—car horns, distant laughter, the occasional siren—but here, in the cocoon of your shared bed, it was just the two of you, the world reduced to the slide of his fingers through your hair, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek.

You’d whisper something stupid, something like I love you or Your sisters are terrifying, and he’d chuckle, the sound vibrating through you like a second heartbeat.

“Yeah,” he’d say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you’d kiss him again, just because you could.

Neither of you heard the buzz of your phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with Hattie’s text—i remember when oscar came home and told the whole family he found the ‘one’😭—followed by a string of crying-laughing emojis.

Mae would reply minutes later with a screenshot of Oscar at sixteen, gap-toothed and grinning, captioned proof he’s always been this embarrassing, but you wouldn’t see that either, too busy tracing the curve of his collarbone with your tongue, savoring the way his breath hitched.

Somewhere in the tangled mess of sheets, Oscar’s hand found yours, his fingers slotting between yours like they were made to fit.

You could feel the callouses on his palms—the ones from years of gripping steering wheels, the ones you’d memorized by now—but tonight, they felt different, rougher somehow, like they carried the weight of every unspoken promise between you.

He squeezed once, a silent I’m here, and you squeezed back, because what else was there to say?

The champagne spray glittered under the Monaco sun like liquid gold, and amidst the ecstatic crowd, Charles Leclerc’s gaze locked onto yours for a fraction too long—long enough to make your skin prickle under the heat of something far more combustible than celebration.

You’d been standing beside Arthur, his arm slung casually over your shoulders, both of you screaming yourselves hoarse for his brother, but the way Charles’s victorious smile sharpened into something predatory as he took you in had nothing to do with familial pride.

You and Arthur had been inseparable since you were six, when he’d moved into the apartment below yours in Monte Carlo and promptly challenged you to a race down the hallway—you won, but he never admitted it.

Years of shared secrets, scraped knees, and stolen pastries from his mother’s kitchen had forged a bond thicker than blood, and though Arthur had long since accepted that his older brother lived in a different universe of fame and adrenaline, you’d always been the one bridge between their worlds.

Charles tolerated you—barely—when you tagged along to karting sessions, his patience thinning every time Arthur shoved you into the passenger seat of his car with a laugh.

But then came the summer Charles won his first Formula 3 race, and something shifted. He started returning home less often, his smiles grew sharper, and the rare times he did acknowledge you, it was with a slow, appraising glance that made your stomach flip.

Once, when Arthur was out of earshot, Charles had cornered you by the pool, dripping wet from his laps, and asked, voice low, "You always follow him around like a lost puppy. Don’t you ever get tired of being second best?"

The question lingered like gasoline fumes in the air between you, dangerous and intoxicating.

Then came the victories, the podiums, the way his name rolled off commentators’ tongues like a prayer—and with them, an unspoken shift in the way he treated you. No longer the nuisance clinging to Arthur’s shadow, you became a challenge he couldn’t resist.

He’d linger when you were alone, brushing past you just close enough for his cologne to cling to your clothes, or casually sliding into the seat beside you at family dinners, his knee pressing against yours beneath the table.

Once, after a particularly heated argument between the brothers, Charles caught your wrist in the hallway, his thumb tracing your pulse point as he murmured, "You deserve better than his leftovers."

There was no doubt that you had a little crush on Arthur while growing up—how could you not, when he was the one who taught you how to ride a bike, who smuggled you into his father’s study to steal chocolates, who kissed you on the cheek after you won your first swimming race?

But Arthur’s affection was warm sunlight; Charles’s was a lightning storm, unpredictable and electrifying.

You told yourself it was just admiration, the way your breath hitched when Charles leaned over you to grab his keys, the way your skin burned under his scrutiny.

Thursday’s flight to Monaco was impulsive, fueled by half a bottle of wine and a text from Maman. The Leclercs’ villa loomed white and imposing against the cliffs, and when Arthur swung the door open, his grin faltered for a split second at the sight of you.

"Didn’t think you’d actually show," he laughed, pulling you into a hug that smelled of salt and sunscreen.

You replied with a playful shove, then greeted Maman as she emerged from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. "Chérie! Charles will be sorry he missed you—he’s stuck in a press conference," she said, kissing your cheeks.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "He’s always stuck in something." The way he said it made your stomach twist—there was an edge there, something unspoken.

You pretended not to notice, letting Maman steer you toward the terrace where a pitcher of lemonade sweated in the afternoon heat.

Arthur slouched into the chair beside you, his knee jostling yours familiarly. "So," he drawled, "you here for me or the race?" The question was light, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his glass.

Before you could answer, the gate buzzer sounded, and Charles’s voice crackled through the intercom—"Désolé, traffic was a nightmare." Arthur’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"Speak of the devil," he muttered, just as the front door slammed shut.

Charles strode onto the terrace like he owned the air around him, his tailored blazer slung over one shoulder, his sunglasses reflecting your startled face back at you.

"Well," he said, slow and deliberate as he pulled out the chair opposite yours, "look who decided to join the party." His smile was all teeth. Arthur’s grip on his glass turned white-knuckled. The lemonade suddenly tasted like gasoline.

You replied with something vague about missing Monaco, then greeted Maman as she reappeared with a plate of almond biscuits—but your pulse jumped when Charles’s foot brushed yours beneath the table.

He was supposed to be at a press conference. Arthur’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Thought you had sponsor obligations." Charles didn’t even glance at him, his gaze locked on you as he plucked a biscuit from the plate. "Changed my mind."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Maman, blissfully unaware, chattered about the race preparations while Arthur glared at his brother like he wanted to set him on fire.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on the table, his cufflinks glinting in the sun. "You should come to the paddock tomorrow," he said, low and conspiratorial, as if the two of you were the only ones there. "I’ll make sure you get the best view."

Arthur’s chair scraped violently against the stone as he stood. "I’ll show her around," he snapped. Charles finally looked at him, his smirk widening. "Oh? Since when do you have paddock access?"

The challenge hung in the air like the first spark before an explosion. You barely had time to inhale before Arthur stalked off, muttering something about checking tire data.

Charles watched him go, then turned back to you, his fingers drumming idly against the table. "So," he murmured, "where were we?"

Maman, sensing the storm brewing, clapped her hands together. "Enough racing talk! Charles, help me carry these inside." But Charles didn’t move, his eyes darkening as he studied you over the rim of his sunglasses.

"In a minute," he said, his voice velvet-smooth. The moment Maman disappeared into the house, he reached across the table, his thumb tracing the condensation on your glass.

"You didn’t answer Arthur’s question earlier," he said softly. "Did you come for him… or for me?"

The terrace felt suddenly too small, the air thick with the scent of citrus and something darker. You opened your mouth—to lie, to deflect—but Charles cut you off with a low chuckle.

"Don’t bother. I saw your face when I won last season." His fingers brushed yours, sending a jolt up your arm. "You looked at me the way people look at gods."

From inside the house, Arthur’s voice called your name, sharp with impatience. Charles leaned back, his smile turning predatory.

"Better go," he said, though his grip on your wrist tightened for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "But remember—you’ve already tasted what it’s like to be second best." His breath ghosted over your ear as he stood. "Wouldn’t you rather win?"

Friday arrived with the kind of Mediterranean heat that clung to your skin like a second layer. You stood in your apartment—the same one you’d shared a wall with Arthur’s family in for years—staring at the mess of discarded outfits strewn across your bed.

Silk slipped through your fingers, cotton crumpled under your grip, leather too tight, linen too loose—nothing felt right. You didn’t know when the hatred had turned into teasing, when Charles’s sharp jabs had started to feel like a game you were both playing.

The thought made your hands tremble as you finally settled on a dress the color of Monaco’s twilight, the fabric whispering against your thighs like a dare.

Arthur knocked twice before letting himself in, his usual ease replaced by a tension that crackled in the air between you. "You’re late," he said, but his gaze snagged on the slit in your dress, the way it teased just enough skin to make his jaw clench.

You swallowed hard. "Traffic," you lied, grabbing your purse. Arthur’s fingers brushed yours as he took it from you, his touch lingering. "Since when do you dress like this?" he asked, voice low. The question hung between you, loaded and unanswerable.

"Since forever," you said, grabbing lip gloss and placing it into the bag. It wasn’t a complete lie—you had dressed feminine after getting your career in swimming, ever since PR started begging you to look "less like you stole your clothes from Arthur’s closet."

The memory burned now, under his scrutiny. He exhaled sharply, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he turned away. "Come on," he muttered. "Charles is already at the paddock."

The silence in Arthur’s Ferrari was thick enough to choke on, the tension coiled tight between you like a spring ready to snap. You fiddled with the air vents, desperate to break it.

"Remember when we stole your dad’s boat?" you blurted out, forcing a laugh. "You were so scared we’d capsize, you threw the anchor overboard before we even left the dock."

Arthur’s grip on the wheel loosened, just a fraction. "You screamed louder than me when that seagull stole your sandwich," he shot back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

The conversation tumbled out from there—half-remembered inside jokes, the summer you both got food poisoning from expired gelato, the time Arthur tried to teach you to parallel park and you took out a mailbox.

Laughter came easier now, the years of shared history like a balm against whatever poison Charles had dripped between you.

"But you missed my first podium in F2," Arthur said suddenly, fingers tapping the steering wheel. "You were in Sweden for that stupid swim meet." You winced—you’d watched the race on your phone in a hotel sauna, the screen fogging with steam as he stood there grinning, alone.

"And you missed my gold medal ceremony," you countered quietly. "You were in Bahrain." He didn’t reply, just tightened his grip on the wheel.

The unspoken truth hung heavy: Charles had been at both events.

The Ferrari roared into the paddock, cutting through the sea of team personnel and reporters. Arthur parked with a jerk of the wheel, the engine growling to a stop.

Before you could unbuckle, he turned to you, his eyes dark with something raw. "You know he’s just playing with you, right?" His voice was low, urgent. "Charles always wants what he can’t have—especially if it’s mine."

The door swung open before you could reply, revealing Charles leaning against the hood, his race suit unzipped to the waist, sunglasses reflecting your startled face.

"Took you long enough," he drawled, then smirked at Arthur. "What, no kiss for the birthday boy?" Arthur’s jaw clenched—it wasn’t his birthday.

Charles just laughed and reached for your hand, pulling you from the car with a tug that sent you stumbling into his chest. His fingers lingered at your waist, burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Come on," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Let me show you how a real winner celebrates."

Arthur lunged forward, wrenching you back with a snarl. "Back off," he gritted out, but Charles just raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until the three of you formed a taut triangle of tension. "Or what?" he challenged, voice dripping with amusement. "You’ll cry to Maman?"

The crowd around them had gone eerily quiet, cameras flashing like lightning in the periphery.

You could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on you, the gossip already spreading like wildfire—Leclerc brothers brawling over some girl.

Then Charles did the unthinkable—he laughed, loud and bright, clapping Arthur on the shoulder like it was all a joke. "Relax, petit frère," he said, but his grip on your wrist never loosened. "We’re just having fun."

Arthur recoiled like he’d been slapped, his face twisting with something between betrayal and fury. You opened your mouth to defuse the situation, but Charles was already steering you toward the garage, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point.

"Don’t look so guilty," he purred. "You knew exactly what you were walking into."

Charles was fortunately ushered by some staff and it was just Arthur and you again, standing in the shadow of the Ferrari garage, the scent of burning rubber and expensive cologne thick in the air.

Arthur’s hands trembled at his sides, his usually playful eyes dark with something you’d never seen before—possession, maybe, or the raw edge of a wound left to fester.

Arthur didn’t say anything but just swung your purse over his shoulder and took your arm, guiding you to Charles’ garage with a grip that bordered on painful.

His fingers dug into your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his hold, and for the first time in your life, you didn’t tease him for it.

The garage was a hive of activity, engineers shouting over the whine of machinery, but all you could focus on was the way Arthur’s breath hitched when Charles emerged from the crowd, his race suit clinging to every defined muscle like a second skin.

Then Arthur yanked you sideways, pulling you toward a cluster of people you vaguely recognized—celebrities, drivers, influencers—all milling around with champagne flutes in hand.

"This is Y/N," he announced, his voice too loud, too forced, as he introduced you to a famous tennis player and a Hollywood actor whose name you immediately forgot.

"You raced karts with the Leclercs?" the actor asked, leaning in with feigned interest. You nodded absently, your eyes flicking past his shoulder to where Charles was surrounded by cameras, his laughter carrying over the garage noise like a challenge.

"Yeah," you muttered, "Arthur always cheated at the start." The group chuckled politely, but your fingers tightened around your glass when Charles’s gaze slid to you mid-interview, his smirk widening as he caught you staring.

"She was faster than both of us," he said, but his voice had an edge when he added, "Not that Charles would ever admit it." The tennis player snorted into her drink. "Sounds like sibling rivalry."

Then a voice cut through the hum of conversation—smooth, British, unmistakably amused. "And what exactly do you do when you're not embarrassing professional drivers?"

You turned to find Lando Norris leaning against the catering table, picking at a croissant with a grin. His eyes flicked to Arthur's grip on your elbow before meeting yours with playful challenge.

"I'm a swimmer," you said, lifting your chin. Lando's eyebrows shot up. "Olympic?"

Arthur answered for you, pride cutting through his irritation. "National champion, two years running."

Lando whistled, stealing a strawberry from a passing tray. "Explains the shoulders," he said, nodding at your bare arms. "Bet you could outswim half this grid."

You replied with a smirk—"Only half?"

Lando laughed, tossing the strawberry into his mouth. "Alright, champion," he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly, "how about a bet? Next time we’re poolside, you race me. Loser buys dinner."

You replied with a scoff, tilting your head. "Careful, Norris. I hear your backstroke’s about as strong as your qualifying pace." The group erupted into laughter, Lando clutching his chest dramatically while Arthur’s grip on your arm loosened, just slightly.

"Ouch," Lando grinned, stealing another strawberry. "Guess I’ll have to settle for watching you destroy Charles instead."

His gaze flicked pointedly toward the garage, where Charles was now surrounded by a swarm of reporters, his smile sharp as he caught your eye over their heads.

The tinny crackle of the PA system cut through the laughter—"All drivers to their garages for FP1, repeat, all drivers to their garages." Arthur exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against your elbow before he reluctantly let go.

"I have to go," he muttered, but his eyes darted to Charles, then back to you, dark with unspoken warning. "Stay out of trouble."

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "Since when do I look for trouble?" Arthur’s lips twitched despite himself. "Since forever," he said.

The crowd swallowed him whole as he strode toward the garage, leaving you standing there with Lando still grinning beside you. "So," he drawled, popping another strawberry into his mouth, "you and the Leclerc brothers, huh?"

You stiffened, but Lando just laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "Relax, I’m just messing with you. Though," he added, leaning in conspiratorially, "if you do plan on starting World War III between them, let me know. I’ll bring popcorn."

Before leaving too quickly—before the words could sink in, before you could process the way your pulse spiked at the thought—you excused yourself with a mumbled excuse about needing the bathroom.

The paddock blurred around you as you wove through the crowd, the scent of fuel and hot asphalt clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat.

The bathroom was blessedly empty when you pushed through the door, and you locked yourself in the farthest stall with trembling fingers, pressing your forehead against the cool metal partition.

This rivalry—this thing between the brothers—had never happened before, not like this. You and Arthur had always been untouchable, a unit sealed tight against the world, even as Charles orbited your lives like a distant, indifferent planet.

But now? Now you were the gravity pulling them both into collision, and the thought made your stomach twist with something between guilt and exhilaration.

Outside, the roar of engines crescendoed as FP1 kicked off, the vibrations thrumming through the walls like a second heartbeat.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to drown out the memory of Charles’s fingers tracing your wrist, Arthur’s grip tightening possessively on your arm. The stall suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.

You didn’t like the attention—not like this, not when it felt like a prize to be fought over rather than affection freely given. Between the two of them, Arthur had always been your constant, your safe harbor—the boy who’d held your hair back when you puked after too much gelato, who’d defended you when kids mocked your accent.

But Charles? Charles was the storm you couldn’t resist stepping into, the thrill of lightning too close to your skin.

Calming yourself with a shaky breath, you slipped into Charles’ garage, blending into the shadows as a cluster of celebrities—some driver’s girlfriend, a pop star, a footballer—leaned against the tool racks, champagne flutes dangling from manicured fingers.

"Arthur’s got the charm," the pop star was saying, flipping her hair over one shoulder, "but Charles? Mon dieu, have you seen him in that race suit? It’s like God carved him from marble."

The footballer snorted. "Please, Arthur’s the better driver—smoother, more technical. Charles just looks fast." A scoff from the girlfriend: "Are you blind? Charles has three wins this season. Arthur’s still fighting for his first podium."

The words settled like ash on your tongue, bitter and familiar—second best, always second best..

You walked past them, making them silent and picking up your headphones, the sudden hush louder than their gossip.

The headphones were a flimsy shield but you clutched them like a lifeline, pressing them tighter over your ears as you shouldered past.

The pop star’s gaze burned into your back, her whisper sharp enough to slice through the bass thumping in your skull: "That’s her. The one they were fighting over."

You tightened your grip on the headphones, pretending not to hear as you leaned against the garage wall, eyes fixed on the monitors flickering with telemetry data.

The screen blurred into streaks of neon—tire temps, throttle percentages, fuel loads—until Charles’ voice crackled through the radio feed, smooth as aged whiskey.

"Brake balance feels off—shift it rearward by two clicks." The engineers murmured assent, but you barely registered them; something about the way Charles said "rearward," low and deliberate, sent a shiver down your spine.

You focused the rest of the session on dissecting Charles’ driving—the way he carried speed through the swimming pool section, the precision of his downshifts into Casino Square—until the patterns became a language only you understood.

Arthur’s Ferrari streaked past in a blur of red, but your gaze stayed glued to Charles’ onboard camera, watching his hands flex around the wheel as he wrestled the car through the chicane.

The pop star’s earlier words echoed in your skull: God carved him from marble. You hated that she was right.

Then—a tap on your shoulder. The pop star stood there, her manicured nail glinting under the garage lights as she smirked down at you. "So," she purred, flipping her hair over one shoulder, "which brother’s bed are you warming tonight?"

The question landed like a slap, her French accent dripping with faux sweetness. You stiffened, your fingers tightening around the headphones.

"Neither," you snapped, but your voice cracked on the lie.

The pop star laughed—a tinkling, condescending sound—and leaned in closer, her perfume cloying. "Darling, please. The way Charles looks at you?"

Her gaze flicked to the monitor where Charles’ onboard feed showed him licking his lips after a hard corner.

"That’s not brotherly."

Behind her, the footballer muttered something crude, but you barely heard it over the sudden roar of engines.

Arthur’s Ferrari screamed past the garage, the sound vibrating through your ribs as he locked up into Turn 1—too aggressive, too raw.

On the screen, Charles’ hands twitched on the wheel, his voice crackling through the radio: "Arthur’s pushing too hard. He’s going to—"

The sentence died in static as Arthur’s car snapped sideways, tires smoking.

The garage erupted into chaos, engineers scrambling for data as Arthur’s onboard feed showed him wrestling the wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

Charles’ voice cut through the noise, sharp as shattered carbon fiber: "Told you."

You barely registered the pop star’s gasp beside you—your entire body was coiled tight, watching Arthur’s car fishtail toward the barriers.

Then the impact—a deafening crunch of metal meeting concrete, the sickening screech of carbon fiber shredding itself against the wall. The monitors flickered violently before cutting to static, plunging the garage into stunned silence.

Someone screamed Arthur’s name, but your throat had closed up entirely, your pulse hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The radio crackled back to life with Charles’ voice, stripped raw of its usual arrogance: "Arthur—talk to me." Silence.

Then a groan, staticky and weak. "Je vais bien," Arthur muttered, but the way he hissed between words told you he was lying. Charles’ response was razor-sharp: "You idiot."

Charles was the quickest to get there, his race boots pounding the tarmac before the medical car even left the pit lane. He reached Arthur’s crumpled Ferrari in seconds, wrenching the halo open with bare hands despite the marshals shouting at him to wait.

Through the smoke, you saw him cradle Arthur’s face—just for a heartbeat.

"Fuck," Arthur slurred, blood trickling from his temple as he blinked up at Charles. "Did I—?" Charles cut him off with a snarl, pressing Arthur’s helmet back against the headrest.

"Don’t move, you reckless bastard." His voice cracked on the last word, fingers trembling against Arthur’s cheekbone.

The medics arrived in a swarm of fluorescent vests and urgency, their practiced hands dismantling the halo with mechanical efficiency. Arthur groaned as they hauled him free, his legs buckling—until Charles caught him, slinging Arthur’s arm over his shoulders with a grip that turned his knuckles white.

"Idiot," Charles muttered again, softer now, as they stumbled toward the exit, Arthur’s weight sagging against him like a marionette with cut strings.

The crowd parted in stunned silence, cameras flashing like a strobe light frozen on the brothers’ tangled limbs—Charles’ race suit streaked with Arthur’s blood, Arthur’s fingers clutching Charles’ shoulder like a lifeline.

You stood rooted to the spot, your pulse screaming in your ears as you watched them disappear into the medical car, the scent of burning rubber and spilled coolant clinging to the air like a bad omen.

Back in the garage, the pop star’s earlier taunt echoed in the sudden void: Which brother’s bed are you warming tonight?

The answer clawed at your throat—neither, not like this, not when Arthur’s blood was smeared across Charles’ collarbone and the monitors still flickered with the ghost of his crash.

No one spoke for minutes until FP1 was officially stopped, the PA system crackling with the announcement that FP2 would start in three hours to clear debris—three hours that stretched like a lifeline, three hours for Arthur to be assessed, for Charles to scrub his hands raw in the hospital sink, for you to press your forehead against the cool metal of the garage wall and choke on the scent of scorched rubber still clinging to your clothes.

The pop star’s manicured fingers brushed your shoulder—pity or curiosity, you couldn’t tell—but you recoiled like she’d burned you. "He’ll be fine," she murmured, as if Arthur was some interchangeable driver and not the boy who’d taught you how to swim in the Leclercs’ pool, who’d held your hand through your first broken bone.

You didn’t answer, just shoved past her toward the exit, the paddock blurring into streaks of color as you broke into a run.

Charles wasn’t there with Arthur when they finally let you into the medical center—just a harried-looking doctor and Arthur himself, sprawled on a gurney with his race suit peeled down to his waist, his torso a canvas of blooming bruises.

The sight punched the air from your lungs. "You look like shit," you managed, voice cracking. Arthur’s grin was lopsided, blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Still prettier than Charles," he rasped, then winced as he tried to sit up.

You caught his wrist, pressing him back down with more force than necessary. "Don’t," you hissed, but your fingers trembled against his pulse point.

Arthur’s smile faded as he studied your face, his free hand rising to brush a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Hey," he murmured, thumb catching the moisture on your cheek. "I’ve crashed harder in karts."

You replied with a choked laugh, swatting his hand away even as your own lingered on his chest—right over the bruise darkening his ribs. "You were reckless," you accused, but the words lacked bite.

Arthur’s fingers tangled with yours, pressing your palm flat against his heartbeat. "Maybe I wanted your attention," he said, so quiet you almost missed it over the hum of medical equipment.

You replied with a scoff, pulling your hand back—but he held tight, his grip weaker than usual but insistent. "You had it," you muttered, staring at the IV snaking into his arm instead of his face. "You always had it."

The door swung open before Arthur could respond, and a nurse bustled in with a clipboard, her gaze flicking between you and Arthur’s intertwined fingers.

"Monsieur Leclerc needs rest," she said briskly, nodding toward the door. "Family only for now." Arthur’s grip tightened—painfully, suddenly—and he shot her a glare that could’ve melted steel.

"She is family," he growled, but the nurse didn’t flinch, just arched a brow and pointedly tapped her watch.

You stood before Arthur could argue further, disentangling your hand from his with a final squeeze. "I’ll be outside," you murmured, but Arthur caught your wrist again, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.

"Don’t go far," he muttered, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just pain. The nurse cleared her throat, and you forced yourself to step back, the scent of antiseptic and Arthur’s blood clinging to your skin like a second layer.

The hallway outside the medical center was eerily quiet, the usual paddock chaos muffled by distance.

You ducked into the nearest bathroom—a cramped, fluorescent-lit space that smelled of industrial cleaner and stale perfume—and braced your hands against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

Your fingers were streaked with Arthur’s blood, dried brown under your nails like rust. You scrubbed furiously under scalding water, the soap foaming pink as it swirled down the drain, but no matter how hard you rubbed, the metallic scent clung to your skin, mingling with the memory of Arthur’s pulse thudding against your palm.

Your phone buzzed violently in your back pocket, jolting you from the trance. Maman’s name flashed across the screen—four missed calls, three texts. You answered with trembling fingers. "Chérie, où es-tu?"

Her voice was sharp with worry, the familiar clatter of pots in the background anchoring you for a fleeting second. "Charles told me about Arthur—mon Dieu, is he—?"

You cut her off before she could spiral, forcing steadiness into your voice. "He’s fine. Just bruised." The lie tasted bitter—Arthur’s labored breathing, the way he’d winced when the nurses adjusted his IV, none of it was fine. Maman exhaled shakily.

"Come home tonight," she said, and it wasn’t a request. "Charles will drive you and Arthur after debrief. I’ve already made up your room."

You pressed your forehead against the cool mirror, the tiles digging into your elbows. Home.

The Leclerc house—Arthur’s childhood bedroom with its karting trophies gathering dust, Charles’ old room down the hall with its locked drawers and racing posters.

The thought of being trapped between those walls tonight, with Arthur’s injuries and Charles’ simmering tension, made your stomach twist.

"Maman, I don’t think—"

"Non," she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "You shouldn’t be alone after this."

You replied with a noncommittal hum, scraping your nails against the sink. Arthur’s blood was gone, but the phantom weight of his grip lingered on your wrist.

"Fine," you muttered, though the word tasted like surrender. Maman’s sigh crackled through the phone. "Charles said he’d find you after debrief."

Your fingers clenched around the sink edge—Charles, who’d watched Arthur crash with something too close to regret in his eyes. "Great," you lied.

You hung up and then went to the hospitality suite, the scent of champagne and expensive cologne clinging to the air like a taunt. The space was half-empty—most attendees had fled to analyze Arthur’s crash footage—but Charles’ PR manager loomed by the espresso machine, her stiletto tapping impatiently.

She glanced up as you entered, her gaze lingering on your torn cuticles before flicking away. "He’s in the debrief room," she said, though you hadn’t asked. The unspoken don’t distract him hung between you like barbed wire.

You slumped into an armchair near the exit, the leather cool against your bare thighs. The suite’s TV flickered with replays of Arthur’s crash—the way his Ferrari had shuddered mid-corner, the violent snap of oversteer that sent him careening into the barriers.

Your stomach twisted as the commentators dissected the wreck with clinical detachment: "Leclerc junior pushed too hard—amateur mistake."

The screen cut to Charles’ onboard footage, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel as Arthur’s car vanished from his mirrors.

Then—the sharp click of dress shoes on marble. Charles stood in the doorway, his race suit unzipped to reveal the sweat-damp shirt beneath, his sunglasses shoved haphazardly into his collar. He didn’t speak, just studied you with a gaze that felt like a physical weight.

The PR manager cleared her throat. "Charles, the Sky Sports team is waiting—"

He silenced her with a glance, then tilted his head toward the exit. "Come on," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. "Arthur’s asking for you." The way he said it—like it cost him something—made your breath catch.

You followed him through the paddock, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. Charles’ knuckles were bruised, the skin split—from wrenching open Arthur’s halo, you realized.

He flexed his hand absently, wincing as the cuts stretched. "You shouldn’t have done that," you said quietly, nodding at his injuries.

Charles scoffed, kicking a stray bolt out of his path. "And let him bleed out in the car?" His voice was sharp, but his pace slowed just enough for you to keep up.

The medical center loomed ahead, its sterile lights harsh against the gathering dusk. Charles stopped abruptly, his fingers brushing yours before he caught himself.

"He’ll be fine," he muttered, though it sounded more like a prayer than a reassurance. You swallowed hard, staring at the blood still crusted under his nails.

"Will you?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. Charles’ jaw tightened.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually answer—then Arthur’s voice echoed from inside, slurred but insistent: "Where is she?"

Charles stepped back, his mask sliding into place with practiced ease. "Go on," he said, nodding toward the door. But as you moved past him, his hand shot out, gripping your elbow just long enough for you to feel the tremor in his fingers.

"Don’t tell him I—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. The unspoken cared hung between you, bitter as burnt rubber. You nodded once, and his grip loosened, leaving behind the ghost of his touch like a brand.

Inside, Arthur was propped up against the pillows, his face pale except for the angry cut above his brow. His grin wavered when he saw you.

"Thought you’d bailed," he rasped, but his fingers twitched toward yours like a compass finding north. You caught his hand—careful of the IV taped to his wrist—and squeezed hard enough to make him wince.

"You wish," you muttered, thumb brushing the ridge of his knuckles. His pulse jumped under your touch.

The door clicked open behind you—Charles, lingering in the threshold with Arthur’s duffel slung over one shoulder. Arthur’s grip tightened around your fingers.

"What, no flowers?" he croaked, but his voice lacked its usual bite. Charles tossed the bag onto the bed with deliberate carelessness.

"Maman’s making soup," he said, avoiding Arthur’s gaze. "She wants you home tonight." The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on—home, with all its fractured history, its unhealed wounds.

Charles dropped Arthur’s duffel beside you, "I’m going for FP2," he muttered, already turning toward the door. His fingers brushed yours as he passed—just a ghost of contact, but it sent a jolt up your arm.

Arthur’s grip tightened painfully around your wrist. "Don’t crash," he called after Charles, voice dripping with false levity.

Charles froze in the doorway, his shoulders rigid.

When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped raw: "You first." The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the IV stand.

You exhaled shakily, staring at the spot where Charles had stood—his scent still clinging to the air, something citrus and sharp beneath the antiseptic. Arthur’s thumb traced your pulse point, pulling your attention back to him.

"So," he murmured, lips quirking despite the pain, "still think Charles is the better driver?" The joke fell flat, his fingers trembling against yours.

You swallowed hard, pressing his hand to your cheek. "Shut up," you whispered, but your voice cracked.

His palm was warm against your skin, his racing gloves discarded somewhere in the wreckage—just flesh and bone now, vulnerable in a way Arthur Leclerc never was.

Outside, engines roared to life—FP2 beginning without them, the world moving on while you sat there clutching Arthur’s hand like a lifeline. The monitor above his bed beeped steadily, his heartbeat a fragile rhythm against the hum of the paddock.

Somewhere out there, Charles was strapping into his car, his knuckles still split from saving Arthur. The thought made your chest ache.

“Remember that new padel court near Port Hercule?” Arthur rasped suddenly, his thumb tracing idle circles on your palm. “The one with the neon lights?”

You blinked—the abrupt shift so typically Arthur it almost hurt. “The one you swore you’d beat me at,” you replied, forcing a smirk. His grin was weak but genuine. “Once I’m cleared to move,” he murmured, fingers tightening around yours, “we’re going. Just us.” The unspoken no Charles lingered between you, heavy as the scent of antiseptic.

"Sure. I'll beat you again if that's what you want," you teased, flicking his IV line lightly. Arthur’s laugh turned into a wince, his free hand pressing against his ribs.

“You wish,” he gasped, but his eyes burned with something fiercer than pain—the same competitive fire that had fueled your childhood races, your stolen bets, the time he’d jumped into the pool fully clothed just to prove he could outswim you.

You leaned closer, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises. “Loser buys gelato,” you whispered.

Arthur replied by catching your wrist, his grip weak but insistent. “Only if you promise not to cry when I win,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the delicate bones beneath your skin. yours betrayed him.

You nodded and scruffed his hair—tousling it the way you used to when he’d lose at Mario Kart as kids—but your fingers lingered too long, catching in the strands at the nape of his neck.

His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, the medical center faded away, leaving only the warmth of his scalp under your palm and the way his pulse thundered against your fingertips.

Then Arthur leaned into the touch, just slightly, and the moment shattered like a dropped champagne flute.

You talked about everything he could remember from the practice session—the way his Ferrari had sung through the first sector, the snap of oversteer that felt wrong from the start, the half-second where he’d glanced at Charles’ lap time on the dash and pushed too hard.

His voice was raw with frustration, but his fingers never left yours, tracing idle patterns on your palm like he was mapping a route to somewhere safer.

“Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Should’ve backed off.” You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him look up.

“Since when do you back off?” you challenged, and the ghost of his old smirk flickered across his face.

FP2 finished with Charles topping the timesheets, his name flashing across every screen in the paddock like a taunt. The TV above Arthur’s bed replayed his final lap—the ruthless precision of his lines, the way his car barely kissed the barriers through the swimming pool section—and Arthur’s grip on your hand turned vice-tight.

“He looks good,” he admitted through gritted teeth, as if the words were being dragged out of him.

You didn’t reply, just pressed your thumb against his racing pulse point, the monitor beside you beeping a fraction faster. On screen, Charles pulled into his garage, ripping off his gloves to reveal the same bruised knuckles that had brushed yours an hour ago.

The door swung open without warning, and Charles strode in smelling of sweat and high-octane fuel, his race suit unzipped to the waist. He tossed Arthur a water bottle with deliberate carelessness—it landed on the bed with a thud—before leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Car’s balanced now,” he said, too casual. “Fixed the rear instability.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Great,” he bit out. Charles’ gaze flicked to your intertwined hands, then away just as quickly.

“Maman wants us home by eight,” he added, voice flat. The unspoken don’t make me drag you hung between them like the scent of antiseptic and burning rubber.

You stood abruptly, disentangling your fingers from Arthur’s with a final squeeze. “I’ll get your things,” you murmured, but Arthur caught your wrist again—weaker now, his grip slipping.

“Hurry back,” he muttered, eyes darting to Charles like he expected him to vanish you into thin air.

Charles’ smirk was razor-thin as you brushed past him toward the lockers, his fingers grazing your hipbone—too fleeting to be accidental, too deliberate to ignore.

The scent of his sweat and burnt carbon clung to your clothes as you wove through the medical staff, your pulse hammering in time with the distant roar of engines still circling the track.

Arthur’s duffel sat slumped in his locker like a discarded second skin, his gloves still curled inside as if frozen mid-gesture. You traced the worn leather—the same pair he’d shoved into your hands after your first karting lesson, laughing as you fumbled with the straps.

The memory burned now, sticky-sweet as the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

When you turned, Charles was leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette haloed by the fluorescent lights. “You forgot this,” he said, tossing Arthur’s watch at you—the vintage one you’d given him for his eighteenth birthday. It landed heavy in your palm, the glass cracked like the fragile truce between them.

Charles’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Better not let him lose that too.”

You nodded silently walking past him, the watch burning a hole in your pocket. The walk back to Arthur’s room felt endless, each step measured against the phantom pressure of Charles’ grip.

When you pushed open the door, Arthur was struggling to sit up, wincing as the IV tugged at his wrist.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled, but his voice softened when he saw the watch in your hand. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, lingering just long enough for you to feel the tremor in them.

“Thought I’d lost this,” he admitted, quieter than you’d ever heard him.

You two helped Arthur to the back door and into a tinted car, his weight leaning heavily against you as he hobbled forward, each step punctuated by a hissed curse. Charles walked ahead, his shoulders tense beneath his jacket, one hand gripping the car door like he wanted to rip it off its hinges.

The scent of Arthur’s antiseptic-soaked bandages mixed with the leather seats as you eased him onto the backseat, his breath hitching when his ribs brushed the console.

Charles slid into the driver’s seat without a word, his fingers drumming once—hard—against the steering wheel before he twisted the key. The engine roared to life, a growl that vibrated through your bones as Arthur slumped against the window, his reflection fractured by the condensation on the glass.

You caught Charles’ gaze in the rearview mirror, his eyes dark with something unreadable before he looked away, accelerating onto the Monaco streets with a jerk that made Arthur groan.

The silence in the car was suffocating, broken only by the occasional rustle of Arthur shifting against the leather or the sharp tap of Charles’ ring against the gearshift.

You stared out at the blur of harbor lights, the yachts bobbing like discarded toys in the distance, until Arthur’s voice—raw and quiet—cut through the tension: “You didn’t have to come get me.” Charles’ grip on the wheel tightened.

“Yes,” he said, too low for anyone but you to hear, “I did.”

The villa gates loomed ahead, iron and imposing, and as they swung open, Arthur’s fingers brushed yours in the dark—just once, fleeting as a heartbeat.

Charles parked with unnecessary force, the tires screeching against the cobblestones, and when he turned off the engine, the sudden quiet was deafening.

None of you moved.

Somewhere inside, Maman’s shadow passed by a lit window, her silhouette blurred by the curtains. The three of you sat there, suspended in the aftermath, the unspoken words between you heavier than the weight of Arthur’s injuries.

Maman came out onto the terrace the moment Charles killed the engine, her flour-dusted apron fluttering in the sea breeze as she hurried down the steps.

“Mon Dieu,” she gasped, taking in Arthur’s bandaged brow and Charles’ bruised knuckles—but her hands, when they reached for them both, were steady. S

he cradled Arthur’s face first, murmuring something in rapid French that made him wince and nod, then turned to Charles, her palm lingering on his cheek a fraction too long.

“Inside,” she ordered, voice thick with something beyond reproach—relief, maybe, or the quiet devastation of a mother who knows too much.

You lingered by the car, suddenly an intruder in this intimate tableau, until Maman’s gaze found yours over Charles’ shoulder. Her eyes—the same shade as Arthur’s, as Charles’—softened.

“You too, chérie,” she said, extending a hand still warm from the oven. The scent of almond biscuits clung to her skin, familiar as childhood.

Maman steered you all toward the kitchen like a shepherd herding stubborn lambs, her touch firm but gentle. The table was already set, steaming bowls of soup waiting, and for a surreal moment, it could have been any other night—Arthur elbowing you for the bread basket, Charles rolling his eyes at their antics, Maman scolding them both in fond exasperation.

But then Arthur’s bandage caught the light, Charles’ knuckles whitened around his spoon, and the illusion shattered. Maman sighed, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads in turn before turning to you. Her fingers, when they brushed your cheek, were trembling.

“Eat,” she murmured, but her gaze flickered between her sons like she was trying to solve an equation that kept changing variables.

Maman came out onto the terrace with a bottle of wine and three glasses clutched in her hands, her face carefully neutral. “You’ll explain this to me later,” she said quietly, setting them down with deliberate precision.

Her eyes—usually so warm—were sharp as flint as they darted between Arthur’s split lip and Charles’ bruised hands. Neither brother spoke, their silence louder than any confession.

Maman poured the wine slowly, the liquid glinting like blood in the moonlight, then pushed a glass toward each of you. “To family,” she said dryly, raising hers in a toast that felt more like a warning.

Charles was the first to look away, his jaw working as he stared out at the harbor lights. Arthur traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip, his usual bravado replaced by something hollow.

You reached for your own glass just to have something to hold, the crystal cool against your palm. Maman watched you all for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, before standing abruptly.

“Finish your wine,” she said, her voice softer now. “Then come inside. The bed in the guest room is made.” The unspoken for you lingered in the air as she disappeared into the house, her footsteps echoing like a countdown. . . .

The knife slips—just barely—when your sister’s voice cracks through the apartment like a snapped rubber band. “You’re taking my shift,” she announces, not asks, her heel already tapping against the linoleum like she’s counting down the seconds until you argue.

The avocado pit you’d been wrestling with rolls into the sink, and you don’t bother to hide your glare. “The fuck I am,” you mutter, but she’s already tossing a crumpled slip of paper at your chest.

It’s the address, of course, scrawled in her loopy handwriting, along with a name you don’t recognize—some generic, forgettable alias. “He paid upfront,” she adds, flicking her hair over one shoulder like that settles it.

The smug tilt of her chin tells you she knows exactly how much you hate last-minute clients, the ones who think cash buys spontaneity.

But the number scribbled at the bottom of the page makes your throat go dry. Enough to cover rent. Enough to make your pulse skip.

You agreed. Because you always do. Because the apartment’s too quiet without her laughter rattling the windows, and the knife in your hand suddenly feels too light.

The fur coat smells like mothballs and someone else’s perfume when you shrug it on—borrowed, probably, or bought from the thrift store two blocks over.

Beneath it, the orange lingerie clings like a second skin, the straps digging into your shoulders, the lace scratching at your ribs with every breath.

The color is garish, too bright against your thighs, like a warning. You wonder why he picked it.

The elevator ride up is silent except for the hum of machinery, your reflection warped in the polished brass doors—a stranger in your sister’s lipstick, her too-tight shoes pinching your toes.

The keycard she gave you is still warm from her pocket when you swipe it, the light blinking green with a soft, almost mocking chime.

Inside, the penthouse is all sharp angles and cold light, the windows stretching floor-to-ceiling, the city sprawled beneath you like a glittering, indifferent beast.

The air smells like expensive cologne and something faintly metallic—fear, maybe, or anticipation. Your pulse thrums in your wrists, your throat, the hollow behind your knees.

You knock on the bedroom door, the sound too loud in the sterile silence. "Come in," comes the reply, and the voice—low, rough, familiar—catches like a fishhook in your ribs.

You know it.

You know it before you push the door open, before the hinges sigh, before the dim light spills over the man sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers laced together, his smile slow and knowing.

Your breath stops.

The man lounging on the edge of the bed isn’t just any client—it’s Lando fucking Norris, his grin lazy and self-assured, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his thigh.

The air-conditioning kicks on, sending goosebumps skittering down your arms, but the heat pooling low in your stomach has nothing to do with the temperature.

His gaze drags over you like a physical weight—the fur coat slipping off one shoulder, the tacky orange lace beneath—and you feel absurdly, violently aware of every inch of skin.

You’re frozen, your pulse hammering against your ribs, your mouth dry as bone.

Your sister’s obsession with him floods back in a rush—the posters taped crookedly above her bed, the way she’d sigh over his races, the way she’d bite her lip when his name cropped up in conversation.

The irony tastes bitter on your tongue. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Lando asks, tilting his head, his grin sharpening. His accent curls around the words like smoke, lazy and deliberate.

The coat slips further, the strap of the lingerie snapping against your skin with a sting that makes you flinch.

You don’t answer. You can’t. His gaze drops to your thighs, to the way the orange lace strains against your hips, and something dark flickers in his eyes.

He unfolds from the bed with the fluid grace of a predator who’s never had to hurry, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the taut line of his stomach.

You’d expected him to be soft—TV Lando, with his boyish charm and nervous laughter—but this version of him moves like he knows exactly how much space his body takes up.

The realization hits you like a slap: you’re staring. You snap your gaze up, but it’s too late—his grin widens, smug, as he steps closer. The scent of his cologne wraps around you, something expensive and faintly citrus, undercut by the musk of sweat.

Your sister’s voice hisses in your ear—you’re here for a service, not to gawk like some starstruck fan—but the thought dissolves when his fingers brush the fur coat.

"Let me," he murmurs, peeling it off your shoulders with a slowness that borders on cruel.

The air-conditioning licks at your exposed skin, raising goosebumps, but his touch burns. His knuckles graze the dip of your collarbone, deliberate, and your breath hitches. You can feel the weight of his gaze tracing the ridiculous orange lace, the way it strains against your ribs.

You exhale sharply through your nose. "I see why you picked it," you mutter.

His team, his life—the way he moves through the world like he owns it, like everyone else is just scenery. The orange is garish, but it’s his color. His branding. The thought twists something ugly inside you.

His chuckle vibrates through your skin as he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Good. Then you already know how this ends."

His fingers hook into the waistband of the lingerie, tugging just enough to make your pulse stutter. The lace bites into your hips, and for a wild second, you wonder if he’ll tear it.

You don’t expect the shift—his grip loosens, his palm flattening against the small of your back instead, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body sears through the cheap fabric, his thigh slotting between yours with practiced ease.

You can feel him, hard against your hip, and the realization coils tight in your gut.

His other hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s teeth and tongue and the salt of his sweat, the kind of claiming that leaves your lips throbbing.

You arch into him instinctively, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin cotton of his shirt. He groans against your mouth, the sound raw, and you taste victory—brief, fleeting—before he breaks away.

“You’re not what I expected,” he breathes, thumb swiping over your lower lip, smearing your sister’s lipstick. His gaze is molten, tracking the mess he’s made.

The admission hangs between you, charged. You know what he expected—someone giggly, starstruck, eager to please. Someone like your sister. Instead, you bite his thumb, just hard enough to sting.

His chuckle is low, dangerous. “Cat caught your tongue?” he teases, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling just shy of painful.

The sting radiates down your spine, pooling heat between your thighs. You could lie. You could play coy.

Instead, you let your teeth flash in the dim light. “No,” you reply, voice rough. “Just deciding if you’re worth the effort.”

His fingers pause in your hair—just for a heartbeat—before his grin sharpens, feral. “Careful,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb along your lower lip again, smearing the lipstick further. “I like a challenge.”

His other hand slips beneath the waistband of the lingerie, fingertips skating over the crest of your hipbone, and you shiver despite yourself. The contrast is dizzying—the cool air against your flushed skin, the heat of his touch branding you.

You arch into him, not away, and the noise he makes is almost a growl. His teeth find your earlobe, sharp, and the sting blooms into warmth that pools low in your stomach.

“Still deciding?” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. His palm slides lower, cupping you through the damp lace, and your knees nearly buckle.

The fabric rasps against sensitive flesh, the friction almost cruel.

Your sister would scream if she knew—not just because it’s Lando, but because you’re letting him unravel you like this, your breath coming in ragged bursts against his neck.

She’d claw at your hair, hiss about professionalism, but the thought only makes you dig your nails harder into his shoulders. She’s the one who handed you the keycard, who shoved you into this room.

His thumb circles lazily over the lace, pressing just enough to make you gasp.

“Answer me,” he demands, but it’s ruined by the way his hips jerk against yours, the hard line of him grinding into your thigh.

You could laugh—he’s as far from composed as you are, his breath hitching when you rock against his hand.

The realization hits like a spark: he’s not as in control as he wants you to think.

You twist in his grip, catching his wrist before he can push further. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted—vulnerable, for a heartbeat.

“Make me,” you whisper, and the sound he makes is half curse, half surrender.

His knee nudges yours apart, pressing you back against the vanity. The edge digs into your thighs, cold marble biting through the lace. His fingers tighten on your waist, possessive, as he drags his mouth down your neck—not kissing, just breathing you in, hot and unsteady.

The scent of his cologne is ruined now, replaced by sweat and something darker, primal. Your hips jerk against his, the friction raw, and the way he groans against your skin is almost pained.

Your fingers twist in his curls—too tight, tugging—and the sound he makes is startled, filthy. His teeth scrape your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and you taste copper on your tongue from where you’ve bitten your own lip.

The lingerie’s strap snaps under his fingers, elastic recoiling against your ribs with a sting that makes you gasp.

The mirror behind you rattles when he pins you harder against it, your reflection fractured—his hand splayed across your stomach, your mouth open around a silent curse. His other hand slides lower, past the ruined lace, fingers slick with your own wetness as they circle your clit with lazy precision.

“Still deciding?” he rasps, but his voice cracks halfway through.

You arch into his touch, thighs trembling, and his breath hitches when you drag his bottom lip between your teeth. “Shut up,” you mutter, and the laugh he lets out is breathless, wrecked.

The vanity digs into your spine when he spins you around, his palm hot between your shoulder blades as he presses you against the mirror.

Your breath fogs the glass, obscuring your reflection, but you feel him—the rough drag of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, the wet heat of his mouth tracing your spine.

His fingers hook into the waistband of the ruined lingerie, peeling it down just enough to expose the curve of your ass, and the groan he lets out is filthy, unfiltered.

You brace your palms against the mirror, fingers splayed, as his tongue licks a slow, torturous path up your thigh. The air-conditioning raises goosebumps on your skin, but his breath is scorching, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh just behind your knee.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes your stomach twist. You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his pupils swallow the hazel of his eyes—dark, desperate—before he drags you back against him.

His fingers dig into your hips, his cock straining against his jeans as he grinds against you, the denim rough against your bare skin. “Tell me,” he demands, but his voice is raw, stripped bare.

You tilt your head back, catching his lips in a messy, biting kiss, and when you pull away, his grip tightens. “You first,” you challenge, and the sound he makes is half growl, half surrender.

The lingerie rips when he tears it the rest of the way off, the fabric catching on your hipbone before fluttering to the floor. His palm presses flat against your stomach, fingers splayed as if measuring the way your muscles tense under his touch.

His breath ghosts over the nape of your neck, uneven and hot, and you arch into him instinctively, pressing back against the hard line of him. The mirror is cold against your nipples, the contrast sharp enough to make you gasp.

His knee nudges yours wider, forcing you to brace yourself against the vanity as his fingers slide lower, tracing the crease of your thigh with deliberate slowness.

You can feel his pulse hammering where his chest presses against your back, erratic and uncontrolled, betraying the carefully cultivated arrogance of his earlier smirk. His teeth find the curve of your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise, and the sting radiates down your spine, settling low in your belly.

"You talk too much," you mutter, breathless, and his laugh is ragged against your skin. His fingers curl inside you, sudden and unforgiving, and the noise you make is swallowed by his palm as he clamps it over your mouth.

The stretch burns—just for a second—before pleasure overtakes it, sharp and electric. His thumb circles your clit in rough, uneven strokes, out of rhythm with the relentless thrust of his fingers, and your knees nearly buckle.

The vanity rattles when you twist in his grip, knocking over a bottle of cologne that spills amber liquid across the marble. The scent—citrus and spice—fills the air, mingling with sweat and the salt of his skin as you drag him down into another kiss.

His lips are chapped, his breathing ragged, and when you bite down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood, he groans like he’s been gutted.

His fingers leave bruises on your hips as he lifts you onto the vanity, the cold marble searing against your bare thighs. The mirror behind you cracks slightly from the impact, spiderwebbing in the corner, and your reflection splinters into fragments—his hands gripping your waist, your legs wrapped around him, the way his pupils swallow the color in his eyes.

He doesn’t bother undressing, just unzips his jeans with rough impatience, the denim scraping against your inner thighs as he pushes into you.

The stretch is sharp, almost too much, and your breath comes in short, jagged bursts against his collarbone. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven.

The moment stretches, suspended, until you shift—just slightly—and his control snaps. His hips jerk forward, driving you back against the mirror, the glass cold and unyielding against your spine.

You gasp, nails raking down his back, and he curses, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His thrusts are uneven, frantic, as if he’s chasing something just out of reach.

The sound of skin against skin, the creak of the vanity beneath you, the occasional groan he can’t suppress—it’s raw, messy, and nothing like the polished performance you expected from him.

When his fingers dig into your thigh, dragging you closer, you realize with a sharp thrill that he’s just as wrecked as you are.

His teeth graze your pulse point, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your damp skin. The mirror rattles with each movement, the fractured reflection catching the way your lips part around a silent moan.

The friction is almost unbearable—every drag of him inside you sparking a fresh wave of heat—but when you clench around him, his hips stutter, his rhythm faltering. He mutters something against your collarbone, muffled and rough, and you don’t need to hear it to know it’s surrender.

The scent of spilled cologne clings to your skin, mingling with sweat and the metallic tang of blood where you’ve bitten your lip too hard. His hands tremble slightly as they grip your hips, the illusion of control slipping—just for a second—before he catches himself.

But you feel it: the hitch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your skin like he’s trying to anchor himself. It’s fleeting, but enough to make your stomach tighten with something dangerously close to satisfaction.

His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady. "Look at me," he demands, voice ragged. But when your eyes meet his, the challenge falters—his gaze is dark, pupils blown wide, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.

There’s no pretense here, no practiced charm, just the sharp, desperate edge of want. You could laugh—should laugh—but the sound dies in your throat when he thrusts deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair.

The vanity groans beneath you, and for a wild moment, you wonder if it’ll give way entirely.

The cologne bottle rolls off the edge, shattering against the floor with a sharp crack, the scent of citrus and spice blooming thick in the air. His lips brush yours—not kissing, just breathing you in—and the intimacy of it is more unsettling than anything that’s come before.

Your hips jerk against his, seeking friction, and the noise he makes is raw, almost pained. His fingers trace the curve of your spine, featherlight, as if memorizing the way your muscles tense beneath his touch.

The mirror digs into your back, cold and unforgiving, but the heat pooling low in your stomach drowns out everything else. His thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing your sister’s lipstick further, and when you lick it off—slow, deliberate—his breath catches.

The reaction is small, almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his hips stutter against yours, in the way his grip tightens just shy of bruising.

You’re both unraveling now—too fast, too messy—but neither of you cares. The air between you is thick with the scent of sweat and spilled cologne, the only sound the ragged hitch of his breath and the soft, wet slide of skin against skin.

His teeth graze your earlobe, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, and when you arch into him, the vanity shifts dangerously beneath you.

His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to sting—just enough to make your pulse flutter—before he murmurs against your lips, “Say it.” His voice is rough, stripped of its usual lazy confidence, and the vulnerability in it makes your stomach twist.

You could tease him, could drag this out until he breaks, but the desperate press of his hips against yours betrays him. So you do. You whisper it—filthy, broken—and the way he shudders against you is its own kind of victory.

He doesn’t last long after that. His thrusts grow uneven, his rhythm faltering, and when he finally spills inside you with a groan that sounds more like surrender than triumph, his forehead drops to your shoulder.

The heat of it coils low in your stomach, unexpected and intimate, and for a moment, neither of you moves—just breathes, just exists in the wreckage of whatever this is.

Then his hands slide down your thighs, gripping just above your knees, and he lifts you off the vanity like you weigh nothing.

The sudden shift makes you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The sheets are cool against your bare skin, the silk slipping beneath you like water, and you sink into them with a shudder. The contrast—his heat, the bed’s chill—makes your skin prickle.

He follows you down, his weight pinning you in place, his fingers threading through yours as he presses your hands into the mattress.

His breath is still ragged against your collarbone, his chest rising and falling against yours, but there’s a new tension in his shoulders—like he’s bracing for something. You tilt your head, catching the way his throat works as he swallows, the sheen of sweat along his jawline catching the dim light.

His thumb brushes your lower lip again, smearing what’s left of your sister’s lipstick, and the gesture is oddly tender—out of place amidst the wreckage of the vanity, the torn lingerie, the scent of sex and spilled cologne clinging to your skin.

The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, until he exhales sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re fucking trouble,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a rough sort of wonder.

His fingers tighten around yours, just for a heartbeat, before he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside you with a groan that’s half exhaustion, half surrender.

The bed dips under his weight, the silk sheets whispering against your skin as you turn your head to study him—the way his lashes flutter against his cheekbones, the faint tremor in his fingers where they rest against his stomach.

You’d expected arrogance, maybe, or smug satisfaction. Instead, he looks—unsettled. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with the fact that you’re still here, that neither of you has bolted for the door yet.

You lean in, close enough to taste the salt on his skin, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Problem, Norris?” you murmur, and the way his jaw clenches is its own kind of answer.

His hand finds your wrist, fingers circling the delicate bones there, but he doesn’t push you away—just holds on, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The silence stretches, taut and fragile, until he turns his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils still blown wide, and the look he gives you is raw, unguarded—something like hunger, something like fear. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

Then, just as you lean in to bite the pulse jumping in his throat, his fingers tighten around your wrist. “I thought you were unavailable for today,” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing the delicate bones of your wrist in slow circles.

His breath fans across your lips—close, too close—and the admission lingers between you like a confession. You freeze, the implication sinking in: he’d asked for you.

Your sister’s perfume clings to your skin, sharp and floral beneath the musk of sweat and spilled cologne, and for a wild moment, you wonder if he can taste her on your tongue.

His lashes flutter when you exhale—sharp, unsteady—and his grip tightens, as if he can feel the way your pulse stutters against his fingertips. The sheets rustle beneath you, silk whispering against bare skin, and the silence stretches taut.

“Needed a day off,” you murmur against his jaw, teeth grazing the stubble there. “Lucky me.”

The words taste bitter, the truth sour on your tongue, but his breath hitches anyway, his hips jerking up into yours with a roughness that steals your next breath.

His laugh is ragged, breathless, as he rolls you beneath him in one fluid motion. “Lucky you,” he echoes, but the way his hands tremble against your hips betrays him.

The sheets tangle around your legs, the silk clinging to damp skin, and when his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not victory—it’s surrender.

You taste the split in his lip where you bit him earlier, the metallic tang sharp against your tongue. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging them wider, and the groan he lets out vibrates through your chest when you arch up against him.

His shirt clings to his shoulders with sweat, the fabric damp and translucent where your nails have raked through it. You hadn’t bothered to undress him fully—too impatient, too eager—but now the half-dressed state feels obscene.

Your sister’s lipstick smears across his collarbone when he pins you down, the color garish against his tanned skin. His breath hitches when you drag your nails down his back, the fabric of his shirt catching on your fingertips, and the sound he makes is ragged, unguarded.

“Off,” you mutter against his mouth, fingers twisting in the damp cotton.

He pulls back just enough to let you yank it over his head, the fabric catching on his curls before it lands somewhere near the shattered cologne bottle.

The scent of his sweat hits you—sharp, musky, nothing like the polished citrus of his cologne—and you bite back a groan when his bare chest presses against yours, skin to skin.

His palm slides down your ribs, calloused fingers mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the stretch marks along your thigh like he’s memorizing them.

The touch is unexpectedly reverent, at odds with the bruising grip he’d had on you moments ago. You stiffen—too used to clients who treat your body like a transaction—but his thumb brushes the inside of your knee, slow and deliberate, and something in your chest cracks open.

The sheets rustle when he shifts, his knee nudging yours wider. His breath is hot against your stomach as he trails kisses down your torso, pausing to nip at the jut of your hipbone.

The sting blooms into warmth, pooling low in your belly, and when his tongue flicks over the sensitive skin just above your waistband, your hips jerk off the mattress. He chuckles—the sound dark, satisfied—and pins you down with a hand splayed across your abdomen.

You gasp when his teeth graze your inner thigh, the sharp bite tempered by the slow drag of his tongue over the mark. His gaze flicks up to yours, hazel eyes darkened to near-black, and the smirk he gives you is filthy.

“Stay,” he murmurs against your skin, and the command—half plea, half threat—sends a shudder through you. You fist your hands in the sheets instead of his hair, just to spite him, but the way his lips curve against your thigh tells you he knows exactly how badly you want to.

His breath ghosts over you, hot and uneven, before he finally—finally—presses his mouth to you.

The groan that tears from your throat is ragged, unbidden, and his fingers dig into your hips in response, holding you still as he licks into you with slow, deliberate strokes. The pleasure coils tight in your stomach, sharp and molten, and when his thumb brushes your clit in lazy circles, your back arches off the bed.

The sheets twist beneath you, silk clinging to sweat-slick skin, and his free hand slides up your torso, fingers splaying over your ribs as if measuring the way your breath hitches.

He hums against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and when you twist your fingers in his curls—too tight, tugging—he groans like he’s the one unraveling.

The bedframe creaks when he shifts, his knee pressing yours wider, and the sudden scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh makes you jolt. He laughs—low, rough—and the sound is muffled against your skin as he drags his tongue over you again, slower this time, savoring.

Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, muscles taut, and the way his fingers flex against your hips tells you he’s holding back just as much as you are.

His thumb circles your clit with agonizing precision, the pressure just shy of too much, and when you gasp his name, he bites down on your thigh in response—a warning, a reward. The sharp sting radiates up your spine, mingling with the heat coiling tighter in your belly, and your fingers fist in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

The vibration against your skin sends a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, and for a wild second, you consider pushing him away—just to see how far he’ll chase you.

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath, just licks into you like he’s starving, his grip on your hips bruising now. The pleasure builds too fast, too sharp, and when his thumb presses down just right, your back bows off the mattress, your toes curling into the sheets.

His name spills from your lips, ragged and broken, and the way he groans against you—like he’s won something, like he’s lost something—is the last thing you hear before you shatter.

The orgasm rolls through you in waves, electric and unrelenting, your thighs clamping around his shoulders as you ride it out. His mouth doesn’t leave you, just slows to lazy, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging through the aftershocks until you’re squirming, oversensitive and wrung out.

He finally pulls back, lips glistening, chin damp, and the look he gives you is feral, satisfied. “There you go,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thumb brushing your hipbone like he’s soothing a wild thing.

You’re still trembling when he crawls up your body, the sheets whispering beneath him, his skin hot against yours. You barely register it—not when his mouth finds yours, tasting yourself on his tongue, bitter and sweet.

He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips, his hands framing your face, fingers tangled in your hair. The tenderness is disarming, unexpected, and you arch into it instinctively, your nails scraping down his spine.

His breath hitches when you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. You can feel him, hard against your stomach, and the groan he lets out is ragged, desperate.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, hips jerking forward involuntarily, and you bite back a smirk.

The control he’s so carefully cultivated is fraying at the edges, his movements jerky, uncoordinated, like he can’t decide whether to devour you or worship you.

The exhaustion hits you suddenly—a wave of dizziness that makes your vision blur at the edges. You blink it away, but your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts sluggish.

The adrenaline must be wearing off, the sleepless nights catching up with you. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until now, your body protesting the relentless pace, the lack of rest.

His fingers tighten around your wrists when you sag against him, your head lolling onto his shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with concern, his thumb brushing the delicate skin of your inner wrist.

The gentleness is jarring, out of place amidst the wreckage of the sheets, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to your skin. You want to pull away, to snap at him, but your body betrays you, melting into his touch like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

The bed dips when he rolls you onto your side, his arm sliding beneath your neck, his other hand tracing idle patterns along your ribs. The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, until he exhales sharply—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a rough sort of wonder. His fingers tighten around yours, just for a heartbeat, before he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside you with a groan that’s half exhaustion, half surrender.

You blink up at the ceiling, the afterglow fading into something duller, heavier. His breath evens out beside you, slow and measured, but you can’t shake the gnawing unease coiling in your gut. The sheets smell like him—salt and citrus and something darker—but beneath it, lingering on your skin like a ghost, is your perfume.

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “You should’ve picked my sister,” you murmur, the words thick with exhaustion, barely audible.

Lando stills beside you. The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, until his fingers brush your wrist—light, questioning. “I wanted to pick you,” he admits, voice rough with something you can’t name. His thumb traces the delicate bones of your hand, slow and deliberate. “But they said you were unavailable.”

The confession hangs between you, fragile as spun glass. You turn your head to look at him, the dim light catching the furrow between his brows, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for a blow.

His fingers tighten around yours when you shift away, the sheets whispering against your skin. The air-conditioning hums, sending a chill down your spine, but the warmth of his palm against your hip is a brand.

“So I had to pick the second best,” he adds, quieter now, almost rueful. The words settle like a weight on your chest, heavy and unavoidable.

You stare at him, the admission sinking in—your sister was the backup, the stand-in. The thought twists something ugly inside you.

His gaze flickers over your face, searching, before he exhales sharply through his nose. “Didn’t realize,” he mutters, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist, “how much of a mistake that could have been.”

The roughness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, unexpected and electric. You swallow hard, your pulse thudding against his fingertips, and for a wild moment, you consider letting him unravel you all over again.

But exhaustion drags at your limbs, heavy as lead, and you slump back against the pillows with a sigh. His fingers tighten around yours—just for a heartbeat—before loosening, his palm settling warm against your ribs.

You nod, eyelids fluttering, the weight of the night pressing down on you like a physical thing. “Go to sleep,” Lando murmurs, his breath ghosting over your temple, rough and uneven.

The words curl around you like smoke, lazy and deliberate, and you let yourself sink into them. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, steady now, the frantic rhythm of before long gone.

The sheets rustle as he shifts, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer.

You should push him away—should remind yourself this is just a transaction, just another job—but his heartbeat beneath your ear is too steady, too real.

The city hums outside the window, indifferent and glittering, but here, in the dim light, his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine—slow, reverent, like he’s committing you to memory.

You close your eyes, the scent of him—salt and sweat and something inexplicably him—wrapping around you like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

Lando wakes to the hollow press of cold sheets where your body should be. The scent of you—salt and something floral, sharp beneath the musk of sex—lingers on the pillowcase when he turns his head, chasing the ghost of your warmth.

His arm is still outstretched, fingertips brushing empty space, and the ache in his chest is stupid, irrational. The hotel room hums with silence, the city’s glow bleeding through the blinds in slatted gold, and for a wild second, he considers calling you.

His phone sits facedown on the nightstand, untouched, and he knows without looking that there won’t be a message.

The shower isn’t running. The bathroom door hangs open, the tile floor dry. His shirt—the one you’d told him to take off last night—lies discarded near the foot of the bed, the fabric still damp with sweat.

He sits up too fast, the sheets pooling around his waist, and the motion sends a sharp twinge through his shoulder where your nails had bitten in deep.

The sting is a welcome distraction, a grounding pulse of pain amidst the gnawing emptiness. He drags a hand down his face, fingertips catching on the scratch marks along his jaw, and exhales sharply through his nose.

The envelope is still there—thick with cash, untouched on the dresser where he’d left it before you arrived. The sight of it twists something ugly in his gut.

He’d expected you to take it. Expected you to slip out with it while he slept, the way they always did, the way they were supposed to.

But the money sits pristine, the crisp edges catching the morning light like a taunt. He swallows hard, throat dry, and for a wild second, he considers tearing it up.

Instead, he pockets it with stiff fingers, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

The sheets still smell like you. Like salt and something faintly floral—your perfume, clinging stubbornly to your skin even after everything. He presses his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply, and the ache in his chest sharpens.

The scent is already fading, blending with the stale hotel air, and the thought sends a jolt of panic through him. He fists his hands in the fabric, as if he could trap it there, preserve it, but the futility of the gesture only makes his jaw tighten.

The keycard is gone. He checks the nightstand, the floor, even under the bed—but it’s nowhere. The realization settles like a stone in his throat.

You hadn’t just left. You’d taken the key. The implication coils tight in his stomach, hot and insistent. He could call the front desk, report it missing, have them deactivate it.

But he doesn’t.

He stares at the empty spot where it should be, his pulse thudding in his ears, and wonders if you’ll use it.

The thought twists something in his chest, sharp and unexpected. He’d fucked countless women—paid for them, even—but none had ever left him feeling like this: hollowed out, scraped raw, like you’d taken something vital with you when you walked out.

His fingers twitch toward his phone before he catches himself—what would he even say? Come back? Why did you leave the money? The questions taste bitter on his tongue, too desperate, too revealing.

He drags his palms down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose, and the scent of you lingers on his skin—orange blossom and sweat, fading fast.

The city buzzes beyond the window, indifferent to the wreckage of the bed, the ache in his ribs where your teeth had left marks. He stands too quickly, the sheets clinging to his thighs, and the cool air raises goosebumps where your hands had been just hours ago.

The emptiness is physical, a weight pressing against his sternum, and he hates it—hates how your absence feels like a wound.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, a teammate’s name flashing across the screen, but he ignores it. Instead, his fingers trace the edge of the dresser where you’d braced yourself, the wood still faintly warm from your grip.

The lingerie strap—the one he’d snapped—lies coiled on the floor like a shed skin, the orange lace garish in the morning light.

He picks it up, the fabric slipping between his fingers, and for a wild second, he considers pocketing it like some pathetic keepsake. . . .

The champagne cork hits the ceiling with a dull thud, bouncing off the plaster before landing in your lap. You stare at it stupidly, fingers tracing the damp ridges while muffled cheers erupt from the TV screen where Carlos stands drenched in celebratory spray.

His grin fills the entire 65-inch display, but his eyes—those damn dark eyes—keep flickering toward the camera with deliberate intensity, like he's aiming his victory straight at you.

Three years of empty hotel rooms and hurried airport goodbyes have turned your apartment into a museum of unfinished conversations. The fridge still holds his favorite German beer from last summer, gathering dust next to expired milk.

Your thumb hovers over his contact photo—the one where he's kissing your temple after Monaco—but the notification pings first.

A single word lights up the screen: "Door."

Rain streaks the peephole when you press against it, distorting the figure on your welcome mat into a watercolor impression. The Ferrari jacket gives him away before he lifts his head, droplets clinging to his stubble like he raced here straight from the podium. His knuckles are bleeding against your doorframe.

You don't remember turning the deadbolt. The wood splinters somewhere between his shoulder slamming forward and your gasp catching in your throat.

Carlos smells like burnt rubber and expensive cologne when he crushes you against the wall, his mouth claiming yours with the same reckless precision he uses to overtake on turn three. The trophy clatters to the floor between your feet.

"Missed you," he growls into your collarbone, teeth scraping skin as his hands map your waist like he's memorizing new track coordinates.

Outside, a car alarm wails in the storm. His phone buzzes incessantly from his pocket—team PR probably losing their minds—but he just kicks the door shut with his heel. The broken lock swings uselessly on its hinges.

You taste champagne and adrenaline when he kisses you again, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. It's not gentle.

It's Singapore '23 all over again—that night he pushed you into the hotel shower still wearing his firesuit, water beading on his championship bracelet as it slid up your thigh. The trophy rolls under the coffee table, forgotten.

Carlos bites your lip as he lifts you onto the counter, sending a stack of unopened bills fluttering to the floor. The cold marble seeps through your thin sleep shorts, but his palms are furnace-hot where they grip your hips.

"Drove here straight after debriefing," he murmurs against your jaw, and you can feel the tremble in his arms—that post-race crash of endorphins and exhaustion.

His knee nudges yours apart with practiced ease, but then he freezes. Pulls back just enough to study your face. There's something raw in his expression you've only seen after brutal qualis, when the engineers tell him to abort lap.

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your cheekbone. The unspoken question hangs between you: three years of silence, of flight itineraries left unbooked.

You arch against him, nails scraping the Ferrari logo on his chest. "Say what? That I kept your toothbrush?"

His laugh is half-groan as you bite his earlobe. The trophy under the table rattles when he kicks it accidentally, sending a champagne-soaked receipt from Silverstone '21 fluttering out. His grip tightens—right where your hip still bears faint bruises from Melbourne paddock.

Outside, lightning forks across the sky. The power blinks once, twice, plunging you into darkness save for the glow of his Apple Watch reflecting off sweat-slick skin.

Somewhere downstairs, a neighbor's dog starts barking. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, the way he does before a risky overtake. "Say you still—"

The sentence fractures when you hook two fingers into his belt loop and yank. His Rolex digs into your thigh as he catches himself against the microwave, sending a decade's worth of race badges clattering to the tile. The storm drowns out whatever he was going to ask.

His teeth find your shoulder through damp cotton, tongue swiping over the fabric until it sticks to your skin. You can feel the shape of his frustration—the way his hands keep flexing like he wants to pin you down and shake answers out of your ribs.

The trophy rolls farther under the table when he jerks you forward, your knees hitting cabinet doors still sticky with last year's pasta sauce.

Rain lashes the fire escape in sheets now, wind howling through the broken door lock. His phone lights up again, illuminating the angry red mark your teeth left on his collarbone.

You watch realization flicker across his face—that you've memorized his tells just as well as he knows yours.

The fridge hums to life as power returns, casting the kitchen in fluorescent yellow. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose when you trace the fresh scar above his eyebrow—Baku's souvenir. His grip on your hips loosens just enough for you to feel him shaking. Not from the cold.

Outside, a taxi honks at the flooded intersection. Carlos' abandoned rental sits double-parked with the hazards blinking red onto wet asphalt.

You can almost hear his engineer screaming through the still-buzzing phone, but then he tears the Ferrari jacket off with one brutal shrug, the ripping fabric sound drowning out everything else.

His palms slide up your ribs, calluses catching on thin cotton. You arch instinctively, and he makes this noise—half growl, half surrender—before biting down on the strap of your tank top.

The trophy clatters again as he knees the cabinet shut, sending a dried-out race wristband fluttering to the floor. "Singapore '23. You'd kept that?"

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the way his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when you fist a hand in his sweat-damp hair. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline and rain, you catch the faintest whiff of hospital-grade soap.

Like he'd showered at some German med center after parc fermé instead of celebrating.

Your back meets the fridge door with a thud that rattles the forgotten beer bottles inside. Carlos hisses when your teeth sink into his lower lip—not gently—his hips jerking forward instinctively.

The Rolex catches on your waistband, metal burning cold against overheated skin as he finally tears your shirt up over your head. His breath hitches at the sight of the old Ferrari keycard still tucked in your bra strap.

"You kept this?" His thumb rubs over the faded logo, voice cracking like he's seeing a ghost. The card's edges are softened from being washed three times after Spa, when you'd forgotten it in your pocket before laundry.

His mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear that makes your knees buckle, murmuring something in rapid Spanish that ends with "—locura."

The microwave clock blinks 00:00 when he lifts you onto the counter again, sending a cascade of loose tea packets scattering. His hands—always so precise with gear shifts—fumble with your shorts button until you bite his wrist in mock frustration.

The growl it pulls from his chest vibrates through your ribs as he finally yanks the fabric down, his wedding ring (the one you bought him as a joke in Vegas) catching the light when he palms your bare thigh.

You taste copper when his mouth crashes into yours again—he must have bitten his tongue during the race—and the metallic tang mixes with the salt of his sweat as he licks into you.

The trophy rolls completely out of sight when you wrap your legs around his waist-torn race suit, your heels digging into the small of his back hard enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose—that telltale sign he's calculating risk versus reward—before his fingers slide down your spine with deliberate slowness. He pauses at the waistband of your shorts, thumb hooking under the elastic with the same precision he uses to judge tire degradation.

"Aquí?" His voice is rough with want, but there's hesitation in the way his fingertips tremble against your skin—like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he presses too hard.

Lightning forks outside again, illuminating the half-healed blisters on his palms from Monaco's grueling steering work as he reaches for the nightstand drawer.

The lube bottle is dusty but still half-full—the same one you'd tossed in there after Brazil '22, when he'd fucked you slow and deep against the pit wall under a rain-soaked tarp. His breath hitches when your nails rake down his stomach, catching on the fresh stitch marks from Baku's crash.

The first press of his finger is tentative, a question rather than a demand, and you arch into it with a gasp that gets swallowed by the thunder. Carlos murmurs something about "más despacio" against your thigh, but his resolve shatters when you clench around him—his free hand flies to your hip, pinning you to the counter as his teeth find your shoulder.

The Ferrari jacket pools on the floor beside his discarded gloves, the embroidered prancing horse staring blankly at the ceiling as rain lashes the broken door.

He works you open with the same methodical patience he reserves for tire warm-up laps, calloused fingertips coaxing and retreating until your nails leave half-moons in his biceps.

You taste the ozone on his tongue when he kisses you again, the static charge between your bodies making every inch of skin hypersensitive. His wedding ring catches the light when he adds a second finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat building low in your stomach.

The storm drowns out your moan when his thumb brushes that spot just inside, the one he discovered during that monsoon-delayed race in Malaysia.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose—his tell before an aggressive overtake—before twisting his wrist in that way that makes you see stars. The fridge hums louder as if in protest when you rock against his hand, sending condensation dripping down the forgotten beer bottles inside.

His Rolex digs into your thigh when he finally lines up, the face glowing faintly with lap-time precision as he pushes in slow. The stretch burns in the best way, like the ache of muscles after qualifying laps, and Carlos freezes when you whimper—not in pain, but in that breathless way that always makes him lose composure.

His curse is muffled against your neck as he bottoms out, hands trembling where they grip your hips like he's afraid you'll spin out if he lets go. Outside, the wind howls through the broken door lock, but all you hear is the ragged hitch of his breath when you clench around him.

When he starts moving, his rhythm uneven like a rookie's first practice session—all urgency and no finesse. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan, tasting salt and rain and the faint chemical tang of fireproof suit liner.

His wedding ring scrapes your inner thigh when he adjusts his grip, the metal warmed by skin now, and the contrast makes you arch violently enough to send a spice jar clattering to the floor.

Carlos growls something about "cojones" when you tighten around him, his pace fracturing into something desperate.

Lightning forks outside again, throwing shadows of your tangled bodies against the fridge where condensation drips onto abandoned takeout menus. His teeth catch your nipple through damp fabric, the drag of cotton almost painful as he fucks up into you with the same controlled aggression he uses to defend pole position.

You can feel the moment he forgets to breathe—that telltale stutter in his hips—right before his hand slides between you to thumb circles that are decidedly not FIA-approved.

The storm drowns out your cry when you come, your back bowing off the counter hard enough to send a champagne flute shattering somewhere to the left. Carlos follows with a choked "joder" that sounds more like prayer than profanity, his forehead pressed to your sternum as he pulses inside you.

His phone buzzes again from the jacket crumpled on the floor, the screen illuminating the discarded wristband from Singapore '23 where it lies tangled with your shorts.

His breath scalds your collarbone when he finally lifts his head—that dazed, post-debrief look he gets after podium finishes—and you can taste the adrenaline still humming between his teeth when he kisses you.

Slow now. Different.

Rainwater drips from his hair onto your breasts when he lifts you again, his grip almost bruising as he carries you toward the bedroom—past the still-buzzing phone, over the shattered crystal, through the puddle of his abandoned racing boots.

His mouth finds yours in the dark hallway with the same inevitability of a car snapping into its slipstream, teeth and tongues and three years of unsent text messages pouring out in gasps against damp skin.

The bedroom door creaks when he kicks it open, but neither of you hear it over the thunder or the way your name fractures in his throat when you bite down.

His hands shake as he lays you on the mattress—not from exhaustion, but from the effort of holding back whatever’s been building since Barcelona qualifying—and when his fingers trace the fresh sunburn along your shoulders, you realize he’s mapping every change, every millimeter of skin he missed.

The storm flashes through broken blinds, illuminating the way his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when you drag your nails down his chest, catching on the healing burns from brake fluid spills.

He exhales sharply—that sound he makes when the engineers tell him to push beyond redline—before sinking his teeth into your thigh hard enough to leave marks that’ll last through Monaco.

The mattress groans when he pins your wrists above your head, his sweat-slick chest pressing you deeper into sheets that still smell like last summer’s detergent.

You arch against him, tasting copper and rain where his collarbone meets your mouth, and when he finally enters you again, it’s with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your vision white out—not the frantic pace from the kitchen, but something deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around his.

His Rolex ticks against the headboard, the sound syncopating with your racing pulse as he murmurs something in Spanish against your sternum—half prayer, half apology—before setting a rhythm that feels like coming home after rain-delayed qualis.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the fresh scratches down his back—parallel to older silvered scars from Bahrain ‘22—and you watch his face fracture when you clench around him, his pupils swallowing the brown of his eyes whole.

His teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang mixing with the salt of his sweat as he licks into your mouth with the same desperate focus he uses to chase milliseconds in sector three.

Outside, wind rattles the fire escape, but all you hear is the hitch in his breath when you drag your nails down his ribs—right over the tattoo of your initials he got after Monza, hidden where only his race suit touches.

The storm drowns out your moan when his thumb finds that spot just below your navel—the one he discovered during that monsoon-soaked race in Sepang—circling with the same precision he uses to warm tires on formation laps.

His hips stutter when you bite down on his earlobe, the gold hoop there cold against your teeth, and for a heartbeat, he stills completely, forehead pressed to yours as his breath comes in ragged bursts.

You can feel the exact moment his control snaps—the way his fingers dig into your hips like he’s bracing for impact—before he’s driving into you with a broken noise that sounds more like surrender than victory.

Rainwater drips from his hair onto your cheeks when he finally comes, his mouth slack against your throat as his body trembles through the aftershocks—not the polished celebration from the podium, but something raw and unguarded, the way he looks in the garage when the engineers think no one’s watching.

His wedding ring catches the light when he reaches between you, fingers slick and shaking as he coaxes you over the edge with the same relentless focus he uses to chase checkered flags, and when you finally shatter, it’s with his name burning your tongue like spilled champagne on an open wound.

"You still taste the same," he rasps against your collarbone, tongue dragging over the salt-damp skin where your pulse throbs.

The admission feels heavier than the trophies weighing down his suitcase by the door, and you bite back the obvious reply—that you still keep his side of the closet empty, still flinch when the doorbell rings at 3 AM, still wake up reaching for someone who’s always halfway across the world.

His phone buzzes again from the kitchen, the screen illuminating the broken lock still swinging on its hinges. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose—that tell he’s calculating fuel loads and pit stops—before rolling you both onto your sides, his thigh slotting between yours with the same effortless precision as a perfect lap.

"Say it," he murmurs, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw where his teeth left marks earlier. The command is softer now, frayed at the edges like his racing gloves after a double stint.

Outside, the storm howls through the broken door, but all you hear is the hitch in his breath when you finally answer, your lips brushing the fresh bite mark on his shoulder: "Took you long enough."

His laugh is half-groan as he pins you beneath him again, his mouth finding yours with the same inevitability as rain on a Spa weekend. . . .

The smell of turpentine and linseed oil had become the permanent perfume of your studio—a small, sun-drenched room in the corner of your Monaco apartment that Max jokingly called "the forbidden zone."

For the past three months, it had been exactly that.

You and Max had been together for six years. You had seen him go from the promising young driver with a lightning-fast temper to the multi-time World Champion who carried the weight of the sport on his shoulders with a stoic, albeit occasionally weary, grace.

You knew the way his jaw tightened when he was frustrated, the specific, rare way his eyes crinkled when he truly laughed, and the way he looked when he was finally able to drop the "Max Verstappen" persona the moment the front door clicked shut.

His birthday was three days away. Most people bought him carbon-fiber watches, high-end gadgets, or invited him to curated parties he’d rather skip.

You knew better. You knew that beneath the metallic, high-octane exterior, there was a man who craved the stillness of a world that didn’t demand his lap times.

You stood before the large canvas, your hands wiped clean of cerulean blue. It was a painting of a memory—a photograph you’d taken during a quiet weekend in the Austrian mountains a year ago.

It was just Max, standing on the edge of a jagged alpine ridge at dawn, looking out over the valley where the mist hung like a ghost. He wasn't wearing his team kit.

He was just in a wool sweater, his hair windswept, his expression unguarded, soft, and profoundly at peace.

You had spent weeks capturing the exact play of light—the way the sun brushed the gold of the peaks, the melancholy blue of the shadows, and the quiet, human vulnerability in the arch of his back.

It was his favorite place on earth, and for the first time, you felt like you had finally captured the man he was when no one was watching.

The morning of his birthday, the apartment was quiet. Max had already been up for an hour, likely going through data on his tablet or finishing a workout.

You stepped out of the studio, turning the key in the lock twice—a habit that made him roll his eyes, though he never pressed you on it.

He was in the kitchen, staring intently at the espresso machine as if it were a complex engine component. He looked up when he heard you, his face softening instantly.

"Happy birthday, Max," you said, crossing the room to wrap your arms around his waist.

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "Don't tell me you got me another watch. You know I’m running out of wrist space."

You laughed, stepping back to press a kiss to his forehead. "No watches. Just breakfast, and… something else. Later."

He narrowed his eyes playfully. "You’ve been hiding in that room for weeks. I’m starting to think you’re training to become a professional hermit."

"Maybe I am. It’s better than listening to you complain about the simulator calibration."

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated against your chest. "Fair point."

The day was designed to be low-key—a request he had made weeks ago. You spent the afternoon on the terrace, the Mediterranean breeze tugging at the umbrella.

You read books, played a few rounds of chess where he ruthlessly dismantled your defense, and simply existed in the bubble of your shared history.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and apricot, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

This wasn't just a gift; it was an admission. In a life defined by speed, you were giving him something that demanded he stop.

"Max?"

He looked up from his tablet, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Come with me."

He raised an eyebrow but stood up, offering you his hand. You led him through the living room, toward the door of the studio. His demeanor shifted from casual to curious as he felt the slight tremor in your hand.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You’ll see."

You unlocked the door and swung it open. The room smelled of paint and dried brushes. The canvas was still covered by a heavy velvet cloth. You led him to the center of the room, standing him in front of the easel.

"I know you get everything you want," you said, your voice steadying as you looked up at him. "But I wanted to give you something that you couldn't buy, and something that no one else could possibly give you."

Max stood very still. The air in the room seemed to thicken. You reached out and grabbed the edge of the velvet cloth.

"Happy birthday," you whispered, and pulled it away.

For a long time, there was silence.

The painting caught the fading light from the window, making the paint seem to glow. It wasn't just a likeness of his face; it was a snapshot of a soul.

You had painted the exhaustion, the quiet strength, and the profound, aching beauty of a man who carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders but, in that moment, had chosen to simply be.

Max didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared, his eyes tracking the brushwork, the depth of the valley, the way you had captured the tension in his shoulders and then allowed it to melt into the landscape.

You felt a spike of anxiety. "Max? Do you… do you hate it?"

He finally turned to looked at you. His eyes were glassy, reflecting the light of the painting. He didn't look like the World Champion; he looked like the boy you had met years ago, before the podiums and the press conferences.

He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the surface of the canvas, afraid to touch the wet paint.

"You did this?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I did."

He turned fully toward you, and the look in his eyes made your breath hitch. It was raw, unadulterated adoration.

"I’ve spent my whole life looking at things in fragments," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The track, the car, the telemetry. I don't think I've ever… I don't think I've ever looked at myself the way you look at me."

He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until his forehead rested against yours. His hands came up to frame your face, his touch reverent.

"It’s not just the painting," he said, his thumb traced your cheekbone. "It’s that you saw this. You saw me when I thought I was just passing through. You saw the part of me that doesn't want to go fast. You saw the part of me that just wants to stay right here, with you."

"I see all of you, Max," you whispered. "Always."

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tasted of quiet gratitude and a love that felt far older than the years you’d been together.

It wasn't a performance; there were no cameras, no sponsors, no fans. It was just two people in a small room, anchored by a piece of art that told the story of a love that didn't need to win to be the most important thing in the world.

"This is the best thing anyone has ever given me," he murmured against your mouth. "It's the only thing I've ever wanted to keep."

He pulled away slightly, looking back at the painting, then back at you, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. "You know, we should probably never let the team see this. They’d think I’ve gone soft."

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Maybe you have."

"Yeah," he admitted, pulling you into his side, his arm tight around your waist. "Maybe I have. And I think I’m okay with that."

Outside, the Monaco night descended, the lights of the harbor beginning to twinkle like fallen stars. But inside the studio, the only light that mattered was the one in his eyes as he looked at the painting, and then, with a look of absolute, grounded certainty, down at you.

It was a gift that would last a lifetime, a reminder that even when the world moved at three hundred kilometers per hour, he had a place to land. And you were that place.

As you stood there, wrapped in his arms, you knew that this was the real race—the one that wasn't for trophies or titles, but for the quiet, hidden moments that made the rest of the world fade into nothing.

And as he kissed you again, slow and deep, you knew you had already won. . . .

"Stop staring at your phone like it's going to resurrect your ex," Lando said, plucking the device from your hands mid-swipe through yet another doomed conversation thread.

The garage hummed around you—hydraulics hissing, engineers murmuring—but his grin was the loudest thing in the room.

"I’ve got a better distraction." He jerked his chin toward the far end of the paddock, where Oscar stood silhouetted against the floodlights, his race suit peeled down to the waist, the fabric clinging to the sweat-slicked dip of his spine as he stretched.

You didn’t mean to lick your lips. Didn’t mean to notice how his shoulders flexed when he reached back to knot his hair, how the dark ink curling over his ribs shifted with each breath.

But Lando caught you looking anyway, his elbow nudging your ribs. "Told you," he sing-songed, low enough that the mechanics wouldn’t hear. "Bet he bites, though. You into that?"

Heat prickled up your neck—not just from embarrassment, but from the way Oscar’s gaze flicked over like he’d sensed the weight of yours.

His eyes weren’t kind, weren’t gentle; they were the sharp, assessing stare of a man who knew exactly how much trouble he could cause. And when his mouth quirked, slow and knowing, your stomach did something stupid and syrupy, like it had forgotten how to be sad.

"You’re staring," Lando murmured, gleeful, but you barely heard him over the rush of blood in your ears. Oscar peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, the motion deliberate, almost obscene, and you hated how your pulse kicked against your ribs.

He shouldn’t be allowed to look like that—all coiled tension and salt-stung skin, like he’d just stepped out of someone’s very specific fantasy.

You forced your gaze away, back to the telemetry screens flashing with cold, clinical data. Numbers didn’t smirk. Numbers didn’t make your throat dry.

But the ghost of his attention still prickled across your skin, lingering like the scent of gasoline and hot asphalt—inescapable, intoxicating.

Lando’s grin widened. "He’s not even your type," he lied, because everyone knew Oscar was exactly your type, which was the whole problem. Too sharp, too reckless, too good at making you forget why you were supposed to hate him.

You crossed your arms. "He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he’s God’s gift to racing," you muttered, conveniently ignoring how his arrogance was backed up by lap times that made engineers weep.

Lando snorted. "Yeah, and you’re a saint." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Admit it. You’d let him ruin your life for five minutes in a Monaco hotel bathroom."

Your nails dug into your palms. That was the worst part—Oscar wasn’t even pretending to look at you anymore, his attention already snapped back to his engineer, his posture all business.

Like you were just another variable in his race strategy, something to be optimized and discarded.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting. Focus. The car needed adjustments before qualifying. The data didn’t care about the way his sweat-damp hair curled against his neck, or how his hands—broad, deft—could dismantle an engine faster than most people could order coffee.

The car was real. The car wouldn’t look at you like you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

Then he ruined it by walking past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. Static prickled up your skin like tiny needles, and you caught the scent of him—salt, motor oil, something citrus-bitter that shouldn’t have been appealing. You clenched your jaw. He didn’t even glance your way. Asshole.

“You’re scowling at the tire pressure readings,” Lando said, leaning against the workstation. “Unless Pirelli personally betrayed you, I think we both know what—or who—you’re actually pissed at.”

You stabbed at the tablet screen harder than necessary. “Lando. Can you stop. I don’t want a boyfriend right now,” you hissed, but your traitorous eyes flicked to where Oscar was shrugging off his race suit, the fabric catching on his biceps before sliding down his torso.

The strip of skin exposed between his waistband and the hem of his undershirt was unfairly defined, glistening with sweat that caught the garage lights like a dare.

Lando followed your gaze and smirked. “Liar.” He flicked your earlobe, making you flinch. “You don’t want a boyfriend—you just want him to pin you against the nearest flat surface and—”

A wrench clattered to the ground behind you, loud enough to cut him off. Oscar didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed, the muscles along his spine flexing like he’d heard every word.

The air between you thickened, charged with something hotter than the asphalt outside. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in places that had no business reacting to the way his hands gripped the workbench, knuckles whitening like he was holding back.

Lando exhaled, slow and delighted. “Oh,” he murmured. “So that’s how it is.”

You stood up and left—too fast, too sharp, the metal stool screeching against concrete like a protest. The garage air tasted of burnt rubber and something acrid, your throat tight as you shoved through the side door into the humid Monaco evening.

The sea breeze slapped your cheeks, salt and exhaust fumes tangling in your lungs, but it didn’t erase the phantom pressure of Oscar’s sleeve brushing your arm, the way your skin still prickled with the memory of his heat.

Oscar watched you go, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He waited until the door swung shut behind you before turning toward Lando, his grip rough as he hauled his teammate into the shadow of a spare tire rack.

"Cut the shit," he growled, his thumb digging into Lando’s collarbone—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him listen. "You think this is funny? Pushing her like that?"

The words came out jagged, his pulse hammering under his skin like a misfiring engine.

Lando grinned, unfazed, his fingers tapping against Oscar’s wrist. "You’re the one who keeps looking at her like you want to eat her alive," he whispered, slow and deliberate. "And she’s looking back, mate. So either stop pretending you don’t care, or—"

His knee nudged Oscar’s thigh, suggestive. "—let me lock you two in a storage closet already."

Oscar’s fingers twitched, his breath hitching at the mental image—your back against cold metal shelves, your nails scraping down his spine as he crowded you into the dark. The fantasy hit him like a G-force, sudden and visceral, the kind of reckless impulse he usually throttled before it could take root.

But the memory of your bitten lip, the way your throat moved when you swallowed—it lingered, sticky-sweet and dangerous, like fuel fumes in an enclosed space. He shoved Lando away with a curse, the taste of want sharp on his tongue.

Lando wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder, still grinning. "You’re so fucked," he murmured, watching Oscar’s fingers flex like he was throttling an invisible steering wheel.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of hot metal and Lando’s cologne thick in his throat. His pulse thundered in his fingertips—not from anger, but from the way your hips had swayed when you stormed out, the way your hair caught the garage lights like a challenge.

He could still taste the salt of your bitten-off frustration in the air, metallic and electric.

Lando’s grin softened into something almost sympathetic. "She’s gonna hate herself for wanting you," he said, quieter now. "But not as much as you hate yourself for wanting her back." His knuckles brushed Oscar’s ribs, feather-light. "Go fix it before you both combust."

Oscar didn’t move—couldn’t—his pulse hammering like a misfiring engine, the phantom weight of your gaze still pressed against his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting sparks to fly from his clenched fists.

"I don’t want her," he muttered, turning sharply toward the paddock exit—the opposite direction you’d stormed off in—as if distance could erase the memory of your bitten lip, the way your pulse had fluttered under his sleeve’s accidental brush like a trapped bird.

The Monaco night swallowed him whole, the neon-lit streets pressing in too close, the scent of salt and spilled champagne clinging to his throat. He strode faster, as though speed could outrun the ache in his teeth—that primal, possessive urge to turn around, to—

A burst of laughter from an open-air bar snapped him back. He blinked. Stared at his own reflection in a rain-slicked shop window: hair wild, mouth set in a grimace, shoulders taut as suspension cables.

His hands shook. Christ. He raked them through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. The air smelled of damp pavement and your phantom perfume—something floral and sharp, like orange blossoms dipped in gasoline.

Lando was right. He was fucked.

Oscar had spent the past three days calculating fuel loads and gear ratios with mechanical precision, but his brain kept short-circuiting—every time you leaned over a telemetry screen, the loose neckline of your team shirt gaping just enough to reveal the delicate dip of your collarbone, his fingers twitched around his stylus.

Every time you laughed at one of Lando’s stupid jokes, the sound bright and throaty, his stomach dropped like he’d missed an apex.

And every time he caught you staring at him—just for a second, just long enough for his pulse to spike—you’d immediately pivot toward the nearest colleague, your voice too cheerful, your smile too tight.

It was driving him insane.

The worst part was the way you’d started touching everyone except him—a hand on Carlos’s shoulder as you explained tire degradation, your knee bumping against Lando’s under the strategy table, even that time you’d tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rebecca’s ear like it was nothing.

But when Oscar "accidentally" brushed past you in the garage, his knuckles grazing your waist, you’d flinched like he’d burned you, your breath hitching in a way that made his jeans suddenly too tight.

Now, as he watched you from across the hospitality suite—your fingers drumming against your champagne flute, your hips swaying slightly to the muffled bass of the club downstairs—he realized with dawning horror that he wanted to ruin you.

Not in the way Lando had joked about, not some quick, dirty fuck against a storage locker, but properly: the way your pupils would dilate when he finally got his hands on you, the way your breath would catch when he dragged his teeth over that spot under your ear, the way you’d whimper when he—

"Mate." Lando’s voice cut through the fantasy, low and knowing. "If you keep looking at her like that, someone’s gonna call the police."

Oscar drained his drink, the champagne sour on his tongue. "Fuck off."

Lando just grinned, nodding toward where you were now laughing at something Charles had said, your head thrown back, the line of your throat exposed.

"She’s doing it on purpose, you know. Wind you up." His knee nudged Oscar’s under the table. "And it’s working."

Oscar’s fingers clenched around his empty glass. He knew you were playing him. Knew it the way he knew the exact RPM his engine could handle before redlining—instinctual, visceral.

But knowledge didn’t stop the heat pooling low in his gut, didn’t stop the possessive snarl building in his chest every time another driver leaned into your space.

Across the room, your gaze flicked to his—just for a second—and the corner of your mouth curled, slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

His pulse roared in his ears.

Game on.

The champagne bottle popped like a gunshot, spraying golden foam across the McLaren garage in reckless arcs. Someone had slapped a paper crown on Oscar’s head—crooked, ridiculous—and he was laughing, actually laughing, his teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Lando poured another shot down his throat.

You watched from the periphery, the plastic cup in your hand sweating as much as your palms. Celebration buzzed through the air like static, thick with sweat and triumph, but all you could focus on was the way Oscar’s throat worked when he swallowed, the way his pulse jumped under the damp collar of his team shirt.

Then he caught you looking. His grin faded, replaced by something darker, hungrier—the same expression he wore mid-overtake, right before he devoured the competition.

Your breath hitched. The room tilted. And suddenly, he was striding toward you, his steps deliberate, his fingers closing around your wrist before you could bolt.

“You’re avoiding me,” he murmured, his thumb skating over your racing pulse. The scent of him—champagne and burnt rubber—clogged your throat. “Why?”

Your brain short-circuited. His grip tightened, just shy of painful, and you realized with dizzying clarity that you wanted him to push. Wanted him to crowd you against the nearest flat surface, wanted him to—

“I’m not,” you lied, your voice cracking. The garage noise faded to white static, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of your ear with deliberate slowness, and you shuddered.

“Liar,” he whispered, his breath hot against your temple. Then, lower: “You taste like trouble.”

You barely had time to process the words before he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a hallucination. Your knees trembled. Your lips tingled. And when you finally lifted your cup to your mouth, the champagne tasted like gasoline—sweet, flammable, and dangerous.

Lando materialized beside you, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Told you," he murmured, pressing a fresh drink into your shaking hands.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when Oscar was now leaning against the pit wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension, his gaze locked on you like you were the only variable he hadn’t calculated.

The way his fingers flexed around his own glass—slow, deliberate—sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The crowd surged around you, voices rising in a drunken chorus, but the noise faded to a distant hum. All you could hear was the hitch of your own breath, the phantom drag of Oscar’s thumb across your pulse point. Your skin burned where he’d touched you, the sensation lingering like a brand.

Lando shoved another drink into your hands—something neon and sticky-sweet—and you tossed it back without tasting it.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream like spilled fuel, igniting a reckless heat that had nothing to do with the humid Monaco night and everything to do with the way Oscar was still watching you—dark-eyed, predatory—from across the garage.

His lips were wet with champagne, his collar rumpled where someone had tugged it loose.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve walked off, found a quiet corner to sober up. Instead, your fingers tightened around the empty cup, crushing it until the plastic bit into your palm. The sting grounded you—barely—as you grabbed another drink from a passing tray.

The vodka burned going down, sharp and medicinal, but it couldn’t drown out the memory of his breath against your temple, the way his voice had dropped to a rough whisper: You taste like trouble.

Lando’s grin widened as he leaned in, his words slurring against your ear. “Keep drinking like that, love, and you’re gonna do something stupid.” His thumb brushed your cheek, sticky with spilled liquor. “Or someone.”

You shoved him away, stumbling toward the bathroom—somewhere quiet, somewhere cold—but the corridor tilted under your feet, the walls breathing like they were alive.

The phone in your pocket buzzed, insistent, and you fumbled for it, thumb smearing across the screen. Your ex’s name flashed up, a relic from another life: Miss you. Let’s talk.

Your stomach lurched. A month ago, you’d have crumpled. A week ago, you’d have replied. But now? Now all you could think about was Oscar’s grip on your wrist, the way his pulse had hammered under your fingertips like a rev limiter.

You deleted the message without reading the rest, your fingers trembling—not from sadness, but from the phantom pressure of Oscar’s breath against your neck, the way he’d looked at you like you were a corner he couldn’t wait to cut.

The hallway air smelled of spilled gin and sweat. You leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against your flushed cheek, and tried to steady your breathing. It didn’t work.

The memory of Oscar’s thumb tracing your pulse point lingered, sticky as the humidity clinging to your skin. You pushed off the wall—too fast, too sharp—and the floor tilted again.

Then the celebration room door slammed open. Oscar stumbled out, his hair disheveled, his shirt half-untucked. His gaze locked onto you instantly—wild, unfiltered—and your stomach dropped like a missed gear shift. He looked wrecked, his lips bitten red, his pupils blown wide with something darker than champagne.

"Y/N," he rasped, your name cracking like gravel under race tires. His fingers dug into the doorframe, knuckles white, as if he was physically restraining himself from crossing the distance between you. The raw hunger in his stare scorched your skin, hotter than any Monaco afternoon sun.

You shouldn't have done it—shouldn't have stepped forward, shouldn't have fisted his damp shirt and crushed your mouth to his—but the taste of him exploded across your tongue, champagne and salt and something darker, smokier.

His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted, hands hovering inches from your waist, trembling with restraint. "Fuck," he gasped against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest like a misfiring engine.

You expected arrogance, domination—but his kiss was all sharp inhales and barely-contained desperation, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting.

When you moaned, he made a broken sound in his throat and finally—finally—hauled you flush against him, his grip bruising as he backed you into the wall. Every ridge of his body burned through your clothes, his racing heartbeat wild against your sternum.

Lando's distant laughter echoed down the hall, and Oscar froze, his breath ragged against your neck. "Christ," he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle coiled tight.

His thumb brushed your swollen lip—once, twice—before he shoved himself away with a curse, leaving you both panting in the neon-lit hallway, the air thick with the scent of spilled alcohol and reckless choices.

The space between you crackled like overheated asphalt, his restraint palpable in the way his fingers flexed at his sides instead of reaching for you again.

You could taste the war in his kiss—the way his mouth had yielded even as his hands hesitated, like he couldn't decide whether to devour you or let you walk away.

His jaw worked, a vein pulsing at his temple. "We shouldn't—" The words came out strangled, his pupils blown wide. The hallway lights caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his restraint fraying visibly with each uneven breath.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, still humming with the memory of his grip—the way his calluses had caught on your skin like friction burns. The champagne haze made everything hyperreal: the salt-sting of his sweat when you'd licked into his mouth, the way his hips had jerked against yours like he'd forgotten how to brake.

You lifted your hand, slow, deliberate, and pressed your palm flat against his sternum. His heartbeat hammered against your touch, erratic as a blown engine.

"Christ," he hissed, his hands finally—finally—clamping around your waist. His thumbs dug into the dip above your hips, possessive, as he dragged you closer. The scent of him—alcohol and adrenaline—flooded your senses, thick as the Monaco humidity.

His nose bumped yours, clumsy with intoxication, and you felt the exact moment his control snapped—his mouth slanted over yours with a groan that vibrated through your ribs.

Somewhere distant, glass shattered. The party roared on. But all you knew was the slick heat of his tongue, the way his fingers flexed against your spine like he was memorizing the shape of you.

When you nipped at his lower lip, he made a sound so raw it curled your toes, his hips pinning you to the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck," he panted against your cheek, his voice wrecked. "We're both so fucking drunk."

His words slurred, but his hands didn't—they mapped your ribs with terrifying precision, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt. You arched into the touch, gasping when his teeth grazed your earlobe.

The hallway tilted, or maybe that was just your head spinning, but Oscar's grip tightened, anchoring you as his mouth found yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, like he was trying to drown in you.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, spilling laughter and cigarette smoke into the corridor. Oscar didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the narrow ledge of a fire extinguisher cabinet.

The metal groaned under your weight, but his body between your thighs was solid, real—the hard line of his erection pressing against you through layers of fabric made your breath hitch. His palm slid up your thigh, rough with calluses from gripping steering wheels, and you shuddered, biting back a moan against his collarbone.

The air between you smelled like spilled champagne and sweat, his pulse jumping under your lips as you traced the vein in his neck with your tongue. He made a sound low in his throat—half growl, half plea—and his fingers twisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

His breath was ragged against your skin, his lips brushing your racing pulse like he was counting each beat. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick with want. "You're gonna ruin me."

His mouth found yours again, slow and deliberate this time, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. His tongue slid against yours, hot and slick, the taste of him intoxicating—sharp with alcohol, sweet with something darker.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the damp fabric of his shirt, and he groaned, his hips pressing yours harder against the wall. The metal ledge bit into your thighs, the pain a distant echo compared to the electric current of his touch.

The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when you dragged your nails down his neck.

He shuddered, his grip on your thighs tightening—calluses catching on bare skin where your dress had ridden up—and you realized with dizzying clarity that you couldn’t remember your ex’s face, only the salt-sting of Oscar’s sweat as you licked into the hollow of his throat. . . .

The paddock air always smelled the same—a sharp, metallic cocktail of high-octane fuel, expensive espresso, and the frantic, buzzing energy of three hundred people trying to move in a space designed for fifty.

It was a sensory overload you had grown accustomed to over the last four years, but even with the familiarity, the weight of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media never quite ceased to feel like a spotlight burning against your skin.

You walked beside Lando, your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your team hoodie.

You were doing your best to keep up with his quick, rhythmic stride, his McLaren team kit a bright papaya blur against the charcoal gray background of the hospitality units.

"You're quiet," Lando said, not breaking his pace. He didn't look at you, his eyes scanning the horizon of the Silverstone paddock, but you felt the subtle shift in his demeanor.

It was the Lando-radar—he always knew when your mood dipped, even if you were masking it with the practiced cool of a driver’s partner.

"Just tired," you lied. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You were exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from being ‘on’ for seventy-two hours straight.

Without warning, Lando stopped. He didn’t just slow down; he pivoted on his heel, effectively blocking your path. Before you could react, his arm was around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

It was a casual, possessive movement, the kind that reminded everyone watching—and there were always people watching—that you were his.

You stiffened, your hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest. "Lando," you hissed, your voice low. "People are taking photos. Right there."

You gestured vaguely toward a group of fans pressed against the metal fencing, phones already held high like digital offerings. Lando didn’t even glance at them. Instead, he ducked his head, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear.

"Let them," he murmured, his voice laced with that mischievous, boyish charm that had stolen your heart in the first place. He squeezed your waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I haven't seen you all morning. You’ve been busy with PR, I’ve been in the sim. I’m allowed to say hello."

"You said hello at breakfast," you countered, though your heart was performing a treacherous little somersault in your chest.

"That was two hours ago," he insisted, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes were bright, lit with a spark of genuine affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "I missed you."

You didn't know how to handle it. After four years, you still didn't. You were a person of quiet gestures—notes left on bathroom mirrors, shared silences while watching movies, holding hands when the lights were out.

You weren't a ‘public display’ person. The vulnerability of being seen in private, intimate moments—even something as simple as a touch—felt like undressing in a crowded room.

Lando, however, had spent his entire adult life under a microscope. He had learned that if you’re going to be watched anyway, you might as well control the narrative. If he wanted to hold your hand, he held it. If he wanted to pull you close, he did it without hesitation, regardless of the cameras.

"Come on," he said, shifting his grip from your waist to your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He started walking again, pulling you along with him, his pace unbothered by the stares.

The rest of the morning was a blur of briefings and team meetings. You found yourself retreating to the back of the McLaren garage, watching the mechanics work on the MCL38.

It was a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you often felt like you were just a spectator to a life you were only partially living.

When the session ended and the drivers began to filter out, you saw Lando heading your way. He looked winded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a chaotic mess beneath his cap.

When he spotted you, his entire face transformed. The intense, focused ‘racer’ expression melted into a wide, effortless grin.

He didn't head for the engineers or the debriefing area. He walked straight to you, ignoring the team principal standing five feet away, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"God," he groaned, his voice muffled by your hoodie. "I need a coffee before I throw a headset through a wall."

"That sounds like a productive way to spend the afternoon," you teased, though you reached up, patting his back awkwardly. Your eyes darted around the garage. Several mechanics were snickering, and the telemetrics lead was pointedly looking at his tablet.

Lando pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders now. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the skin of your neck. "Come to the hospitality with me? Please? I need a witness so I don't punch something."

"I have emails to catch up on," you started, but he was already shaking his head before you finished.

"Emails can wait. You’re coming with me." He didn’t bother asking twice. He took your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.

As you walked through the paddock, he kept his hand firmly clutched in yours, occasionally swinging them between you like a couple of teenagers.

It was almost nauseatingly domestic, and it made your skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectators.

"Lando," you said, once you reached the relative privacy of the McLaren hospitality tent. You ducked into a quiet corner near the coffee machine. "Could you… maybe not?"

He paused, a cup of black coffee halfway to his mouth. He looked at you, genuinely confused. "Not what?"

"The… the touching. The holding hands in the paddock. The leaning on me when there are twenty cameras pointed at us."

He tilted his head, his expression earnest. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"It’s not that it bothers me," you said, choosing your words carefully. You didn't want to hurt him, but you needed him to understand. "It’s… it’s just that I’m not used to it. Private things should stay private. I feel like we’re performing when we do that."

Lando set the cup down. He moved into your space, his presence filling the corner. He didn't touch you this time, which felt strangely more intimate than the public displays. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.

"I’m not performing," he said softly. "I’m just… I’m proud. You’re my person. You’ve been my person for four years. Through the podiums, the crashes, the bad races, the move to Monaco. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel real."

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t want to hide you. I don't want to act like you're some secret I’m keeping in a drawer. If I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your hand because I like the way your skin feels against mine. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the fans. I care about how I feel when I’m with you."

"That’s very sweet," you said, your throat tight. "But you know how people talk. They dissect everything. They look for meaning in where you put your hand or how you look at me. It’s exhausting."

"Let them talk," Lando countered, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Let them dissect. They don't know us. They don't know the late nights, or the way you make tea, or the way you handle me when I’m losing my mind after a DNF. They’re just observers. We’re the ones living it."

He reached out, tentatively this time, covering your hand with his. "I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m just telling you why I am the way I am. For me, the PDA… it’s a way of tethering myself to you. In a world that’s always moving, you’re the only thing that stands still. I just want to make sure I’m always touching that anchor."

You looked at him—really looked at him. You saw the layers of the man the world saw as a race driver, but you also saw the man beneath. The one who was lonely at the top, the one who navigated the pressures of fame by clinging to the few things that were genuine.

"I’m an anchor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, the tension breaking. "You’re the best anchor. A little bit stubborn, maybe, and you complain about the cameras too much, but you’re definitely the anchor."

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. It was a soft, gentle moment, a stark contrast to the chaos just outside the tent.

"I’ll try," you whispered. "To be… less bothered by it."

"You don't have to change," he insisted, pulling back to look at you. "Just know that when I do it, it isn't for the cameras. It’s for me. And hopefully, it’s for you, too."

The rest of the weekend was a learning curve.

When you walked through the paddock on Saturday morning, Lando’s arm was around your waist again. The inevitable cameras clicked, but this time, you didn't stiffen. You didn't try to pull away.

You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you, and for a fleeting second, the cameras didn't exist. There was just the two of you, moving through a crowded space, anchored to each other.

You realized that perhaps you had been looking at it wrong the whole time. You had viewed the PDA as a performance for the world, but Lando viewed it as a statement to himself. It was a way of claiming his own reality in an environment that was designed to be artificial.

By Sunday, the atmosphere was thick with the tension of the race. The drivers were in ‘the zone,’ quiet and focused. You spent most of the morning in the motorhome, catching up on those emails you’d ignored.

A few hours before the race, there was a knock on your door.

Lando stood there, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his hair slicked back with sweat from his warm-up. He looked pale and intense, the adrenaline already beginning to surge through his system.

"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.

"Hey. You okay?"

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t go to the sofa. He didn’t pace. He walked straight to you, pulled you into a crushing embrace, and just held you. He didn't speak. He just rested his chin on the top of your head, his breathing deep and rhythmic.

This was the PDA that no one saw. This was the vulnerable, quiet reality.

"I’m nervous," he admitted finally, his voice barely a murmur.

"You’re always nervous before the start," you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back.

"I know. But today feels… different. I just wanted to see you one last time before I have to go be 'Lando Norris' for three hours."

He pulled back, searching your face. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—a lingering, soft touch that tasted of nervous energy and deep, abiding love. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline.

"See you after?" he asked.

"Always," you promised.

He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He turned to leave, walking with a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squared, his head held high.

As he walked out, you realized you hadn't even thought about who was watching. You hadn't felt the need to hide, or to be ‘proper,’ or to worry about how the world perceived your love.

You watched him go, feeling the quiet hum of his presence still lingering in the room. You realized that Lando was right. The world could look, they could stare, they could dissect every interaction until there was nothing left.

But they would never understand the alchemy of it—the way you held each other together, the way his hand in yours wasn't about the show, but about the connection.

When you walked out of the motorhome to head to the garage, you saw him ahead of you, walking with his team. He stopped at the entrance, turned around, and scanned the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.

He didn't wave. He didn't seek attention. He just gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment, a secret language that only the two of you spoke.

You nodded back, a smile playing on your lips.

The cameras were still there, the paddock was still screaming with noise, and the pressure was still building.

But as you made your way through the crowd, you didn't feel the need to hide. You kept your head high, your pace steady.

When you reached the garage, Lando was already in the cockpit. You stood by the wall, watching the mechanics scramble. You felt someone standing next to you—another driver's partner, someone you’d spoken to a few times.

"He looks focused today," she said, nodding toward the car.

You watched his helmeted head, the way he was checking the steering wheel settings, his movements precise and calm.

"He is," you said, a sense of pride swelling in your chest.

As the cars began to move, the noise became deafening. You reached out, gripping the safety rail. A hand covered yours. You looked down—it was Lando’s trainer, a man you’d known for years, offering a silent gesture of support.

You squeezed his hand. You weren't holding Lando’s hand, but you felt the connection, the web of people who loved him, who supported him, who were tethered to him.

The race went well. It was a grueling, tactical battle, but you watched every lap, every overtake, every moment of brilliance. When he crossed the finish line—a solid P3, a hard-fought battle—you felt a surge of relief that hit you like a physical wave.

When he finally made his way back to the pit lane, the adrenaline was high, the fans were screaming, and the cameras were desperate to capture his reaction.

You were in the ‘cool down’ room, waiting. When he burst in, tossing his helmet onto the table, he looked ecstatic. He was drenched in sweat, his lungs laboring for air, his face glowing with raw, unadulterated joy.

He spotted you immediately.

He didn't run to his team, he didn't check his phone, he didn't wait for the cameras. He bypassed everything and everyone, closed the distance between you, and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet.

You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small room. He spun you around, his face pressed into your shoulder, his heart hammering against your own.

"We did it," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion.

He didn't care about the producers behind the glass, didn't care about the microphones picking up his breathing, didn't care about the optics of a driver being ‘soft’ after a podium. He just held you, his hands tight against your back, his head resting on your shoulder.

"You did it," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly.

He pulled back, his face inches from yours. He was glowing, his hazel eyes wide and bright. He didn't let go of your waist. He didn't try to pull away to talk to the team. He just stood there, his forehead resting against yours, taking a moment to breathe you in.

"That was for you," he whispered, a smirk touching his lips.

"The race?" you teased.

"Everything," he said. "The race, the fight, the waiting. Everything is for you."

You smiled, the last of your resistance melting away. You realized then that the PDA wasn't about him being dramatic or needy; it was his way of saying, ‘this is my center.’ It was his way of remaining human in a world designed to strip humanity away.

You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, your touch lingering on his skin. You didn't care about the cameras anymore. You didn't care about the optics.

"You're a menace," you whispered.

"I know," he said, his grin widening. "But I'm your menace."

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before pulling back to see the effect it had on you. You didn't shy away. You held his gaze, your hand moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath the papaya suit.

"We have to go out there," he said, nodding toward the door where the interviews were waiting.

"I know," you replied.

"Stay close?" he asked, his hand finding yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in that familiar, grounding way.

"Always," you said.

He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he didn't let go. He didn't try to look composed for the cameras.

He just walked out, dragging you along with him, his hand in yours, his heart laid open for the world to see, and you didn't pull away.

For the first time in four years, you didn't feel like you were performing. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be—right by his side, anchored in the eye of the storm, holding onto the one thing that made all the chaos worth it.

The lights of the paddock hit you as you walked out, the noise rising to a crescendo, but you barely heard it.

You were focused on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his hand in yours, the physical tether that connected you to him, through every race, every win, every defeat, and every quiet moment in between.

As Lando greeted the reporters, he didn't pull his hand away. He kept it firmly in yours, a silent, defiant, and beautiful declaration. You stood beside him, watching him speak, realizing that for all the years you’d spent worried about the world, you had missed the most important lesson of all: that when you’re with the right person, the world doesn't matter.

Only the anchor does.

The weeks that followed brought a series of races, each one a different challenge, but the dynamic between you had shifted, subtly but fundamentally.

You were in Singapore, the humidity so thick it felt like a heavy, wet blanket pressing against your skin. The heat in the paddock was stifling, the noise of the city reflected off the glass buildings, echoing in the narrow walkways.

Lando was exhausted. The jet lag, the heat, the relentless schedule—it was wearing him down. You found him late on Saturday night, sitting on the steps of the motorhome, his head in his hands. He looked defeated.

You didn't say anything. You just sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. He didn't look up, but his hand found yours, his grip tight, almost desperate.

"It’s just… it’s been a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the cooling units.

"It has," you agreed, leaning into him.

He leaned his weight against you, a silent plea for support. You sat there for a long time, the only movement the shifting of your hands as you rubbed his palm, his breathing slowly steadying as he leaned into your presence.

A group of team members walked past, casting curious glances in your direction. A few weeks ago, you would have pulled away. You would have felt the heat of the embarrassment rising in your cheeks.

But tonight, you didn't. You kept your hand in his, your body pressed against his side, a silent, unified front.

Lando shifted, turning toward you and resting his head on your shoulder. He sighed, a long, shaky sound. "I don't know what I'd do without you here."

"You’d do just fine," you said, your voice soft. "You’re Lando Norris. You thrive on this."

"I thrive on the racing," he corrected, looking up at you with tired, genuine eyes. "The rest of it… the travel, the lights, the expectations… that’s just noise. You’re the only thing that isn't noise."

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch tender and vulnerable.

"I know I’m a lot," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I know I’m clingy. I know the PDA is probably annoying for you."

"It’s not annoying," you admitted, the words feeling true for the first time. "It’s… it’s a lot to get used to. Especially with everyone watching."

"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your temple. "I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just… I need to know you’re still there. I need to feel like I’m anchored to something real, even when everything around me is drifting."

You looked at him, feeling the weight of the last four years—the highs, the lows, the moments of profound isolation, and the moments of intense, shared joy.

You realized that you and Lando weren't just a couple; you were a unit, a team of two navigating a life that few people could ever truly understand.

"You’re always anchored to me," you said, your voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere."

He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of the night forgotten.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He closed his eyes, a sense of peace finally settling over him. He didn't move away, and you didn't pull back. You just sat there, two people against the world, holding onto each other in the quiet, humid dark.

The final race of the season was in Abu Dhabi. The air was cool, the track lights shining brightly against the darkening sky. The energy was electric, a mix of anticipation and the bittersweet end of a long, grueling year.

You stood in the garage, watching the final preparations. Lando was calm, focused, a version of himself you’d come to cherish—the man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was loved.

When he finally pulled his helmet off after the post-race debrief, he caught your eye across the garage.

He didn't wait. He walked straight to you, ignoring the cameras, the reporters, and the team members. He pulled you into a hug that felt like coming home.

"We made it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"We made it," you echoed.

He pulled back, his hands resting on your waist, his eyes bright with that familiar, boyish spark. "So, what are we doing for the off-season?"

You laughed, the sound light and free. "I’m taking you somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no cameras, no paddock, and absolutely zero motor racing."

He grinned, the expression wide and genuine. "Sounds perfect."

He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both a celebration and a promise—a promise of more to come, of more years spent side-by-side, navigating the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, together.

As you walked out into the paddock, the lights overhead shimmering like stars, he didn't let go of your hand. He held it firmly, his fingers interlaced with yours, his presence a constant, grounding rhythm against your own.

You looked up at him, the man you’d chosen, the man who had chosen you. You realized you didn't care about the cameras, the fans, or the prying eyes. You didn't care about the performance of it all.

You only cared about the person holding your hand, the person who made all the noise feel like silence, and the person who made you feel, for the first time in four years, like you were finally exactly where you were supposed to be.

"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily, naturally, a truth that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.

Lando smiled, a soft, radiant look that belonged only to you. He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and pulled you a little tighter against his side.

"I love you too," he said, his voice low and steady. "Now, let’s go start that vacation."

And as you walked away, deeper into the night, you didn't look back.

You just walked forward, hand in hand, anchored to each other, ready for whatever the next season—and the rest of your lives—would bring. . . .