Into It
Chase Atlantic ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻
⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●─────── ⁰³'¹⁶
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McLaren
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
More Kisses? - LN4 + “One kiss is just never enough.”
This Christmas - LN4 + “There’s no way I’m letting you spend Christmas alone.”
Want You - LN4 + "But I don't want them, I want you." 🥧🏈
I'm All Yours - You and Lando have been in the talking stage for some months now. After Lando's third win, he knows he's missing something important. You being his girlfriend.
My Type - where the reader thinks she isn’t Lando’s type
Our Love Is Strong - You weren't going to let your eating disorder destroy your relationship until it did.
Good Luck Kiss - Lando is a fully independent guy until you are around.
First Choice - Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship.
Gold in Snow - you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type
Sweet Pain - lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home
Sleeping Medicine - Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Spa Day - Lando tried to go to a spa to relax after his win in Hungary, he didn't think he would fall in love with his Massage Therapists.
Emotional Support - Lando hasn't spoken to anyone after leaving the parc fermé, maybe some fistbumps but not a single word. After the podium celebration, he makes sure to seek you out first.
Soft Hands - Lando Norris getting a full body massage from you after a triple header
Birthday Boy - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Our Day - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Her Type - In a gathering, Lando had heard a bit of your conversation saying that your type is black guys. He decides to try to be your friend since he found you so attractive.
His Calm - Lando has a panic attack and looks for you only.
Planning Kisses - Lando plans mistletoe around the house and kisses you all the way.
You Matter - You and Lando just started dating and everything was great until you were getting racist comments
Soft Touches - Lando's love language is touch which is something you've never been used to before
Long Way To Go - Lando is courting you and in every way, Lando's got a long way to go
Officially Whipped - Lando being whipped for you which is all the time
Worthy Of You - You don't feel like you're not worthy of being the girlfriend of the newest F1 World Champion
Favourite Girls - Lando feels like it's time for you to meet the other favourite girl in his life, his niece Mila
Let Me Help - You ate an aphrodisiac chocolate by accident before the Silverstone grand prix and Lando just wants to help you
Chat's Favourite - When Lando introduced you to his stream, they loved you more than him
Physical Touch - You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Fate I Guess? - You swapped shifts with your sister but you didn't expect to see Lando Norris waiting for you on the bed
Leaving For The Best - It's for the best that you two go your own ways. . . .
Hard Launch - Crashing your boyfriends twitch live was not how you wanted to hard launch. . . .
Leaving For The Best - Lando asks you to be friends with benefits in exchange for money and you agree so you could pay your mom's medical bills
Gazy, Dazed and In Love - Lando took his wisdom tooth out and is still not over anaesthetic when he asks you out
Latch On - It was the first night of you and Lando sleeping in your new house and he slept like a baby
Relax With Me - You've always had to be independent as an eldest daughter, Lando shows you how to relax
Teaching Amateurs - Lando tries out your sport, which is swimming and it's harder than he thought
Oscar Piastri
Mistletoe Magic - OP81 + “What are you doing with that mistletoe– oh.”
Baby Fever - OP81 + babysitting a child
24 Hours Without You - A dare from Lando led to Oscar not having any contact from you for 24 hours. Well he tried to.
My Husband - when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much
Yes To Me - OP81 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
Sleeping Medicine - Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?
Stranger Danger - What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .
Not Friends Anymore - McLaren are glad and Oscar is mad. Who can help? His bestie!
Birthday Gift - Ten years ago, two loved ones died on your birthday and you've never celebrated it ever again until Oscar came into your life....
First Dance - You and Oscar decided that the first dance would be a slow one.
Maroon String Theory - You are one of the first black families to stay in Australia. Everyone was discriminating against you except your neighbours, the Piastris.
By Your Sea - You never expected Oscar to propose you like this.
Can't Avoid - You and Oscar have been best friends for ages until your friend says she has a crush on Oscar, you backed away to give her a chance.
Quality Time - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Ride A Cowgirl - For the Austin Grand Prix, Oscar is forced by McLaren to learn how to ride a horse by a hot cowgirl.
New Conditions - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Brother's Best Friend - The first person your brother, Lando calls after your break up is Oscar.
Never Letting Go - Oscar gets drunk at a party and won't leave your side
Protector - You've never had a boyfriend that protects you every time
His Solution - When Oscar keeps getting bad results, he closes himself off from the best thing in his life, you
Right Person, Right Time - Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Come Home - You and all of Oscar's sisters go on a night out and he hears all about it when he drives you two home
Bite Me - Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Perfect Plan - You and Oscar have been shipped by your friends and they have a plan
Red Bull
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Teach Me - MV1 + “I never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up,"
My Priority - MV1 + "You're my priority." 🍂🦃
Birthday Boy - It's getting to Max's birthday and you know what he wants for it.
Love Sick - You and Max have been together for a while and you knew he loved you but you didn't know to what extent.
Favourite Smell - a pilot with max and it ends up in smut like "I love your smell" +18
Timeless Desire - You had always been Mercedes fan since you were young and it didn't change when you became Max's best friend. Based on British Grand Prix.
Power Couple - Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.
Don't Stop - "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."
Ocean Eyes - "Please stop." "Stop what? I didn't even do anything." "I can see the look you're giving me. Stop it."
His Choice & Her Choice - You are a redhead, you're dating Max but you're a WWE wrestler so you're not the influencer or model that f1 drivers "normally" date.
Bouquet Catcher - You caught the bouquet at your friend's wedding and you locked eyes with your crush, Max
Not A Burden - You had a bad racist encounter in the paddock and you hide it from Max, letting it slowly eat away at you
Real In His Eyes - Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Dirty Dancing - Max is dragged to go to a strippers club with his friends after he has been broken up with and sees you.
His Loss - After Max made the decision to get a divorce 2 years ago, he has never suffered more. When he sees you again, he can't just let go again.
Relax - After a week of working, Max puts his foot down and make you relax one way or another
Better Tool - After being caught masturbating, Max makes sure to tell you know he's better than a sex toy
Celebrations - After winning his 5th championship, you decided to treat him good
Big Family - After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Worship - You've never had a boyfriend that worshipped you
Brat - You've never had a boyfriend that knows how to handle your brattiness differently
Your Gift - For his birthday, you secretly painted him his favourite picture
ILoveItIHateItILoveIt - Max realizes how much he messed up and needs you.....
Husband? - Max realizes how much he needs you after you call him your husband.....
Daniel Ricciardo - "Honey Badger"
Fragments of Hope - You had an argument with Daniel and you decided to leave him for a while. What you didn't know is that he can't live without you.
Birthday Boy - It's Daniel's birthday and you two are still oblivious to your feelings. Time for the grid's help.
Yuki Tsunoda - "Muscle Packet"
No More Excuses - Yuki has been saying to himself, to you, to his fans that he's okay and that he just needs time to adjust to the car but after finishing out of points for the fourth time, he breaks in front of you.
Sebastian Vettel - "Baby Schumi"
Under the Radar - a fic from his red bull era maybe something likes good friends (teammates) to lovers and like everyone ships them but they still have to date secretly for a bit idk whatever you wanna do maybe like the first getting together then to her first championship or something sorry I don’t request a lot I just think the two youngest drivers who are menaces dominating the season together who be really sweet lmao
Ferrari
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
Winter Wonder - CL16 + Winter Power Outage
You Know Me Best - Charles has a bad day and you as his best friend always knows what he wants, but do you really? +18
Just One Kiss - You & Charles are just best friends but when he wins in his home for the first time, things might change
Speak Baby - you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Lose my Mind - “The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.” +18
Tell Me Your Confessions - You go on vacation with Max, who is one of your closest friends as well as with his other friends, one which just happens to make you feel like you have a high school crush.
Most Important - You knew something was wrong when Charles crashed harshly and he didn't get out of his car or reply on the radio.
Touches & Victory - "It feels like I ruin everything I touch." "If you ever wish to test that theory, you're more than welcome to do so with me."
First Time - You just got married to the love of your life. Great! Until you realise you have to do the nasty nasty and you have no experience at all.
Just A Plate - You broke a plate and you thought that Charles would hit you like your ex. But Charles is not like them.
Golden Duo - At the start of Charles's F1 career, having you as his race engineer made him win podiums and wins. You two were the unstoppable duo until you disappeared.
The Red Dress - “Move an inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”
Meeting The Parents - Charles was scared to meet your parents, being from a whole different continent and all.
Leo's Nanny - Charles is in need of a pet sitter and Leo somehow picks the best one.
Baby Leclerc - You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Favourite Interview - You are an interviewer for Sky Sports and Charles always manages to leave you flustered by the time he leaves
Favourite Duo - Charles has always had Ollie under his wing, which you think is cute
Rare Gem - Charles went to vacation in Sicily and found a rare beauty.
Only Choice - Your friends flirt with your boyfriend because they think they have a chance so Charles decides to show he only picks you
Best Friend's Brother - You've been best friends with Arthur for all your life but his brother sees you in a different light after he wins at home
Masked Singer - Your fans hear a familiar voice in one of your songs and track it down to a popular F1 driver....
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Christmas Ball - CS55 + fake dating for a Christmas party/ball
Happy Ever After - a Romeo and Juliet vibe
Golf Gurl - an AU where Carlos is attracted to the new receptionist at the golf course he and Papa Sainz frequent
Destiny's Will - You and Carlos were childhood friends until you two were separated before he got to F1. The next time they meet, they're enemies.
More Amor - you are going out with Carlos, you can speak his language, but you don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Heavy Love - Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does +18
Yes To Me - CS55 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
The Garter - You wore a garter on yours and Carlos' wedding and you didn't think it would affect him that much.
Truly Loved - You were scared to meet Carlos' family, afraid that your skin colour will make them dislike you. Turns out it's the opposite.
Calm Chaos - You are wild and independent, which drives Carlos, a control freak, insane.
Snowed In - You and Carlos were stuck in his house because the house got snowed in.
Breaking Traditions - You are the princess of Spain and your father begs you to get married but you reject all suiters except the Smooth Operator.
Better Than Him - Your man has never treated you right and Carlos is here to show you it's supposed to be
No More Stamina - You are exhausted and Carlos still has a lot more rounds in him
Shoot The Shot - Franco has been bringing his older sister to races and Carlos can't help but shoot his shot
Deserving You - When Carlos got kicked out of Ferrari, he didn't think he was worthy of anything including you
Best Honeymoon - It's you and Carlos's honeymoon and you've never been so in love with each other
Simp - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
Lost Time - Carlos hasn't seen you in a long time and he's only trying to remember
My Darling - Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.
My Love - It was George's fathers birthday and he decided to invite the whole family to a yacht... which includes you, being 'George's love of his life'.
Kimi Antonelli - "Max's Successor"
Italian Lessons - You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.
Differences Aside - You and Kimi come from different backgrounds; rich and poor though you two met in school and Kimi hasn't let go of you since. You think that even with your love, you and Kimi would not work out because of you two differences. Here's where Kimi comes in; Operation: Get Advice on How To Ask You Out!
In His Arms - Kimi and you are in a long distance relationship because you're still in uni but when you two finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages, Kimi refuses to let you go.
Alpine
Franco Colapinto - "Il Padrino"
Dancing on Ice - FC43 + “I can’t ice skate amor, I’ll break all my bones.”
Distract You - FC43 + "Let me distract you."
Pierre Gasly - "Mr. Monza"
Accept It - You and Pierre have known each other for all your life... unfortunately for you. You two were the opposite. Grumpy with Sunshine, smart pretty with jock pretty etc. But what happens when you see him in Spa. . . .
Aston Martin
Lance Stroll - "Daddy's Cash"
No 1 Defender - Who's been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section?? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's you who is also his bestie and his biggest crush.
Williams
Alex Albon - "Albono"
You're Cute - Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.
Haas
Ollie Bearman - "The Red Baby"
My Lover - You and Ollie have been in a secret relationship for months now because of your strict parents and the potential hate from fans but what happens when someone flirts with you in the club. . . .
Take It Off - It's your birthday and you're wearing Ollie's favourite dress.
Esteban Ocon - "Estie Bestie"
Beauty Of Curls - You've been begging your boyfriend to get this haircut for months and after a while, Esteban gives in and you couldn't have fallen in love more.
Red Bull Racing
Isack Hadjar - "Le Petit Prost"
Unexpected Cupid - Isack's main goal has always been to become best friends with Lewis Hamilton and when that's achieved, Lewis invites him to meet his daughter, who just happens to be his age and very beautiful.
Podium Prize - You flew to the Netherlands in secret to surprise your boyfriend not knowing he would get his first podium in F1.
Surprise? - You've been gone 10 years, no 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. You had no right to show up at his birthday party like nothing happened.... But God he missed you.
Liam Lawson - "The Shield"
Heated Love - You were only a family friend of Liam Lawson so you didn't expect to be invited to the Bahrain Grand Prix. The heat wasn't the only thing you needed to worry about.
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
Our Doggie - Part 1 - Part 2
After McLaren let you watch your boyfriend interact with the animals from the Battersea. One dog found a clear interest in you instead....
Second Choice Best - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
Your best friend, Amelia married a mafia boss but the second in command has his eyes on you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Real Love - Part 1 - Part 2
You and Carlos were just supposed to be a PR couple for less than a year but someone decided to catch feelings....
Enemies Though Generation - Part 1 - Part 2
Out of all the people Carlos could fall in love with, he fell in love with you. Max's older sister....
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
A Lover's Touch - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4
In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one....
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Need Saving - Save You - We're Saved - My Saviour
You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay.....
Not Just Nice Part 1 - Part 2
Being Max's childhood friend means that you always get to see Max's good side but what happens when you think his true feelings are him just being 'nice'.
Real In Your Eyes - Real In His Eyes
Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Her Teammate - His Teammate
You and Max are teammates. You hated his cockiness and his flirting but when he crashes badly, you forget about everything else.
Lewis Hamilton - "Billion Dollar Man"
Wild Imagination - Show You Domination
You were just an interviewer for the Met Gala when you were able to meet the Sir Lewis Hamilton.....
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Summary: When Carlos was under the influence of anesthesia, he makes sure you know that he loves you
Song: Good Days – SZA
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The sterile hum of the private hospital room felt entirely at odds with the hurricane of anxiety raging in your chest.
Outside, the autumn rain beat a frantic rhythm against the glass, blurring the London skyline into gray smudges. Inside, the air smelled sharply of antiseptic and the faint, coppery tang of medical fear.
"He's coming around now," the nurse said, her voice a practiced blend of professional calm and soothing warmth.
She checked the intravenous drip, tapped the screen of the heart monitor—which ticked away with a steady, reassuring beop, beop, beop—and offered you an encouraging smile before slipping quietly out the door.
You stood up from the vinyl chair, your legs feeling like lead.
It was supposed to be a routine procedure. Just a minor arthroscopic clean-up of his left knee, a lingering souvenir from a heavy crash earlier in the season. Nothing major.
But the hours he had spent behind the surgical doors had stretched into an eternity, and the sight of him now—pale, vulnerable, stripped of his usual vibrant, larger-than-life aura—made your throat tighten.
Carlos Sainz lay motionless against the starched white pillows. His dark hair was tousled, falling across a forehead damp with the lingering sweat of twilight anesthesia.
The sharp angles of his face softened in repose, stripped of the hyper-focus and competitive edge that defined his life in the Formula 1 paddock. He looked so devastatingly peaceful, breathing in slow, deep, shuddering gasps.
You crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to the edge of the mattress.
Carefully, mindful of the various wires and the IV line snaking into the back of his hand, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his. His skin was warm, his grip entirely absent.
"Hey," you whispered into the quiet room, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You did great. It's over."
For a long moment, there was no response. Just the rhythmic ticking of the monitor and the steady, heavy sound of his breathing.
You leaned your forehead against the edge of the mattress, letting out a long, shuddering breath of your own. The relief was a physical weight lifting off your chest, leaving you trembling.
Then, a low groan broke the silence.
You snapped your head up. Carlos's eyelids fluttered, heavy and uncooperative. He winced slightly, his brow furrowing as the fog of heavy sedatives began to slowly, painfully lift.
"Carlos?" you murmured, squeezing his hand. "Can you hear me?"
His eyes opened—just a crack at first, dark and unfocused, darting around the unfamiliar white walls before finally landing on you. The confusion in his gaze slowly melted into something heavy, hazy, and profoundly dazed.
Post-anesthesia delirium was a strange beast; you knew from countless medical videos and nurse anecdotes that patients waking up from surgery often had zero filter, their brains operating entirely on raw, uninhibited impulse.
Carlos blinked sluggishly, his lips parting. When he spoke, his voice was a rough, gravelly rasp, entirely stripped of its usual smooth cadence.
"Por dios…" he breathed out, staring at you as if you were a mirage in the desert.
"How are you feeling?" you asked softly, leaning closer. "Does your knee hurt?"
Carlos didn’t answer the question. Instead, a slow, ridiculously soft smile spread across his face—a smile that reached his hazy eyes, completely transforming his features.
He raised his free hand, moving it with agonizing, clumsy slowness, as if his arm weighed a thousand pounds, until his palm rested awkwardly against your cheek. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, clumsy and uncoordinated.
"You're… you're so pretty," he mumbled, his words slurring together. "Is this heaven? Did I die in the crash?"
A startled, watery laugh escaped your lips. "No, Carlos. You didn't die. You're in the hospital. The surgery went well."
He frowned, processing this information with visible, comical difficulty. He shook his head, a slow, side-to-side motion on the pillow. "No. No, that's wrong. You can't be real."
"I'm very real," you smiled, leaning into his warm palm, even though his thumb was currently poking vaguely near your eyebrow.
Carlos stared at you, his chest rising and falling. The hazy, drug-addled detachment in his dark eyes suddenly shifted, replaced by a wave of such intense, naked sincerity that it knocked the wind right out of your sails.
The filters of media training, public persona, and self-preservation that he wore like armor in the brutal world of motorsport were completely, utterly obliterated by the IV drugs.
"I love you," he whispered.
The words hung in the sterile air, suspended between the heart monitor beeps and the patter of the rain.
Your heart skipped a violent beat. Time seemed to lurch, stutter, and then freeze entirely. You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat, your mind racing a million miles an hour.
He's just high on opioids, a cynical little voice in your head immediately piped up. It's the anesthesia talking. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's dreaming.
You had been dancing around this unspoken truth for months—best friends who blurred the lines, sharing stolen glances in motorhomes, late-night phone calls after grueling race weekends, and lingering touches that lasted just a second too long.
You were terrified to ruin what you had. You had convinced yourself that he only saw you as a confidante, a safe harbor away from the madness of his career.
And now, here he was, spilling his guts to a room with no audience, completely defenseless.
"Carlos," you managed to say, your voice cracking slightly. "You're… you're still under. You're talking nonsense."
"Not nonsense," he mumbled indignantly, his eyebrows drawing together in a heavy pout. He squeezed your hand with a sudden, surprising burst of strength. "I'm serious. I'm completely… dead serious. I've been trying to tell you for so long."
"Trying to tell me what?" you asked, your voice barely a breath.
"That I love you," he repeated, as if speaking to a slow child. He blinked heavily, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching sleep, but his gaze remained locked onto yours with fierce, desperate determination. "Every race. Every time I get in the car. When I'm flying home. All I think about… is getting back to you. You're my favorite part of everything, mi vida."
The Spanish nickname slipped out so naturally, so effortlessly, that it bypassed your brain and went straight to your heart, melting away every defense you had so carefully built.
"You're going to wake up tomorrow and not remember a single word of this," you whispered, a sudden ache blooming in your chest, half-sweet and half-painful.
Carlos let out a soft, disgruntled huff, his eyelids drooping further. "I'll remember. How could I… ever forget you? You're driving me crazy. You look at me like… like I'm just Carlos. Not the driver. Just me."
His thumb traced your jawline, his touch trembling slightly from the sheer effort of staying awake. "Please… please tell me you love me too. Tell me I'm not an idiot."
The vulnerability in his voice, stripped of all ego, was utterly disarming. You looked at him—this fiercely competitive, fiercely proud man, reduced to a puddle of pure, unfiltered affection—and realized something terrifying.
You weren't waiting for him to sober up to find out how he truly felt. You were holding your breath, hoping against hope that the drugs were simply tearing down the walls he was too scared to breach when he was awake.
"You're not an idiot, Carlos," you whispered, your thumb gently stroking the knuckles of his hand.
"And?" he prompted, his voice dropping to a sleepy, pleading murmur. "Do you? Please?"
You leaned down, pressing a long, tender kiss to his warm forehead, right where his hair was damp. You felt him sigh against your lips, a deep, shuddering sigh of profound relief even in his stupor.
"Yes," you whispered against his skin, a tear finally escaping your eye and tracking down your cheek. "Yes, Carlos. I love you too."
A sluggish, beatific smile spread across his face—a look of utter triumph, as if he had just secured pole position by a tenth of a second. But this victory meant infinitely more than any trophy.
"Knew it," he mumbled, his eyes finally fluttering shut for good as the heavy tide of anesthesia pulled him under once more. His hand relaxed, his fingers slipping out of yours as his arm fell limply back onto the mattress.
Within seconds, his breathing evened out into the deep, heavy rhythm of restorative sleep.
You sat back in your chair, your thumb still tingling where his had touched you. The heart monitor continued its steady, reliable tick. Outside, the rain began to taper off, leaving the London sky a vast, bruised twilight.
You wiped the stray tear from your cheek, a small, helpless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
You had a feeling that tomorrow morning, when the fog cleared and the racing driver woke up with a pounding headache and a stiff knee, things were going to be wonderfully, irrevocably different.
Summary: Carlos's parents are already treating you like you are already married to his son
Song: Memories – David Guetta
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The scent of rosemary, garlic, and roasting lamb always hit you the moment the heavy wooden front gates clicked shut behind you.
It was an olfactory embrace, a herald of warmth that had, over the last three years, become synonymous with Sunday afternoons in Madrid.
You stood in the cobblestone courtyard, brushing a stray leaf off your coat, when the main door flew open before you even had a chance to raise your hand to the brass knocker.
"¡Pero mira nada más!"
Reyes Vázquez de Castro—Reyes, though to you she was rapidly becoming Mamá whether you officially signed off on the title or not—swept down the steps, her silver bracelets jangling a frantic, joyful rhythm.
Before you could even drop your bag, strong, flour-dusted arms enveloped you, pressing you against a cashmere sweater that always smelled faintly of expensive jasmine and homemade croquetas.
"Look at you, cariño," Reyes chided gently, pulling back to cup your face in both hands, her dark eyes scanning you with a clinical, maternal worry. "You’re too thin. Does Carlos not feed you? I swear, that boy is so obsessed with telemetry and bicycle rides, he forgets that humans require actual sustenance. Come inside, immediately. It’s freezing."
Behind you, Carlos groaned, though there was a fond, lopsided smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He hoisted your weekend duffel bag over one shoulder and his own backpack over the other.
"Mamá, we’ve been here for precisely ten seconds, and you’re already launching a character assassination campaign against me," Carlos said, stepping into the foyer and leaning down to drop a kiss on his mother’s cheek. "And she is not too thin. She looks completely normal."
"Quiet, mi amor," Reyes waved him off dismissively, already untying your scarf with practiced efficiency. "Go wash your hands. Both of you. Lunch is in twenty minutes, and your father has been pacing the patio like an expectant father waiting outside a delivery room just because you mentioned last week that you liked the new wine he bought."
You offered Carlos a sympathetic, amused look as he rolled his eyes. He caught your hand, giving your fingers a warm, reassuring squeeze before heading down the hall toward the powder room, leaving you to the tender mercies of the Sainz matriarch.
If there was a transition period where you felt like an outsider—a polite guest walking on eggshells in the orbit of racing royalty—it had vanished somewhere around the eighteen-month mark.
Now, you weren't just Carlos’s partner. In the eyes of Reyes and El Matador himself, Carlos Sainz Sr., you were a permanent fixture. A structural pillar.
Take, for instance, the seating chart.
When you walked into the sun-drenched dining room twenty minutes later, you headed instinctively toward the seat you usually occupied. But Reyes stopped you with a soft gasp.
"No, no, vida mia, not there today," Reyes said, guiding you by the elbow toward the head of the table, directly to the right of Carlos Sr. "Today you sit here. I want you close so I can make sure you eat the vegetables, and besides, Carlos talks too much about aerodynamics if he sits beside you; you are a bad influence, you let him ramble."
You laughed, sliding into the plush leather chair. "I encourage his passions, Reyes. It’s called being a supportive partner."
"It’s called being an enabler," Carlos Sr. rumbled warmly from the end of the table, looking up from carving the leg of lamb with surgical precision.
He flashed that impossibly charming, crinkly-eyed smile that had graced a thousand magazine covers. "How was the flight, hija? Did the seat have enough legroom? You tell me if Carlos booked you in economy again and I will have a word with him about family priorities."
"It was fine, Papa," you smiled, using the moniker that had slipped out naturally a year ago during a particularly boisterous family dinner involving too much Rioja. "Carlos booked us business. He behaves himself when you’re watching."
"He knows better than not to," Carlos Sr. chuckled, sliding a heavily laden plate in your direction before his own son even had a plate.
This was how it always went.
You watched as Carlos sat down diagonally from you, shooting you an expression that was half-pout, half-amusement.
He was a multi-million-dollar global sports icon, a Ferrari Formula 1 driver adored by millions, but under this roof, he was perpetually treated like a slightly incompetent golden retriever who needed adult supervision.
"So," Carlos Sr. said, wiping his hands on a linen napkin and pouring a generous splash of deep red Ribera del Duero into your glass. "The extension. We hear things in the paddock, but we want the truth from the source. Are we house-hunting in Maranello yet, or are we staying put in Madrid for the foreseeable future?"
You paused, your fork hovering over a roasted potato. You glanced across the table at Carlos.
The topic of long-term real estate—and long-term everything, really—had been danced around gently over the past few months.
You lived together in Madrid, of course, sharing a sleek apartment that was perpetually cluttered with your books and his racing simulators. But marriage, children, permanent roots… they were heavy concepts, weighted by his grueling schedule and the chaotic, nomadic life of the F1 circus.
Or so you had thought.
Before Carlos could even open his mouth to answer his father, Reyes chimed in, leaning forward across the table with an expression of intense, conspiratorial focus.
"Well, obviously they are staying in Madrid eventually," Reyes stated as if it were a law of physics. "You think I am going to let my grandchildren grow up in Italy where they will only eat pasta and learn how to gesture with their hands? No. They need to be raised here. And as for the house—Carlos, you take too long to make decisions. I told you months ago, the property down the road from us in Puerta de Hierro, the one with the garden? I’ve already spoken to the agent. If you two don't want it, I'm buying it anyway to use as a guest house, but really, it has the perfect nursery setup."
Silence descended on the table for a fraction of a second.
You choked slightly on your wine, coughing into your napkin as your face burned. Across the table, Carlos froze mid-chew, his fork clattering softly against his porcelain plate.
"Mamá," Carlos said, his voice pitching up an octave in that distinctly defensive way he only used with his parents. "Did you just… are you house-hunting for us? Again? We haven't even—we haven't even discussed nurseries!"
"Why discuss what is mathematically inevitable?" Reyes waved a dismissive hand, entirely unbothered. She turned her attention back to you, her expression softening into pure, unconditional adoration.
"Look at her, Carlos. Look at how well she fits at this table. She handles your moods when you retire in Q1, she manages your PR disasters with actual grace, and she has the patience of a saint. If you are stupid enough not to lock this down permanently by the end of the year, I am cutting you out of my will and adopting her instead."
Carlos Sr. burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair and raising his glass in a silent toast to his wife. "She has a point, hijo. Smartest woman in Spain, your mother."
You buried your face in your hands, mortified yet fighting back a massive, traitorous grin. "Reyes, please, I love you, but you’re going to give him a heart attack before he even gets to the Bahrain Grand Prix."
"Let him stress!" Reyes scoffed good-naturedly. "Stress is good for drivers, keeps them sharp. But seriously, cariño," she reached out, patting your hand affectionately. "You know you are already a Sainz in this house. The paperwork is just a formality for tax purposes at this point."
Carlos stared at his mother, then slowly shifted his gaze toward you. The teasing light in his eyes had softened into something much deeper, much quieter, beneath the gentle chaos of the dining room.
Later that afternoon, the sun dipped low behind the terracotta roofs of the estate, casting long, golden shadows across the sprawling back garden.
The men had retreated to the patio with cigars and espresso—though Carlos Sr. was currently attempting to teach his son a new technique for grilling padrón peppers, much to Carlos's polite skepticism.
You sat on a cushioned wicker lounger on the veranda, a shawl draped over your shoulders, watching them through the glass pane before Reyes materialized with a fresh pot of chamomile tea.
"He loves you, you know," Reyes said softly, pouring the amber liquid into a delicate porcelain cup and handing it to you. "Even when he is stubborn and thinks he knows everything about apexes and braking zones."
"I know he does," you murmured, blowing gently across the steaming rim. "Sometimes I just… it moves so fast. Your family treats me like we've been married for a decade."
Reyes sat down in the chair beside you, folding her hands in her lap. Her gaze drifted out toward her husband and son, a tender smile touching her lips.
"When Carlos was a little boy, racing karts all over Europe, I worried constantly," Reyes confessed quietly. "His father was away, I was away, or we were both stressed, living out of suitcases, eating cold sandwiches in paddock garages. It is a lonely life, querida. Even surrounded by thousands of people, a driver is very often alone."
She turned her dark, perceptive eyes to you.
"And then you came along. Suddenly, when he calls me after a race—whether he wins or whether he crashes on lap one—his voice sounds… grounded. He is home, even when he is thousands of miles away. You are his anchor. In this family, we do not wait for pieces of paper to tell us who belongs to us. You belonged here the first time you looked at him and didn't laugh when he started explaining the difference between downforce and drag during dinner."
You let out a soft, watery laugh, feeling a tight, warm knot form in your chest. "That was a very long lecture."
"It was torture," Reyes agreed brightly. "And you survived it. That is true love."
She patted your knee, stood up briskly, and smoothed down her skirt. "Now, finish your tea. Carlos is looking over here like he’s afraid I’m stealing your soul, and frankly, he needs to learn how to ask you himself."
With a wink, Reyes strode back toward the men, leaving you alone with the gentle evening breeze and the hum of the Madrid countryside.
A minute later, heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel path. The screen door clicked open, and Carlos stepped out onto the veranda.
He was jacketless, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and coffee clinging to him.
He didn't say anything at first. He just walked over, leaning his hip against the edge of the stone railing beside your chair, looking down at you with a gaze that made your breath hitch, no matter how many years you’d been together.
"What were you and my mother conspiring about?" he asked, though his tone was laced with amusement. "She looked entirely too pleased with herself."
"She was just threatening to adopt me and write you out of the will," you replied smoothly, taking a sip of your tea. "Standard Sunday afternoon activities."
Carlos let out a low huff of laughter, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked down at his shoes for a moment, suddenly finding the rustic floorboards fascinating, before shifting his weight.
"She’s not entirely wrong, you know," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its teasing edge.
You looked up, your heart skipping a beat. "About the will?"
"About everything else," Carlos said quietly. He reached down, taking the delicate teacup gently from your fingers and setting it aside on the small side table. Then, he crouched down beside your chair, bringing himself to eye level, his calloused hands resting on the arms of the lounger, effectively caging you in with warmth.
"Carlos…" you breathed.
"Mamá is a force of nature, and she’s embarrassing, and she has probably already picked out a china pattern she saw in a catalog from 1994," Carlos said, a self-deprecating smile touching his mouth. "And she’s right. She’s right about all of it."
He reached out, his warm thumb gently tracing your jawline, his touch achingly tender.
"We’ve talked about it, yeah, but… I’ve been waiting for the right moment. Waiting for a weekend off, waiting for the season to end, waiting for some kind of magical stillness that doesn't really exist in my world."
He shook his head slightly, his dark eyes fierce and absolute as they locked onto yours. "But my parents… they treat you like my wife because, in my head, you already are. You’ve been my home for a long time."
The distant clatter of silverware from the kitchen and the murmur of his father’s voice faded into white noise. The cold evening air didn't reach you anymore, blocked out entirely by the heat radiating off him.
"Are you proposing to me while leaning against a wicker chair on your parents' patio, Carlos Sainz Jr.?" you whispered, a disbelieving, radiant smile breaking across your face. "How very romantic of you."
"Hey," he protested softly, though a flush crept up his neck. "Give me some credit. I was going to wait for a beach in Mallorca or a nice dinner in Milan. But Mamá has been interrogating me about nurseries for the last three hours, and frankly, if I don't lock this down tonight, she’s going to propose to you for me."
You laughed, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him close, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly in his enthusiasm.
"Yes," you murmured against his skin. "Obviously, yes."
From inside the house, muffled through the double-glazed French doors, came the sound of sharp, triumphant clapping and a very enthusiastic shout of Spanish celebration.
Carlos pulled back just enough to press his forehead against yours, rolling his eyes as he heard his mother cheering through the glass.
"I love you," he murmured, kissing you softly, thoroughly, sealing it against the noise of the family that had already claimed you long before you even knew it yourself. "And for the record… I’m telling Mamá we are picking the house with the bigger garden."
Summary: When your appendix suddenly ruptures, your boyfriend Carlos becomes softer than ever
Song: Sure Thing – Miguel
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.5k
MASTERLIST - F1
The rain over Milan was heavy enough to blur the streetlights into bruised smears of yellow and grey, casting long, melancholy shadows across the floor of the hotel suite.
It was supposed to be a quiet weekend—a rare three-day pocket of time carved out between the British Grand Prix and the frantic, suffocating build-up to Monza.
You had spent the afternoon curled up on the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in a plush duvet, half-watching a rerun of an old race while Carlos sat at the sleek mahogany desk by the window, meticulously going over data sheets with his laptop glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face.
It was a domestic scene you had grown to cherish over the past two years.
The soft scratching of his pen against paper, the occasional heavy sigh when a telemetry graph didn't match his expectations, the comforting scent of his Tom Ford cologne mixed with the fresh rain drifting in from the cracked-open balcony door.
Then, the world tilted.
It didn't begin as a roar. It began as a whisper—a dull, stubborn ache tucked low on the right side of your abdomen. You shifted, pulling your knees closer to your chest, assuming it was just a strange cramp from eating too much of the heavy risotto you’d ordered room service for the night before.
You ignored it. You took a sip of lukewarm water and tried to focus back on the screen.
Ten minutes later, the whisper became a knock.
You uncurled yourself slowly, placing a palm against your lower right side. The skin felt hot to the touch. A cold sweat prickled immediately at the nape of your neck, soaking into your hairline.
You let out a shallow breath, trying to steady yourself, but the movement—even just the expansion of your lungs—sent a sharp, white-hot needle piercing through your flesh.
"Everything alright over there, cariño?"
Carlos’s voice cut through the ambient hum of the room. You blinked, your vision briefly tunneling at the edges. When you looked up, he was already standing by the desk, his pen set down, his dark eyes narrowed with an immediate, instinctive concern.
Formula 1 drivers are trained to read tenths of a second, to notice the slightest twitch of a steering wheel or a microscopic drop in tyre pressure. It took him less than that to realize something was profoundly wrong with you.
"My stomach," you managed to say, your voice sounding thin and terrified even to your own ears. "Carlos, it really… it hurts."
In two long strides, he crossed the room, dropping to his knees beside the sofa.
The sleek, composed athlete vanished instantly, replaced by a man whose entire universe had just narrowed down to the pale, trembling face of the person he loved.
His hands hovered over you for a fraction of a second, hesitant, terrified of causing you more pain.
"Where does it hurt, amor? Show me," he urged, his voice dropping into that low, soothing cadence he only ever used with you when the world outside became too loud.
You raised a trembling hand, pressing your fingers against your lower right abdomen.
The moment you applied the slightest pressure, a scream ripped itself from your throat—a sharp, ragged sound that startled even you. It felt as though someone had driven a red-hot poker straight through your core.
Carlos flinched as if he had been struck himself. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking ghostly under the hotel lights. His instincts—honed by years of high-speed survival—took over, but this time, the panic was raw and entirely unguarded.
"Okay, okay, don't move. Don't touch it," he murmured frantically, his large, warm hands gently pulling yours away and holding them in his own. His palms were clammy. "Look at me. Look at my eyes. Breathe with me. Deep breath in…"
You tried, but the pain was a physical wall blocking your lungs. You shook your head, tears spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. "Carlos, it feels like it’s… it’s on fire. I can't…"
"Shh, mi vida, I’ve got you. I’ve got you," he whispered, pressing a desperate, trembling kiss to your knuckles.
Without a second thought, he scooped you up into his arms. Even in your agony, you could feel the tremor in his muscles—not from your weight, but from pure adrenaline and terror.
You cried out again as the motion jarred your abdomen, and Carlos squeezed his eyes shut in pure anguish, murmuring apologies in a rapid-fire mix of Spanish and English against your hair.
He carried you straight to the bed, laying you down with the utmost gentleness, as though you were made of spun glass.
He ripped his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers, dialing the team doctor with one hand while using the other to stroke your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
"Marco? Yes, it's Carlos. Listen to me, it's Y/N. Severe lower right abdominal pain, acute tenderness, vomiting is starting—yes, she just threw up in the bathroom sink—cold sweats. No, we're at the hotel. Get an ambulance here now. No, now, Marco!"
He ended the call without waiting for a reply, tossing the phone aside so hard it bounced off the duvet and onto the carpet. He was back on the edge of the mattress instantly, hovering over you like a protective shield.
"The ambulance is coming. They'll be here in five minutes, amor. Just stay with me. Talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do."
"It hurts so much," you sobbed, curling into a tight fetal position despite his gentle murmurs of no, please don't move, let me help.
Carlos’s lower lip trembled. It was a sight that broke your heart even through the haze of agony—the fearless, aggressive racer, the man who stared down 200-mph walls of carbon fiber without flinching, looking entirely helpless and broken because you were in pain.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, ignoring the protocol, the team schedule, the rain, the rest of the world.
He slid one arm carefully beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, pulling you flush against his chest in a desperate bid to absorb your suffering.
"I know, corazón. I know. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Look at my eyes. Focus on me," he pleaded, his voice cracking. He pressed his lips repeatedly against your temple, your cheek, your forehead, whispering every term of endearment he knew. "I'm so sorry. If I could take it from you, I would do it in a second. You know that, right? Por favor, look at me."
You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, swimming gaze. The raw vulnerability there was staggering. He looked softer than you had ever seen him—stripped of the media training, the driver persona, the competitive edge.
Here, in the dim light of a Milan hotel room, Carlos Sainz was just a man utterly terrified of losing the most important part of his life.
"Don't leave me," you whispered.
"Never. Never in a million years," he vowed fiercely, his chest heaving as he held you tighter, mindful not to press too hard against your burning side. "They're going to fix you, and then I'm going to take care of you. Whatever you want. Ice cream, movies, a whole year off. I don't care about the championship right now, I don't care about anything. Just you."
The sirens started wailing in the distance, cutting through the steady drumbeat of the Milan rain. The sound grew louder, closer, until the flashing red and blue lights painted jagged, rhythmic patterns across the ceiling of the suite.
"They're here," Carlos murmured against your hair, his voice thick with unshed tears. "We're going to the hospital now. I'm going to hold your hand the entire time. You're going to be okay."
The sterile smell of the hospital was an assault on your senses—bleach, antiseptic, and cold metal.
The hours that followed were a chaotic blur of white coats, blinding overhead lights, frantic questions shouted in rapid Italian and English, and the sharp, burning pinch of an IV needle sliding into the back of your hand. Through it all, Carlos was an unmovable anchor.
He never let go of your hand. Even when the nurses tried to maneuver the gurney down the narrow corridors, even when they wheeled you into the harsh, intimidating environment of the pre-op staging area, his fingers remained firmly locked with yours. H
e wore a blue plastic surgical cap perched awkwardly on his messy dark hair and a paper gown over his clothes, looking completely out of place and yet entirely dedicated.
"Mr. Sainz, you'll need to wait in the designated family area once we take her in," a nurse said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Carlos shook his head, his jaw tightening into a stubborn line that you knew all too well. It was the same expression he wore when arguing strategy with the pit wall. "No. I stay until they put her under. And I want to be in the recovery room the second she opens her eyes."
The nurse, recognizing the absolute, immovable authority in his voice—and perhaps recognizing the face beneath the cap—softened and nodded. "Alright, just the prep room. Then you wait outside."
They rolled you into the operating theatre. The room was freezing, filled with gleaming stainless steel and massive overhead shadowless lamps. Your teeth began to chatter, a mixture of the progressing infection and sheer, unadulterated fear.
Carlos was beside you instantly, leaning over the gurney so his face blocked out the terrifying machinery above. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the dry tracks of tears on your cheeks.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice steady now, though his eyes still betrayed the storm within. "You're doing so well, mi vida. The doctor is brilliant. It's a simple laparoscopic procedure, remember? In and out. And then when you wake up, I'll be right there with your favorite chamomile tea and a mountain of pillows."
"I'm scared, Carlos," you whispered back, your eyelids feeling heavy as the preliminary sedatives began to creep into your bloodstream.
"Don't be. Save your energy for healing," he said, pressing a long, tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there until the anesthesiologist tapped his shoulder. He pulled back slowly, but not before pressing one final, lingering kiss to your lips. "I love you. So much. I'll see you on the other side."
"Love you…" you murmured, before the white noise of the room swallowed you whole and the darkness rushed in.
When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.
The frantic hum of the hospital machinery was muffled, replaced by the quiet, steady beep of a heart monitor. The blinding lights were gone, substituted by the soft, warm glow of a bedside lamp.
Your throat felt like sandpaper, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated from three small incisions taped across your abdomen, but the white-hot agony of the ruptured appendix was gone.
You shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of the stitches, and a rustling sound immediately filled the room.
"Hey."
You turned your head sluggishly. Sitting in a stiff plastic chair pulled flush against the side of the hospital bed was Carlos. He looked thoroughly wrecked.
The surgical cap was gone, his hair was sticking up in all directions where he had repeatedly run his hands through it, and deep, dark circles shadowed his eyes.
He was still wearing his crumpled clothes from the night before, but the moment he saw your eyes flutter open, his face lit up with a light so radiant it chased away the chill of the room.
In an instant, he was leaning over the bed, his hands framing your face with infinite care.
"You're awake," he breathed, a massive sigh of relief rushing out of his lungs like he had been holding his breath for hours. "Oh, thank God. Dios mío, thank God."
"Carlos…" Your voice came out as a pathetic croak.
He didn't hesitate. He poured a small cup of water, inserted a bendy straw, and guided it carefully to your lips. "Slowly, cariño. Just a sip. That's it."
You swallowed the cool water, feeling it soothe your parched throat. You blinked up at him, taking in the state of him. "How long have you been here?"
"Since they wheeled you out," he said softly, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.
He didn't mention that he had refused to leave the recovery room doors, that he had argued with three different administrators just to stay by your bedside the moment you were transferred, or that he hadn't slept a wink. "Since the beginning."
"What time is it?"
"It's four in the morning." He smiled, a soft, tired, utterly devoted smile that melted every remaining trace of fear in your chest. "The surgery went perfectly. The doctor said it was a close one, that it had just ruptured, but they cleaned everything out. You're going to be completely fine."
You let out a long breath, your hand moving weakly across the sheet until your fingers brushed his. He immediately intertwined his fingers with yours, lifting your hand to press a soft kiss against your knuckles.
"You look terrible," you murmured, a weak smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
Carlos let out a breathy, exhausted laugh, resting his forehead gently against the back of your hand. "Yeah, well, my girlfriend tried to appendix-assassinate herself in the middle of a rainstorm in Milan, so excuse me if I didn't get my beauty sleep."
You chuckled, though it pulled at your stitches, making you hiss softly.
Carlos was instantly alert, his posture stiffening, his eyes wide with concern. "Does it hurt? Do you want me to get the nurse? More pain meds?"
"No, no, I'm okay. Just… a little sore." You reached up with your free hand, gesturing for him to come closer.
He didn't need to be asked twice. He abandoned the stiff plastic chair entirely, carefully maneuvering his long frame onto the narrow hospital bed beside you, making sure not to put any weight on your right side.
He slipped his arm under your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest so your head rested right over his heart.
It was cramped, and the hospital bed was notoriously uncomfortable, but as Carlos wrapped his arms securely around you, burying his face in your hair and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your crown, you had never felt safer.
"I was so scared," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking just a fraction, the armor completely gone now that the crisis had passed. "When I saw you in that pain… I didn't know what to do with myself."
"I know," you murmured, closing your eyes and listening to the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. "I'm sorry."
"Don't ever be sorry for getting sick," he scolded gently, tightening his embrace just a fraction. "Just… don't scare me like that again, okay? Promise me."
"I promise," you whispered.
Outside the window, the heavy Milan rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the quiet, fresh stillness of a clearing dawn.
Inside the small, sterile hospital room, wrapped in the protective warmth of the man who loved her fiercely, the world felt entirely right again.
"Go to sleep, Carlos," you mumbled, feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you back under. "You need to rest, too."
Carlos pressed one last, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere, mi amor. Sleep. I've got you."
And as you drifted off into a deep, healing sleep, you knew he meant it.
Summary: You haven't seen Carlos in a long time and he's only making up for the lost time
Song: Mirrors – Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The rain drumming against the tinted glass of the hotel suite window was the only sharp sound in a room that otherwise felt suspended in amber.
Outside, the shimmering lights of the Melbourne skyline blurred into streaks of neon and concrete, a distant, indifferent world.
Inside, the world had shrunk to the dimensions of a king-sized bed, tangled white sheets, and the slow, rhythmic cadence of breathing.
You shifted slightly, wincing as a heavy arm draped lazily across your waist tightened immediately, pulling you back against a chest that was radiating steady warmth.
"Don't even think about it," a gravelly, sleep-rough voice murmured into the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your collarbone and sending a shiver straight down your spine.
"I just need some water, Carlos," you whispered, turning your head just enough to press a soft kiss against his stubbled jaw.
"I'll get it for you. Stay," he mumbled, his eyes still firmly shut, though his grip didn't slacken by a millimeter. "Don't move. Por favor."
You let out a soft sigh that bordered on a laugh, melting back into his hold. It had been nearly six months.
Six grueling, calendar-flipping months of time zones that refused to align, frantic midnight FaceTime calls cut short by paddock debriefs, and an ocean—sometimes two—constantly sitting between you.
Formula 1 was a jealous mistress, demanding every ounce of Carlos’s focus, leaving you to watch his races from empty apartments thousands of miles away.
But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight was the start of the Australian Grand Prix weekend, and you had arrived in Melbourne only hours ago, straight into the suffocating, desperate embrace of a man who looked like he had been starving and finally handed a feast.
He opened one dark eye, peering down at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath catch.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Carlos shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand while the other traced a lazy, possessive line down your spine.
"Six months," he murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and lingering disbelief, as if he needed to physically touch you to prove you weren't just another jet-lagged hallucination. "Six months, and you look… God, you look even more beautiful than I remembered."
"You're biased," you murmured, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy post-sleep curls, tangling the dark strands against your palm.
"Completely. And I don't care."
Before you could reply, he leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss that was entirely unhurried yet burned with a quiet, smoldering urgency.
It wasn't the frantic, breathless kiss of your reunion at the private hangar hours earlier; it was deeper, softer, loaded with all the unspoken loneliness of the past half-year.
His lips parted yours gently, tasting of morning and patience, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep you anchored right there beneath him.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, his thumb stroked your cheekbone. "I missed you," he whispered, the words heavy and absolute. "Every single day. It was unbearable, cariño."
"I know," you whispered back, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. "I missed you too."
"Good," he said, a faint, lopsided smile touching the corner of his mouth before he pressed another kiss to the tip of your nose. "Because I am not letting you out of my sight this weekend. Not for a single second."
An hour later, the reality of the impending race weekend began to encroach upon the sanctuary of the bedroom. Carlos’s phone, resting on the nightstand, buzzed with a muted vibration. Then it buzzed again.
You stirred against his shoulder. "Carlos, your phone. That’s probably your trainer, or media, or…"
"Let it ring," he muttered, burying his face deeper into your hair.
"It's going to keep buzzing."
With a dramatic, long-suffering groan that made you smile, Carlos reached blindly over the edge of the mattress, snatched the phone without looking at the screen, and tossed it carelessly onto the furthest corner of the sofa across the room. It landed with a dull thud and went silent.
"Problem solved," he declared, turning back to you with an expression of supreme satisfaction.
"You're a professional athlete, not a teenager ditching school," you teased, sliding your hand up his bare, muscular chest, tracing the familiar lines and contours that you knew by heart.
"Right now, I am just a man who wants to spend every available second with his girlfriend." He caught your hand, turning your palm upward to press a lingering kiss right into the center of it. "And besides, Riccardo knows where I am if the world is actually ending. Otherwise? They can wait."
Despite his words, the stomach-rumbling reality of hunger eventually forced a change of plans. Or, at least, a modification of them.
"Room service," Carlos announced, sliding out of bed at last, though he didn't bother putting on much more than a pair of loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips.
You watched him from the mattress, appreciating the effortless, athletic grace with which he moved, his broad shoulders catching the morning light filtering through the rain-streaked windows.
When he picked up the menu from the desk, he didn't walk back to the bed alone. Instead, he climbed right back in beside you, pulling the duvet over both of your laps as he held the leather-bound folder open between you.
"What do you want?" he asked, leaning in close so his shoulder pressed against yours. "Pancakes? Fruit? Eggs? They have churros, but I don't trust hotel churros."
"Pancakes sound incredible," you admitted.
"Two orders of pancakes, berries, extra maple syrup," Carlos dictated to the phone when he placed the call a moment later, adding a coffee for himself and tea for you with the efficient, practiced ease of someone who lived out of luxury hotel rooms for ten months out of the year.
While you waited for the food to arrive, Carlos didn't scroll through social media, and he didn't check his emails. He stayed glued to your side, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, pulling you against him so your head rested comfortably over his heartbeat.
He peppered your hair, your temple, and your jawline with casual, continuous kisses—the kind of absentminded physical affection that proved just how deeply ingrained you were in his muscle memory.
When room service knocked a half-hour later, Carlos was the one to answer the door, throwing open the heavy wood paneling just enough to sign the slip and tip the waiter generously, all while keeping one foot planted firmly inside the doorway so the cart could be wheeled in.
He didn't even close the door fully before he was back at your side, balancing the tray on his knees as if you were two kids sitting on a living room floor.
Throughout breakfast, he didn't let you pour your own tea, nor did he let you reach for the syrup. He fed you a bite of strawberry off his own plate with a triumphant grin, looking endlessly pleased with himself.
"You're hovering," you laughed, wiping a stray drop of syrup from the corner of your mouth with a napkin. "You know that, right? You're acting like a helicopter parent."
"I am making up for lost time," he corrected smoothly, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "There is a massive deficit of kisses and cuddles in our ledger, and I am attempting to balance the books before the first practice session tomorrow."
"You'll never balance it at this rate."
"Then I'll just have to try twice as hard."
By late afternoon, the rain had cleared, leaving the Melbourne air crisp and smelling faintly of wet eucalyptus and asphalt. In the paddock, the teams were hard at work, mechanics pulling all-nighters, engineers analyzing telemetry, and media personnel finalizing schedules.
Naturally, Carlos’s phone had finally demanded some attention.
"I have to do a quick walk-through with the engineers," he said, standing by the closet in the suite. He was already dressed in his team-issued black-and-red polo, though he hadn't zipped his jacket yet.
He looked over his shoulder at you, where you were sitting on the edge of the bed tying your sneakers. "Just thirty minutes. Then dinner. Together."
You stood up, grabbing your light jacket. "I can stay here and unpack, if you want. Give you space to focus."
Carlos stopped dead in his tracks. The jacket he was holding slipped from his fingers back onto the sofa. In three long strides, he crossed the room, stopping directly in front of you and grabbing both of your hands.
"No," he said, his tone dropping into something entirely serious, though softened by the warmth in his eyes. "No staying here. You are coming with me."
"Carlos, it's the team hotel, and then the track tomorrow. I don't want to be in the way while you're working—"
"You are never in the way," he interrupted firmly, stepping closer until there was no space left between you.
He cupped your face in his large, warm hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "I missed you all week, all month, all year. I am not leaving you in a hotel room while I am in the same city. You are coming to the briefing room with me. You are sitting in my driver's room. You are going wherever I go."
You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm desperate," he corrected with a soft, lopsided grin, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips. "Come on. My jacket looks better on you anyway."
Before you could argue, he grabbed his team windbreaker from the back of the chair and draped it over your shoulders, pulling the zipper up high enough to keep out the evening chill.
It swallowed you slightly, the sleeves hanging past your hands, smelling faintly of his cedar-and-citrus cologne mixed with the clean scent of laundry detergent.
As you walked out of the suite and down the corridor toward the elevators, Carlos didn't just walk next to you; his hand was firmly locked with yours, his fingers intertwined tightly against his palm.
When you waited for the elevator, he pulled you back against his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head, murmuring quiet, meaningless things into your hair just because he could.
When the elevator chimed and opened to reveal a few other team members, Carlos didn't let go of your hand. He didn't create professional distance or put on a stoic, detached athlete facade.
He walked out into the lobby with his fingers still securely laced through yours, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand.
Several heads turned, recognizing the Ferrari driver instantly, but Carlos didn't seem to notice—or care. His attention was entirely fixed downward, checking to make sure you were matching his pace, making sure you were warm enough, making sure you were right there beside him.
As you stepped out into the cool Melbourne evening toward the waiting car, the neon lights of the city reflecting off the wet pavement, you realized something comforting.
Formula 1 might demand everything from him—his time, his focus, his energy—at least for this weekend, and for every moment he could possibly claw back, Carlos Sainz was entirely yours.
And judging by the way his thumb brushed reassuringly over your knuckles as the car door closed behind you, he wasn't planning on letting go anytime soon. . . .
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Summary: Friends with benefits with Max Verstappen would have been so much easier if it wasn't him
Song: MORNING DEW · Beyonce
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The rain in Silverstone doesn’t fall; it hangs. It was a heavy, greasy mist that turned the gravel traps into slate-grey soup and made the hospitality units smell faintly of wet carpeting, expensive espresso, and fried bacon.
You were standing in the Red Bull garage corner behind the timing wall, clutching a clear plastic cup of lukewarm tea that tasted exclusively of paper.
Your lanyard—the thick, white laminated one that said MEDIA OPERATIONS in bold black Helvetica—was damp against your collarbone.
"He’s in the debrief," Gianpiero’s voice cut through the hum of the data monitors. GP didn’t look up from his screens; his fingers were flying across a triple-monitor setup like he was playing a high-stakes piano concerto. "Another fifteen minutes. Tell him his setup on the medium stint looked like a dog’s dinner and he’ll growl at you, so maybe wait until he’s had his Red Bull."
"I know the drill, GP," you muttered, leaning against the cold aluminum of the chassis trolley.
"Good. Don't let him eat the ham sandwich either. It’s been there since Tuesday."
You smiled faintly, though your stomach gave a familiar, irritating flutter.
Friends with benefits with Max Verstappen would have been so much easier if it wasn’t Max Verstappen.
That was the foundational flaw of the whole arrangement, one you’d hashed out over warm gin and tonics in a hotel bar in Monaco six months ago.
It had started as an accident of proximity—too many late nights reviewing media schedules, too many shared flights where the private jet was just the two of you and a snoring pilot, too much shared silence that felt heavier than conversation.
Max didn’t do casual well—or rather, he did casual too well, treating intimacy with the same clinical, frictionless efficiency he treated a late-braking zone into Turn 1. No drama, no post-mortems, no holding hands through the airport terminal.
“We travel well together,” he had said that first night in his suite, his voice raspy from the desert air in Bahrain, his hand heavy and warm on the small of your back as he pulled you against him. “Keep it simple. No noise.”
It sounded brilliant on paper. It sounded like the only way to survive the twenty-four-race circus without losing your mind to the endless cycle of paddock gossip and jet lag.
The problem was that Max Verstappen was very, very good at being Max Verstappen. And you were remarkably bad at remembering that you were only supposed to care about the friction, not the engine.
The glass door of the back office clicked open.
He came out wearing his team-issue hoodie, the navy blue oversized and salt-stained at the cuffs from sweat.
His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in neat, dark commas, and his jaw was shadowed with the reddish-brown stubble he never quite managed to tame during a triple-header.
He looked tired—not the soft, sleepy tired of an ordinary Tuesday, but the hollow-eyed, wired fatigue of a man whose nervous system had been running at 200 beats per minute for three consecutive hours.
He didn't look at the engineers. He looked straight at you.
"You've got dirt on your nose," was his greeting.
You reached up instinctively, rubbing your cheek. "Where?"
"Other side." He crossed the small space between you, his movements loose and predatory in that way that made every woman in the hospitality unit pretend to look at their phones when he walked past. He reached out, his thumb catching the tip of your nose with a flick so familiar it felt like a reflex. His skin was cold. "Gone."
"Thanks."
"GP says the medium stint was a dog's dinner," you added quietly, keeping your voice low beneath the roar of a generator outside.
Max groaned, dropping his head back against the aluminum pole behind you with a dull thud. "GP talks too much. The wind changed in sector three. You can’t drive through a fifty-kph gust, you just have to survive it."
"Well, you survived. P1 in FP2."
"Doesn't mean anything. Lando’s sector two is still too fast." He looked down at you then, his eyes a piercing, startling shade of pale blue that missed nothing—not the smudge of mascara under your left eye, not the way your fingers were white-knuckling the paper cup. "You look cold."
"I am cold."
"My room at the hotel has the heating fixed," he said, his voice dropping into that register he used when the door was locked and the paddock cameras were three miles away. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of logistical fact. "Come after nine. Kelly is in Munich for the charity thing."
There it was. The administrative ease of it. Kelly is in Munich. Come after nine. No beating around the bush, no awkward negotiations about schedules.
"Max," you started, the words tasting like paper again.
"What?" His eyebrows pulled down, that slight vertical crease appearing between them that always meant he was about to get stubborn.
"Nothing."
"Don't do that. Say it."
"I just… I have those sponsor briefs to clear for Silverstone digital. It might be late."
"I'll wait," he said simply. He reached down, his fingers brushing against yours where they held the cup, his pinkie hooking through yours for a single, illicit second before he pulled away to grab his gym bag. "Ten minutes past nine. Don't make me come find you."
The hotel was one of those generic, five-star glass boxes situated somewhere off the A43—all slate tiles, automated curtains that didn't quite close all the way, and a king-sized bed covered in too many decorative pillows that had to be hurled onto the carpet before you could even sit down.
When you let yourself in with the spare key card he’d slipped into your jacket pocket during the driver briefing, the room was dark except for the amber glow of the television screen.
Max wasn't in bed. He was sitting on the edge of the ergonomic desk chair, a PlayStation controller in his hands, his eyes locked onto a monitor he’d propped up on the coffee table.
He was still in his compression shorts and a grey t-shirt, his bare legs stretched out long across the grey carpet.
"You're late," he said without looking away from the screen. It was 9:14.
"I had to clear the social media sign-offs for Horner's press conference tomorrow. Do you know how many times Christian uses the word 'synergy'?"
"Too many." Max dumped the controller onto the cushion beside him and finally looked up. His gaze raked over you—over the oversized cardigan you’d thrown on over your jeans, the damp ends of your hair—and something in his shoulders dropped an inch. "Come here."
You didn't go straight to him. Instead, you dropped your bag by the door and walked over to the mini-fridge, pulling out a small bottle of sparkling water. "Did you eat?"
"Room service brought steak. It was like leather."
"You didn't eat the steak?"
"I ate the fries."
"Classic." You twisted the cap off the water, took a sip, and finally walked over to where he sat.
Max didn't wait for you to reach him. He caught you by the belt loops of your jeans, hauling you forward until your thighs hit the outside of his knees.
The impact knocked the breath out of you slightly, but his hands were already moving up your back, sliding under the hem of the cardigan to find the warm skin of your lower spine.
"You smell like rain," he murmured, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your pulse point, sending a jolt straight down to your toes.
"It's raining outside, Max. That tends to happen."
"I hate Silverstone." He pressed a hard, slow kiss just beneath your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. "Too much grass. Too many people asking about the championship."
"You're leading by eighty points."
"Doesn't matter. Everyone wants to talk about numbers." He shifted his grip, his hands sliding up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. His expression was entirely devoid of the cold, dismissive armor he wore for the world outside.
Up close, his eyes were almost translucent in the dim light of the television. "Nobody asks about the numbers right now. Right?"
"Right," you whispered.
His mouth found yours with a familiarity that felt dangerous. There was no hesitation in it—none of the polite discovery of a new relationship.
It was greedy, heavy, and entirely consuming, the kind of kiss that made you forget what day of the week it was, let which grand prix was coming up next.
His tongue parted your lips with an easy authority, his hands tangling in your hair to tilt your head back until you had to grip his shoulders to keep from sliding off his lap.
This was the part that was supposed to be easy. Just two people who spent fifty weeks a year in hotel rooms, scratching an itch that the paddock couldn't reach.
So why, as his hand slid up under your shirt to press flat against your ribs, did your chest ache with something so heavy it felt like grief?
"Max," you breathed against his mouth, your fingers tightening in the soft cotton of his t-shirt until your knuckles turned white.
He paused, pulling back an inch. His thumb brushed your lower lip, wiping away a smear of your own gloss. "What? Did I hurt you?"
"No."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out how much fuel I have left." His voice was low, laced with a strange, sharp frustration. He hated when you pulled away—even a millimeter.
He was used to people wanting things from him, but he wasn't used to anyone being near him while holding something back. "Stop thinking."
"It's my job to think, Max."
"Not here." He stood up abruptly, lifting you with him so easily you let out a sharp gasp, your legs instantly wrapping around his waist.
He carried you the three paces to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress with a soft bounce before following you down, his weight settling over you like a blanket. "Not with me."
The alarm went off at 6:00 AM.
The room was freezing. The automated curtains had opened slightly during the night, letting in the grey, sickly light of an English morning that looked suspiciously like it was about to start raining again.
You rolled over, your joints stiff, your skin humming with the residue of a night that had blurred from heat into heavy, dreamless sleep around three in the morning.
Max was already awake.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, his back to you as he scrolled through telemetry data on his tablet.
The muscles along his spine were corded and distinct, every vertebra outlined by the pale morning light.
There was a faint red scratch on his left shoulder blade—your fault from around two o'clock when the wind had rattled the window frame and you’d pulled him closer.
He didn't look like a three-time world champion in that moment. He just looked like a very tired twenty-six-year-old kid who needed about twelve more hours of sleep and a decent breakfast.
"You have the media briefing at eight," you said into the silence of the room, your voice thick with sleep.
"I know."
"And Horner wants you in the simulator at eleven."
"He can wait twenty minutes. I need to talk to GP about the front wing endplate." Max set the tablet down on the nightstand with a soft clack and finally turned his head to look at you over his bare shoulder.
His blue eyes were sharp again, the fog of sleep entirely gone. "Are you coming to the garage for FP3?"
"Of course. It's my job."
"Good." He reached out, his long fingers catching a strand of your hair and wrapping it loosely around his knuckle. "Stay after the session. Don't go back to the media center right away."
You sat up, pulling the duvet up to your chest, though you knew there was no point in modesty between you two anymore. "Max, we talked about this. People talk."
"Let them talk."
"It's not about them talking, it's about… it's about the line." You stared down at the pattern in the duvet cover, your throat tightening. "We said no lines crossed. No mess."
Max’s hand dropped from your hair. He turned fully around on the bed, his brow furrowing into that stubborn line. "Who said anything about a mess?"
"You're making it complicated."
"I am not making it complicated," he snapped, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and dragged a hand down his face. He let out a long, ragged sigh. "You're the one sitting there acting like I'm about to ask you to move into my apartment in Monaco."
"Are you?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
It lasted for three heartbeats—four—while the sound of a distant lorry shifting gears down on the A43 drifted through the double glazing.
Max stared at you, his mouth slightly open, his chest rising and falling beneath the pale skin.
The absolute, terrifying certainty that usually lived in his eyes—the same certainty that let him brake six meters later than anyone else into Copse corner—flickered and died out.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, looking away toward the window. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm just being realistic."
"You're being difficult." He stood up off the bed, his movements jerky and irritated as he reached for his track pants from the floor. He pulled them on with a sharp pull of the drawstring, his back still turned to you.
"If I wanted it to be complicated, I wouldn't have spent six months making sure you didn't have to deal with the press screaming outside your door."
"That's not—"
"Get dressed," he interrupted, his voice cold again, retreating behind the thick, impenetrable wall that had made him untouchable to the rest of the world.
He picked up his team polo from the chair, shaking it out with a crisp snap. "We have twenty minutes before the shuttle leaves for the circuit. If you're late, Horner will blame me for keeping you up."
He didn't look at you again until you were both standing by the door, shoes on, lanyards around your necks.
He stopped with his hand on the handle, his fingers gripping the cold metal. He looked back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable—that strange mix of irritation and an underlying, stubborn hunger that he couldn't quite shake off.
"Ten minutes past nine tonight," he said quietly. "Kelly is still in Munich."
And before you could answer, he pulled the door open and walked out into the corridor, his long strides already taking him toward the elevators, leaving you standing in the empty room with the smell of his cologne still lingering in the air.
By Sunday afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a greasy steam that rose off the asphalt of Silverstone as one hundred and forty thousand people screamed themselves hoarse in the grandstands.
You were standing at the edge of the pit wall, your digital clipboard clutched in your sweaty hands, watching the timing tower like your life depended on it.
P1. VER. GAP: +14.2s.
The Red Bull mechanics were already spilling over the barrier, waving their blue-and-yellow flags as the RB20 shrieked down the main straight, crossing the line to take the checkered flag in a haze of rubber smoke and cheering.
It was another masterclass. Flawless. Unstoppable. Boring, the British tabloids would call it tomorrow, ignoring the sheer, brutal precision it took to keep a car on the razor's edge for fifty-two laps in changing weather.
You watched as Max brought the car to a halt in front of the Parc Fermé board, killing the engine with a flick of a switch on the steering wheel.
He sat there for a second, head back against the headrest, chest heaving beneath the red-and-blue suit before he unclipped the belts and hoisted himself up onto the sidepod, raising his right hand to the crowd.
The roar was deafening.
By the time he made it through the media pen—where he gave his standard, deadpan answers about the car balance, the wind, and how much he loved the team—the sun was finally breaking through the heavy grey blanket of English clouds, turning the asphalt the color of wet slate.
You were in the hospitality unit, packing your laptop into its leather sleeve, when the door swung open with a heavy thud.
Max didn't bother changing out of his race suit. The top half was unzipped to the waist, revealing the damp, salt-stained white undershirt beneath, his red cap pulled low over his forehead.
He looked exhausted—the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only came from winning a race where you had to fight the car every single lap.
There was nobody else in the room; the rest of the communications team had already headed down to the airport to catch the charter flight back to Salzburg.
He walked straight over to you, stopped two inches away, and dropped his helmet onto the small laminate table with a heavy thud.
"You missed the podium photos," he said.
"I had to file the post-race transcripts for the FIA."
"Liar. You were hiding behind the hospitality pillar." He reached out, his fingers catching the strap of your laptop bag and pulling it out of your hands, dropping it onto the floor. "Look at me."
You looked up. His blue eyes were blazing, wild and unfiltered in the quiet room.
"I'm tired, Max," you whispered, though your voice lacked any real defense.
"I know." He stepped closer, his hands coming up to grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly until you were sitting on the edge of the table, your legs parting to let him step between them. The cold metal of his belt buckle pressed against your stomach. "Me too."
"The flight—"
"The flight leaves at eight. We have an hour." He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in hot, uneven gasps that smelled faintly of energy drink and champagne.
His thumb swept across your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who had spent the last two hours driving a missile at two hundred miles an hour. "And don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out when you're going to pack your bags." He gave a short, rough breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded so desperate. "You're not going anywhere. I told you. We travel well together."
"Max…"
"Shut up," he murmured, before his mouth came down on yours with an absolute, undeniable finality.
There was no more talk about rules, or logistics, or lines that weren't supposed to be crossed.
There was just the weight of him pressing you back against the table, the familiar scent of leather and rain, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that no matter how many times you tried to make it simple, you were already miles past the braking point. . . .
Summary: Max does hot lap with you and you confess things that you would never say to him
Song: Na Na Na · Sam Smith
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air in the Red Bull garage smells of hot rubber, high-octane fuel, and the faint, unmistakable scent of Max’s cedarwood cologne.
You stand by the pit wall, clutching a digital clipboard that you don’t actually need, watching him. He is sitting on the edge of the engineering bay, his race suit tied around his waist, revealing the sweat-dampened thermal shirt underneath.
He’s laughing at something GP is saying, running a hand through his damp blonde hair, looking impossibly relaxed for a man who treats the laws of physics like a polite suggestion.
You’ve known each other for five years. Five years of traveling the globe, sharing late-night room-service pizza in boring hotel rooms, laughing until your ribs hurt, and acting as his unofficial anchor in a world that constantly demands his blood, sweat, and podium finishes.
You are his best friend. His rock. His confidante.
And you are hopelessly, agonizingly, hopelessly in love with him.
"Earth to Y/N," a hand snaps in front of your face.
You blink, jolting out of your reverie. Max is standing right in front of you, a crooked, lopsided grin plastered across his face.
That grin. The one that makes the front pages of sports tabloids, the one that makes millions of fans swoon, and the one that is currently aimed entirely at you with devastating, casual intimacy.
"You're zoning out," Max says, his voice a rich, familiar baritone that vibrates right through your chest. "You've been doing that a lot today. Everything alright?"
"I'm fine," you lie smoothly, offering a tight smile. "Just reviewing the telemetry for the afternoon session. Thinking about where Leclerc is finding those two tenths in sector two."
Max rolls his eyes, a playful scoff escaping his lips. He reaches out and gently taps the clipboard out of your hands, setting it down on a nearby flight case. "Leave the spreadsheets to the nerds. We have an hour before the media pen opens."
"And?"
"And I'm taking you out." He gestures toward the pit lane, where a matte-black two-seater RB18 demonstration car sits idling, exhaust fumes shimmering in the hot afternoon heat. "Put your helmet on. You’re riding shotgun."
Your stomach does a violent, traitorous freefall. "Max, I have work—"
"That’s an order from your reigning World Champion," he interrupts, his blue eyes flashing with that familiar, competitive spark that brooks no argument.
Besides, he adds, softening slightly, his gaze dropping to yours with an intensity that suddenly makes the garage feel entirely too small, "You look like you need some fresh air. Or at least, some G-force therapy."
Before you can protest—though, God knows, you never really wanted to—he tosses you a spare balaclava and a custom-fitted carbon-fiber helmet.
Ten minutes later, you are strapped into the narrow, carbon-fiber passenger tub of the RB18.
The harness is pulled so tight across your chest that it feels like a physical manifestation of the restraint you’ve practiced for years. Your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Max slides into the cockpit beside you. The space is claustrophobic, intimate. You can smell him—the subtle mix of adrenaline, sweat, and soap.
He leans over, checking your belts with practiced, efficient hands. His fingers brush against your hip, sending a jolt of static electricity straight through your nervous system.
He glances up, his visor still flipped open. "Too tight?" he asks, his face inches from yours.
"I can breathe," you croak, though you're not entirely sure you're getting any oxygen.
"Good," he murmurs, his eyes lingering on yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulls his own helmet down and clicks the visor shut.
“Engine on,” GP’s voice crackles over the radio headset.
Max flips a toggle switch. The V6 turbo-hybrid engine behind you roars to life with a deafening, visceral scream that rattles your teeth. It’s a sound that commands absolute respect, a beast straining at its leash.
Max gives you a quick, reassuring thumbs-up. Then, he drops the clutch.
The world dissolves into a blur of blinding color and violent motion.
Formula 1 cars are not meant to carry passengers; it’s an unnatural state of affairs, an assault on human biology.
As Max exits the pit lane and punches the throttle down the main straight, the acceleration hits you like a physical wall. Your head slams back against the headrest with bone-rattling force. Your breath is punched entirely out of your lungs.
Turn 1.
Max brakes so late your foot instinctively presses into an imaginary brake pedal on the floorboard. The G-forces violently throw you sideways, pressing you hard against the bolsters of the seat. The car corners on rails, an apex met with terrifying, surgical precision.
You are flying. You are plummeting. You are completely, utterly helpless.
And Max is in total control.
Through the intercom system, you can hear him breathing—steady, rhythmic, utterly calm. To him, this is a Sunday drive. To you, it’s a near-death experience combined with a religious awakening.
“How’s the ride back there?” Max’s voice cuts through the roar of the engine, laced with unmistakable amusement.
You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s insane, that he’s driving too fast, that your life is flashing before your eyes.
But as you watch his gloved hands dance across the carbon-fiber steering wheel—smooth, precise, incredibly strong—something snaps inside you.
The roaring engine. The blinding speed. The helmets isolating the two of you in your own private, deafening universe.
It strips away all your defenses. It removes the carefully constructed walls you’ve spent half a decade building.
You realize, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that you are hurtling down a straight at 280 kilometers per hour, strapped to the only person in the world who truly matters to you, and for the first time in five years… there are no consequences.
Because the engine is too loud. The intercom only picks up what he’s listening to, and right now, the adrenaline is blocking out everything else. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
"You're an idiot!" you yell into the mic, your voice cracking with a mixture of terror and raw, unadulterated emotion.
Max laughs, a short, sharp bark of sound over the radio. “Speak up, Y/N! Can’t hear you over the V6!”
That’s it. That’s your permission slip from the universe.
You close your eyes as Max flings the car through the sweeping curves of sector one, the G-forces threatening to crush your ribs. You grip the handles of the cockpit so hard your knuckles turn white. And then, you start talking.
"I hate this!" you scream into the void, the words spilling out of you like blood from a freshly opened wound. "I hate how good you are! I hate how you make it look so easy, like you're not breaking my heart every single day just by existing!"
Through the windshield, the track blurs into gray asphalt and green grass. Max is setting up for the hairpin, trail-braking with exquisite finesse.
"I'm so tired of being the best friend!" you sob, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, though they instantly dry in the rushing wind of the cockpit. "I'm tired of fixing your media schedules, and listening to you talk about simulator setups, and pretending I don't want to crawl out of my skin every time another model or paddock influencer bats her eyelashes at you!"
The car surges forward again as he hits the throttle out of the corner. The roar of the engine swallows your voice, but you don't care. You keep talking. You pour out every dark, selfish, beautiful secret you’ve hoarded like a miser in the dark.
"I hate that I know you take your coffee with two sugars when you're stressed and zero when you're relaxed," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely. "I hate that I know the exact scar on your left shoulder from that karting crash when we were sixteen. I hate that I love the way you laugh—not the PR laugh, but the real one, where your shoulders shake and you hide your face in your hands."
The RB18 takes the sweeping high-speed chicane. The lateral Gs push your head heavily to the right, but you fight against it, leaning closer to the driver's side as much as the restraints allow.
"You're blind, Max," you whisper, the words tearing your throat apart. "You're the most oblivious, brilliant, frustrating man on God's green earth. I've been in love with you since the day we met in that dingy Formula 3 trailer in Nuremberg. I love you so much it physically sickens me. And it kills me—every single second of every single day—that to you, I'm just Y/N. Your buddy. Your safe space."
You stop.
You are gasping for air, your chest heaving, tears finally breaking free and tracking hot paths down your cheeks beneath your helmet. The silence in your mind is deafening, even over the screams of the turbocharger.
You’ve said it. You’ve let the poison out. The secret is out in the open, trapped inside the echoing walls of a carbon-fiber coffin traveling at terminal velocity.
It’s liberating. And it is utterly, completely devastating.
You brace yourself for the aftermath. You wait for the awkwardness. You wait for the moment the race ends, the helmets come off, and he gently, kindly tells you that he values your friendship too much, that he only sees you as a sister, that things are going to be weird now.
Max takes the final corner. The car grips the asphalt with terrifying adhesion, screaming toward the pit straight.
He doesn’t pit.
Instead, to your utter shock, he keeps his foot planted flat on the floor. He bypasses the pit lane entirely, screaming past the Red Bull garage at three hundred kilometers an hour, launching the car down the straight for a second consecutive flying lap.
Your heart leaps into your throat. "Max! The pit lane! You're missing the—"
“Shut up, Y/N,” his voice cuts across the intercom.
It isn't playful anymore. It is sharp, low, and laced with an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It is the voice he uses when he smells a championship, when he sees a gap on the outside of a terrifying corner and refuses to lift.
You freeze.
Through the tinted visor of his helmet, you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them. You can feel the burning, laser-focused weight of his gaze shifting from the track for a fraction of a second to look directly at you.
"Max?" you breathe, your voice trembling. "Did you… did you hear me?"
The car tears through Turn 1 again, the G-forces slamming you back into the seat. Max doesn't answer immediately. He is driving with a terrifying, aggressive precision, wrestling the steering wheel as if he’s fighting a ghost.
Then, right as he hits the apex of Turn 3, his gloved hand leaves the paddle shifter for a split second. He doesn't reach for anything on the dash. Instead, he reaches across the narrow console between your seats.
His warm, leather-clad hand finds yours.
He grips your fingers so tightly it borders on painful, his thumb pressing hard against your knuckles, grounding you amidst the roaring engine and the screaming tires.
“You think I’m blind?” Max’s voice comes through the headset, thick, rough, and trembling with an emotion you have never, ever heard in him before. It isn't the voice of a three-time World Champion. It’s the voice of a man completely unraveled.
Your breath catches in your throat.
“Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid, Y/N?” he demands, his grip on your hand tightening until it aches in the best possible way.
The car screams down the back straight. The digital readout on the steering wheel flashes 312… 315… 318 km/h. The wind howls against the bodywork.
“I’ve waited five years for you to snap,” Max confesses, the words tumbling out of him in a rush, raw and desperate. “Five years of listening to you talk about everyone else, five years of pretending I just want a best friend when I wake up every damn morning wanting nothing more in this world than to pull you into my arms and never let you go.”
The world outside the cockpit stops spinning. The engine noise fades into a distant, muffled hum.
“You think I didn’t notice the coffee?” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “You think I didn’t notice how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention? I notice everything about you, Y/N. You are the only thing in this entire paddock that actually matters to me.”
Tears flood your eyes again, hot and blinding, but this time, they aren’t born of despair. They are born of a shock so profound it feels like a physical blow.
"Max…" you choke out. "Why didn't you ever…"
“Because I was scared,” he admits, and the confession from a man who routinely stares death in the face at 350 kilometers per hour hits you harder than any G-force ever could. “You were my safe place. You were the only real thing I had in a life full of noise and cameras and bullshit. I was terrified that if I told you the truth, if I ruined what we were, I’d lose you forever.”
He takes a breath, the engine screaming as he guides the car through the final sweeping corners of the circuit, slowing down now, the speed bleeding off as he finally steers the RB18 toward the pit lane.
“And every time you smiled at me, every time you laughed at my stupid jokes, it was pure torture,” he whispers. “Because I knew how close you were, and yet you felt a million miles away.”
The car glides down the pit lane, the mechanics scattering as Max guides the nose precisely onto the painted markers in front of the Red Bull garage. The engine idles down, coughing, sputtering, and finally dying.
Silence descends upon the cockpit. A heavy, profound, absolute silence.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the ticking of the cooling carbon-brake discs and the ragged, synchronized sound of your breathing.
Slowly, deliberately, Max reaches up. He unlatches his helmet, lifts it off his head, and tosses it onto the floor of the cockpit. He turns to you.
His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face flushed, his chest heaving under his race suit. But it’s his eyes that destroy you. They are wide, vulnerable, completely stripped of armor, shining with unshed tears.
With trembling hands, you lift your own helmet off, setting it beside his.
Before you can say a word—before you can even draw another breath—Max unbuckles his harness, leans across the narrow console, and cups your face with both hands. His palms are warm, calloused, and shaking.
"You're an idiot, Max Verstappen," you whisper, a watery laugh escaping your lips.
"I know," he breathes, his blue eyes dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours with fierce, possessive intent. "The biggest idiot on the grid."
And then he kisses you.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is desperate, hungry, and heavy with five years of suppressed longing. It tastes of adrenaline, sweat, and salt, of high-octane fuel and quiet hotel rooms, of a secret love finally brought out into the burning afternoon sun.
Your hands fly up, tangling in his damp hair, pulling him impossibly closer, desperate to bridge the remaining distance between your bodies. The cramped confines of the F1 cockpit suddenly feel like the safest, most sacred place on earth.
When Max finally pulls back, just an inch, his forehead rests against yours. He is breathing heavily, a shaky, breathless smile finally breaking across his face—that brilliant, lopsided grin that you love more than life itself.
"So," Max murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, wiping away the remnants of your tears. "Does this mean you want a second lap?"
You let out a wet, genuine laugh, pressing your forehead harder against his.
"Shut up and drive," you whisper.
And this time, as he leans in to kiss you again, the rest of the world truly fades away. . . .
Summary: When he's drunk, he becomes a giggly mess with you
Song: Cake By The Ocean · DNCE
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air inside the rented penthouse overlooking the Monaco harbor smelled of expensive champagne, lime wedges, and the distinct, humid electricity of a Formula 1 weekend that had finally reached its chaotic conclusion.
Down below, the Mediterranean lapped lazily against the docks, indifferent to the multi-million-dollar yachts jostling for berth and the adrenaline still humming in the veins of everyone inside the room.
You were sitting on the edge of a velvet-upholstered sofa, nursing a gin and tonic that had long since lost its ice, watching the room spin in a blur of designer labels and relieved laughter.
Across the room, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, was Max.
Earlier that evening, under the blinding lights of the podium, he had been the portrait of the ruthless, hyper-focused machine the world knew him to be.
The grim set of his jaw, the sharp, calculating glint in his blue eyes as he sprayed the champagne—that was the three-time World Champion.
That was the driver who lived and breathed apexes, telemetry, and tenths of a second.
Right now, however, Max was leaning against the window frame, wearing a slightly rumpled white linen shirt with the top three buttons casually undone, holding a red solo cup that looked entirely too casual in his hand.
He was talking to Christian and a couple of engineers, and he was currently laughing so hard he was practically folding in half.
It wasn't his usual polite, media-trained chuckle. It was a breathless, high-pitched giggle that made his shoulders shake, his hand coming up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. You knew the secret that the rest of the paddock, the press, and the millions of fans watching on television would never believe: when Max Verstappen had a few too many drinks, the ice melted entirely.
The ruthless competitor vanished, replaced by a warm, impossibly affectionate, and deeply giggly mess who only had eyes for one person in the room.
You.
As if feeling the weight of your gaze across the crowded room, Max’s head snapped up. His eyes, bright and unfocused, scanned the room until they landed on you.
Instantly, a massive, brilliant grin spread across his face—the kind of smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger.
He abandoned his conversation mid-sentence, mumbling something to Christian that caused the team principal to just laugh and wave him off with a knowing smirk.
Max navigated the room with the slightly buoyant, uncoordinated stride of a man whose equilibrium had been entirely compromised by tequila and a very successful race weekend.
He weaved past a group of mechanics, narrowly avoided a low-hanging brass lamp, and dropped heavily onto the sofa right next to you, sliding across the velvet until his thigh pressed flush against yours.
"Hiii," he breathed out, the word stretching into a soft, melodic sigh. He dropped his head immediately onto your shoulder, his forehead resting against the crook of your neck.
"Hi, Max," you murmur, setting your drink down on the marble coffee table before your hand instinctively finds its way into his soft, messy hair, your fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. "Did you have a good night?"
Max let out a muffled giggle against your collarbone, his warm breath fanning against your skin. "The best night. The best night ever. You look…"
He pulled his head back just enough to look up at you, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and completely starstruck. "…you look so pretty. Did I tell you that? I feel like I didn't tell you that enough today."
"You told me three times while we were getting out of the car, and twice in the elevator," you tease gently, a fond warmth blooming in your chest.
Max gasped dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead with exaggerated shock. "Only five times? That’s terrible. I am a terrible boyfriend. I need to fix this immediately."
He tried to sit up straight to deliver a proper compliment, but his coordination betrayed him, and he wobbled dangerously to the left, letting out a sudden, high-pitched snort of laughter as you caught him by the waist to keep him from tumbling off the sofa.
"Careful there, champion," you laugh, steadying him. "Don't break yourself on a Sunday night. You have simulator work on Tuesday."
"Simulator," Max repeated the word slowly, as if it were a foreign language he had never heard before. He wrinkled his nose in profound disgust. "No. No simulators. Simulators are stupid. You know what's not stupid?"
"What's not stupid, Max?"
"You," he declared triumphantly, pointing a slightly unsteady index finger right at the tip of your nose. "You are very smart. And very soft. And I love you so, so much."
The declaration was delivered with such absolute, unfiltered sincerity that it caught you completely off guard.
Even when he was sober, Max wasn’t a man of excessive, flowery words; his affection was usually shown through quiet loyalty, shared meals, and the occasional lingering hand on your lower back.
But when the alcohol hit his system, his emotional filter dissolved entirely, turning him into a walking, talking puddle of pure devotion.
"I love you too, Max," you whisper, your thumb gently tracing the line of his cheekbone, feeling the heat radiating off his skin.
Max beamed, looking immensely pleased with the answer, before his expression suddenly shifted into one of deep, philosophical concentration. He stared at your hand on his face for a long moment, blinking slowly.
"Hey," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close so his lips brushed against your ear. "Do you think the fish in the harbor are sleeping right now?"
You pressed a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. "It's three in the morning, Max. I'm going to guess yes."
"That's wild," he giggled, burying his face back into your neck, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Imagine being a fish. Just swimming around. No tires. No pit stops. Just vibes."
By four in the morning, the party had thinned out significantly. The music had been lowered to a soft, ambient hum, and the remaining guests were slumped in corners, nursing coffees or quietly talking in small groups.
Max, however, had reached the stage of intoxication where sitting still was no longer an option, but walking in a straight line was a distant dream.
He had spent the last twenty minutes trying to balance a coaster on top of your water glass, giggling uncontrollably every time it tilted and slid off.
"Okay, sleeping beauty," you whisper, gently taking the coaster out of his hand and setting it aside. "I think it’s time we head back to the hotel."
Max blinked up at you, his lower lip pushing out in a dramatic, pathetic pout that would have melted the heart of the sternest team boss on the grid. "So soon? But we haven't fed the fish."
"We can feed the fish tomorrow. Come on." You stand up and offer him your hand.
Max stared at your hand for a second before wrapping both of his large, warm palms around yours, letting you haul him up to his feet.
As soon as he was upright, his momentum carried him forward, and he promptly crashed into your chest, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and burying his face right in your stomach.
"You're warm," he mumbled happily, refusing to let go.
"Max, we have to walk across the room. People are watching."
"Let them look," he sighed dramatically against your shirt. "They don't get to hug you. Only I get to hug you."
With a soft laugh, you managed to guide him—half-walking, half-dragging him—toward the private elevator that led down to the underground parking garage.
After a brief, quiet goodbye to Gianpiero, who shot you a deeply sympathetic and amused look as Max waved frantically with both hands, the elevator doors slid shut, sealing the two of you in blessed, air-conditioned silence.
As the car descended, Max let out a long, contented sigh, his forehead resting gently against the cool mirrored wall of the elevator. Then, slowly, a mischievous little smile crept onto his face.
Without warning, he turned around, wrapped his arms around your shoulders, and lifted you effortlessly off your feet, spinning you around in a slow, clumsy circle.
"Max! Put me down!" you yelp, laughing despite yourself as your feet dangle in the air.
"Weee!" he giggled, the sound bubbling out of him bright and carefree. "Look! I’m stronger than an F1 car!"
"You're going to drop me!"
"I would never drop you," he said instantly, his tone suddenly dropping from playful silliness to a soft, profound seriousness that caught you off guard.
He set you back down on your feet carefully, keeping his hands firmly on your waist, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light of the moving elevator.
"Never. You're my favorite person in the whole universe."
Before you could reply, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the quiet, concrete expanse of the underground garage.
The cool night air hit your skin as you finally made it to your rented car. You unlocked the doors, and Max slid into the passenger seat with the practiced grace of a man who spent his life climbing in and out of tight spaces, though he immediately hit his head on the door frame because he was smiling too wide to look where he was going.
"Ow. Okay, that hurt," he whispered, giggling again as he rubbed the top of his head. He pulled his seatbelt across his chest with exaggerated precision, clicking it into place with a loud clack. "Safe! Safety first. Safety car deployment."
You slide into the driver's seat, shaking your head with a fond smile, and start the engine. The drive back to your hotel was short, winding along the empty, sodium-lit streets of Monaco.
Max spent the entire five-minute journey pressed flat against the passenger window, staring out at the passing streetlights with wide-eyed fascination, occasionally humming a tune that didn't seem to belong to any known song.
Getting Max out of the car, up the hotel elevator, and into your suite required the kind of tactical coordination usually reserved for a high-stakes pit stop.
By the time you finally managed to unlock the suite door and guide him inside, Max looked like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.
He kicked off his designer loafers—leaving them haphazardly in the middle of the entryway—and shuffled into the bedroom like a giant, sleep-deprived toddler.
"Bed," he announced to the room at large, before face-planting directly onto the king-sized mattress, burying his face deeply into the crisp white pillows.
He let out a long, wheezing groan of pure satisfaction. "Oh, god. This is the greatest invention in human history. Better than the RB19. Better than anything."
You walk over to the side of the bed, crossing your arms and looking down at the heap of limbs currently occupying your sheets. "You know, you still have your shirt and jeans on, Max."
Max slowly turned his head to the side, one eye peering out from beneath a pillow. He looked at you with an expression of profound, tragic betrayal. "Are you telling me I have to move?"
"I'm telling you that you'll regret sleeping in jeans tomorrow morning when your head feels like a V10 engine failing on the final lap."
With a dramatic, theatrical sigh that sounded like he was being led to the gallows, Max rolled over onto his back, throwing a forearm across his eyes. "Help me. I am a broken man."
Suppressing a laugh, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and gently pull his arm away. Max opens one eye, squinting up at you with a dopey, affectionate smile.
"Come on, sit up," you murmur.
You help him shrug out of the rumpled linen shirt, tossing it onto a chair. He cooperative, albeit entirely limp, letting you guide his arms out of the sleeves like an oversized toddler.
When it comes to the jeans, he insists on unbuttoning them himself, though his fumbling fingers take three clumsy tries to get the button through the hole, setting off another round of quiet, breathless giggles.
Once he's finally stripped down to a soft pair of gray sweatpants, he wriggles beneath the duvet, pulling the covers all the way up to his chin.
He looks up at you from the pillows, his hair sticking out in every direction, looking entirely unlike the fierce, unyielding athlete the world worships.
"You're taking care of me," he whispers softly, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. "You always take care of me."
"Of course I do," you say softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Now close your eyes and go to sleep, Max."
Before you can pull away, a large, warm hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, wrapping securely around the back of your neck. With surprising strength for a man who had nearly fallen off a sofa an hour ago, Max pulls you down toward him.
He doesn't kiss you immediately. Instead, he just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in, his blue eyes shining in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
"I love you," he murmurs again, the words quiet, steady, and utterly sincere, stripping away all the giggles and silliness to reveal the deep, anchor-like devotion underneath. "Don't ever leave me, okay?"
You smile, your heart swelling to fill your entire chest, and wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close.
"I'm not going anywhere, Max. Go to sleep."
Max hums contentedly, closing his eyes as the alcohol finally pulls him under. Within seconds, his breathing deepens and evens out, the tension draining completely from his frame.
You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and slip into bed beside him.
Almost instinctively, even in his deep sleep, Max shifts closer, throwing an arm heavy and warm over your waist and pulling you flush against his chest.
Safe in the quiet dark of the hotel room, far away from the screaming fans, the flashing cameras, and the relentless pressure of the racing world, the World Champion finally rests, anchored safely in your arms. . .
Summary: After giving birth to a son, Max doesn't feel worthy of having you two in his life
Song: Latch · Disclosure
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic, pale sunlight, and the intoxicating, impossible scent of newborn skin.
You were propped up against a stack of crisp white pillows, every muscle in your body aching with a heavy, profound exhaustion. But the pain was entirely eclipsed by the tiny, swaddled bundle resting against your chest.
A little shock of dark hair, fists curled like miniature boxing gloves, and a soft, rhythmic heartbeat that felt like a continuation of your own.
The door clicked open.
Max stepped inside, bringing with him the faint chill of the Monaco evening air and the residual adrenaline of a life lived at three hundred kilometers per hour.
He was still wearing his team hoodie, his blond hair slightly damp from a post-flight shower, his eyes shadowed with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure.
He had caught the earliest private jet out of London the moment your water broke, missing the simulator session, missing the media debrief, missing everything that usually commanded his world.
When his blue eyes locked onto you—onto both of you—the breath visibly left his lungs.
"Hey," you whispered, your voice a cracked, tender thing. "Look who decided to join us."
Max didn’t answer right away. He stood frozen by the door, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if he didn't quite trust them not to shake.
He looked at the baby, then at you, and an expression crossed his sharp features that made your heart ache. It wasn’t just awe. It was terror.
And something worse: unworthiness.
"Max?" you murmured, tilting your head. "Come here. Come meet your son."
He swallowed hard, taking a slow, hesitant step forward, as though approaching a fragile glass sculpture that might shatter at the slightest disturbance.
"How… how are you feeling?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual. He didn't look at you; his gaze was magnetically drawn back to the baby's tiny face.
"I'm tired," you said honestly, offering a soft smile. "But we're okay. We're both okay. Do you want to hold him?"
Max’s throat worked as he swallowed again. He stepped up to the side of the hospital bed, but instead of reaching out, he kept his arms rigidly at his sides. H
e stared down at the infant with an intensity that bordered on painful, his jaw tight.
"I shouldn't," he muttered, shaking his head.
The words dropped into the quiet room like lead weights. You frowned, the soft glow of new motherhood dimming just a fraction. "What do you mean, you shouldn't? He's your son, Max."
"I know," Max breathed, turning away for a second, rubbing a large hand over the back of his neck. When he turned back, his eyes were shining with a desperate, trapped kind of panic. "I just… look at him. He’s pristine. He’s completely innocent. And look at me."
"Max, stop it," you said, your voice firming up despite your exhaustion.
"No, let me finish," he pleaded softly, resting his palms on the edge of the mattress, leaning down so he was at eye level with you, though he still refused to look at the baby.
"My hands are built for steering wheels, for fighting, for pushing things to the absolute limit. I live in a world of pure aggression, of selfishness. Every weekend I risk everything just to chase a trophy. How am I supposed to hold something like that?"
He gestured helplessly toward the bundle on your chest. "I’ll break him. I'll mess him up. I'm not… I'm not like you."
"Like me?" you echoed, disbelief coloring your tone.
"You carried him, you protected him, you gave him life," Max said, his voice cracking, the formidable three-time World Champion crumbling entirely under the weight of his own insecurities. "You are pure. You’ve always been too good for me, and now… now you've given me this incredible gift, and I just keep looking at myself and thinking: He deserves better. They both deserve better than me."
The raw honesty of it tore through your chest. You knew how Max's mind worked—it was a machine designed for relentless self-analysis, always finding the flaw, always hunting for the millisecond lost in a corner, always demanding perfection.
But applying that brutal telemetry to his own soul, to his own family? It was breaking him.
"Sit down," you instructed softly, shifting the baby gently against your arm.
"I don't think—"
"Max Verstappen, sit the hell down right now or I will kick you out of this room."
He blinked, startled by the sudden command, but he obeyed. He sank slowly into the armchair beside the bed, looking like a chastised schoolboy, his broad frame swallowed by the oversized seat.
"Give me your hands," you said.
He hesitated, then reached out, extending his large, calloused hands, palms up. You maneuvered the swaddled baby carefully, lifting him from your chest and transferring him directly into Max's waiting arms.
Max froze. He stopped breathing entirely. His arms locked rigid, his biceps straining as if he were holding a heavy boulder rather than a seven-pound infant.
"Support his head," you guided gently, your hand guiding his right palm into the correct cradle beneath the baby's neck. "There. Relax your shoulders, Max. He won't break."
Slowly, agonizingly, the tension in Max's shoulders began to bleed out, replaced by a profound, trembling awe as the baby stirred slightly against his chest, letting out a tiny, squeaking sigh and turning his face instinctively toward the warmth of his father's heartbeat.
Max stared down, and a tear—hot and completely unmasked—finally spilled over his lashes, tracking down his cheek.
"He has your nose," Max whispered, his voice trembling so violently you could barely catch the words. "God, he has your nose. He's… he's so small."
"He's ours," you corrected softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of blond hair from Max's forehead. "Listen to me, Max. Look at me."
It took a moment, but Max finally dragged his gaze away from the baby, looking up at you with those haunted, beautiful blue eyes.
"You think you're not worthy of this because your life is loud and fast and aggressive," you said, your voice steady and laced with absolute conviction. "You think because you race cars, you're somehow disqualified from being a good, gentle man. But you don't know yourself, Max. You are the most fiercely loyal, protective, deeply loving person I have ever known."
"I'm selfish," he protested weakly. "I'm obsessed with winning."
"You are driven," you corrected. "And that drive is part of who you are. But it doesn't define your heart. Your heart belongs right here. Look at how you're holding him. Look at how he's already calming down just because he smells you."
Max looked back down. The baby had quieted completely, his tiny chest rising and falling in sync with Max's steadying breath.
One minuscule hand had slipped out of the blanket, a finger curling instinctively around the fabric of Max's hoodie.
Max let out a ragged, shuddering breath, the last defenses of his self-doubt finally shattering. He carefully adjusted his hold, drawing the baby closer to his chest, burying his face gently against the top of the infant's head.
He stayed like that for a long time, his shoulders shaking slightly as he wept silently, holding the two most important things in the world as if they were his anchor against a stormy sea.
"I was so scared," Max murmured into the quiet room, his voice thick with emotion. "When you were in labor, when I was on that plane… I realized that for the first time in my life, there is something in this world that I care about infinitely more than myself. And it terrified me. Because what if I fail you? What if I'm not enough?"
You reached out, resting your hand over his forearm, right above where his son lay sleeping.
"You don't have to be perfect, Max," you whispered, smiling through the emotional haze of your own tears. "You just have to be here. And you're already here."
Max turned his head slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles before leaning in to press another gentle, reverent kiss to the crown of his son's head.
"Always," he whispered, the haunting self-doubt finally replaced by a fierce, unshakable peace. "I'm not going anywhere."
Summary: You were the singer who sang the Dutch National Anthem and he was in love with your voice
Song: Where Have You Been · Rihanna
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The cooling towers of Circuit Zandvoort rose like pale monoliths against the slate-grey North Holland sky.
Inside the subterranean labyrinth of the media and hospitality suites, the air smelled of ozone, burnt rubber, and the nervous sweat of a hundred publicists.
You stood before a full-length mirror, smoothing the lapels of your tailored emerald-green suit. Your skin, the rich hue of roasted cacao, caught the harsh fluorescent light, casting a warm contrast against the sterile white of the dressing room.
You took a long, centering breath, letting it out through pursed lips, feeling the familiar, tightening knot in your solar plexus.
It was the Dutch Grand Prix. Home soil. The sea of orange outside was already deafening, a roaring tide of four hundred thousand voices waiting to erupt. And you were the one tasked with tethering that hurricane.
A sharp knock rapped against the wooden door.
"Five minutes, Y/N," whispered Sarah, your tour manager, her eyes wide with sympathetic panic. "The drivers are heading to the grid. The anthem is right before the formation lap."
"I'm ready," you said, though your hand trembled slightly as you reached for a glass of tepid water.
You always got this way.
No matter how many stadiums you had sold out, no matter the Royal Albert Hall or the sold-out arenas in Tokyo, singing Het Wilhelmus—the oldest national anthem in the world—to a crowd this violently passionate felt like walking a tightrope over an active volcano.
You stepped out into the concrete corridor, following a security guard through the roaring belly of the paddock.
The sound hit you first—a physical weight, a bass-heavy thrum that vibrated in the soles of your shoes.
As you emerged onto the starting grid, the sheer scale of it stole the breath from your lungs.
The asphalt was a chaotic blur of mechanics, team principals, camera crews, and glistening carbon-fiber racing cars. The autumn wind whipped your braided hair across your face, carrying the sharp tang of the North Sea and high-octane fuel.
You were escorted to the temporary stage erected just behind the pole position slot.
As you walked, you felt the weight of stares. Formula 1 was a notoriously insular world, and a Black woman standing on the grid of the Dutch Grand Prix in an emerald suit was a distinct anomaly.
You caught a few curious glances from mechanics and journalists, but you kept your chin high, your gaze fixed on the towering microphone stand waiting for you.
And then, you saw him.
He was standing beside his RB20, helmet tucked under one arm, listening with half an ear to his race engineer. Max Verstappen.
The reigning world king, the golden boy of the Netherlands, wearing his team kit, his fair hair slightly damp with sweat under the Dutch sun.
You had seen him on television, of course. Everyone had.
But seeing him in the flesh was different. There was an intense, coiled stillness to him, like a predator resting between sprints.
As you took your place on the stage, doing a final mic check with a soft, testing vocalization, Max’s head snapped toward you.
The low, velvety hum of your voice—testing the acoustics—drifted across the grid. It wasn't loud, but it had a strange, resonant gravity to it.
Max stopped talking mid-sentence. He turned his body fully toward the stage, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you momentarily forget the lyrics. He didn't look away.
There was no polite glance and return to business; he simply stared, his expression shifting from competitive detachment to something unreadable, almost stunned.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat, a strange, electric spark jumping the distance between the asphalt and the stage. Then, the track announcer's voice boomed over the PA system.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the main stage for the singing of the Dutch National Anthem, performed by Grammy Award Winner artist, Y/N Y/L/N."
The stadium-wide roar dimmed, replaced by a rustle of movement as hundreds of thousands of people stood to attention.
You closed your eyes. You took one deep breath, drawing in the smell of the sea and the hot asphalt.
When you opened your eyes, you looked right back at Max Verstappen. He was still watching you, his jaw slightly slack, waiting.
And you began to sing.
“Wilhelmus van Nassouwe ben ik, van Duits bloed…”
Your voice—a rich, soaring contralto that could melt steel when it wanted to—rolled out over the speakers. It didn't sound like a standard, rigid military rendition.
You infused it with soul, with a deep, echoing reverence that made the old sixteenth-century lyrics sound like a modern, heart-wrenching lament.
You watched the crowd below. Flags fluttered. People quieted. But your peripheral vision remained stubbornly anchored to the Red Bull driver.
Max hadn't placed his hand over his heart like the others. His arms were loose at his sides, his fingers twitching faintly against his racing gloves.
He was listening. Really listening. Not just waiting for the song to finish so he could pull on his balaclava and chase glory; he was drinking in the timbre of your lower registers, the way your voice dipped and swelled against the coastal wind.
“Den Vaderland getrouwe, blijf ik tot in den dood…”
As you hit the high sustaining note of the second stanza, your eyes met his again.
It was as if time dilated. The sea of orange orange blurred into a Monet painting of color. The screaming wind quieted. In that fraction of a second, you saw a flicker of raw emotion cross Max’s hardened face—a sudden, unguarded vulnerability that took your breath away.
It was the look of a man who spent his entire life surrounded by noise, finally hearing a pure, silencing truth.
You held the note, letting it vibrate in the salt air, rich and resonant, before gently bringing the anthem to its triumphant, lingering close.
For a split second, there was dead silence. Then, the Zandvoort crowd erupted. A wall of sound crashed over the track, accompanied by the bright red, white, and blue smoke of flares painting the sky.
You lowered the microphone, your chest heaving slightly, a bead of sweat tracing the line of your jaw.
You offered a polite, graceful bow to the VIP grandstand, and then, as you turned to exit the stage, you looked down at Max one last time.
He was clapping. Slowly. His eyes were locked on you with a fierce, burning focus, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You swallowed hard, dipping your head in a quiet acknowledgment before stepping off the platform into the cool shade of the backstages.
"Bloody hell, Y/N," Sarah whispered, grabbing your arm as soon as you stepped behind the curtain. "You brought the house down. Look at Twitter—they're losing their minds."
You didn't look at Twitter. You looked back toward the track, but the Red Bull drivers were already climbing into their cockpits, sealing their fates behind dark visors.
The race was a masterclass in modern motorsport dominance, though you only caught fragments of it on a monitor in the hospitality lounge while getting your makeup touched up.
Max had won, naturally. The orange smoke had returned in victory, choking the air with celebration.
By late afternoon, the paddock had begun its slow, exhausted descent into post-race decompression. Mechanics were packing down tools; hospitality tents were serving expensive wine to exhausted sponsors.
You were sitting in a quiet corner of the Red Bull hospitality lounge, having been invited by a media liaison for a brief debrief, sipping a sparkling water and scrolling through your phone, when a sudden hush fell over the room.
You looked up.
Max Verstappen was walking in. He had discarded his racing suit, now wearing a simple team polo and jeans, his damp hair tousled from a post-race shower.
He looked tired, the faint red imprint of the HANS device still visible on his neck, but his eyes were bright, hunting.
And they were hunting for you.
He bypassed the team principal, ignored the public relations manager who scurried over with a clipboard, and walked straight across the polished wooden floor toward your booth.
You stood up automatically, your heart doing a strange, irregular stutter in your chest.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was deeper than it sounded on television—raspy from the radio comms and dry air, carrying a thick, unmistakable Dutch accent.
"Max," you replied, keeping your composure. "Congratulations on the win. Dominant drive out there."
He stopped just a foot away from you. Up close, he was slightly taller than you expected, his frame lean and wiry.
But it was his eyes that commanded the space—a startling, crystalline blue that seemed to take in every detail of your face.
"Forget the race," he said softly, a faint, disarming smile touching his lips. "I need to know something."
You raised an eyebrow, a slight, amused smile pulling at your mouth. "Is that so? And what would that be, World Champion?"
"Where have you been hiding?" he asked, his tone deadpan, though there was a clear, burning curiosity in his gaze. "I've heard that anthem a hundred times. My whole life, I've heard it. Standing on that podium, waiting. It's usually… well, it's just something you stand through."
He took half a step closer, invading your personal space in a way that felt entirely natural, utterly magnetic.
"Today," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that only you could hear over the ambient hum of the room, "when you sang it… it felt like the ground stopped shaking. It sounded like velvet. I couldn't stop listening to you. Honestly, I thought about it during the first stint. In Turn 3, I had your voice in my head."
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck, darkening your dark skin with a blush you hoped he wouldn't notice. "You had a song in your head while driving a Formula 1 car at three hundred kilometers an hour? That doesn't sound very safe, Max."
He let out a short, genuine laugh—a sound that completely transformed his severe race-day persona, making him look startlingly young, boyish, and impossibly charming.
"Safety is overrated," he teased, leaning slightly against the edge of the table. "Especially when you've got a voice like yours haunting the paddock. Are you leaving tonight?"
"I have a flight to London tomorrow morning," you said, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Studio sessions starting Monday."
Max was quiet for a long moment, studying you with an intensity that felt heavy with intention. He reached out, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second before his fingers gently brushed against the sleeve of your emerald jacket, tracing the fabric down to your wrist.
His skin was warm, calloused slightly in the palms—the hands of a man who wrestled twelve-hundred-horsepower beasts for a living, yet his touch was remarkably gentle.
"London," he repeated, tasting the word. "That's not far. Privates fly there in an hour."
You looked up into those blue eyes, realizing with a sudden, dizzying certainty that the race may have ended on the asphalt outside, but something else entirely had just begun right here.
"Are you asking me to stick around, Max?" you asked, your voice dropping into that rich, velvety lower register that had captured his attention in the first place.
A slow, confident grin spread across his face.
"I'm not asking," he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the inside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse. "I'm telling you. Come have dinner with me tonight. I want to hear you talk, Y/N. Without a microphone. Just you."
You looked around the crowded room, feeling the eyes of half the paddock surreptitiously darting in your direction. Then, you looked back at the man who conquered the world every other weekend, and realized you had no desire to say no.
"Only if you promise to stop thinking about my voice in Turn 3," you whispered with a smile.
Max's grin widened, bright and triumphant. "No promises," he said softly, sliding his hand down to intertwine his fingers with yours. "Some things are too good to put out of your head."
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Part 6 - Part 8
Word count: 3.2k
MASTERLIST - F1
Dinner eventually ended in a blur of strained pleasantries and lingering glares.
You stood by the heavy oak doors, the air thick with the scent of extinguished candles and cold grease, and bid a quiet goodbye to Logan, Hattie, and Oscar before retreating to your assigned quarters for the night.
Logan’s eyes were hollow, as if he had already accepted the coming collapse of his house, while Oscar’s gaze remained clinical, weighing you like a specimen under a microscope.
Hattie’s farewell was the shortest—a mere nod of the head and a lingering touch on your forearm that felt less like a greeting and more like a warning.
The bedroom was a tomb of velvet and mahogany, the silence so profound it felt physical.
You didn't even bother turning on the lights, letting the silver moonlight filter through the heavy drapes to illuminate the ledger you had finally pulled from your coat.
Your fingers trembled as you flipped through the pages, searching for the specific entries Max had demanded, but your eyes snagged on a handwritten note tucked into the back cover.
It wasn't a secret account or a blackmail list; it was a series of dates and coordinates, each one marked with a small, hand-drawn symbol of a broken key—the same symbol you had seen etched into the underside of Lando's favorite watch years ago.
You fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to be jerked awake by a sharp, insistent rapping against the door.
Before you could even sit up, the door creaked open and a young maid stepped in, her face a mask of rehearsed neutrality as she balanced a silver tray of poached eggs and fresh berries.
"Good morning, Miss. Breakfast is served," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. You blinked against the sudden light, your voice raspy from sleep.
"Is the house awake?" you asked, glancing toward the door.
She paused, her eyes flickering toward the hallway with a strange, knowing glint. "The masters are always awake, Miss. The only question is whether they're pretending to be asleep."
The mention of the 'masters' sent a chill through you, reminding you that in this house, every wall had an ear and every servant was a potential sentinel.
You watched her leave, the click of her heels echoing like a countdown in the narrow corridor. As you picked at the breakfast, your mind drifted back to the broken key symbol and the coordinates.
If the Piastris were vultures, then the ledger was the carcass they were fighting over, but the broken key suggested a third party—someone operating in the blind spots of both the Fewtrells and the Piastris.
A few minutes later, another sharp knock sounded, though this time the door didn't creak open.
A senior housemaid entered, her face pinched with urgency as she carried a garment bag of heavy, shimmering silk.
She unveiled the contents with a flourish: a gown of midnight velvet that seemed to absorb the light, embroidered with microscopic silver threads that formed a pattern of falling stars along the bodice.
The neckline was a daring, structured plunge, and the skirt flowed like a river of ink, weighted at the hem to ensure it swept the floor with a ghostly precision.
"The mistress insisted you be ready by six," the maid murmured, her eyes scanning your face for a reaction. "This is for the ball today; it would be an insult to the house if you appeared in anything less than perfection."
You ran a finger over the cold silk, feeling the contrast between the luxury of the fabric and the jagged edge of the mission.
To wear this dress was to step into the role of the perfect guest, a decorative piece of jewelry for the Piastri family to show off. But the weight of the velvet felt like armor, a costume that would allow you to move through the ballroom unnoticed, gliding between the powerful men and their fragile egos.
If you could get close enough to the inner circle during the dance, the ledger’s secrets might finally reveal where the real power lay.
You stepped into the midnight velvet, the fabric clinging to your curves with a precision that felt restrictive, almost suffocating, like a second skin designed by someone else.
You spent an eternity in front of the vanity, painting your lips a deep, blood-red and pinning your hair back into a severe, elegant coil that exposed the vulnerable line of your neck.
As you fastened the silver clasp of a diamond choker—a loan from Nicole’s vault—you stared at the woman in the mirror and barely recognized her. The soft, patient teacher was gone, replaced by a shimmering weapon of a woman, poised to strike beneath the guise of high society.
From the vantage of the mezzanine gallery, you watched the driveway through a pair of antique binoculars, tracking the arrival of guests as they rolled up in a parade of obsidian limousines.
Family by family they emerged—the cold poise of the Sargeants, the bloated arrogance of the lesser clans—but the Fewtrells had yet to make their appearance.
Your chest tightened, the distance between the balcony and the gravel path feeling like a canyon you couldn't cross.
You leaned against the cold marble railing, whispering to the empty air, "Pietra, if you can hear me, please just look up. I need to tell you everything."
The music played, a sweeping, orchestral waltz that felt less like a melody and more like a summons. The sound was oppressive, the violins screaming in a high, frantic register that mirrored the vibration in your own nerves.
The great hall was reaching its capacity, a shimmering sea of black silk and blood-red accents, when Chris and Nicole Piastri stepped onto the dais to officially welcome the crowd.
"Welcome, friends and rivals alike," Chris proclaimed, his voice booming with a manufactured warmth that didn't reach his predatory eyes. "The Piastri house is honored to host such distinguished bloodlines."
While the room erupted in polite, hollow applause, you drifted toward the periphery, melting into the heavy velvet curtains of the alcove. You were a shadow in midnight silk, watching the room from the edges, your eyes scanning for a familiar silhouette amidst the throng of monsters.
"Still no sight of the Fewtrells yet," a voice murmured beside you, the words barely a breath against the curve of your ear.
You turned to find Oscar standing there, his expression a mask of clinical detachment as he adjusted his cufflink.
"Their timing is usually impeccable, which makes this particular delay… interesting. One wonders if the invitation was a suggestion or a dare."
He didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on the entrance, but you could feel the calculation in his posture, weighing your anxiety against the ticking clock of the evening.
You shifted your weight, the diamond choker feeling more like a collar with every passing second. "Maybe they're just cautious," you replied, though the lie felt thin even to your own ears. "The roads from the valley are treacherous this time of year."
Oscar finally glanced at you, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips, though his eyes remained as cold as the marble floor beneath your feet. "Caution is for those who have something left to lose, and the Fewtrells have always been far too arrogant to be cautious."
Determined to shake off the suffocating tension of the mezzanine, you descended into the belly of the ballroom, weaving through the crowd like a needle through silk.
You sought out the lesser clans, the ones whose power was built on pretension rather than blood, engaging them in a series of shallow, fluttering conversations.
"The jewelry is exquisite, Madame Rossi, though perhaps a bit too bold for a winter gala," you murmured, leaning in as if sharing a scandalous secret. When the music shifted to a quicker, more playful tempo, you allowed a flustered young count to lead you into a brief, spinning dance.
"You're stepping on my toes, darling," you teased with a melodic laugh that masked the frantic drumming of your heart, "but I suppose passion often overrides precision."
As you spun, your eyes never stopped scanning the periphery, searching for the flash of a familiar face or the heavy tread of a Fewtrell guard.
You transitioned from the count to a group of whispering debutantes, your voice a smooth instrument of redirection as you asked about their fathers' holdings in the north.
Every smile was a calculated risk, every touch of a hand a way to gauge the mood of the room. You were no longer just a guest; you were a sensor, picking up the static of anxiety that crackled beneath the polished surface of the party, sensing that the air was becoming heavy with the scent of an impending storm.
Suddenly, a sharp shove from a passing guest sent you stumbling backward, your heel catching on the hem of the midnight velvet.
Your hand was snatched out of the air by a firm, calloused grip, and you fell squarely onto someone's chest. The man was wearing a matching colour tuxedo—deep, ink-black—and a silver masquerade mask that obscured the upper half of his face, but as you looked up, you knew those eyes.
The spark of mischief and the underlying intensity were unmistakable; it was Lando.
"Careful now," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum that resonated through your entire frame, "it would be a shame for such a beautiful dress to be ruined by a clumsy fall."
You stiffened in his arms, the scent of expensive sandalwood and something metallic—gun oil, perhaps—filling your senses.
For a moment, the ballroom vanished, leaving only the two of you anchored in a sea of whirling silk. Lando didn’t let go; instead, his grip shifted, his fingers curling slightly around your waist to steady you, his gaze searching yours with a familiarity that felt like a betrayal of the mission.
You could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated atmosphere of the Piastri estate, and the way he looked at you made you forget, for a split second, that you were carrying a ledger designed to dismantle his world.
He didn't answer your silent protest, instead sweeping you into the rhythm of the waltz with a sudden, assertive movement. You resisted at first, your body rigid against his, but the crowd pressed in, forcing you to move with him or risk a public collision.
As he guided you through a series of precise, sweeping turns, your voice dropped to a hushed, urgent whisper. "Should you be dancing with your partner?" you asked, your eyes darting toward the entrance where Magui Corceiro was likely searching for him.
Lando’s smile didn't reach his eyes, which remained locked on yours with a piercing, knowing intensity. "My partner is whoever I choose her to be tonight," he replied, his voice a dangerous velvet.
"Where's Max and Pietra? I need to speak to them," you asked, your voice trembling slightly as the proximity between you became suffocating. Lando didn't miss a beat, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on your waist as he pivoted you away from the center of the floor.
"They're not coming; what you need to say to them, you can say to me," Lando replied. The finality in his tone sent a jolt of ice through your veins; the absence of the others wasn't a delay, but a calculated erasure.
You stepped back, the sudden lack of his warmth leaving you shivering despite the heavy velvet of the gown.
Your eyes scanned the room, searching for the familiar silhouette of the Fewtrell guard, but the periphery was now occupied by men whose expressions were far too focused on you for comfort.
The music continued to swell, but it no longer felt like a waltz; it felt like a closing trap, the laughter of the guests turning into a rhythmic, mocking hum that echoed the ticking of a countdown.
"What did you find, Y/N?" Lando asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the noise of the ballroom.
He didn't move, but his gaze shifted pointedly to the slight protrusion of the ledger beneath your coat, his expression shifting from playful mischief to a cold, predatory curiosity.
The question wasn't a query; it was an accusation, a signal that the game of cat and mouse had shifted and you were no longer the one doing the hunting.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice barely a tremor, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Lando let out a soft, mocking huff of laughter, his hand sliding from your waist to catch your wrist in a grip that was firm, almost bruising.
"Don't play the innocent schoolteacher with me. You've always been a terrible liar when you're scared, and right now, you're vibrating like a leaf. Did Max send you to dig up the dirt, or are you playing both sides of the fence now?"
"Come with me then," you said, your voice suddenly hardening as you reclaimed your agency.
You didn't wait for his agreement, instead gripping his sleeve and dragging him away from the glittering chaos of the ball, steering him through a side corridor that bypassed the main ballroom.
You moved with a frantic purpose, the midnight velvet of your gown hissing against the marble floors as you led him toward the sanctuary of your room where the ledger was waiting, hidden in the shadows of the mahogany desk.
Lando followed you with a slow, predatory grace, his mask still in place, making him look like a phantom haunting the halls of the Piastri estate.
He didn't speak, but the silence was heavier than any accusation, punctuated only by the distant, muffled sound of the orchestra.
As you reached the door and pushed it open, he stepped inside, his presence instantly shrinking the room, turning your childhood refuge into a claustrophobic interrogation chamber.
He didn't look at the furniture or the nostalgic photos; his eyes went straight to the ledger, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of genuine surprise cross his features.
"You actually managed to get your hands on it," he said, his voice devoid of the playful lilt from the ballroom, now stripped down to a cold, analytical edge. "Tell me, does Max know you're this efficient, or is this a little side project of your own? I wonder who's actually paying the bills for this little excursion."
"He knows exactly what I'm doing, Lando, and you know that better than anyone," you snapped back, stepping between him and the desk as if your body could shield the secrets of the ledger. "Why are you even here? You're supposed to be the loyal soldier, the one who doesn't ask questions until the orders are given. Since when do you start hunting for spies in your own guest house?"
He stepped closer, the silver mask glinting in the dim light. "Do you actually believe Max is coming for you? Look at the board, Y/N. The Fewtrells aren't late; they've been erased from the guest list entirely. You aren't a spy on a mission anymore—you're the bait."
"That's not true," you spat, your voice cracking as you stepped back, nearly tripping over the heavy train of your velvet gown. "You're lying just to get me to hand over the book. I'm not giving you anything."
Before Lando could answer, the heavy silence of the corridor was shattered by the rhythmic thud of boots coming closer.
A jolt of panic surged through you; you knew the strict protocols of the Piastri estate—no one was permitted in the private quarters during the gala unless summoned by the masters.
You and Lando locked eyes in a moment of frantic realization.
Thinking rapidly, Lando lunged forward, sliding his silver mask over your face to obscure your identity before his hands clamped firmly onto your waist, pulling you flush against him as he dove his face into the crook of your neck.
You gasped, your breath hitching as the sudden heat of his body overwhelmed you. The guards knocked once, the door swinging open just an inch. "My apologies, Mr. Norris, we didn't realize you were… occupied," one of them muttered, his voice thick with awkwardness.
He quickly pulled the door shut, the sound of their retreating footsteps hurried and eager to leave the scene of the scandal.
Lando didn't let go immediately. He lingered for a second too long, his breath warm against your skin, before he slowly pulled back and retrieved his mask from your face.
He looked at you with an expression that was no longer predatory, but something far more complex—a mixture of amusement and genuine concern.
"Do you think that's enough to convince them we're just two lovers hiding from the party?" Lando asked, a ghost of a smirk returning to his lips. "Or should we try for something a bit more convincing next time the guards decide to check on us?"
You shoved him away, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, though your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the guards.
The ledger sat on the desk, a silent witness to the precarious bridge you were building between two warring worlds.
You looked at the heavy book and then back at Lando; he was the second-in-command, the man who knew every secret of the Piastri empire, yet he was treating this like a game of flirtation and shadows.
"I'm just going to give the ledger to Max, it has to be in my conditions," you said, your voice regaining its steadiness.
Lando chuckled, his eyes glinting with a dangerous kind of amusement as he leaned back against the mahogany dresser. "Like I can't just kill you and take it myself?"
"You wouldn't, because then you'd have to explain to Nicole why her favorite guest ended up as a stain on the carpet," you retorted, crossing your arms to hide the tremor in your fingers.
"Is that what you think this is? A matter of etiquette?" Lando asked, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped back into your personal space, his presence filling the gap between you. "You're playing a very dangerous game of pretend, Y/N. Do you actually think Max values you enough to protect you, or are you just the most convenient piece of currency he has to trade with the Piastris?"
"I think I know Pietra long enough to know she'll get me, but until then, I have plans to figure out and you are going to help me," you said, staring him down despite the way your pulse hammered in your throat.
The admission was a gamble, a sudden shift from defensive to offensive, offering him a partnership that neither of you could truly trust.
Lando paused, his eyebrows arching behind the silver mask, the silence stretching as he weighed the possibility of your loyalty against the potential for a joint betrayal.
He didn't answer immediately, instead letting his gaze drift to the ledger and back to your blood-red lips. "Bold of you to assume I'm in the mood for a partnership," he murmured, though he didn't move to leave.
He stepped closer, the scent of sandalwood intensifying as he crowded you against the desk, his hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead with a touch that was far too tender for the circumstances.
The air between you thickened, charged with a friction that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the magnetic, volatile pull he had exerted over you since the moment he’d caught you falling. . . .
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Part 5 - Part 7
Word count: 5.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The silver fork slid across the porcelain plate with a clinical, screeching sound that set your teeth on edge, a stark contrast to the suffocatingly polite silence of the Piastri dining room.
You watched the steam rise from the roasted root vegetables, the scent of rosemary mingling with the metallic tang of your own anxiety.
To your left, Hattie sat like a fragile porcelain doll, her breathing shallow, while across the table, Chris Piastri watched you with eyes that didn't just see you—they weighed you.
"The roast is a bit overdone, isn't it, darling?" Nicole remarked, her voice a velvet curtain hiding a blade as she glanced at the cook. "But we must finish. It would be rude to leave a single morsel when our guest has traveled so far to be with us."
You nodded, forcing a smile and chewing slowly, the food tasting like ash in your mouth. "The hospitality is overwhelming," you lied, your voice steady despite the drumming of your heart, "almost as overwhelming as the memories of this house."
As the last of the dessert—a tart lemon curd that tasted of sharp bitterness—was cleared away, the atmosphere shifted from performative warmth to a chilling, calculated stillness.
Chris leaned back, his fingers interlaced, the light from the chandelier casting long, skeletal shadows across his face.
He didn't speak for a long minute, letting the silence stretch until the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, counting down the seconds of your deception.
You felt the heavy weight of the sketched map pressing against your thigh beneath the table, a secret blueprint of the house that felt more real than the people surrounding you.
You caught Hattie’s eye; she looked exhausted, her gaze drifting toward the darkened windows as if she were already halfway gone.
For a fleeting second, you wondered if she could smell the scent of Max’s ambition clinging to your clothes, or if she was simply waiting for the inevitable collapse of the facade.
"Tell me," Chris began, his voice dropping an octave, "did you ever actually find the closure you were seeking in Germany, or was that merely a convenient place to hide?"
The question wasn't a curiosity; it was a probe, a tactical strike designed to see if your fabricated history had any cracks.
You didn't blink, leaning into the role of the grieving academic, and replied, "Closure is a luxury for those who can afford to look back, Chris. I found that moving forward was the only way to keep breathing."
The table lapsed back into a silence that felt like a held breath, the air thickening with a sudden, sharp tension. You noticed Mae’s hand tighten around her wineglass, her knuckles turning white, while Oscar’s grin finally vanished, replaced by a look of profound skepticism.
It was clear that your answer had satisfied the surface requirements of the conversation, but it had failed to soothe the underlying suspicion that you were a Trojan horse brought into their sanctuary.
You shifted your weight, the chair creaking under the sudden movement, and felt a strange, sudden urge to reach out and touch Hattie’s cold hand.
The invitation to the ball now felt less like a social gesture and more like a summons to an interrogation, a way to keep you in plain sight where your every move could be monitored.
As the family began to rise, their movements synchronized and precise, you realized the game had officially begun; you were no longer just a guest, but a piece on a board you hadn't yet learned how to play.
Once the dinner concluded, you retreated to the solitude of your room, the door clicking shut with a finality that allowed you to finally exhale.
You pulled out a scrap of parchment and began to transcribe the fragments of overheard conversations and observed slips, the ink bleeding into the fibers like bruises.
“Chris checks the east wing safe at 3 AM,” you wrote, recalling the way his eyes flickered toward the hallway.
“Mae’s hand shakes when the name ‘Fewtrell’ is mentioned in passing,” you added, followed by a smaller, more dangerous note: “The servants speak of a locked cellar that smells of ozone and sulfur.”
You leaned back, the flickering light of the single bulb casting your shadow long and distorted against the peeling wallpaper.
The map you had drawn earlier now seemed incomplete, missing the emotional geography of the house—the places where grief hid in the curtains and where greed slept in the mahogany wardrobes.
You wondered how many of these small secrets were traps laid specifically for someone of your temperament, designed to lure you into a corridor where the exit vanished the moment you stepped inside.
"You always did have a knack for finding the things we tried to hide," Hattie’s voice drifted from the doorway, her silhouette thin and ghostly.
You didn't turn around, instead adding a new line to your list: “Hattie knows the locks on the third floor are faulty.”
Then, as she stepped closer, you scribbled “The Piastri fortune is tied to a shipping line that hasn't seen a boat in three years,” and “Nicole keeps a set of keys to the east wing hidden in the hollowed-out base of the foyer vase.”
You looked at her, the ink still wet on the page, and realized that while you were mapping the house, Hattie had been mapping you.
"If you're looking for the ledger, it isn't in the safe," she whispered, her voice a dry rattle that barely carried across the room.
She stepped forward, her hand trembling as she pointed toward the heavy velvet curtains that draped the east window. "The safe is a decoy for the guests; the real records are kept in the floorboards beneath the library rug, but the wood is rotting and the lock is temperamental—you'll need to lift the third plank from the left, or you'll trigger the alarm in the servants' hall."
You stared at her, the pen frozen in your hand, wondering if this was a genuine act of betrayal or a carefully laid snare. Hattie’s eyes were clouded with a fatigue that went deeper than physical illness, her gaze searching yours for a flicker of the girl she used to know.
She didn't wait for you to thank her, instead leaning in to press a small, rusted key into your palm, its metal cold and smelling of ancient damp.
"Be quick," she cautioned, her voice dropping to a ghost of a sound, "because my father doesn't just weigh people with his eyes; he listens to the house breathe, and he knows when a floorboard has been disturbed."
"Why are you doing this for them?" you whispered, glancing toward the door to ensure the hallway remained empty.
Hattie let out a brittle laugh, her shoulders sagging as she leaned against the doorframe for support. "Because they think they've bought my silence with medicine and silk, but they forgot that I was the one who helped them bury the first secrets," she replied, her voice regaining a sudden, sharp edge of resolve.
You closed your hand tightly around the rusted key, the metal biting into your skin. "If Chris finds out you've helped me, he won't just be disappointed," you warned, the reality of the Piastri family's ruthlessness settling back over you.
Hattie only smiled, a weary, knowing expression that didn't reach her sunken eyes. "He already knows I'm dying, and a woman with nothing left to lose is the only person in this house who can actually afford to be honest."
"I'm not here because I missed you, Hattie. I'm here because Max sent me," you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush of guilt and necessity.
You looked her directly in the eyes, refusing to let the mask slip back into place. "I'm a spy. Every word about Germany, every nostalgic smile at dinner—it was all a script. I was sent to dismantle your father's empire from the inside, and I've spent the last three hours mapping your home like it's a war zone."
Hattie didn't recoil; instead, she seemed to exhale, as if a great weight had been lifted by the admission. "I knew the moment you stepped out of the car," she murmured, her voice regaining a sliver of its former strength. "You smell of Max's clinical desperation and the kind of fear that only comes from serving a man who doesn't believe in loyalty. But do you think that makes us enemies? In this house, the only way to survive is to be a traitor to something."
She turned to leave, her silhouette blending back into the shadows of the hallway, but paused one last time. "The library is quietest at four," she added, the suggestion hanging in the air like a dare.
"If you're going to steal their legacy, do it before the sun comes up. My father has a habit of waking early to ensure everything he owns is still exactly where he left it."
"You're risking everything," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant chime of the clock.
Hattie leaned back against the wall, a hollow laugh escaping her. "My parents have already run the calculations, darling. They've spent the last few months discussing whether it would be more efficient to simply kill me themselves before I get kidnapped and tortured for information. It's much cleaner to arrange a 'tragic decline' than to let a stranger pull the secrets out of me with pliers."
A cold sickness coiled in your stomach, the sheer clinical nature of her confession making the air in the room feel thin.
You looked down at the rusted key in your hand, suddenly realizing that the weapon Max had given you—this mission of espionage—was a toy compared to the brutality of the Piastri bloodline.
Hattie wasn't just a victim of her illness; she was a liability being managed by the people who shared her name, a piece of evidence they were waiting for the right moment to destroy.
You walked to the window and pulled back the velvet curtain, staring out at the manicured lawns bathed in an oppressive, silvery moonlight.
Somewhere in the east wing, Chris Piastri was likely staring at a similar view, calculating the cost of loyalty and the price of silence. You felt the map against your thigh, no longer just a guide to a house, but a countdown to a collision.
The ball was only two days away, and as you watched a single, lone figure move through the hedge maze below, you realized that in this game of betrayal, the only way to save Hattie might be to burn the entire estate to the ground.
You were just a teacher; your greatest conflicts had once been grading disputes and restless children in a humid classroom.
Could you even make the right decision when the stakes were no longer red pen marks on a page, but blood and breath?
Hattie’s life was in your hands now—not because you had the power to save her, but because you were the only variable in the house that the Piastris hadn't yet solved.
The silence of the room began to thrum, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to echo the ticking of the clock in the hall. You thought of Max’s clinical precision and the way he viewed people as assets to be liquidated or leveraged.
If you followed the script, you would steal the ledger, deliver it to Max, and vanish back into the anonymity of a school district, leaving Hattie to her "tragic decline."
But the way she had looked at you—the raw, skeletal honesty in her eyes—suggested that she wasn't asking you to be a spy. She was asking you to be a human being in a house full of architects.
"I suppose this is where we pretend we aren't both terrified," Hattie said, her voice barely a thread of sound. She stepped back into the corridor, the dim light swallowing her frame until only the pale curve of her cheek remained visible.
"Goodnight, and goodbye for now. Try not to let the floorboards scream when you step on them." With a final, ghost-like nod, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, her footsteps making no sound on the heavy carpet.
You stood paralyzed for a long moment, the rusted key still biting into your palm. The invitation to the ball felt like a lead weight in your pocket, a golden ticket to a masquerade where every guest was wearing a mask made of their own secrets.
You moved toward the door, pressing your ear against the cold wood to listen for the retreating rhythm of Hattie's walk.
The house felt alive, a breathing organism of stone and mahogany that was slowly digesting you, absorbing your fear and turning it into part of its own oppressive history.
Slowly, you knelt by the bed and pulled the map from your thigh, staring at the east wing. The lines you had drawn seemed to shift under the moonlight, transforming from a blueprint into a web.
You knew the library was waiting, the third plank from the left promising the truth about the Piastri shipping lines and the rot beneath the empire.
As you extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into a suffocating darkness, you realized that the most dangerous thing in the house wasn't Chris Piastri's scrutiny or the hidden alarms—it was the sudden, desperate urge to actually succeed in saving the woman who had just betrayed her own blood for you.
The next morning, a sharp, rhythmic knock startled you from a shallow sleep. Opening the door, you found a young maid clutching a silver tray of eggs and tea, her eyes darting nervously toward the corridor.
"Your breakfast, miss," she whispered, stepping back as if the doorway were a threshold of contagion. "The main hall is currently occupied; the Sergeant clan has arrived for an unscheduled visit. Mistress Nicole advised that it would be best if you did not interrupt them under any circumstances."
You thanked her with a tight smile, but as the door clicked shut, a surge of adrenaline eclipsed your hunger.
If the power players were gathered in the hall, the rest of the house was a vacuum, and it was the perfect time to explore the secrets Hattie had whispered about.
You slipped into the hallway, your footsteps light and tentative, mirroring the ghost-like movement Hattie had taught you. The air in the east wing felt colder, smelling of damp stone and something metallic, like old coins or dried blood.
As you approached the library, you could hear the muffled, booming laughter of the Sergeant men echoing from the far end of the estate, their presence acting as a sonic shield that masked the clicking of your boots.
You pressed your back against a mahogany panel, listening to the house breathe, waiting for the exact moment the distant voices surged in volume before you made your move toward the forbidden rugs.
When you pushed open the heavy oak doors, you froze; a young man was perched on a rolling ladder, half-hidden by a wall of leather-bound folios.
"Oh, hello," he whispered, his voice barely a tremor as he clutched a worn volume of poetry to his chest.
You stared at him, momentarily bewildered, realizing you didn't actually know who he was—he wasn't on the map, nor had he been mentioned in Max's dossiers.
He looked away quickly, a flush creeping up his neck, his shy gaze darting toward the door as if expecting a blow. "I'm Logan Sargeant," he added softly, shrinking further into the shadows of the shelves, "I didn't think anyone else liked the silence of the library this early."
You stepped closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "I'm just exploring," you told him, trying to soften the sharp edges of your spy’s persona.
He gave a small, tentative nod, his fingers tightening on the book, though he didn't move to stop you. He seemed less like a threat and more like another piece of furniture the Piastris had forgotten to polish.
For a moment, you felt a kinship with him—two outliers in a house of predators—but the rusted key in your pocket reminded you that sentiment was a luxury you couldn't afford while the clock was ticking.
Ignoring the sudden pang of guilt, you navigated toward the center of the room, where a massive Persian rug dampened the sound of your approach.
You knelt, your fingers brushing the rough weave of the fabric until you felt the slight unevenness of the floorboards. Heart hammering against your ribs, you counted: one, two, three.
You braced yourself, gripping the edge of the third plank and pulling upward with a sharp, sudden jerk that sent a shiver of vibration through the floor.
Below the wood sat a iron-bound box, its surface pitted with age and smelling of the same ozone and sulfur that permeated the cellar. You reached in, your fingers brushing against a thick leather ledger and a bundle of letters tied with a black ribbon.
"You're not actually going to take that, are you?" Logan asked, his voice now closer than you expected. You jumped, spinning around to find him standing at the edge of the rug, his expression no longer shy but sharply perceptive.
"It depends on what's inside," you replied, your fingers still gripping the cold iron of the box. "Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot take from a room that feels like a mausoleum?"
He let out a short, dry laugh, stepping forward to look at the ledger. "I'm the one who knows that if you close that lid too quickly, the pressure seal triggers a silent alarm in the servants' hall. Slow down, or you'll have the entire household descending on you before you can even read the first page."
"Why do you care if I'm caught?" you asked, the suspicion returning to your voice as you slowly eased the lid open. Logan shrugged, his gaze drifting toward the hallway where the distant booming of his kinsmen continued to echo.
"Because the Piastris have a habit of treating guests like ornaments until they become inconveniences. I've been an 'ornament' here for three weeks, and I've found that the only thing more dangerous than stealing their secrets is being the only one in the room who knows they've been stolen."
Logan sighed, "my family isn't much better. everyone is successful in something except me," he admitted, his voice dropping to a hollow, fragile tone.
He stepped closer, the scent of old paper and ink clinging to him like a second skin. "The Sergeants are architects of reputation. My father builds monuments, my brother builds fortunes, and I… I build collections of poems that no one will ever read. In a world of winners, being the only one who prefers the silence is a form of failure."
"It's not a failure to want something real," you said, looking at him with a sympathetic look that felt dangerously genuine.
For a fleeting second, the mission vanished, replaced by the simple, human urge to comfort another soul trapped in the same gilded cage. "The silence isn't where you fail, Logan; it's the only place where you can actually hear yourself think."
"Do you think we're the same?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper as he looked from your face to the iron box. "Both of us, sneaking through corridors and stealing moments of truth from people who only value the image of it?"
You felt the rusted key press into your palm, a cold reminder that you were not a fellow outcast, but a paid instrument of destruction. "I suppose so," you lied, your voice steady even as you felt the divide between you widen.
You slid the ledger into your coat and turned to leave, but a sharp, rhythmic clicking of heels echoed in the hallway—too heavy for Hattie, too precise for Nicole.
"Hide," Logan hissed, shoving you behind a heavy velvet curtain just as the door groaned open.
You held your breath, the fabric smelling of ancient dust, as a guard paced the length of the room, his boots thudding with a slow, predatory cadence that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, you stepped out, your chest heaving, and found Logan staring at the book he'd dropped.
You picked it up, flipping to a handwritten page where the ink was smudged. "These are beautiful," you murmured, reading a line about the fragility of spring. "They remind me of my students—the way they look at the world before they're told it's something to be conquered."
Logan’s expression shifted, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his melancholy. "You were a teacher?" he asked, his gaze intensifying. "In a world like ours, where the only lesson is survival, did they actually learn anything from you?"
You looked down at the poems, then back at the boy who lived in the shadow of monuments. "They learned how to dream," you replied, though the words tasted like ash. "And that's the most dangerous thing you can teach someone in a house like this."
"I think the most dangerous thing in this house is the fact that you're still here," Logan said, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper as he glanced toward the door.
"Why aren't you running? You have the ledger, you have the keys, and you have the knowledge that the Piastris are essentially vultures in silk. If you leave now, while the Sergeants are distracting them, you could be gone before the first alarm bell rings."
You hesitated, the weight of the ledger in your coat pulling you toward the exit, but the image of Hattie’s skeletal frame leaned against a doorway held you fast.
"Because if I leave, she becomes a liability that they can simply erase," you answered, your voice hardening. "I can't be the only one who escapes the wreckage."
Logan looked at you with a mixture of pity and admiration, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the mahogany shelf.
"You're a strange sort of spy," he remarked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Most people who come here for the secrets are too terrified of the owners to care about the servants or the daughters. You're playing a game where the rules change every time you make a human connection, and in this house, that's a guaranteed way to get killed."
He stepped back, giving you a wide berth as if sensing the volatility of the moment. "Just know that if you stay, you aren't just stealing a ledger anymore; you're stealing time from a clock that's already winding down."
You looked down at the open notebook Logan had been clutching, noticing a word he had underlined with an obsessive, trembling hand. "I appreciate your concern but oh—you spelt Sesquipedalian wrong," you said, pointing to the missing 'i' in the middle of the long word.
Logan blinked, staring at the page in genuine horror, his face flushing a deep crimson as he realized his error.
For a moment, the oppressive weight of the Piastri empire vanished, replaced by the banal, comforting friction of a teacher correcting a student. It was a flicker of your old life, a sudden, sharp reminder of who you were before Max had stripped you down to a tool of deception.
For the next hour, the mission stalled as you two sank into the depths of the library’s shadows, reading his verses aloud and scribbling corrections in the margins of his worn volume.
You found yourself writing a few lines of your own, ghosts of poems from a time when your heart wasn't a calculated asset, and as you watched Logan’s eyes light up with the recognition of a kindred spirit, you realized you couldn't bring yourself to leave him.
Through the heavy oak doors, the booming, predatory laughter of the Sergeant men erupted in the hall, a sound of dominance and mockery that made Logan flinch and shrink further into the mahogany shelves.
To leave him alone in that silence, while his own blood sang the song of his insignificance in the next room, felt like a betrayal more profound than any Max could ever demand.
As the morning bled into afternoon, the conversation shifted from poetry to the brutal politics of the estate, and you learned that the Sergeants host the annual ball with the Piastris not for friendship, but to size up the competition for the title of the mob boss of McLaren.
"The current Dom has been ill for months," Logan whispered, his voice tight with a sudden, sharp anxiety. "Every Boss in every family has been on their best behavior, playing the part of the loyal servant, just waiting to be picked as the successor. Max doesn't just want the ledger for the secrets; he wants to gut the competition before the crown is even vacant.
You stared at the leather book in your coat, the weight of it shifting from a tool of espionage to a weapon of annihilation. "So I'm not just stealing a record," you murmured, "I'm helping him burn the foundations of everyone else's house just so he can stand alone?"
The revelation left a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth, and you found yourself questioning the purity of the "control" Max had promised.
You had spent your life as a teacher, guiding students toward their potential, yet here you were, acting as the catalyst for someone else's ruin.
You looked at Logan, who was now staring at you with a gaze that felt far too old for his face, and realized that the "competition" he spoke of wasn't a game of chess, but a slaughterhouse where the prize was simply the right to hold the knife.
If the ledger was the key to destroying the other families, then delivering it wouldn't just be a success for Max; it would be a death sentence for any shred of stability left in the McLaren underworld.
A sudden, sharp rap on the library door shattered the tension, and you both jumped back from the velvet curtains.
A stern-faced butler peered in, his expression as flat as a pressed linen sheet. "Mr. Sargeant," he announced, his eyes shifting to you with a flicker of recognition, "oh, Ms. Y/L/N, you are here too. It is time for dinner and you two are allowed to join."
The words 'allowed to join' felt like a permission slip for prisoners, a reminder that in the Piastri estate, existence was a privilege granted by the grace of the powerful.
Logan stiffened beside you, his posture collapsing back into the shy, invisible shell he wore like armor.
You followed the butler through a gauntlet of mirrored corridors, the silence of the library replaced by the distant, rhythmic clinking of silverware against fine bone china.
When the double doors finally swung open, you stepped into a grand hall ablaze with candlelight and the scent of roasted game and expensive wine.
The scene was surreal; the two families were entwined in a cacophony of laughter and high-stakes negotiation, their voices overlapping in a roar of dominance that seemed to have completely erased the memory of your existence until the butler cleared his throat.
As the conversation dipped into a sudden, awkward lull, you felt a dozen predatory eyes snap toward you. There sat Logan’s father, his face a mask of stern expectation, and his mother, whose polished smile didn't reach her cold, calculating eyes.
Beside them, Logan's brother leaned back in his chair with a smirk of effortless superiority, while his uncle, a mountain of a man with a voice like grinding gravel, stared at you as if you were a smudge on an otherwise perfect painting.
The table was a sprawling expanse of mahogany and silver, but the seating arrangement was a map of power.
The head was reserved for Chris Piastri, the center for the high-ranking Sergeant men, and the periphery for the dependents. The only two free seats were at the far end of the table by Hattie, positioned as if they were sat by the order of importance, leaving the two of you to occupy the lowest rung of the social ladder.
As you slid into the velvet-backed chair, the silence shifted from expectant to suffocating. Hattie didn’t look at you; she was staring intently at her wine glass, her fingers trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple.
You could feel the weight of the ledger in your coat pressing against your ribs, a secret pulse that seemed to beat in time with the ticking clock on the mantel.
Beside you, Logan had vanished back into his shell, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth as he tried to make himself small enough to disappear entirely.
The void was quickly filled as the adults resumed their territorial bickering, the voices rising in a choreographed dance of passive-aggressive jabs and veiled threats.
You tuned out the noise, focusing instead on the richness of the truffle risotto and the precise, crisp snap of the asparagus.
By concentrating on the sensory details—the buttery texture, the saltiness of the parmesan—you created a mental fortress, refusing to let the poison of their gossip seep into your thoughts. You became a ghost at the table, a passive observer who existed only to consume and observe.
That focused detachment lasted until you overheard Chris Piastri lean toward Daniel Sargeant, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, jagged tone. "The ball invitations had been sent, but the guest list is a disaster," Chris murmured, a thin smile playing on his lips.
Daniel chuckled, a dry sound that lacked any real warmth. "I heard the Fewtrell clan is actually planning to show up, despite us practically leveling their house to the ground. The audacity is almost admirable."
Their laughter grew sharper as Daniel pivoted the topic. "And did you see their underboss, Lando Norris' choice? He's bringing Magui Corceiro. Honestly, the woman has been passed around through half the clans in the region, and he thinks she's a prize."
Chris let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter, shaking his head at the absurdity of Lando's lack of discernment.
The mention of Lando caused a sudden, sharp shift in the room's energy. You felt a strange, electric prickle at the base of your neck, the kind that usually preceded a disaster or a revelation.
Beside you, Hattie finally looked up from her wine glass, her eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, piercing intensity.
She didn't say a word, but her pupils were blown wide, and her breathing had become shallow. She looked not at you, but at the bulge of the ledger beneath your coat, her gaze sliding down to the fabric and then back up to your face.
The mask of the returning friend was beginning to fray, and for the first time, you realized that while you were playing a part, Hattie might have been playing one of her own. . . .
Summary: When Oscar was put on a sex ban, you thought he could get through it
Song: if you think I'm pretty · Artemas
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
“If you keep humming while you organize those folders, I’m going to lose my mind,” Oscar groaned, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
You didn't stop, the low vibration of the tune buzzing in your chest as you carefully slid the telemetry reports into their tabs, mindful of the three-foot perimeter you’d established since his ‘abstinence protocol' began.
You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him slumped in the ergonomic chair, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk.
“I’m just tidying, Oscar; I’m respecting the rule,” you countered, though you deliberately leaned back, letting the silk of your slip slide an inch lower on your shoulder.
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, his gaze tracking the movement of your collarbone with a hunger that felt almost predatory. “The rule was to avoid temptation, not to exist in a state of constant, low-grade torture,” he muttered, his pupils blown wide, darkening the hazel of his eyes.
You shifted your weight, the subtle friction of your thighs rubbing together creating a soft, rhythmic shhh that seemed to echo in the silence of the motorhome.
“I haven't touched you,” you reminded him, your voice dropping an octave, the air between you thickening until it felt heavy, humid, and charged with a static that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up.
He stood up slowly, the movement fluid and deliberate, as if he were fighting a physical current.
The scent of him—expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the garage and a hint of salt—hit you before he even reached you, a sensory wave that made your stomach flip.
When he finally stepped into your space, he didn’t touch you, but the heat radiating off his body was a physical pressure, a wall of warmth that seeped through your clothes and settled deep in your marrow.
You could see the pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat, a frantic, rhythmic thrum that mirrored the sudden, frantic drumming of your own heart against your ribs.
His hand hovered inches from your waist, not quite closing the gap, the hesitation causing a shimmering tension that felt more intimate than a kiss.
You could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple, smelling of peppermint and desperation, sending a sharp, electric shiver cascading down your spine.
The silence stretched, taut as a guitar string about to snap, while the distant roar of the engines on the track faded into a blurred hum, leaving only the sound of your synchronized, shallow breathing.
You tilted your head back, exposing the line of your neck, and watched as his gaze dropped to the pulse point jumping in your throat.
A low, guttural sound escaped him—half-sigh, half-growl—and the sheer intensity of his focus felt like a physical touch, a slow burn that started at the base of your skull and pooled, heavy and molten, in the pit of your belly.
He leaned in closer, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, the warmth of his skin promising a collapse of every boundary you had carefully maintained.
“Tell me you don't want this,” he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity that made your toes curl against the cold linoleum. “Tell me you aren't thinking about the exact moment the rule breaks.”
You let out a breathy, jagged laugh, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of his thighs brush against yours, a momentary, accidental friction that sent a surge of white-hot longing through your nerves.
“The rule doesn't exist if the witness is the one who breaks it,” you whispered back, your voice sounding foreign and strained, the air between you now so saturated with hunger that it felt thick enough to swallow.
His hand finally closed the distance, not with a gentle touch, but with a firm, possessive grip that anchored you to him, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hip.
The contact was a catalyst, a sudden release of tension that left you breathless, your chest heaving as you leaned into him, the rough texture of his team polo scratching against your skin.
You could feel the erratic thrum of his heart through his chest, a frantic, driving rhythm that matched the sudden, insistent ache blooming between your thighs.
Oscar didn't kiss you immediately; instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if trying to memorize your scent through the haze of his frustration.
The stubble of his jaw grazed your sensitive skin, a friction that felt raw and electric, sending a cascade of shimmering heat radiating toward your extremities.
You felt the heavy, solid weight of him pressing you back against the desk, the cold edge of the mahogany biting into your lower back, creating a stark, grounding contrast to the molten warmth of his body.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped you when his other hand slid upward, the palm of his hand skimming the silk of your slip with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your skin prickle.
He found the small of your back and arched you closer, eliminating every single millimeter of air, until you could feel the hard, demanding line of his desire pressing against your stomach.
The sensation was a blunt force, a physical reminder of the weeks of restraint, and the suddenness of it made your head swim, your thoughts dissolving into a blur of sensory input and urgent, primal need.
He shifted his grip, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and tugging just enough to create a tension that felt like a promise.
The air in the motorhome felt thick, saturated with the scent of salt and longing, while the distant, muffled scream of a tire hitting a curb on the track echoed like a fading memory.
You reached up, your nails digging into the nape of his neck, pulling him down until his lips finally collided with yours in a kiss that tasted of desperation and a total, reckless abandonment of the rules.
The impact was visceral, a sudden collision of teeth and tongue that felt less like a greeting and more like a reclamation.
You could feel the vibration of a low groan humming in his chest, a sound that resonated through your own ribs as he backed you further into the mahogany desk, scattering the telemetry reports with a sudden, chaotic flutter.
The cold surface of the desk bit into your shoulder blades, but the sensation was drowned out by the searing heat of his palms sliding up your thighs, the friction of his calloused skin against your inner thigh creating a sparking, electric current.
He broke the kiss to trail a line of wet, searing heat down your jaw, his breath hitching as he found the sensitive spot just below your ear.
You arched your back, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps that hitched in your throat whenever his thumb grazed the swelling center of your heat through the thin barrier of silk.
The pressure was precise, a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement that made your vision blur and your muscles coil with a sudden, urgent necessity. You felt the heavy thrum of your own pulse drumming in your fingertips, matching the erratic, frantic pace of his heart against your chest.
His hand slid lower, his fingers hooking the hem of the slip and lifting it with a slow, deliberate grace that felt like a countdown.
As the cool air of the room hit your skin for a fleeting second, the contrast made you shiver, a sharp ripple of anticipation that tightened every nerve ending in your body.
Then, his warmth returned—his palm cupping you, the warmth of his skin molding to yours with a possessive weight that felt grounding and destabilizing all at once.
You let out a shaky, broken sound, your hips instinctively tilting upward, searching for the friction that would quell the insistent, throbbing ache radiating from your core.
Oscar’s breath hitched, a ragged sound that vibrated against the sensitive skin of your collarbone.
He didn't rush; instead, he began a rhythmic, agonizingly slow exploration, his fingers tracing the delicate seam of your underwear with a precision that spoke of a man who lived and breathed in the margins of millimeters.
Every slight shift of his hand sent a new wave of liquid heat crashing through you, pooling in the small of your back and making your thighs tremble.
The scent of him—that intoxicating blend of adrenaline and salt—seemed to thicken, filling your lungs until you were lightheaded, intoxicated by the sheer proximity of a man who had been starved of you for too long.
You shifted your grip, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at the base of his skull and pulling him back toward your lips. When he responded, the kiss was no longer a collision but a slow, deep exploration, his tongue sweeping against yours with a hunger that felt predatory yet tender.
You could feel the tension in his biceps, the muscles coiled like springs, fighting the urge to simply devour you right there amidst the scattered papers.
The friction of his trousers against your bare legs was a rough, grounding texture, a reminder of the physical divide that was rapidly disappearing as he pressed you deeper into the mahogany, the wood creaking under the sudden, shifting weight of your combined bodies.
Just as you felt you might shatter from the anticipation, he shifted his weight, one knee sliding between your thighs to anchor you firmly against the desk.
The sudden, blunt pressure of him—solid, demanding, and pulsing—sent a jolt of white-hot electricity straight to your center, causing a soft, guttural moan to escape your lips.
He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide with a desperate kind of clarity.
His thumb found the exact center of your longing, applying a sudden, firm pressure that made your vision blur and your breath hitch in a jagged, uneven rhythm, the world narrowing down to the singular, electric point where his skin met yours.
His hand moved with a sudden, focused urgency, sliding beneath the lace to find you already slick and welcoming.
The first touch was a revelation—a searing, sliding contact that made your hips jerk upward instinctively, searching for more of that grounding friction.
You felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of your own blood hammering in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of his ragged breathing and the wet, sliding sound of his fingers discovering how much you had missed him.
It wasn't a gentle exploration; it was a reclamation, each movement precise and possessive, designed to map every shivering inch of your reaction.
A sharp, sudden gasp escaped you when he shifted his grip, his fingers curling to create a rhythmic, insistent pressure that sent waves of liquid heat crashing through your abdomen.
You felt the muscles in your thighs coil and tighten, your toes curling against the linoleum as a shimmering tension began to build, tightening like a spring wound too far.
The scent of the motorhome—stale air and engine grease—was completely eclipsed by the musk of his skin and the heady, sweet aroma of your own arousal, creating a sensory cocoon that felt claustrophobic and intoxicating all at once.
Oscar’s lips found the sensitive hollow of your throat again, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to elicit a sharp, shuddering intake of air.
The friction of his stubble felt like a thousand tiny sparks igniting across your skin, sending a current of electricity that crashed violently into the pooling heat between your legs.
He wasn't just touching you; he was claiming the space, his movements shifting from hesitant to hungry, mirroring the frantic desperation of a man who had spent weeks counting seconds.
You could feel the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart beating against your own breast, a frantic percussion that seemed to synchronize with the pulsing depth of your own longing.
As his fingers curved deeper, finding a rhythm that was as precise as a calibrated engine, a low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound of surrender and victory.
The sensation was an overwhelming flood of tactile input; the coolness of the mahogany desk against your shoulder blades clashed with the searing heat of his palm, creating a sensory dissonance that made your head swim.
You arched your back, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your very skeletons. Every slide of his touch felt like a revelation, a slow-motion explosion of pleasure that radiated from your core outward to the tips of your fingertips.
He shifted his weight, the fabric of his trousers rough against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, creating a friction that felt almost bruising in its intensity.
The air in the small space grew heavy, saturated with the scent of salt and a raw, primal musk that clouded your judgment and stripped away every remaining thought of restraint.
You felt the sudden, sharp tension in his biceps as he braced himself above you, his chest heaving in time with your own jagged breaths.
The world outside the motorhome—the roar of the paddock, the ticking clocks, the looming pressure of the race—had dissolved into a blurred insignificance, leaving only the visceral reality of his skin against yours.
You let out a broken, stuttering breath as he adjusted his grip, his fingers finding a rhythm that was less about exploration and more about a precise, mechanical mastery.
There was a specific, agonizing clarity to the sensation; you didn't want the full weight of him, not yet, because the narrow, focused friction of his fingertips provided a kind of crystalline pleasure that felt more honest than anything else.
It was the concentrated intensity of it—the way he could manipulate the very center of your nerves with a slight shift in angle—that drove you toward the edge, making the simple act of his touch feel like a total surrender of your autonomy.
He noticed the shift in your breathing, the way your hips bucked not to bring him closer, but to deepen the contact of his hand. A low, knowing hum vibrated in his chest, and he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your jawline as he increased the pace.
The friction was searing now, a concentrated point of heat that radiated outward in shimmering, electric waves, turning your muscles to liquid.
You clung to the edges of the mahogany desk, your knuckles white, as the pleasure became an all-consuming fire, focused entirely on the sliding, rhythmic pressure that felt like the only truth in the room.
Just as the tension reached a breaking point, Oscar paused, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat, the sudden stillness more provocative than the movement. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated, searching your face for the exact moment of collapse.
The air between you was thick and humid, tasting of salt and desperation, and for a second, the only sound was the frantic, uneven thrum of two hearts trying to beat as one.
He didn't give you time to breathe, sliding a second finger inside with a slow, deliberate depth that made your entire body arch. The sensation was a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity, a physical anchor that grounded you even as your mind began to drift into a haze of sensory overload.
You felt the rough texture of his palm pressing against your thigh, the contrast of the cold air and the searing heat of his touch creating a friction that felt almost violent in its intensity.
“Is the rule still in effect?” he whispered, his voice a jagged edge of wanting that seemed to vibrate through your very marrow.
You tilted your head back, the mahogany edge digging into your shoulder blades, and let out a breath that was more of a shudder. “Who’s counting the seconds anymore?” you gasped, your voice sounding foreign and strained.
“I am,” he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive dip of your collarbone, “every single, agonizing second.”
The air in the motorhome felt thick, saturated with the scent of salt and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
You could feel the rhythmic thrum of his heart against your chest, a frantic, driving percussion that matched the insistent pulsing between your legs. Every slide of his fingers was a calculated precision, a slow-motion collision of skin and desire that left you feeling raw and exposed.
The sensation was a concentrated fire, blooming from a single point of contact and radiating outward in shimmering waves that turned your muscles to liquid.
He shifted his weight, the heavy, solid pressure of his thigh anchoring you to the desk, creating a grounding force against the dizzying lightness in your head.
You felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath against your skin, a momentary pause that only heightened the anticipation.
The friction of his team polo against your chest was a coarse, grounding texture, a reminder of the physical reality of him—the hardness of his muscles, the heat of his skin—while the rest of the world dissolved into a blur of sensory static.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as a low, guttural moan escaped your throat, the sound vibrating in the small space.
He responded by deepening the pressure, his movements shifting from exploration to a demanding, rhythmic urgency.
The feeling was an overwhelming flood of tactile input; the coldness of the desk and the searing warmth of his hand created a dissonance that made your vision blur, narrowing the entire universe down to the sliding, electric point where his touch met your heat.
As he leaned in, his lips finally capturing yours again, the kiss tasted of desperation and a total, reckless abandonment.
You could feel the tension in his biceps, coiled and tight, as he fought to maintain a shred of control that had already long since evaporated.
The air was heavy with the musk of arousal and the scent of engine grease, a heady cocktail that clouded your judgment and stripped away every remaining boundary.
Each movement was a reclamation, a slow-burn descent into a shared fever that left you breathless and aching for the inevitable collapse.
But as the weight of him pressed you deeper into the mahogany, a sudden flash of the track—the precise, unforgiving line of the circuit and the crushing G-forces of tomorrow's qualifying lap—surfaced in your mind.
You felt the rhythmic thrum of his heart, too fast and too frantic, and a sharp prick of anxiety pierced through the haze of pleasure.
With a jagged gasp, you planted your palms against his chest, creating a sliver of space between your bodies. "Oscar, stop," you whispered, your voice trembling with the effort of the restraint. "Tomorrow. You have the race tomorrow."
He paused, his chest heaving, eyes dark and clouded with a hunger that seemed to devour everything in sight.
For a moment, he didn't move, his muscles locked in a state of excruciating suspension, the heat of his skin still searing through your fingertips.
The silence in the motorhome became heavy, charged with a different kind of tension—the conflict between a primal need and the disciplined precision of an athlete. You could see the conflict warring in his gaze, the struggle to reconcile the man who lived for the podium with the man who was currently starving for the touch of your skin.
He let out a low, guttural sound, half-groan and half-sigh, and leaned his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged and uneven.
The friction of his skin against yours, now a slow, simmering heat, felt like a promise deferred, a coiled spring waiting for the signal to release. His hand lingered on your hip, the grip possessive and firm, grounding you both in the suffocating stillness of the room.
The air between you remained electric, saturated with the scent of salt and longing, as the distant, muffled sound of a mechanic's wrench hitting the floor echoed like a countdown.
You could feel the erratic thrum of his heart beneath your palms, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the composure he usually wore like armor on the track. His eyes, dark and dilated, searched yours, tracing the flutter of your eyelashes and the way your lips were still swollen from his kiss.
There was a raw, unvarnished hunger there, a craving that went beyond the physical, rooted in the weeks of forced distance and the crushing weight of expectation.
The silence stretched, taut and precarious, as he fought the instinct to pull you back into the heat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.
Slowly, he began to pull away, the movement agonizingly deliberate, each millimeter of separation feeling like a physical loss.
The cool air of the motorhome rushed back in to fill the void, chilling the dampened skin of your chest and leaving a lingering tingle where his touch had been. You felt a sudden, sharp ache of emptiness, a hollow thrumming in your lower belly that pulsed in time with the fading heat.
The sudden lack of his weight made you feel adrift, the mahogany desk beneath you now feeling cold and indifferent, a stark contrast to the molten intensity of the last few minutes.
He didn't speak, but the way he looked at you—a mixture of sheer frustration and an intensity that felt almost predatory—said everything. He reached out, his thumb grazing your lower lip one last time, a lingering, ghost of a touch that sent a final, shimmering spark of electricity through your nerves.
With a sharp, decisive exhale, he stepped back, the distance between you now a vast, yawning chasm of anticipation.
The tension didn't dissipate; it simply transformed, shifting from an urgent fire into a slow-burning fuse, leaving you both shivering in the wake of a desire that refused to be extinguished.
"You're a cruel woman," he finally murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you.
"I'm just following the protocol, Oscar," you countered, your voice still breathy, the words catching in your throat as you watched the muscle in his jaw tighten.
"The protocol is a lie," he spat, a small, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he began to backtrack toward the door, his eyes never leaving yours. "And tomorrow, when I cross that finish line, the first thing I'm doing is breaking every single rule we've ever made."
He stepped out of the motorhome, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed through the silence, leaving you leaning against the mahogany desk, your skin still humming with the ghost of his touch and your body thrumming with a hunger that only the promise of tomorrow could sate. . . .
Summary: You and Oscar went on a blind date and didn't know who he was until the internet found out
Song: Do I Wanna Know? · Arctic Monkeys
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The restaurant was one of those places that prided itself on lighting so dim you had to squint to read the menu and acoustics so muffled you felt like you were dining inside a velvet-lined jewelry box.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Your best friend, Sarah, had been insistent, practically shoving you into the back of an Uber with the promise that the guy was "normal, funny, and doesn't own a mountain bike."
You were expecting a software engineer or maybe a junior accountant. You were not expecting the man who stood up as you approached the corner booth.
He was wearing a simple dark charcoal sweater and a pair of trousers that looked effortless.
His hair was slightly messy, as if he’d just run a hand through it, and his eyes—a striking, inquisitive brown—brightened the moment he saw you. He looked young, perhaps a bit nervous, which was endearing.
"You must be Y/N," he said, his voice carrying a soft, melodic Australian lilt. He stood, his movements fluid and polite. "I’m Oscar."
"Hi, Oscar," you said, sliding into the booth. "Sorry if I’m a few minutes late. Traffic was a nightmare."
"No apology necessary," he said, offering a shy, genuine smile. "I’ve just been sitting here contemplating whether ordering bread for the table makes me look too eager or just hungry."
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders dissipating. "Always order the bread. It’s the safest bet for a first date."
"Noted."
The next two hours passed with a strange, gravity-defying ease. You talked about everything and nothing. He told you he was "in sports," which sounded vague, so you assumed he was a coach or perhaps a physical therapist.
When you asked him what he did on his days off, he mentioned traveling, though he complained about the jet lag with a grimace that made you giggle.
He was observant. He noticed when you barely touched your asparagus and swapped his roasted carrots for yours without making a big deal out of it.
He listened—truly listened—to your stories about your chaotic job in marketing, asking follow-up questions that showed he wasn't just waiting for his turn to speak.
"So," he said, leaning back as the waiter cleared the plates, "what do you do when you aren’t navigating the corporate jungle?"
"I’m an amateur baker," you admitted, feeling a flush of warmth. "It’s my stress relief. Though my neighbors probably hate the smell of burnt sugar at 2 A.M."
Oscar leaned in, his elbows on the table. "I’m a fan of anything involving chocolate. If this goes well, am I at risk of being a taste-tester?"
"Careful, Oscar," you teased, raising an eyebrow. "That’s a big commitment."
He smiled, and there was something in his expression—a kind of guarded sweetness—that made your heart skip a beat. It wasn't the look of a man who was used to being the center of attention. It was the look of a man who was happy to be exactly where he was.
When the check came, he fumbled for his wallet, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting, electric second. You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
He walked you to your Uber, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne—something crisp, like cedar and rain.
"I had a really lovely time, Y/N," he said softly.
"Me too," you replied, surprising yourself with how much you meant it. "Are you… are you going to be around this week?"
"I’m heading out on Wednesday," he said, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "But I’m back in a few weeks. Could I… get your number? If you’re interested, that is."
You typed your number into his phone, and as he read your name back, his smile widened. "I’ll text you," he promised.
You got into the Uber, feeling a strange, high-frequency buzz in your chest. You didn't even know his last name. You didn't know where he lived. You just knew that you’d spent three hours talking to a guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the restaurant.
The trouble began the next morning.
You were scrolling through your phone while drinking coffee, catching up on the digital void of social media.
You were about to open your messages to see if there was a text from Oscar—there wasn’t yet, which was fine, it was barely 9 A.M.—when a notification popped up from a sports news account you vaguely remembered following during the Olympics.
“McLaren’s star driver, Oscar Piastri, spotted out in London ahead of the upcoming Grand Prix season.”
You blinked, staring at the photo attached to the headline. It was a paparazzi shot, grainy and taken from a distance, but there was no mistaking the profile.
That was the charcoal sweater. That was the messy hair. That was the man who had ordered the bread.
You clicked the link, your thumb trembling slightly. The article was a puff piece about his rise in Formula 1, his "composed demeanor," and his status as a "young prodigy."
There were links to videos of him sitting in a cockpit, wearing a fireproof suit, looking intense and unreachable.
You felt a wave of nausea. A blind date with a Formula 1 driver? You’d spent the entire night complaining about your boss’s obsession with spreadsheets while he was probably thinking about aerodynamics and G-forces.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Oscar: Good morning. I hope you slept well. I’m already missing that bread.
You stared at the message, the screen glowing mockingly. You were just a marketing coordinator who liked burnt cookies. He was… a global celebrity. A man who drove at 200 miles per hour for a living.
You didn't reply. You couldn't. You spent the rest of the day in a fugue state, staring at your monitor, wondering if the entire date had been a performance.
Had he been bored? Had he been practicing his "public relations personality"?
By the time you got home, Sarah had already seen the article. Her phone call was almost immediate.
"Y/N! Oh my god! Are you seeing this? That’s your Oscar! The Oscar!"
"I know, Sarah," you sighed, collapsing onto your sofa. "I feel like an idiot. He didn't tell me."
"Why would he?" Sarah countered, her voice buzzing with excitement. "Maybe he wanted to be normal for once. Maybe he liked you for you."
"I don't know," you whispered. "He lives in a completely different stratosphere. I’m not a WAG. I don't know anything about cars."
"You don't need to be a WAG. You just need to be you. Just text him back."
You looked at the phone. The notification was still there. I’m already missing that bread. It sounded so human. So simple.
You took a deep breath and typed, So, you drive fast cars for a living? Should I be offended that you didn't mention it?
He replied within seconds.
Oscar: I figured you’d find out eventually. I just wanted one night where someone looked at me without an agenda. Was that okay?
The vulnerability in the text stopped your heart. Without an agenda. You softened. You thought about how he’d listened to your rants, his head tilted, his expression entirely focused on your words.
It was perfect, you typed back. But I have so many questions.
The next week was a blur of digital tethering. He was in Monaco, then preparing for a test in Bahrain, but he made time.
He sent you photos of the view from his hotel, snippets of his morning coffee, and voice notes that made your skin tingle when you listened to them on the commute home.
He was funny, self-deprecating, and remarkably grounded for someone whose face was plastered on billboards across the globe.
He told you about the crushing pressure of the sport, the loneliness of living out of a suitcase, and how he struggled to find people who didn't want something from him.
"You're the first thing that's felt real in a long time," he told you on a late-night call, his voice raspy and low.
"I'm just me, Oscar," you said, curling up under your blankets. "I’m not a fan. I’m just a girl who wanted a good date."
"And that’s exactly why I like you," he said.
When he finally returned to London for a few days, the dynamic had shifted. The secrecy was gone; the reality of his life was present in the background, with his PR team sending him reminders and fans occasionally lingering near hotel exits.
But when he walked into your apartment, bringing a box of expensive pastries he’d picked up from a bakery you’d mentioned, he was just Oscar again.
He stood in your small kitchen, looking out of place amidst your mismatched mugs and flour-dusted counters. He didn't belong here, not really, but he looked at your home as if it were a sanctuary.
"I brought reinforcements," he said, holding up the box. "For the taste-testing."
"You remembered," you said, walking over to him.
"I remember everything you tell me," he replied, setting the box down and stepping into your space.
The kiss was different from the first night. It was heavier, laced with the tension of the week you’d spent apart and the strange, widening chasm between your worlds.
He kissed you like he was anchoring himself, his hands finding your waist as if he were afraid you might disappear into the fog of his fame.
"Is this weird?" he asked against your lips, his eyes searching yours. "Me being here?"
"A little," you admitted, breathless. "But the good kind of weird."
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Good. Because I don't want to be anywhere else."
The weeks that followed were a surreal dance. You tried to stay away from the F1 bubble, but it was impossible. You saw his name in headlines.
You saw the brutal criticism when he had a bad race, the way the internet turned on him, and the way the media dissected his every facial expression.
It was terrifying. You didn't like seeing the person you were falling for being picked apart by strangers.
The breaking point happened a month later. You were watching a race at a friend’s house, surrounded by people who were screaming at the TV.
You saw him spin out during a qualifying session, the car sliding into the barrier, sparks flying. Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You stayed up all night waiting for a text. When it finally came, it was curt, filled with frustration and exhaustion.
Oscar: Rough day. Sorry if I’m quiet. Need to debrief with the team.
You understood, but the distance felt like a physical wall. You sent a simple, I’m here when you’re ready, and turned your phone off.
You didn't hear from him for two days. The news sites were relentless, speculating about his performance, his contract, his future.
You felt like an outsider looking into a life that was far too loud for your quiet existence. You started to wonder if Sarah was right—if this was too much.
Then, at 3 A.M. on a Tuesday, there was a sharp knock at your door.
You threw on a robe and looked through the peephole. Oscar stood there, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face, looking shattered. He’d clearly flown in on a whim.
You opened the door, and he didn't even speak; he just fell forward, his forehead resting on your shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the sharp tension in his frame. You led him inside, not asking questions, just guiding him to the couch.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the floor.
"They just don't stop," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The expectations, the noise. It feels like every time I breathe, someone is measuring the oxygen."
You sat beside him and took his hand. It was cold. "You don't have to be everything to everyone, Oscar. You just have to be you."
He looked at you then, his brown eyes tired and raw. "That's why I come here. Because here, I’m not 'the driver.' I'm not the asset. I’m just… me."
"You're just the guy who ordered the bread," you reminded him, a small smile playing on your lips.
He let out a weak, genuine laugh. "I’m the guy who’s incredibly lucky that you took a chance on a blind date."
He shifted, leaning into you, and for the first time, he let the mask drop completely.
You spent the night talking—not about racing, not about the pressures, but about your childhood, the books he’d wanted to read but never had time for, the fear of failing, and the small, simple joys of being alive.
In the quiet of your apartment, the F1 world felt like a distant, chaotic planet, and you were the only two people left in the galaxy.
Months later, the public attention hadn't gone away, but your perspective had. You stopped googling him. You stopped reading the comments.
When you were with him, you were two people in a booth, in a car, or on a couch. The rest of it—the cameras, the crowds, the roaring engines—were just the price of the life he had chosen.
You were waiting for him in the paddock garage after a victory—one of the many he’d racked up over the season. The fans were screaming, the photographers were flashing lights like lightning strikes, and the energy was frantic.
You were standing near the hospitality suite, feeling completely out of place in your simple sundress amidst the sea of team gear and corporate sponsors.
You felt the familiar wave of impostor syndrome. What were you doing here? You were a marketing assistant. You were just the girl he’d met on a Tuesday night.
Then, the crowd shifted. Oscar emerged from the garage, sweat-streaked and grinning, his cap pulled low. He was surrounded by PR people, team principals, and cameras. He looked like the world-class athlete the magazines described.
But then his eyes scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking at the cameras; he was looking for you.
When his gaze landed on you, his entire demeanor softened. The intense, competitive fire in his eyes was replaced by something intimate and warm.
He whispered something to his team manager, pushed past the press, and walked straight toward you.
The flashing lights followed him, but he ignored them all. He reached you and took your hand, pulling you close.
"You came," he said.
"I wouldn't miss it," you replied, feeling the heat of the crowd but only focusing on the steady, grounding presence of his hand in yours.
"I have a race again in four days," he said, his voice low, intimate despite the roar of the crowd. "But tonight… tonight we’re going to find a place that serves really, really good bread."
You laughed, the sound bright and clear. "I think I know just the place."
He leaned down and kissed you, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. The cameras were clicking, the fans were cheering, and the F1 world was moving on to the next race, but in that second, there was only the two of you.
He pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ready to go?"
"Ready," you said.
You walked out of the paddock together, hand in hand. You weren't a celebrity, and you weren't an F1 star. You were just a girl and a guy, heading out into the night, looking for the simple, quiet comfort of bread and a conversation that never had to end.
The road ahead was going to be fast, loud, and complicated, but as you stepped into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain: no matter how fast he drove, he was always going to find his way back to you.
Summary: Oscar helps you overcome the fear of the sea
Song: Sure Thing · Miguel
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The Mediterranean sun is a relentless, shimmering presence, casting diamonds across the turquoise expanse of the bay. From the safety of the teak deck of the chartered yacht, the water looks deceptively inviting—a vast, sapphire cradle.
To anyone else, it’s paradise. To you, it’s a living, breathing abyss that threatens to swallow you whole.
You stand by the stern, your knuckles white as you grip the polished railing. You aren’t just looking at the horizon; you are bracing yourself against it.
"You’ve been staring at the same wave for ten minutes," a voice says, soft and steady, cutting through the rhythmic lap of water against the hull.
You don't need to turn to know it’s Oscar. Even without looking, you can feel his presence—that calm, grounded energy that seems to tether you to the earth, or in this case, the boat.
He steps up beside you, the faint scent of sea salt and his signature clean, citrus cologne mixing with the heavy heat of the afternoon.
He doesn’t mock your hesitation. He never does. He simply leans against the railing, his posture relaxed, his brown eyes scanning the water as if he’s reading a track map.
"It’s just water, Oscar," you whisper, though your voice betrays you, trembling slightly. "It’s just… infinitely deep, heavy, dark water."
Oscar turns his head, his gaze shifting from the waves to your profile. There’s a kindness in his expression that makes your chest ache.
"I know," he says quietly. "But look at it from here. It’s not attacking you. It’s just existing. Like a corner on a circuit. You don't fear the corner; you just learn how to navigate it."
You let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. "I don't think I can 'drive' my way through a phobia, Oscar."
"Maybe not," he replies, his lips twitching into that small, boyish smile that usually only appears after a successful qualifying session. "But you can take it one gear at a time."
He reaches out, his hand hovering near yours before he gently covers your knuckles with his own. His skin is warm, a sharp contrast to the cool sea breeze.
His touch is a grounding current, pulling you back from the edge of the panic attack that’s been simmering in your throat since you left the harbor.
"I’m not going to throw you in," he promises, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your skin. "I’m not even going to ask you to jump. But stay here with me? Just for a bit?"
You nod, your breath evening out. You trust him. You trust him with the secrets of your heart, the complexities of your fears, and now, with the one thing you thought you could never share: your vulnerability.
The yacht is anchored in a secluded cove off the coast of Sardinia. The water here is crystal clear, a gradient of pale aquamarine fading into a deep, mysterious indigo. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying.
For the next hour, Oscar stays by your side. He talks, not about the ocean, but about the mundane, comforting rhythm of his life—the grueling hours in the simulator, the way the tarmac smells when it rains at Spa, the quiet frustration of a car that doesn't quite handle the way he wants it to.
He weaves a cocoon of words around you, insulating you from the overwhelming vastness of the sea.
He helps you down the swim ladder, step by step. When the water begins to lap at your ankles, your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You gasp, your body instinctively recoiling, your hands reaching out to grab the ladder so hard your forearms burn.
"Hey," Oscar says, his voice dropped an octave, steady and commanding. He’s standing on the bottom rung, submerged to his waist, looking up at you with unwavering focus. "Look at me. Only at me. Don't look at the water. Look at my eyes."
You focus on him. His eyes are the color of the Mediterranean—deep, piercing, and entirely fixed on you.
"You’re safe," he says. "I’ve got you. I haven't let you down yet, have I?"
"No," you breathe.
"Then trust me now. Just one more step."
You trust him more than you trust your own survival instincts. You take the step.
The cold water rises to your knees, then your thighs. The sensation of being untethered, of feeling the weight of the water press against your skin, makes your vision swim. Your breath hitches, turning into a sob.
Oscar doesn't hesitate. He moves closer, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. He’s solid, warm, and real. He is the anchor in the middle of the shifting, unstable blue.
"I’ve got you," he whispers into your hair, his chin resting on your shoulder. "I’m not letting go. You aren't drifting. You’re right here with me."
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him stronger now, mixed with the brine of the ocean.
You sob, the fear pouring out of you, raw and ugly. You’ve carried this weight for years, the irrational terror of the abyss, and for the first time, you aren't carrying it alone.
He holds you while the waves gently rock your combined weight. He doesn't rush you. He doesn't tell you to get it together. He just stands there, anchoring you, letting the ocean move beneath you while he remains your constant.
The sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and molten gold.
You are still in the water, though you’ve moved away from the ladder. You’re holding onto a large, buoyant foam float, your hands linked with Oscar’s across the top.
The panic has receded, leaving behind a strange, quiet exhaustion. You find yourself looking down. You see your own feet, distorted by the refraction of the light, hovering above a sandy shelf that drops off into the dark.
Usually, that drop-off would send you sprinting back to the surface. Now, you watch it, your heart rate steady.
"You're doing it," Oscar murmurs. He’s watching you, his expression one of quiet pride.
"I'm looking down," you whisper, as if stating a miracle.
"You are," he agrees. He swims a little closer, his hand coming up to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your jawline, his touch feather-light. "How does it feel?"
"Different," you admit. "It’s still big. It’s still terrifying. But… it’s not me."
Oscar leans in, his forehead resting against yours. The space between you is charged, a different kind of intensity replacing the fear.
"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he says, his voice a low rasp. "You faced the thing that scares you most, and you didn't run. You stayed."
"I stayed because you were here."
He smiles, a slow, genuine expression that reaches his eyes. "Always."
He leans in, his lips brushing against yours—a tentative, salt-kissed pressure that tastes of summer and relief. It’s a kiss of gratitude, of shared silence, and of a burgeoning, quiet love.
When he pulls back, he doesn't break the contact, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, drawing you back in.
The ocean churns beneath you, vast and indifferent, but in this moment, you are the center of the world.
You aren't afraid of the depth anymore, because you realize that you don't have to swim through it alone. As long as you have him, as long as you have your anchor, the sea is just another horizon to cross.
"Ready to head back?" he asks eventually, his voice soft against your skin.
You look at the boat, then back at the horizon, realizing that for the first time in your life, you don't feel the desperate, clawing need to escape the water. You feel heavy, grounded, and strangely, perfectly at peace.
"Yeah," you say, interlacing your fingers with his. "But let’s stay for one more sunset. A few more minutes."
Oscar squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your palm. "Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere."
And as the light fades into the velvet dark, you realize that for the first time, you are finally, truly, unafraid. . . .
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Summary: Winning passes to the Visa Cash App RB garage is the ultimate upgrade. But when a bold rookie spots you trying to explain the sport to your friend, he jumps at the perfect excuse to crash your lesson.
Author’s note: I loved writing this so much! Sorry if the text wasn't coming out before but I fixed it now! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 8.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
@not.y/n
liked by not.y/n, sarah.b and 2,396 others.
not.y/n: After years of watching race weekends from my couch, I’m finally here with my bestie! 😝
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It was Arvid's first time at Silverstone with Visa Cash App RB and he was grateful to represent one of his countries, though the weight of the expectation felt like an extra ten kilograms of ballast in the cockpit.
He could feel the vibration of the engine rattling through his spine, a violent, mechanical hunger that demanded more than he was currently giving it.
The English countryside was a blur of manicured green and grey asphalt, a high-speed carousel where a single inch of miscalculation would send him spinning into the gravel.
Hours later, the adrenaline of the track shifted into the electric roar of the fan zone. Arvid felt a surge of warmth, not from the engine, but from the thousands of faces screaming his name as he and Liam stepped onto the F1 Drivers' Stage.
Walking alongside the Red Bull drivers, Isack and Max, the contrast in their stature was evident—the seasoned veterans versus the fresh-faced newcomers—but the crowd didn't care about the gap in experience.
They only cared that the new blood had arrived, and the cheers were so loud they seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Arvid's bones.
He kept his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the toes of his sponsors' sneakers, the sudden spotlight feeling less like a celebration and more like an interrogation.
He had spent most of the morning trying to blend into the paddock walls, terrified that one wrong word would expose him as an impostor in a world of titans.
But as he looked up and saw the sea of blue and red banners, the genuine, raw hunger for his success reflecting in the eyes of the fans, the knot in his stomach loosened.
He was still a rookie, a novice playing a game of millimeters, but the warmth of their acceptance acted as a catalyst, pushing him to straighten his back and offer a hesitant, genuine smile.
"The car is a beast, but we're learning how to tame it together," Arvid told the interviewer, his voice steadier than he felt. He began to lean into the questions, pivoting from nervous stammers to sharp, insightful observations about the track's evolving grip and the precise moment he felt the rear end step out at Copse.
By the time the microphone was pulled away, he realized the tremor in his hands had vanished. "If the veterans think the new blood is just for show," he added with a sudden, daring glint in his eye, "they might want to check their mirrors in the final sector."
He stepped off the stage and felt the sudden, jarring silence of the backstage corridor, where the roar of the crowd became a muffled hum.
The air here was cooler, smelling of ozone and expensive espresso, and for the first time, the paddock didn't feel like a maze designed to swallow him whole.
He caught his reflection in a polished chrome panel—the team's polo clinging to his chest, the focused intensity in his own gaze—and recognized a man who belonged in the cockpit, not just as a placeholder, but as a predator.
The silence of the corridor was interrupted by a burst of laughter from a small group of VIP pass-holders lingering near the hospitality entrance.
Arvid paused, his gaze landing on a woman who was gesturing emphatically toward a faded program in her friend's hand. "For the love of God, Sarah, look at the driver list! Charles Leclerc has been the face of Ferrari for years; he didn't just suddenly vanish from the grid," she exclaimed, her voice a melodic contrast to the sterile surroundings.
Arvid didn't know them, and he certainly didn't care about Sarah's lack of sporting knowledge, but he found himself rooted to the spot, struck by the way the sunlight caught the gold in the stranger's eyes.
She was breathtaking, possessing a raw, effortless beauty that made the surrounding glitz of the paddock seem dull.
"Listen, we can make this look like a 'Fan-POV' organic discovery piece," Arvid whispered, leaning closer to the team's social media manager, Marcus, while keeping a cautious eye on you.
"If you let me bring them back for a 'surprise' tour—exclusive access, behind-the-scenes grit—it'll blow up on TikTok. The contrast of a total novice like Sarah and a superfan like her against the high-tech garage? That’s the kind of human-interest content the sponsors crave. Just call it a random act of kindness for the fans."
Marcus hesitated, glancing at the strict security protocols, but Arvid pressed on, his voice low and urgent. "Trust me, the engagement metrics on 'authentic' encounters are peaking right now. You get the views, the team looks approachable, and I get to… well, it just feels like the right thing for the brand."
You can hardly believe you’re actually here, the weight of the VIP lanyard around your neck feeling like a golden ticket to a different dimension.
Winning the competition was a fluke, a statistical miracle, but standing inside the Visa Cash App RB garage is a sensory overload of carbon fiber and high-octane ambition. Beside you, Sarah is staring blankly at a set of heat exchangers, her expression one of profound confusion.
You spend the next ten minutes in a feverish rush, explaining the difference between a soft and a hard compound, the physics of the dirty air, and why the underfloor aerodynamics are the secret weapon of the current era, relishing every second of being the expert in her eyes.
"Wait, so the tires actually melt if they get too hot, but they need to be hot to stick?" Sarah asks, tilting her head as she finally looks away from the machinery.
You laugh, leaning in closer to point out the precise wear patterns on the discarded rubber in the bin. "Exactly," you tell her, your voice animated, "it's a constant balancing act between grip and disaster; if you push too hard into the turn, the tires just give up on you."
The surrealism of the afternoon peaks when you are escorted to the Paddock Club balcony, finding yourselves sandwiched between a legendary Hollywood actor and a tech mogul who owns half of Silicon Valley.
You and Sarah exchange a frantic, wide-eyed glance, acutely aware that you are both just eighteen-year-old university freshmen who should be worrying about introductory psychology midterms rather than discussing downforce with billionaires.
There is a dizzying disconnect between the luxury of the champagne-filled lounge and the reality of the student loan applications waiting back home, making the high-society chatter feel like a movie you've been cast in without a script.
Just as you were preparing to venture further into the restricted zones, a Visa Cash App RB staff member clutching a sleek smartphone approached you both with a practiced, professional smile.
"Excuse me," he said, glancing at the device. "The drivers are available for a few moments. Would you two like a personal tour from Arvid and Liam?"
Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest, and you began to stammer, your voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear, while Sarah simply nodded with an eerie, composed grace.
"That would be lovely, thank you," she replied calmly, as if being offered a tour by F1 drivers was as mundane as a trip to the grocery store.
Before you could even process the shock, you were led through a maze of white tents and humming generators toward the hospitality room where the two pilots were waiting.
As you rounded the corner and caught sight of him, your breath hitched; you had always thought Arvid looked cool, but seeing him in person was a different kind of intensity.
Arvid and Liam were huddled in a low-voiced conversation, their heads close together, seemingly oblivious to the world until they finally pivoted toward the entrance.
The moment they looked your way, you became acutely aware of the social media manager hovering just behind you, his gimbal-stabilized camera aimed squarely at your face.
The lens felt like a predatory eye, magnifying every nervous twitch of your eyelids and the frantic pulse in your throat, and as Arvid stepped forward, his presence suddenly filling your entire field of vision, your mind went completely blank.
"Hi," he said, his voice a smooth, grounding rumble that snapped you back to reality.
You opened your mouth, but only a small, breathless sound came out, and you realized with a jolt of horror that you had completely forgotten to say your own name while he was standing mere inches away.
Liam let out a short, amused huff, leaning back against a sleek white countertop with a smirk that suggested he’d seen this particular brand of panic a thousand times before. "Easy there," Liam joked, his tone light but observant.
"We don't bite, though the engineers might if you touch their telemetry screens without permission." Arvid didn't laugh; instead, he kept his gaze locked on yours, a flicker of genuine curiosity replacing the polished PR mask he had worn on the stage earlier.
You swallowed hard, your voice finally returning, though it sounded thin and distant to your own ears. "I'm… I'm Y/N," you managed to stutter, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "And this is Sarah. We're students. From London. Well, I am, she's from…"
You trailed off as Sarah gave a small, enigmatic wave, leaving you to scramble for a conversation topic that didn't involve your own sheer terror.
Arvid’s smile widened, not in a mocking way, but with a sudden, focused intensity that made the surrounding bustle of the hospitality suite fade into a dull blur.
"Y/N," he repeated, testing the weight of the name as if it were a new piece of technical data.
He turned slightly to Marcus, the social media manager, and gave a subtle nod of approval, though his eyes never truly left yours, suggesting that the 'organic discovery' he had plotted was working exactly as intended.
"Since we've already done the garage, let's show them where we actually hide when the press gets too loud," Arvid said, gesturing toward the sleek, towering structure of the team motorhome.
As they led you and Sarah inside, the atmosphere shifted from the industrial roar of the paddock to a hushed, climate-controlled luxury that smelled of expensive leather and eucalyptus. Liam pointed toward a row of customized racing seats that looked more like spacecraft than chairs.
"These are the driver's pods," Liam explained, sliding a hand over the carbon fiber. "This is where we analyze the data and pretend to listen to the engineers while actually thinking about what we're having for dinner."
Arvid let out a soft laugh, adding, "Or where I spend an hour staring at the telemetry of Copse, trying to figure out why the car decided to dance on its own."
Sarah seemed entirely unfazed, trailing her fingers along a polished surface and asking if the espresso machine was sponsored by a rocket company, which earned a genuine, startled laugh from Liam.
"So, Y/N," Arvid started, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped slightly closer, "you mentioned you're a student in London. What are you actually studying, or is F1 just a way to avoid your textbooks this weekend?"
He asked the question while looking directly at you, ignoring the fact that Sarah was currently trying to figure out if the racing seats were heated.
"Actually, I'm in my first year of psychology," you replied, your voice gaining a bit of strength as you felt the strange, magnetic pull of his attention. "But honestly, the textbooks can wait. Well, I've loved Formula 1 my whole life, so I took the chance with both hands to come here and to meet you."
You felt your cheeks flush as you realized how forward it sounded, but Arvid didn't recoil; instead, he seemed to lean into the admission, his pupils dilating slightly.
As the group began to move toward the telemetry room, the hallway narrowed significantly. Arvid stepped in front of you to lead the way, and as he did, his hand found the small of your back.
It was a light, fleeting pressure—barely a brush of his palm through the fabric of your shirt—but it felt like a live wire.
He used the tight space as a convenient excuse, guiding you forward with a subtle nudge that felt far too intentional to be accidental, while Liam and Sarah drifted a few paces behind, locked in a debate about the aerodynamics of a hairdryer.
"Psychology, huh?" Arvid asked, slowing his pace so that he was almost walking in sync with you. "Does that mean you're currently analyzing me? Tell me the truth—do I look like a nervous wreck or a calculated risk?"
You looked up at him, catching the way his expression softened. "A bit of both, maybe," you teased, your confidence growing. "The 'predator' persona on stage was a good touch, but the way you're glancing at the exit every few minutes suggests you'd rather be anywhere but in front of a camera right now."
"Is it that obvious?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he paused in a quiet alcove of the motorhome. "Most people just see the helmet and the sponsors and assume we're made of stone. But the truth is, the silence is the only thing that actually scares me."
"Then maybe the 'calculated risk' is admitting you're human," you replied, tilting your head as you studied the tension in his jaw. "Because for someone who wants to hide from the cameras, you seem remarkably focused on making sure I'm still paying attention to you."
Arvid shifted, his shoulders curving inward as he looked down at his sneakers, the bold predator from the stage suddenly replaced by a boy who seemed unsure of where to put his hands. "Is it that obvious?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant thrum of the paddock.
"I'm not usually this… forward. I just felt like, for once, I didn't want to be the one being analyzed." He stole a quick glance up at you, his eyes flickering with a vulnerability that felt far more intimate than any scripted interview.
"I… I didn't mean to call you out," you whispered, your voice trailing off as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling the heat climb up your neck. "It's just that you have this way of… looking at people. Like you're trying to memorize them."
Arvid let out a soft, shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before snapping back to your eyes. "Maybe I am," he replied, his tone tentative, almost pleading, as the space between you shrank to a mere breath of air.
The fragile bubble of intimacy was abruptly popped by a loud, theatrical cough from behind you. You both jumped, spinning around to find Liam and Sarah standing there with their arms crossed, wearing identical expressions of amused skepticism.
"Am I interrupting a telemetry meeting, or has the 'calculated risk' finally paid off?" Liam asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow while Sarah leaned in, her eyes darting between the two of you with a knowing, mischievous glint.
Arvid cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to regain his composure, though his chest was still heaving slightly from the sudden proximity.
He tried to summon his usual poise, but the tips of his ears were a vivid shade of crimson that betrayed him completely.
"We were just… discussing the psychological pressure of the first corner," he lied poorly, his voice cracking slightly, which only prompted Liam to let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the sterile white hallway.
The sudden attention of the group, coupled with the realization that Marcus was still hovering nearby with the camera rolling, sent a wave of heat crashing over you. Suddenly feeling exposed, you retreated toward Sarah, subconsciously pulling your shoulders in as if to hide.
You fell into step beside her, pretending to be deeply interested in the way Liam was gesturing wildly toward the telemetry screens, desperately trying to fade into the background.
Sarah leaned in, her shoulder brushing yours, and whispered with a wicked grin, "Wow, look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl. I didn't know you had a 'type,' but apparently, it's 'brooding F1 driver with a savior complex.'"
Liam continued his tour with an infectious energy, pointing out the precise calibration of the steering wheel and the sheer madness of the G-forces, but you could feel Arvid’s presence like a physical weight behind you.
Even as he spoke to the group, his body remained oriented toward you; while his head turned to explain the brake ducts, his torso and feet remained angled firmly in your direction.
"So, Liam," you asked, stepping closer to the screen and narrowing your eyes at a jagged spike in the data, "when you hit the apex at Copse, are you fighting a snap-oversteer caused by the rear-end instability, or is it more of a gradual wash-out because the front wing is losing load under the rotation?"
Liam stopped mid-sentence, his hand freezing in mid-air. He blinked, his smirk faltering as he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. "I… sorry, what? Where did a psych student learn about load loss during rotation?" he asked, his voice sounding genuinely bewildered.
Sarah leaned over, glancing at the complex graph and then back at Liam's bewildered expression. "She's basically asking if you're actually driving the car or just riding it like a passenger on a very expensive rollercoaster," she joked, nudging your shoulder with a mischievous wink.
Liam let out a loud bark of a laugh, shaking his head as he looked at Arvid, who was staring at you with an expression that hovered somewhere between shock and profound admiration.
"Wait, you actually understand the telemetry?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping the rehearsed PR tone and becoming something raw and curious. "Most people just ask about the speed, but you're talking about the rotation of the front axle under load. Where the hell did you learn to read a data trace like that?"
"My dad was a mechanic for a local karting circuit back home," you replied, leaning closer to the screen to point out the exact millisecond the line dipped. "He used to let me sit in on the debriefs when I was ten. He always said if you can't read the graph, you're just guessing where the grip is, and he hated guessing."
"Wait, so you've actually been analyzing racing lines since you were in primary school?" Arvid asked, his voice dropping into a low, focused register. "That's practically a crime. You've been hiding this kind of knowledge while pretending to be a bewildered tourist?"
"I didn't think it was relevant to the 'fan experience' tour," you teased, glancing up at him, only to find him standing much closer than before. "Besides, I figured the 'calculated risk' was more interested in my psychology degree than my knowledge of understeer."
"I'm starting to think the psychology is just a cover for a secret racing strategist," Liam chimed in, crossing his arms with a grin as he looked between the two of you. "Honestly, Arvid, if she can spot a load-loss rotation from a static screen, she’s probably better suited for the pit wall than you are on some Tuesdays."
Sarah let out a loud, delighted snort and nudged you hard in the ribs, pointing at Arvid’s wide-eyed expression. You couldn't help yourself, breaking into a fit of giggles at the sight of the normally composed driver looking completely flustered by a university student's technical prowess.
You and Sarah laughed together, the sound echoing through the sterile white corridor, while Arvid looked embarrassed, his gaze darting from the telemetry screen to the floor as he struggled to find a witty comeback.
"It's okay, Arvid, I won't take your seat yet," you joked, glancing over your shoulder at the customized carbon fiber bucket seat of his car, which sat waiting in the garage.
You gave him a playful wink, the tension between you shifting from nervous electricity to a sort of competitive chemistry. Arvid let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound genuine and light, as he finally found his footing, shaking his head in disbelief at your boldness.
He leaned back toward Marcus, who was still capturing every micro-expression for the social media feed, and let out a loud, theatrical sigh.
"I can't believe this," Arvid said, his voice projecting for the camera but his eyes locked firmly on yours. "We thought we were just doing a nice PR stunt, but it turns out we picked the craziest fan to give a tour to; she's probably trying to steal my telemetry data to start her own team."
The tour was winding down as the five of you walked back toward the hospitality suite, the atmosphere buzzing with Sarah and Liam's loud banter.
Just as you rounded a sharp corner near the service elevators, a firm hand caught your arm, pulling you back and halting your momentum.
You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs, to find Arvid standing inches away. He pressed a finger to his lips, a silent command for secrecy, before sliding his hand into yours and guiding you away from the group and toward a narrow, dim corridor.
"Come with me," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that felt like it was echoing in your very marrow, "before Marcus realizes his 'organic discovery' is about to go off-script."
The corridor was narrow, smelling of old rubber and industrial wax, far removed from the sterile luxury of the main suite.
He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he laced his fingers through yours, the warmth of his palm anchoring you as he led you toward a small, secluded balcony overlooking the track.
The roar of the engines in the distance felt like a heartbeat, rhythmic and urgent, mirroring the sudden tension that crackled between the two of you in the sudden silence.
Then, as if remembering the dozens of cameras and prying eyes that governed his every move, Arvid dropped your hand.
"I'm sorry for kidnapping you from your friend, but the camera was really pissing me off and I could use you as an excuse to lose them," Arvid admitted, his voice dropping the polished facade of a public figure.
He leaned back against the railing, the sunlight filtering through the overhead canopy and casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his face.
You looked at him, seeing the subtle tremor in his fingers and the way he seemed to deflate now that the gaze of a thousand fans and a gimbal-stabilized lens had finally vanished. "Fair enough, I don't know how you guys can do it 24/7…. it sounds exhausting."
Arvid nodded and you joined him by leaning against the railing, the cold metal pressing through your clothes as you both looked out over the shimmering asphalt of the Silverstone circuit.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with the kind of anticipation that usually precedes a green light on the starting grid.
"Do you usually take your fans here, or am I the lucky one?" you asked, not looking at him, instead focusing on a distant marshal waving a yellow flag in the pit lane.
"This is the first and probably the only one after we get caught," Arvid replied, his voice barely a whisper as he shifted his weight, closing the remaining few inches between you.
"Then we should go meet them right? I don't want you to get in trouble," you said, moving from the railing to head back toward the group, but a hand stopped you, his fingers curling firmly around your wrist to pull you back into his space.
"For a psychology student, you really can't read the room," Arvid admitted shyly, his voice barely audible over the distant scream of an engine.
You paused, tilting your head in confusion as you tried to decipher the sudden shift in his energy. Then you looked closer.
His face was flushed, an almost red hue creeping up from his collar to the tips of his ears, and as he leaned in, you noticed his pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hem of his team polo and wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow despite the cool breeze of the balcony.
The realization hit you like a physical wave: he wasn't nervous about the press or the race—he was nervous about you.
A hot prickle of embarrassment washed over you, and you let out a small, soft "oh" of discovery.
Arvid let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked everywhere but your eyes. "I'm sorry, this is probably the first time an F1 driver tried to flirt with you," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to reclaim some shred of the confidence he’d projected on stage. "And based on your face, I'm doing a pretty terrible job of it."
You felt a sudden, daring surge of confidence, stepping back into his personal space until you could smell the faint, metallic scent of the paddock clinging to his skin.
You reached out, your fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve, and looked up at him with a crooked smile. "Actually," you whispered, "the vulnerability is way more effective than the 'predator' act. It's a much better strategy."
Arvid froze as you reached up and casually adjusted the collar of his polo, your fingers lingering just a second too long against the warmth of his neck.
He looked as though he’d been hit by a sudden surge of G-force, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes widening in genuine shock.
He had spent the last hour trying to maintain a shred of control over the interaction, but in one simple, tactile gesture, you had completely dismantled his composure, leaving him momentarily speechless and staring at you as if you were the most unpredictable variable in his entire race weekend.
The silence stretched between you, thick with an honesty that no PR script could ever capture. Arvid looked away, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon of the track before snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, raw intensity.
"I really thought you were beautiful, so I made an excuse to give you a tour," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper and stripped of all pretense.
You laughed, the sound light and genuine, breaking the heavy tension that had settled over the balcony.
It wasn't a mocking sound, but one of sheer amusement at the idea of a world-class athlete, used to battling the most dangerous corners in the world at two hundred miles per hour, being completely undone by a girl who knew a little bit about tire wear and psychology.
"You're a terrible liar, Arvid," you teased, your voice softening as you stepped back just enough to give him air, though you didn't let go of the tension between you. "The 'organic discovery' for the sponsors? The 'human interest' content? You just wanted a reason to talk to me without a camera in your face."
Arvid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for minutes, a small, crooked smile finally breaking through the remnants of his nervousness. "Guilty as charged," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then snapping back to your eyes with a sudden, renewed focus.
He didn't move away; instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a register that felt like a secret shared in the middle of a storm. "But for the record, the strategy worked. You're still here."
The moment was shattered by the distant, distorted crackle of a walkie-talkie from the corridor and Marcus's muffled voice calling out for them, sounding increasingly impatient.
A sudden jolt of adrenaline hit you, and you realized with a dizzying rush that you were currently tucked away in a blind spot of the paddock, completely alone with an F1 driver.
"What do you want to do?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you looked from the distant call of the social media manager back to the raw, expectant look in Arvid's eyes.
"Well, I didn't kidnap you not to get your number," he joked, though the playful glint in his eyes was underscored by a desperate kind of hope.
He reached into the pocket of his racing trousers and pulled out a phone, holding it out with a hand that still trembled slightly, the screen glowing white against the dimming light of the balcony.
You took the device, your fingertips brushing his as you typed in your digits, the small contact of skin-on-skin feeling like a final confirmation of something neither of you had dared to name.
You handed it back, noting how he stared at the screen for a heartbeat as if he were verifying a winning lottery ticket before slipping it back into his pocket with a satisfied sigh.
Before he could find the words to invite you back, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin radiating against your lips.
"Wipe it off before Marcus sees and thinks you've had some kind of allergic reaction to the excitement," you whispered with a playful grin, glancing back toward the corridor where the search party was likely closing in.
Arvid stood frozen, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as he instinctively touched the spot where your lips had lingered, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face.
He looked like a man who had just experienced a sudden loss of traction at three hundred kilometers per hour, completely blindsided by the sudden shift in momentum.
"Y/N! Arvid! If you've eloped, please just let us know so we can update the press release!" Liam's voice boomed from the end of the hallway, followed by the rhythmic clicking of Marcus's gimbal as the camera rounded the corner.
Arvid quickly straightened his posture, though the dazed, smitten expression remained etched into his features as he stepped back to lead you toward the light.
He paused for a split second, glancing back at the secluded nook and then at the bewildered look on Marcus's face. "Sorry about that, we just got lost," Arvid lied with a sudden, newfound confidence, throwing a casual arm over your shoulder to guide you back into the flow of the group.
He used the excuse of the confusing motorhome layout to mask the lingering scent of your perfume on his collar, his thumb tracing a small, hidden circle against your arm that only you could feel.
As the walk back to the main paddock continued, the air seemed to vibrate with a different kind of energy, the professional distance between driver and fan having dissolved into something far more precarious.
You walked in a comfortable silence, your shoulder brushing his with every step, while Sarah kept shooting you knowing looks that suggested she had seen every single micro-expression of the last ten minutes.
By the time the five of you finally stepped back into the plush, white-walled sanctuary of the hospitality suite, Marcus was already repositioning his lighting for the final shot.
Liam stepped center-frame with a mischievous grin, leaning in toward the camera as Arvid slid in beside him, his arm still draped loosely and possessively across your shoulders.
"Alright, that's a wrap on the exclusive behind-the-scenes look!" Liam announced to the lens, his voice booming with theatrical energy. "Now, for the moment of truth—Y/N, Sarah, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the tour? Be honest, or Arvid might actually cry."
Sarah didn't hesitate, giving a thumbs-up and a laugh that suggested the chaos of the afternoon was a ten out of ten.
You felt Arvid's gaze shift from the camera to you, his eyes searching yours for an answer that had nothing to do with the garage or the telemetry screens.
You leaned toward the microphone, a playful glint in your eyes as you caught the way his grip on your shoulder tightened slightly. "The technical side was a solid eight," you teased, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum, "but the personal guidance? That definitely earns a bonus point."
The video cut and Sarah was thanking Liam for the tour while Marcus began packing away the gimbal, his movements efficient and detached.
The artificial bubble of the 'content shoot' burst, leaving the five of you in a sudden, heavy silence that felt far more honest than the noise of the crowd.
Sarah’s voice drifted over the sound of the receding crew, but your focus was entirely on the way Arvid was looking at you—no longer as a driver to a fan, but as a boy who had just discovered something he wasn't prepared to let go of.
"Do you… do you actually think the bonus point was…?" Arvid started, his voice barely a thread, his gaze dropping to the polished floor.
He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching against the seam of his trousers as he struggled to find the words. "I mean, if you were just being nice for the camera, I probably wouldn't… it's just that the way you said it sounded… real."
The suddenness of his vulnerability caught you off guard, the confident facade of the "predator" from the stage now completely replaced by a boy who looked like he was holding his breath for a signal that might never come.
You reached out and gently caught his hand, your thumb grazing the back of his knuckles in a slow, rhythmic motion.
"Arvid, look at me," you whispered, waiting until he finally lifted his eyes, his pupils wide and searching. "I don't do 'nice for the camera'—I'm a psychology student, remember? I'm far too observant for that."
"Oh," he breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. He looked away for a split second, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register that made the bustling paddock around you feel miles away.
You giggled before leaving, "i'll text you before the race," as you stepped back from him, the distance between you feeling like a physical ache the moment you broke contact.
You gave his hand one last squeeze, a silent promise that the chemistry you'd sparked in the shadows of the motorhome wasn't just a fluke of the adrenaline.
"Come on, let's get out of here before the crowds swallow us whole," Sarah said, hooking her arm through yours and steering you toward the exit.
As you walked with Sarah back to the garage to retrieve your bags, she didn't even let you speak before leaning in with a predatory grin. "So, are we just going to ignore the fact that you basically just seduced the next big thing in Formula 1, or are we going to talk about how he was looking at you like you were the only person in the entire stadium?"
"I don't even know what happened," you admitted, your voice breathless as you felt the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. You leaned your head against Sarah's shoulder, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a dizzying sense of disbelief.
"One minute I'm explaining tire compounds, and the next, he's taking me to a secret balcony and looking at me like… well, like I actually mattered."
"Did he actually give you his number, or did you just imagine the part where he looked like a lost puppy?" Sarah asked, her eyes dancing with mischief as she practically skipped toward the luggage area.
"Because if you're lying, I'm claiming the bonus points for myself, and if you're telling the truth, you've officially won the weekend without even needing a ticket to the final lap."
"He did, and for the record, he was the one who was nervous," you replied, glancing back over your shoulder to see Arvid still standing by the motorhome, a solitary figure amidst the chaos of mechanics and engineers. "He’s not exactly the 'cool, collected' type when the cameras aren't rolling, which is honestly the most surprising thing about the whole day."
The walk back to the garage was a blur of neon colors and the scent of burnt fuel, and just as you retrieved your belongings, you and Arvid found yourselves side-by-side once more.
You settled into a quiet corner of the garage, the air thick with the rhythmic thrum of air guns and the frantic energy of the final preparations, and as you turned toward the monitor, the drivers' parade started as you watched on the screen.
Seeing him there, waving to the crowd with that practiced, professional smile, felt like watching a different person entirely—the public face of a rising star, while you held the secret of the shaking hands and the whispered confessions.
Afterwards, the drivers headed to their final debrief to review the strategy one last time before disappearing into their private rooms to change into their race suits.
As you waited by the hospitality entrance, you felt the vibration of your phone and quickly typed out a message.
“Don’t let the nerves get to you out there. Just remember the 'calculated risk' part. Good luck, Arvid,” you sent, watching the three dots appear almost instantly.
His reply was short but breathless: "I've got the best kind of luck on my side today. See you later."
The tension in the paddock shifted into a heavy, electric silence as the engines began to scream in unison, a primal roar that vibrated through the very soles of your shoes.
You watched from the pit wall, your knuckles white as you gripped the railing, tracking the blue-and-yellow blur of the RB car as it sliced through the air at Copse.
Every time he braked late into a corner or danced the car on the edge of the gravel, your heart hammered against your ribs, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, terrifying understanding of the stakes he played for every single Sunday.
When the checkered flag finally waved, the roar of the crowd drowned out the telemetry, but you didn't need the big screens to know the result.
He had secured 3rd place, a staggering achievement for a rookie that represented the best score of his career and a seismic shift in the team's standings.
The paddock erupted into a frenzy of celebration, the engineers screaming into their headsets as Arvid’s car slowed, the blue-and-yellow livery dusted with the grit of a hard-fought battle.
You were screaming with Sarah in the garage, the two of you clinging to each other in a chaotic blur of adrenaline and sheer disbelief as the roar of the fans surged through the open bays like a tidal wave.
Your voice was gone, replaced by a raw, throat-tearing cheer that competed with the high-pitched whine of the cooling engines, both of you jumping in synchronized frantic energy as the telemetry screens flashed his final position in bold, triumphant digits.
"I can't believe he actually did it, Y/N, he actually pulled it off!" Sarah yelled over the noise, her face flushed with a reflected victory.
You didn't answer immediately, your eyes locked on the monitor where Arvid was climbing out of the cockpit, his movements slow and heavy with exhaustion, the helmet still obscuring his face but his body language radiating a sudden, violent release of tension.
Despite the euphoria, you felt a sudden, grounding chill as you watched the swarm of PR agents, engineers, and eager journalists descend upon him like a pack of wolves.
You knew the machinery of a podium finish; the immediate debriefs, the mandatory weighing, the endless cycle of flashing bulbs and rehearsed quotes that would stretch well into the night.
You knew it would be a long time before Arvid would have time to breathe, let alone find a quiet moment to reach for his phone and text you.
While the team celebrated in the inner sanctum of the garage, you drifted toward the fan-zone barriers, letting the adrenaline settle into a warm, buzzing glow.
You spent the next few hours immersed in the electric camaraderie of the crowd, swapping theories about the final lap with a group of Swedish fans who had flown halfway across the world to see him.
By the time the sun began to dip, you had exchanged Instagram handles with a few fellow psychology students who had also won the competition, turning a whirlwind of professional chaos into a genuine circle of new friends who were just as shell-shocked by the day's events as you were.
"Do you think he's actually going to remember us in the middle of all that champagne and flashing lights?" Sarah asked, leaning her head against your shoulder as you both walked toward the parking lot, her voice sounding tired but satisfied.
You looked down at your phone, the screen still dark, the silence of the device contrasting sharply with the lingering roar of the engines. "He'll remember," you replied, though a small, cautious knot of doubt tightened in your stomach.
"Arvid doesn't do things by halves; if he can handle a three-hundred-kilometer-per-hour slide into a hairpin, he can manage a text message."
Your phone suddenly buzzed, the vibration jarring against your palm.
It was a message from Arvid: “Please tell me you haven't gone home yet. I can't deal with the PR people for another second. Meet me in my garage? I'll make sure the security lets you back in.”
You stared at the words, a small, triumphant smile tugging at your lips. The "predator" was officially off the clock, and he was calling for a rescue.
Sarah caught a glimpse of the screen over your shoulder and let out a low, dramatic whistle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. He’s literally a podium finisher and he’s already acting like a lovestruck puppy," she remarked, stepping back and beginning to veer toward the ride-share area.
"Look, I love a good romance, but I am physically exhausted and my feet are killing me. You’re on your own for this one—go get your man, and just make sure you text me every single detail tomorrow morning. I'm going home to sleep for a decade."
As you waved her off and turned back toward the paddock, the atmosphere had shifted from the chaotic noise of the race to a heavy, expectant stillness.
The crowds were thinning, leaving behind a trail of confetti and discarded programs that crunched beneath your sneakers. Passing through the security gate felt like crossing a border into a private world, the silence of the cooling engines creating a strange, cathedral-like hush.
Your heart began to race again, not from the adrenaline of the track, but from the anticipation of seeing him without the helmet, without the cameras, and without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
You navigated the labyrinth of the garage, weaving past stacks of carbon-fiber winglets and rows of pristine tool chests, until you spotted a slumped figure tucked away in the shadow of a towering pile of Pirelli softs.
"Got you," you whispered, reaching out to tap his shoulder. Arvid jumped, nearly slipping off the tire wall, but as his gaze cleared and landed on you, a look of pure, unfiltered relief washed over his face.
You opened your arms wide, and he didn't hesitate, lunging forward to pull you against him; you melted into the hug with a long, shuddering sigh, your head resting against the cool fabric of his team kit while the scent of Nomex and sweat clung to him like a second skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes bloodshot from the exertion of the race but shimmering with a quiet intensity.
"I thought they'd never let me get away," he murmured, his voice raspy and stripped of the polished confidence he'd used for the press. "Every time I tried to slip out the back, some journalist would appear out of thin air asking about my sector three times. I think I actually started hallucinating the sound of your voice over the team radio."
You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the cavernous, empty garage, and reached up to brush a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead.
For a moment, the prestige of the podium and the roar of the thousands of fans felt like a distant, irrelevant memory, leaving only the two of you in the dim light of the paddock, caught in the fragile space between a public triumph and a private longing.
"I… I didn't know if you'd actually come back," Arvid murmured, his voice dropping to a hesitant, fragile register as he looked down at his shoes, his fingers nervously picking at the velcro of his racing suit.
You shifted your weight, suddenly feeling the familiar prickle of shyness return, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I told you I'd text you… though I didn't think you'd actually be hiding behind a pile of tires."
He let out a small, self-conscious chuckle, glancing at you through his lashes, and for a few seconds, neither of you knew where to put your hands, the electric tension between you thickening into a heavy, sweet silence.
"I know the way today went though, this probably feels weird and sudden—" Arvid ranted, his words spilling out in a hurried, anxious rush as he finally looked back up at you. "The podium, the cameras, the whole… 'organic' thing with Marcus. I just don't want you to think this was all some PR stunt or that I'm just riding the high-"
"Arvid," you interrupted softly, the shyness making your voice tremble just enough to match his. "Stop thinking for a second."
You stepped into his space, the air between you humming with a different kind of frequency than the race track, and leaned in to press a lingering, tentative kiss against his cheek.
He froze, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually forget how to breathe, his face flushing a deep, vivid crimson that put his team colors to shame.
"I… I didn't think you'd actually…" he started, his voice cracking slightly. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with a clumsy movement, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips.
"You're not… you're not just being nice because I got a trophy, are you?"
You felt a soft giggle bubble up in your throat, your own gaze dropping to the scuffed toes of your shoes as you murmured, "Maybe the trophy helped, but you're the one who's actually a calculated risk."
Arvid let out a nervous, airy chuckle, the sound echoing softly in the hollow garage. "Would you want to go out tomorrow then? With me, of course," he asked, his eyes flickering back to yours with a tentative, hopeful intensity.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, the shyness returning in a wave. "Where to?" you asked softly.
Arvid opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, his expression blank as he realized he hadn't actually thought this far ahead. "Umm… the skatepark?" he finally suggested, his voice sounding uncertain.
You beamed at him and replied, "Okay! I've never been to any skate park or rode a skateboard before," which earned a surprised, genuine grin from him.
The prospect of a skatepark felt absurdly grounded compared to the high-velocity glamour of the paddock, and the contrast made the moment feel even more real. He reached out, his fingers tentatively brushing against your wrist, a silent request for connection that felt more honest than any podium celebration.
"I can teach you," he whispered, "or we can both just fall over together."
You laughed, the sound filling the space between you, and for the first time that day, the noise of the outside world—the PR agents, the telemetry, the crushing weight of expectations—felt completely irrelevant.
As the security guard gave a distant, impatient shout from the garage entrance, reminding Arvid that his debrief was still pending, he didn't move to leave immediately.
He stayed anchored in your space, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in the dim light. He stepped back slowly, his hand sliding away from yours with a reluctant hesitation, leaving a cold void where the warmth had been.
"I'll text you the time," he promised, his voice regaining a hint of that "predator" confidence, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed the boy who had just been rescued from a pile of tires.
"Wait, are you actually a good skater, or is this just another 'calculated risk' where you're hoping I won't notice you falling?" you teased, stepping back toward the garage exit.
"Hey, I have a very high center of gravity and a lot of balance," Arvid retorted with a playful scoff, though he was already imagining the sheer chaos of trying to balance a novice on a board. "Just don't expect me to catch you every single time you wipe out—though, knowing me, I probably will."
"Is that a challenge?" you asked, crossing your arms and tilting your head. "Because if we're talking about risk management, I think my psychology degree gives me a strategic advantage in predicting exactly when you're going to lose your balance."
He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that didn't belong in a press conference, and for a moment, the gap between a global sports star and a university freshman vanished entirely. . . .
@not.y/n
liked by not.y/n, sarah.b, arvid.lindblad and 5,746 others.
Summary: You and Oscar have been shipped by your friends and they have a plan
Song: Don't · Bryson Tiller
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 1.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock at Silverstone is a sensory overload: the high-pitched whine of engines testing, the smell of burnt rubber and expensive espresso, and the constant, rhythmic thrum of adrenaline.
For you, it’s home. As a strategist for the team, your life is measured in milliseconds and tire degradation curves.
But lately, your life has been measured in something else: the way Oscar Piastri looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.
You’ve been friends for two years. You’ve shared post-race beers in humid motorhomes, navigated the chaotic airport lounges of the calendar, and laughed until your ribs ached after disastrous qualifying sessions.
But your friends—a tight-knit group of engineers and media personnel—have decided that "friends" has become an obsolete label.
They’ve been whispering, nudging, and orchestrating scenarios that feel less like accidents and more like a carefully constructed social experiment.
"You’re staring," a voice drawls.
You blink, snapping your gaze away from the McLaren garage where Oscar is currently debriefing with Mark Webber.
You turn to find Sarah, your best friend and the team’s lead aerodynamicist, grinning at you with the expression of a cat who has spent far too long eyeing a particularly plump canary.
"I’m looking at data," you lie, clutching your tablet to your chest like a shield.
"The data is in the garage, darling. You’re staring at the driver," Sarah says, bumping your shoulder. "And today is the day. We’re tired of the dance. We’ve set the stage."
"What stage?" you ask, a cold prickle of dread mixing with the heat of anticipation.
"The gala dinner tonight. The charity auction. We’ve managed to 'accidentally' arrange the seating chart so that you and Oscar are at the head table. Alone. Well, not alone, but—"
"Sarah, if you rigged the seating chart, I’m going to kill you."
"It’s for your own good," she chirps, already walking away to check on a piece of sidepod geometry. "Wear the navy dress. The one that makes you look like you own the pit lane."
The gala is held in a ballroom that feels miles away from the grit and grime of the race track. The air is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
You feel out of place in your navy silk dress, your heels clicking against the marble floor with a precision that mimics your own mental spreadsheets.
When you reach the head table, you find him already there. Oscar is wearing a charcoal suit that fits him with a terrifying perfection.
His hair is slightly tussled, his tie loosened just a fraction—the only sign that he’s been battling the corporate world all day.
He looks up, and his face softens, that characteristic calm settling over his features like a blanket.
"You look…" He pauses, searching for the word, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbone before snapping back to your face. "You look incredible."
"And you look like you’d rather be anywhere else," you tease, sliding into the chair beside him.
"True," he laughs, a low, melodic sound that makes your pulse hitch. "But if I have to be anywhere, I suppose this is the best table."
As the dinner progresses, you realize the extent of your friends' plot.
The table, which was supposed to seat eight, is conveniently occupied by only four people—you, Oscar, and two high-ranking team sponsors who spend the entire meal engrossed in a deep, private conversation about stock portfolios, effectively ignoring you both.
It is a bubble. A perfect, secluded bubble in the middle of a crowded room.
The conversation flows easily, as it always does. You talk about the track, the upcoming triple-header, the ridiculousness of the media circus.
But there’s a current running beneath the surface—a layer of subtext that hadn’t been there a week ago.
"You’ve been distracted all night," Oscar says, leaning in closer. His cologne, woodsy and sharp, hits you all at once. "Is it the race? Or is it… us?"
"Us?" You mirror his posture, the distance between you narrowing until you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Don’t act like you haven’t noticed, Y/N. Your friends have been hovering like vultures for weeks. Pushing us together, leaving us in rooms, 'accidentally' sending us the same itineraries."
He smirks, a playful, self-deprecating light in his gaze. "I think they’re tired of playing wingman."
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "You noticed?"
"I’m a racing driver. Observation is half the job." He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist, a touch so light it could have been a draft of air. "Are you annoyed?"
"A little," you confess, your heart hammering against your ribs. "But mostly… I’m relieved."
"Relieved?"
"That I wasn't just imagining it," you whisper.
Oscar’s expression shifts. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a quiet, searing intensity. He doesn't pull his hand away.
Instead, he turns his palm up, his fingers looping around your wrist, his thumb tracing the soft skin there. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"You were never imagining it," he says softly. "I’ve been trying to find the right moment for months. But with the racing, the pressure… I didn’t want to ruin the friendship if I was wrong."
"You weren't wrong," you say, your voice barely audible over the clinking of silverware and the low buzz of the room.
"Good," he says. He stands up, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "This place is stifling. Come with me?"
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Just out of here."
You don't hesitate. You leave your clutch on the chair and follow him through the crowd. You catch a glimpse of Sarah near the bar, watching you two with a triumphant, shit-eating grin.
You shoot her a look—a mix of fake-annoyance and genuine gratitude—before disappearing into the cool night air of the terrace.
The Silverstone night is crisp, the sky a vast stretch of velvet peppered with stars. The sound of the party is muffled now, replaced by the distant chirp of crickets and the wind rustling the trees.
Oscar stops at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the darkened expanse of the track. He looks small against the vastness of the circuit, yet entirely at home.
"I hate playing games," he says, turning to face you. "I like things clear. I like things honest."
He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until there is almost none left. He’s looking at you with that same unwavering focus he uses when he’s eyeing a corner, when he’s setting a fastest lap.
"I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time," he continues, his voice rough. "You’re the first person I want to talk to after a win, and the only person I want to be around after a crash. You’re my favorite part of all of this."
You reach out, your hand finding the lapel of his jacket. "Oscar—"
"Don't," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Just… can I?"
You answer by closing the gap.
The kiss is tentative at first, a discovery, then deepens into something urgent and hungry. It tastes like the wine you shared at dinner and the cooling night air.
His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his touch firm and possessive. It’s better than any thrill the track has ever given you—a different kind of speed, a different kind of precision.
When you eventually pull apart, you’re both breathless. Oscar rests his forehead against yours, a soft, genuine smile breaking across his face.
"So," he whispers, his nose brushing against yours. "The friends were right."
"Don't ever tell them," you laugh, breathless, your hands still tangled in his tie. "They’ll never let us live it down."
"I think," he says, kissing the corner of your mouth, "I can live with that."
Behind you, back in the ballroom, you know the group is watching. You know there will be questions tomorrow, knowing smirks, and endless 'I told you so's.'
But as Oscar takes your hand and pulls you away from the gala, walking toward the quiet sanctuary of the pits, you realize you don’t care.
For the first time in your career, the race is over, the checkered flag has fallen, and you’ve already won. . . .
