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….

@redbullracing and @yourusername

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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. 💙

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@f1_fan_99: SHUT UP, IT'S ACTUALLY HAPPENING!!! Y/N in a Red Bull?! 🤯💙

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@rbr_girl: Someone pinch me. So incredibly proud of Y/N!

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@motorhead_mike: The grid truly just got a serious upgrade. Let’s gooo! 🐂

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@oracle_redbull_racing: Let’s gooo! 🐂💙

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

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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. . . .

The air in the private villa in Monaco is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sea salt, and the underlying, sharp hum of tension. Outside, the Mediterranean laps lazily against the rocks, but inside, the atmosphere is anything but calm.

You are hosting a dinner—a small, intimate gathering of your closest friends back from your university days—and Charles is there, draped across the velvet sofa like he belongs to the furniture, his eyes following your every move.

You’ve been with Charles Leclerc for five years. Five years of secret airport departures, of holding his hand under the table at gala dinners, of nights spent listening to him deconstruct a race strategy while he traces patterns on your shoulder.

To the world, he is the Golden Boy of Ferrari, the man with the ice-water veins and the heavy crown of expectation. To you, he is simply the man who knows exactly how you take your coffee and the only person who can make you laugh until your ribs ache in the middle of a stressful race weekend.

But your friends—specifically Chloe and Sarah—haven’t quite grasped the gravity of your tenure. They see the media persona. They see the Instagram edits. They see a "trophy" that they think, with enough wine and enough audacity, they might be able to snatch.

The night is halfway through when the cracks begin to show. You’re in the kitchen, pouring a fresh bottle of vintage red, when Sarah corners you, her voice a little too loud, a little too slurred.

"He’s so intense, isn't he?" she says, eyeing Charles through the doorway. He’s currently talking to a few of the other guys, his face animated as he describes a corner at Spa. "I mean, it must be exhausting dating someone so… public. Don’t you ever feel like you’re just a placeholder? Like he’s waiting for something… more glamorous?"

You feel a flare of heat in your chest, but you force a smile. "I think he’s perfectly happy with me, Sarah."

She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, honey. Everyone needs a little variety. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually committed to just one thing. He lives on the edge, doesn't he?"

You don't answer, mostly because you don't trust yourself to speak without saying something cruel. You walk back into the living room, the wine bottle heavy in your hand. As you enter, you see it—the tableau that has been forming all night.

Chloe is perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand lingering just a second too long on Charles’s shoulder as she bends down to whisper something in his ear that makes the room go quiet.

Charles looks up. His eyes, a piercing, crystalline green, find yours instantly. He doesn't look charmed. He looks bored, his brow slightly furrowed in that way that signals your internal alarm bells—the one that means he’s about to lose his temper, or worse, his patience.

"The wine, darling," you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Charles stands up, his movement fluid and feline. He doesn't look at Chloe. He doesn't even acknowledge the space she’s occupying. He walks straight to you, ignoring the room’s sudden shift in focus.

He takes the bottle from your hand, setting it down on a side table with a decisive thud that silences the music.

"You look tired," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries across the silence. He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is grounding, firm, and possessive. "Why are we hosting this again?"

"It’s good to see friends, Charles," you murmur, though you realize how thin the excuse sounds.

"Is it?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly, dismissively, to where Chloe is standing. She’s trying to regain her composure, her smile fixed and brittle. "Because I feel like I’m at a press conference where the questions are particularly dull."

The room freezes. You can feel the eyes of your friends—the judgment, the jealousy, the utter shock. Sarah looks like she’s been slapped.

Charles doesn't stop there. He turns, his body angling toward the room, but his hand never leaves the small of your back. His grip is firm, a silent declaration that you are his anchor, his territory, his home.

"I’ve spent the better part of my life being analyzed, dissected, and auditioned for," Charles says, his tone cool, professional, and terrifyingly calm.

He looks at Chloe, then at Sarah, his expression devoid of the warmth he usually reserves for the fans. "I think there’s a misunderstanding about who I am. You see the suit, the car, the headlines. You think that’s a game to be played."

"Charles, don't—" you start, but he cuts you off with a soft squeeze of your waist.

"No," he says softly. "Let’s be clear. I have very little time in this world. My life is split into milliseconds. I don't waste them." He looks down at you, and the shift in his expression is instantaneous. The frost melts, replaced by a raw, naked devotion that makes your breath hitch.

"Every decision I make—every lap I take, every risk I weigh—is calculated to get me to the finish line. And you?" He tilts your chin up, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "You are the only thing in my life that isn't a calculation. You are the only person who sees the man, not the driver. And I don’t share that. I don't entertain the idea of 'variety' when I’ve already found the only person who makes the chaos make sense."

He turns back to the room, his eyes turning back into steel. "I think the party is over now. Goodnight."

It is a dismissal so absolute, so devastatingly royal, that no one dares to argue. Within ten minutes, the villa is empty. The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of the waves.

You walk to the balcony, the night air cooling your flushed skin. You feel the presence of him behind you before you hear him. He wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, his weight pressing into your back.

"You didn't have to do that," you whisper, though you feel a strange, fluttering joy in your chest.

"I did," he murmurs against your neck. "I’m tired of people thinking they have a seat at my table. I only have one chair, and it’s occupied by you."

You turn in his arms, looking up into those eyes that have seen the world at two hundred miles per hour and yet look at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing. He pulls you tight, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don't need the world," he says, his voice barely a breath. "I just need you to know. Always."

In the quiet of the Monaco night, with the moonlight painting the water silver, you realize that for all the fame, the speed, and the noise of his life, this is the only thing that matters: the way he holds you, not as a prize to be displayed, but as the part of himself he will never let go.

And as he kisses you, slow and deep, you know that the rumors of his availability were always just noise—and he has finally, once and for all, silenced the crowd. . . . .

The humidity of the Singapore paddock always hits like a physical weight, but as you step out of the Ferrari hospitality unit, the heat is the last thing on your mind.

You’re scanning the crowded corridor, your eyes searching for a specific silhouette—a specific sharp jawline and the messy, wind-swept hair that usually belongs to the man who has held your heart for the better part of five years.

You find him near the back of the garage, huddled in a corner away from the prying lenses of the media cameras. Carlos Sainz, the man known for his tactical brilliance, his intense focus, and his "Smooth Operator" persona, looks completely different right now.

He’s hunched over his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, a soft, dopey smile ghosting his lips.

When he spots you, that smile doesn't just widen; it lights up his entire face, erasing the stress lines from the morning’s practice sessions. He tosses his phone aside—entirely disregarding the fact that he was likely in the middle of a debrief—and strides toward you.

He doesn't even care that his teammates, the mechanics, and half the F1 community are watching. He reaches you in three long strides, his hands immediately coming up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that still, after all these years, makes your knees feel like water.

"You’re late," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that travels straight through your chest. "I was starting to think you got lost, and I was about to send out a search party. Or at least have Charles do it."

You laugh, leaning into his touch. "Carlos, I was in the restroom for five minutes. And you're currently in the middle of a race weekend. You shouldn't be worrying about me."

"I’m always worrying about you," he replies, his tone dead serious, though his eyes are dancing. He leans down, pressing a lingering, unashamed kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

It’s a possessive, grounding gesture—one that says you are mine, and I am yours.

You remember the early days of your relationship, back when he was at McLaren. You had expected the "tough guy" athlete act.

You had expected a man who prioritized the car above all else, someone who would be stoic and perhaps a bit distant during the high-pressure weekends.

You didn't expect the man who would text you at 3:00 AM just to tell you he saw a dog that reminded him of you, or the man who would spend his entire dinner break on a video call just to watch you read a book.

You didn't take Carlos Sainz for a simp. But God, you love it.

The teasing starts later that evening at the team dinner. The mood is lighter, the stifling heat of the day replaced by the cool, artificial breeze of the restaurant. You’re seated at the head of the table, Carlos glued to your side as if his very existence depends on the proximity.

Lando Norris, sitting across from you, is the first to strike. He leans back, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches Carlos meticulously cut your steak for you because you’re busy talking to Charles Leclerc.

"You know, Carlos," Lando says, his voice dripping with faux-innocence, "I saw your phone background earlier. Is that a photo of her sleeping on the flight over?"

Charles snorts, nearly choking on his wine. "No, no, that’s actually the lock screen. The home screen is a collage of her at the grocery store. I think he paid a paparazzi to follow her for a weekend."

Carlos doesn't even flinch. He doesn't get defensive; he doesn't try to play it cool. He simply sets the knife down, takes a sip of his water, and looks at Lando with a calm, unimpressed gaze. "It’s called appreciation, Lando. Maybe try it sometime instead of spending your life playing video games."

"Appreciation?" Pierre Gasly chimes in from the far end of the table, laughing. "Mate, you were literally pacing in the paddock today because she didn't text you back within thirty seconds when she went to get a coffee. You looked like you were about to call the FIA to report a missing person."

"I was concerned," Carlos defends, sliding a piece of meat onto your fork. "It was crowded. Anything could have happened."

You watch the exchange, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck. You reach under the table, finding Carlos’s hand and giving it a squeeze. He immediately turns his attention to you, his entire demeanor softening.

The "simp" accusations roll off his back like water off a duck’s back because, quite frankly, he doesn't care what they think. He knows who he is, and he knows how he feels about you.

"Ignore them," he whispers, leaning close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "They’re just jealous because they don't have anyone waiting for them at the finish line with a cold bottle of water."

"You did, however, get his name tattooed on your heart, didn't you?" Charles teases, his eyes twinkling.

"I’d get her name tattooed on my forehead if she asked," Carlos says, and the scariest part is that he sounds like he’s not even joking.

The next day is the actual race. The atmosphere is electric, charged with the scent of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. You’re in the Ferrari garage, wearing his team shirt, your heart hammering against your ribs. The noise is deafening, but you find it easy to focus on Carlos.

He’s in his cockpit, his helmet on, the visor down—the mask of the professional racer. But as he’s about to head out to the grid, he stops. He signals to one of the mechanics, hops out of the car, and trots over to where you’re standing near the pit wall.

The entire garage goes silent. You’re sure someone is whispering, someone is filming, someone is definitely going to post this on a fan account within the hour.

Carlos doesn't care. He pulls his gloves off, grabs your hand, and pulls you into a desperate, intense kiss in front of three hundred people.

"Be safe," you whisper into his ear, your hands shaking slightly as you smooth down his race suit.

"I’m always safe," he promises, his thumb stroking your temple. "Win or lose, I’m coming straight to you. You wait for me?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

He grins—that signature, charming, slightly arrogant grin that makes you feel like the only person in the world—and jogs back to his car.

As the race unfolds, you watch him on the monitors. He’s aggressive, tactical, and brilliant. You see him navigating the Singapore streets, weaving through traffic, fighting for every tenth of a second.

But every time the team radio crackles, you hear the calm, collected voice of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

When he crosses the finish line—a podium finish, P3—the celebration is loud and frantic. But as he steps out of the car, his helmet discarded, you see him scanning the crowd.

He isn't looking for the cameras. He isn't looking for the team principal. He’s looking for you.

When his eyes land on you, he ignores the photographers shoving long lenses in his face. He hurdles the pit wall, ignoring the marshals calling out to him, and practically sprints toward the garage door.

"I told you," he says as he reaches you, his suit drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. He doesn't wait for a clean space; he just pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. The smell of him—sweat, adrenaline, and that expensive cologne he wears—is overwhelming.

"You were incredible," you tell him, pulling back to look at his flushed, happy face.

"I was thinking about you the whole time," he admits, his voice raw. "Every corner. Every turn. Just thinking about how I wanted to get back to you."

Behind him, you see Charles and Lando walking toward the podium area. Lando catches your eye and rolls his eyes dramatically, pantomiming a "gagging" motion with his hand, while Charles just shakes his head, a fond, resigned smile on his face.

Carlos notices the movement, but he doesn't even turn his head. He just tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Let them talk," he says into your hair, his voice filled with that quiet, unshakable confidence of a man who knows he’s won the only race that actually matters. "They don't know what it’s like. They don't know what we have."

You rest your head on his shoulder, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You think about the years behind you and the years ahead.

You realize that you didn't need a man who was cool, or detached, or mysterious. You needed this. You needed the obsession, the adoration, and the unashamed, relentless love of a man who turned being a "simp" into an art form.

"You're a nightmare, Carlos Sainz," you whisper, smiling as you feel his heart beating against your own chest.

He presses a kiss to your temple, his grip never faltering. "And you're all mine," he replies, and for the first time in your life, you know exactly where you belong.

The podium ceremony is about to start, and you know he has to go. You know the cameras are waiting, and the fans are cheering, and the team needs their driver to celebrate.

But as he lets go of your hand, just for a moment, he turns back, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes searching yours with such profound, naked sincerity that it makes your breath hitch.

"I love you," he says, loud enough for perhaps the entire garage to hear.

You just smile, watching him walk away, knowing that in twenty minutes, he’ll be back, and he’ll hold you like he’s never going to let you go again.

"I love you too," you whisper to the empty air, waiting for the "Smooth Operator" to come back home. . . .

The first time Max Verstappen ever looked at you like you were something to be handled—not coddled, not appeased—was the moment you realized you’d finally met your match.

It wasn’t the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when you tried to swipe his phone, or the way his voice dropped to that low, Dutch-inflected warning when you rolled your eyes at him.

No, it was the way he didn’t react at all when you deliberately knocked his water bottle off the table, just stared at you with those icy blue eyes, letting the silence stretch until your skin prickled with something between defiance and dread.

You should’ve known better than to push him—not when he’d just come off a grueling race weekend, his muscles still coiled tight with adrenaline, his patience thinner than usual.

But you’d been trying to provoke him, hadn’t you?

Dragging your nails down his forearm when he ignored your teasing, biting your lip just to watch his jaw clench. The air between you thickened, charged like the seconds before a storm breaks, and when he finally moved, it wasn’t to scold you.

It was to grip your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his, his thumb pressing just hard enough against your bottom lip to sting.

"Always testing," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, and you shivered despite yourself.

There was no teasing in his voice now, just that quiet, dangerous edge that made your pulse flutter. You tried to twist away, but his other hand caught your hip, fingers digging in with deliberate pressure—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you who was in control.

The resistance bubbled up in your throat, half-hearted insults already forming, but then he leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours, and the words died unspoken.

You could feel the heat of him, the way his body caged yours against the edge of the counter, and for the first time in years, you hesitated. Maybe it was the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction too fast, or the way his pupils swallowed the blue of his irises, dark with something you couldn’t quite name.

Or maybe it was the way your own traitorous body arched into his touch, your breath catching when his hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every inch of you just to prove he could.

His lips brushed yours, feather-light, a mockery of a kiss—then pulled away just as you leaned in, leaving you chasing nothing but air.

A laugh, low and rough, rumbled in his chest as you scowled, and you hated how your skin burned under his scrutiny, how your pulse hammered against your ribs like a caged thing.

"Patience," he chided, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat, stopping just above the first button of your blouse.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his touch unbearable, the silence stretching until it was all you could do not to beg.

Then his knuckles grazed the swell of your breast, and you gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet between you. His smile was slow, predatory, as he watched the way your lips parted, the way your fingers clenched uselessly at your sides.

"You always make it so easy," he murmured, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, the friction just shy of painful. "All that fire, and yet—" His grip tightened, wrenching a whimper from your throat. "One touch, and you’re already falling apart."

You hated him. You hated the way your thighs pressed together, the slick heat between them impossible to ignore, the way your body betrayed you with every ragged breath.

But most of all, you hated how much you loved it—how his dominance felt less like a punishment and more like a revelation, like he was the only one who’d ever truly seen you.

His lips found your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and you shuddered, your resolve crumbling. "Still fighting?" he breathed, and you knew, with terrifying certainty, that you’d already lost.

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the counter’s edge—white-knuckled, desperate—but he didn’t let you hold on for long. One hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling it away effortlessly, pinning it to your lower back.

The other traced the curve of your spine through your blouse, slow and deliberate, the fabric whispering against your skin like a promise.

You arched into him, a silent plea, but he only chuckled, his breath hot against your neck.

"Not yet," he murmured, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of your blouse, skimming the dip of your waist. The touch was maddeningly light, just enough to make your breath hitch, your stomach tighten—but never enough to satisfy.

His palm flattened against your abdomen, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp, and he hummed, pleased, as your hips jerked forward against his thigh. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something dark and possessive. "Already wet for me."

You hated the truth of it, the way your body responded before he even touched you there, before he dragged his fingers through the slick heat between your thighs—before he made you cry out, finally, at the first sharp press of his fingertips.

You tried to twist away, defiance flaring despite the tremble in your legs, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze up. "Apologize," he demanded, his thumb swiping roughly over your bottom lip.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, but there was no softness in them—only expectation. You hesitated, pride knotting in your chest, until his grip tightened, until the sting of his fingers made your breath hitch.

The moment your whispered "sorry" slipped free, his mouth crashed onto yours, brutal and claiming, swallowing the rest of your resistance.

You gasped into the kiss, his tongue hot and insistent, mapping every corner of your mouth like he was memorizing the taste of your surrender. When he pulled back, your lips throbbed, swollen and tender, and you hated the way your body sagged against him, pliant and eager.

His hand slid down your back, pausing at the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging smack that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You cried out, more from shock than pain, but he didn’t relent—just pressed his palm flat against the ache, fingers kneading the tender flesh as if soothing and punishing all at once.

"Again," he murmured, his voice rough, and this time, your apology came faster, breathless and broken.

His laugh was dark, triumphant, as he tugged your hips flush against his, the hard line of his cock pressing into your stomach.

"Good girl," he murmured, biting down on your earlobe just hard enough to make you whimper—then harder when you tried to shove him away.

The sharp sting radiated through you, mingling with the throbbing heat between your thighs, and you hated how your body arched into the pain, how your fingers scrabbled uselessly against his chest before curling into his shirt.

He released your earlobe with a wet pop, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Still fighting me?" he taunted, one hand sliding between your legs, fingers dipping beneath the lace of your panties to find you dripping.

You gasped, knees buckling, but he held you up effortlessly, his other arm locking around your waist like a steel band. "Tell me," he growled, circling your clit with torturous precision, "do you want me to stop?"

Your denial was instant, ragged, torn from your throat before you could stop it—and his smirk was fucking insufferable. "Didn’t think so," he murmured, dragging his fingers through your slick folds before pressing two inside without warning.

The stretch burned, delicious and cruel, and your moan shattered into a cry when his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles.

You writhed, torn between chasing the pleasure and resisting the humiliation of how easily he unraveled you, but his grip only tightened, his pace unrelenting. "Look at you," he breathed, watching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted around silent pleas. "So fucking pretty when you break."

His fingers curled, pressing against that spot inside you, and the world blurred at the edges as your back bowed, your thighs trembling around his hand. You were close—so close—but he stilled abruptly, withdrawing his touch just as your hips jerked forward, desperate and empty.

"Max," you choked out, voice raw, but he only shook his head, pressing a single, mocking kiss to your temple. "Not yet," he whispered, dragging his wet fingers down your throat, smearing your own arousal across your skin like a brand. "You don’t get to come until I say so."

His free hand slid beneath your blouse again, this time bypassing any teasing—just rough, impatient tugs at the buttons until they gave way, fabric parting to expose your heaving chest. The cold air bit at your flushed skin, but his mouth was hotter, teeth scraping over your collarbone before his tongue laved over the sting. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, but he caught your wrist again, pinning it behind you with a warning squeeze.

The counter’s edge dug into your thighs as he pressed closer, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your hip through his jeans—maddening, deliberate. You arched into him instinctively, but he pulled back just enough to keep the friction teasing, his breath uneven against your ear. "You want it?" he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Then beg properly."

A shudder ran through you at the command, humiliation prickling under your skin—but the ache between your legs was sharper, unbearable. His thumb traced your lower lip again, pressing down until your teeth grazed the pad, and you tasted salt, slickness, the faintest hint of yourself. Your resistance crumpled. "Please," you breathed, the word ragged, barely audible—but his grin was feral, triumphant, as he finally, finally unfastened his belt.

The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room, the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself. His cock brushed your inner thigh—hot, heavy, already leaking—and your stomach clenched at the thought of how he'd stretch you, how he'd make you take every inch with that same ruthless patience. His palm smoothed up your trembling leg, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and the fabric tore with a sharp, careless rip that sent a jolt straight to your core. You gasped, but his hand was already between your legs again, two fingers pushing into you without warning, crooking hard against that spot that made your vision whiten.

"You're so fucking tight," he growled, his breath ragged against your neck as he worked his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. The stretch burned—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how empty you'd been without him—and your hips jerked helplessly against his hand, chasing the friction. He let you, for a moment, before pulling away, leaving you clenching around nothing, your whimper echoing in the stillness.

Then his grip was on your hips, spinning you roughly to face the counter, your palms slapping against the cold marble as he kicked your legs wider. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, teasing, maddening, and you bit your lip hard to keep from begging again. He laughed—low, dark—before driving into you in one brutal stroke, your back arching as he bottomed out, the stretch so intense you sobbed. "Fuck," he hissed, his hands tightening on your waist, hips flush against your ass as he let you adjust—or tried to. You were already rocking back against him, desperate, and his groan vibrated through you like thunder.

"Greedy," he muttered, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, the force knocking a cry from your throat. His pace was relentless from the start, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin, the counter digging into your hips with every snap of his hips. You could feel him everywhere—the sweat-slick press of his chest against your back, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking just hard enough to make your eyes water. "Mine," he breathed against your skin, and the possessiveness in his voice—raw, unfiltered—sent you spiraling closer to the edge than any touch ever could.

You tried to muffle your moans against your arm, pride still clinging to the tattered edges of your defiance, but he dragged you upright by your hair, his other hand splaying across your stomach to pull you flush against him. "No," he growled, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers dipped lower, circling your clit with brutal precision. "I want to hear you." The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much—your legs shook, your nails scraping uselessly at the counter as you came with a broken sob, his name a prayer on your lips.

He didn't let you catch your breath, just tightened his grip on your hip and fucked you through it, his rhythm never faltering even as you writhed against him, oversensitive and trembling. "Not done with you yet," he promised darkly, his free hand trailing up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, bending you over the counter again. The angle was deeper now, his thrusts harder, and you could feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, the stretch bordering on painful. You whimpered, but your hips rocked back to meet him instinctively, your body betraying you even as your pride fought to surface.

Your legs gave out entirely when his fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine. He caught you before you could collapse, one arm hooking under your thigh to hike your leg up around his waist, pressing you even closer, impossibly deeper. The new angle stole the air from your lungs—every thrust hit that spot inside you with brutal precision, and your nails dug into his forearm, your other leg trembling where it barely touched the floor. "Fuck—Max," you gasped, your voice raw, and his answering groan vibrated through you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

He was close—you could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his fingers dug bruises into your thigh, the way his breath came ragged against your skin. "Come for me again," he demanded, his voice rough with restraint, and your body obeyed before you could think, pleasure cresting so sharply it bordered on pain. He cursed in Dutch, his hips snapping forward once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt with a groan, his release spilling hot inside you.

For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the soft drip of sweat from his temple onto your shoulder. Then his lips brushed the nape of your neck, tender in stark contrast to the way he’d just wrecked you—mouth moving over your damp skin like a whispered confession, a counterpoint to the possessive grip still anchoring your thigh around his waist. His exhale shuddered against you, his cock twitching inside you as he softened, and you hated how intimate it felt, how vulnerable—like he’d carved out space inside you and refused to leave.

You expected him to pull away, to let you crumple onto the counter in a boneless heap, but his fingers traced your hipbone instead, slow and deliberate, mapping the rise and fall of your breath. "Still so tense," he murmured, and you stiffened—because of course he noticed, because he always fucking noticed—the way your muscles coiled tight even now, defiance simmering beneath the aftershocks. His chuckle was low, knowing, as his teeth grazed your earlobe. "Even when you lose, you can't stop fighting, can you?"

His hand slid up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest met the cold marble, your spent body pinned beneath his. You hissed at the sudden stretch, the sting of overused muscles—but then his palm came down on your ass with a sharp crack, the pain radiating through you like a lit fuse. "Still clenching," he observed, fingers kneading the sore flesh as you bit back a whimper. "As if you could keep me out."

You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder, lips parted for some half-formed retort, but he shoved two fingers into your mouth before you could speak. The taste of your own arousal flooded your tongue, salt and musk, and your cheeks burned as his thumb pressed down on your tongue, holding you open. "Quiet," he murmured, his other hand trailing down the curve of your back, fingertips skating over the dip of your waist like he was counting your ribs. "You’ve had enough chances to be clever tonight."

The stretch of his fingers in your mouth made your jaw ache, your breath coming sharp and shallow through your nose—but worse was the way your hips rocked back instinctively, seeking friction even now. He laughed, the sound dark and pleased, as his free hand cupped your soaked cunt from behind, fingers sliding through the mess he’d made of you.

"Still dripping," he murmured, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit in slow, deliberate circles. "Even after I’ve fucked you senseless." You whimpered around his fingers, humiliation flooding your chest—but your thighs trembled, slickness pooling anew beneath his touch. His breath hitched, grip tightening in your hair as he watched you unravel. "Christ, you’re shameless."

You hated the way your body arched into his hand, how your moans vibrated around his fingers, how your toes curled against the tile. Hated, most of all, the way his gaze burned into you—like he’d won, like he’d always known he would. His thumb pressed harder, the pressure bordering on painful, and your vision whited out as another orgasm ripped through you, silent and devastating.

He held you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand working you ruthlessly until you sagged against the counter, boneless and spent. Only then did he withdraw, his thumb swiping lazily over your bottom lip as he studied your dazed expression. "Next time," he mused, voice rough with satisfaction, "maybe you’ll think twice before testing me." But the smirk tugging at his mouth told you he knew better.

Your thighs trembled where they pressed against the counter, the marble cold against your flushed skin. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, mapping every shiver as they traveled upward—pausing just below your nape, where his palm settled heavy and warm. "Stand up," he murmured, but it wasn’t a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, knees wobbling as you turned to face him.

The sight of him—hair mussed, lips swollen from your teeth, the sharp lines of his chest still heaving—sent a fresh pulse of heat between your legs. He caught your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the rawness in his eyes made your breath hitch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing the dampness beneath your lashes. "Still fucking perfect."

His mouth crashed into yours then, possessive and hungry, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the way he’d just fucked you—relentless, claiming. You moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he pulled you flush against him. The taste of him—salt and sweat and something indefinably his—flooded your senses, and you hated how easily you melted into it, how your body arched into his like it belonged there.

Then he broke away abruptly, leaving you gasping, lips parted around nothing but air. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there, his gaze dark with something that made your stomach clench. "Still so greedy," he murmured, voice rough with amusement, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your fingers clutched at his shoulders like you might fall without him.

You opened your mouth to retort, but his hand slid between your legs again, fingers pressing against your oversensitive clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. "Quiet," he ordered, his breath hot against your ear as he circled your swollen flesh, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyelids fluttered. "You’ve had your fun."

The protest died in your throat as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the sharp sting mingling with the relentless press of his fingers. You hated how your hips rocked into his touch, how your breath came in ragged gasps—how utterly, shamelessly you surrendered.

Then he pulled away, leaving you shuddering and empty, your thighs slick with want. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk as he wiped his fingers on your bare stomach, the smear of your arousal glistening under the dim light. "Pathetic," he murmured, but his voice cracked on the word, betraying the same desperate hunger coiled in your gut.

The sound of his belt buckle clinking back into place was obscenely loud in the silence, a cruel punctuation to your unraveling. You sagged against the counter, your trembling arms barely holding you up, the marble biting into your overheated skin. He stepped back, adjusting his shirt with infuriating calm, while you remained sprawled and ruined, your body still pulsing with the aftershocks of his touch.

"You’ll remember this next time," he said, his voice low and rough, fingers brushing your tangled hair away from your face—a gesture so tender it burned worse than any mark he’d left. Then he turned, walking away without another glance, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like a verdict.

The front door clicked shut, and only then did you let yourself collapse, your forehead pressed to the cold counter as your breath finally, violently, returned. The space between your legs throbbed, aching and empty, and you hated how much you already missed the weight of him. Hated, most of all, how his absence felt like its own kind of punishment.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your discarded blouse, the fabric damp with sweat and smeared with the evidence of your surrender. You swallowed hard—could still taste him, salt and arrogance, clinging to the back of your throat. The mirror across the room caught your reflection, and you barely recognized the girl staring back: lips swollen, hair wild, eyes dark with something between fury and hunger. You looked ruined. You felt alive.

The sound of the shower running snapped your attention to the hallway, steam already curling under the bathroom door. Of course he’d stay. Of course he’d wash you off his skin like yesterday’s race grit. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, the sting a welcome distraction from the throbbing between your thighs—until the water cut off abruptly, and the silence that followed was worse.

You expected the front door to slam. Expected him to leave you coiled tight and furious in the wreckage. But then his footsteps padded back down the hall, slow and deliberate, and you froze when a towel dropped onto the counter beside you, still warm from his body. "Clean yourself up," he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier bite. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers lingered for a heartbeat against the nape of your neck, calloused and tender, before withdrawing.

The front door clicked shut, softer this time, and you finally let out the breath you’d been holding. The towel smelled like him—citrus and something deeper, something you couldn’t name but would dream about later, tangled in sheets that still carried his scent. Your fingers clenched around the fabric, torn between hurling it across the room and pressing it to your face like a goddamn lovesick fool. The choice, like everything else tonight, was stolen from you when your phone buzzed against the marble.

A single message lit up the screen: "Next time, you won’t make it to the counter."

The silence in the apartment didn’t feel peaceful. It felt heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket that had been settling over the space for the last three weeks.

You stood in the kitchen, the soft hum of the dishwasher the only sound competing with your own shallow breathing.

Across the room, the door to the secondary bedroom—the one Oscar had converted into a simulator room and a place to decompress—remained firmly shut. It had been shut for six hours.

You’d been dating Oscar Piastri for five years. You knew him better than he knew himself. You knew the specific way his left eyebrow arched when he was calculating a corner entry, the way he hummed off-key when he was nervous, and exactly how he took his coffee when he was exhausted.

But over the last month, as the F1 season turned into a grueling gauntlet of poor tire degradation, strategic missteps, and a string of results that didn’t reflect his talent, the man you knew had begun to vanish.

He wasn’t just frustrated. He was retreating.

You picked up his favorite ceramic mug—the one with the chipped rim he refused to throw away—and poured steaming chamomile tea into it. You walked to the door, your hand hovering over the wood. You didn't knock; you never had to. You just pushed it open a few inches.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the blue light of three monitors showing telemetry data that looked like a jagged heartbeat.

Oscar was hunched over his desk, his chair pushed back, his head buried in his hands. He was still in his team-issued polo, his hair messier than usual, his posture radiating a singular, soul-crushing defeat.

"Oscar?" you said softly.

He didn’t turn. His shoulders, usually so relaxed, were bunched tight against his neck. "I’m not hungry," he said, his voice raspy, devoid of its usual melodic, dry wit.

"I didn't bring food. Just tea." You stepped into the room, setting the mug down on the edge of the desk, carefully avoiding his tangle of wires. "You’ve been staring at the same sector times for three hours, Osc. The data isn't going to change."

He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles underneath them more pronounced. He looked at you, but the look felt distant, as if he were viewing you through the wrong end of a telescope. "It’s not just the data," he muttered, turning back to the screens. "It’s the lack of pace. It's the setup. It’s… everything."

"It’s not everything," you countered gently, moving to stand behind him. You reached out to place your hands on his shoulders, intending to knead the tension from his muscles, but as your fingers made contact, he flinched.

It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but it hit you like an ice bucket. He pulled away slightly, shifting his weight.

"I just need to figure this out," he said, his tone clipped. "I need to go over the laps again."

"Oscar, it’s 1:00 AM. You’re exhausted. You’re letting the car dictate your worth, and you’re letting it pull you away from me."

He spun the chair around, and for the first time, his expression wasn't just tired—it was pained. "I don't need you to fix this, and I don't need to talk about my feelings, okay? I need to be fast. If I'm not fast, what am I doing here? I’m here to drive, and right now, I’m failing at the only thing that matters."

"The only thing that matters?" You felt a flash of hurt, but you pushed it down. You knew him. You knew this was the defense mechanism he used when he felt like he was losing control.

"I’ve been with you through the junior series, through the reserve year, through the highs of podiums and the lows of retirements. I thought we mattered."

"We do," he said, but it sounded like a lie. "But right now, I have nothing to give to you. I’m empty, and I’m frustrated, and I don’t want to take this out on you. So, please. Just… leave me be."

He turned back to the screens, effectively dismissing you.

You stood there for a moment, the silence rushing back in, louder than before. You wanted to argue, to shake him, to remind him that he was Oscar Piastri—a brilliant, kind, funny man who was so much more than a finishing position.

But he had built a wall, fortified with self-doubt and rigid perfectionism, and you knew that banging on it would only make him retreat further into the dark.

"Okay," you whispered.

You walked out, closing the door behind you. You didn't sleep that night.

You lay in the center of the king-sized bed, listening to the muffled clicks of his steering wheel controller, wondering when the man you loved had decided that he had to suffer alone to be worthy of his seat.

The next few days were a blur of cold coffee and silence. Oscar was a ghost in his own home. He navigated the apartment like a stranger, avoiding eye contact, his time spent either at the factory or in that room.

He was physically present, but the version of him that laughed at your bad jokes and held your hand while watching terrible reality TV was gone.

You missed him. It was a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that grew wider with every passing day.

You were a team, you and Oscar. That was the deal. But you couldn't be a team if he refused to step onto the pitch.

You decided to take a different approach. You stopped asking him how he was. You stopped asking him to come to bed. Instead, you started leaving small things—his favorite chocolate on his desk, a clean shirt for the morning, a glass of water replaced before it hit empty.

You became a shadow of support, hoping he’d eventually see that being "fast" wasn't a prerequisite for being loved.

On Thursday, the day before they were due to fly out for the next race, he finally snapped—not at you, but at the situation.

You were in the living room, reading a book, when you heard a crash followed by a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.

It was an uncharacteristically loud outburst for Oscar. You dropped your book and sprinted toward the room.

The door was wide open. Oscar was standing in the center of the room, his monitor display blank, his chair tipped over. He looked like he was vibrating with rage.

"I can't!" he shouted at the empty air, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I just can't get the line right! It’s all sliding away!"

He kicked his desk, the impact resulting in a dull thud and a sharp intake of breath. He doubled over, clutching his foot.

"Oscar!" You rushed to him, ignoring his previous protests, and grabbed his shoulders. "Stop it. Stop right now."

He tried to shrug you off, his eyes wild and shimmering with frustrated tears, but you held firm. You pulled him back until he stumbled, and you guided him down to the floor, sitting right in front of him.

"Look at me," you commanded, your voice steady despite your own racing heart.

He tried to turn away, but you cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. The anger was there, but beneath it, the raw, ugly truth of his insecurity was naked.

"I’m losing it," he whispered, his voice splintering. "Everything I worked for, everything I gave up to be here… it feels like it’s slipping through my fingers because I’m not good enough. And if I’m not good enough, then what am I to you? Just someone who’s constantly miserable, dragging you down with me."

"Is that what you think?" You felt a tear slip down your own cheek. "Do you honestly think I’m here for the podiums? Do you think I wake up every day and stay with you because of the trophies?"

"I don't know anymore," he said, his voice barely audible. "I feel like a disappointment."

"You are not a disappointment," you said, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "You are just a human being who is going through a rough patch at his job. And I know you—I know that when you're overwhelmed, you try to solve it like you solve a corner entry: by braking later and pushing harder. You think if you just punish yourself enough, you’ll find the grip again."

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping. "I don't know how to turn it off."

"You don't have to turn it off," you said, leaning your forehead against his. "You just have to let me in. You don't have to be the 'Ice Man' with me. You can just be Oscar. The guy who is tired, and scared, and frustrated. You don't have to win anything for me to want to be here."

He let out a sob, a jagged, broken sound that seemed to pull all the tension out of the room. He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him as close as you possibly could, feeling the tremor in his body as he finally let go of the dam he’d built.

He held onto you like a lifeline, his hands gripping the back of your sweater until his knuckles turned white. You sat there on the simulator room floor, surrounded by the remnants of his obsession, just rocking back and forth.

You weren't fixing the telemetry. You weren't fixing the car’s setup. But for the first time in weeks, you were fixing the distance between you.

"I’ve missed you," he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled and thick with tears he was too proud to let fall in front of anyone but you.

"I’m right here, Osc. I’ve been right here the whole time."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly soft. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was so scared that if I stopped for even a second, I’d lose the momentum. I thought if I shared the load, it would make me weak."

"Being vulnerable isn't weak," you said, smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair. "It’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done. And it’s the only way we survive this."

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze drifting over your face as if he were trying to memorize it, to ground himself. "I don't know if the pace is going to come back tomorrow," he admitted.

"Maybe it will, maybe it won't," you replied, smiling gently. "But whatever happens on that track, you come home to me. And when you come home, you aren't a racing driver. You’re just mine. Does that sound like a deal?"

A ghost of a smile, the first one you’d seen in weeks, touched the corners of his mouth. "That sounds like the only thing that makes sense."

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It wasn't hungry or hurried; it was a promise. It was an apology and a bridge being rebuilt, plank by painstaking plank.

He didn't stand up immediately. He stayed there, sitting on the floor, his head resting against your shoulder as the blue light from the monitors cast long, dancing shadows across the room.

He reached over with his free hand and hit the power button on the primary computer. The screens went black, the hum of the fans dying down until the room was truly, finally silent.

"What now?" he murmured.

"Now," you said, standing up and reaching out to pull him to his feet, "we go to the bedroom. We order terrible takeout. We turn off our phones. And we sleep for ten hours. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out the rest."

Oscar stood, his hand still firmly locked in yours. As you walked toward the door, he paused, looking at the dark sim rig one last time. He didn't look angry anymore. He just looked tired—a healthy, human kind of tired.

He shut the door, not with a slam, but with a quiet, decisive click.

The race weekend was, predictably, a struggle.

Oscar didn't suddenly find a miracle second per lap the moment he walked into the garage. He still fought the car, he still dealt with the engineers, and he still felt the crushing weight of the pressure.

But the difference was in the way he looked at you across the team hospitality suite, or the way his hand found the small of your back when he walked through the busy paddock.

When he finished seventh after an exhausting, gritty race, he didn’t retreat to the motorhome to stare at the walls. He walked straight to where you were waiting, his helmet tucked under his arm, his face streaked with sweat and salt.

He didn't look like a winner. He didn't look like a hero. But as he reached you and pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair, he looked like a man who was home.

"Tough one?" you whispered.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. The frustration was still there, flickering in the back of his mind, but the wall was gone. He leaned his forehead against yours, ignoring the cameras, the fans, and the noise of the grid.

"Yeah. It was," he said, his voice steady. "But I’m done for the day."

"Ready to go home?"

He squeezed your hand, his grip firm and sure. "Yeah. Let's go home."

As you walked together toward the team car, he wasn't thinking about sector times or tire wear or the championship standings.

He was thinking about the fact that he had survived the darkest part of the season, and he had done it not by working harder, but by letting the one person who mattered into the chaos.

He had learned that he didn't have to be perfect to be loved. He just had to be himself. And for Oscar Piastri, that was the greatest victory of all. . . .