♡˖ MUNDANE |
Summary: Mundane things they love doing with you or seeing you do.
Pairing: grid x female!reader | lh44, cs55, mv3, cl16, gr63, ln4, op81, ob87, ka12
Warnings: fluff, mundane things, language, more fluff, endearments, fluff fluff fluff. LEO MENTIONED!! hella cheesy and sentimental. suggestive (Charles and oscar) IF U SQUINT ENUFF. Pictures from Pinterest
Words: 7.4k
A/N: no, i did not nclude the other drivers, not because I hate/dont like them, but because I'm not knowledgeable enough of them. + idk if anyone had done this before, but oh well 🤷🏻♀️. Also, this is my first time making something like this, what would you call this kind of fic? Imagine? One shot? Preferences? But one thing for sure that it took me a long ass time to finish it.
— requests are open!
ooi. lewis hamilton
— unraveling his braids
The only sound filling the quiet spaces of the living room was the soft, ambient hum of your laptop, drifting through a playlist of low-fidelity tracks that felt more like a heartbeat than music.
You were melting into the cushions of the couch, while Lewis sat on the floor right in front of you. His back was settled firmly against your shins, your legs bracketing the broad, familiar frame of his upper body. It was a position you both knew by heart—the universal signal that the two-week mark had arrived, and his scalp was finally ready to be released from the tension of his cornrows.
"I look forward to these days," Lewis murmured, tilting his head back against your knees to look up at you upside down.
"Getting your braids undone?" You laughed softly, your fingers already finding their rhythm at the crown of his head. "We do this every fortnight, baby. You’d think the novelty would have worn off by now."
You leaned down, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his forehead. Lewis let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as his eyes fluttered shut.
"It’s not about the novelty," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register he only used when he was completely relaxed. "It’s just... it’s become our routine. I love it. I love you."
"So cheesy," you chuckled, though your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. "But I love it too. And I love you more."
"Debatable," he muttered, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Maybe you two were growing older, or maybe the fast-paced, loud chaos of his world just made these quiet, domestic anchors feel incredibly sacred. It’s the mundane things—the unglamorous, repetitive bits of love—that wind up building the safest spaces.
Your fingers worked with practiced, gentle skill. You used the tail of a comb to meticulously loosen the tightly woven patterns, mindful of the sensitive skin near his nape.
"Ouch—okay, gentle, tiger," Lewis winced slightly as you hit a particularly stubborn knot near the back. "I need that hair for the weekend."
"Oh, stop being a baby," you teased, lightly tapping his shoulder. "If you didn't leave the product in it for so long, it wouldn't be a bird's nest at the roots."
"It's a very expensive bird's nest," he shot back, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.
"Well, the expensive bird's nest is currently shedding all over my sweatpants," you retorted, though your hands never stopped their soothing, rhythmic motion.
As the braids unraveled, his hair began to puff out in tight, crimped waves, full of texture and volume. You ran your fingers through the newly freed sections, massaged his scalp with the pads of your fingers, and watched the tension leave his face entirely.
Lewis let his head fall completely back against your lap, staring up at the ceiling with a look of pure, unadulterated peace. The world outside could wait; right here, in the quiet swell of the music and the soft tangle of his hair, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.
oii. carlos sainz jr.
— cooking
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Carlos’s knife against the wooden cutting board was the heartbeat of the kitchen. In the background, a pot of water sent up a lazy, rolling simmer, a low hum that softened the quiet evening. You stood at the stove, gently turning over ingredients in a pan that filled the room with a rich, savory aroma—something that smelled so good it felt almost too perfect for a Tuesday night.
You shifted your weight, balancing like a flamingo with your left hand braced against the cool marble counter and one foot tucked against your opposite calf.
Suddenly, the rhythmic chopping stopped.
The abrupt silence made you glance over. Carlos was leaning against the counter, the knife resting idle beside a pile of perfectly diced onions. He was just looking at you. His eyes, warm and dark, held a distinct, soft sparkle of pure adoration.
"What?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Can you pass me the salt?" You pointed with your wooden spoon toward the shaker sitting just behind him.
He reached back, grabbed it, and handed it over without once breaking eye contact. He just kept standing there, a soft smile playing on his face.
"Carlos," you said, shaking your head.
"Hm?" he hummed, the sound low in his chest.
"You're staring," you raised your eyebrows, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "Do you need something? Am I burning it?"
"Nothing. No, it smells perfect," his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I... you look really good cooking."
You glanced down at yourself, let out a soft laugh, and gestured to your outfit. "Carlos, I'm wearing oversized gym shorts and a t-shirt that has a literal bleach stain on the hem. Mi cariño, what exactly is special about this?"
"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounded register he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're standing in my kitchen, making dinner. I love it."
He closed the distance between you, his footsteps quiet on the tiled floor. Stepping up behind you, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smelled like garlic, clean laundry, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne.
"We do this almost every day now," you murmured, leaning back into his solid warmth but keeping an eye on the pan.
"And I love it every single day."
"Don't you ever get bored of it, though?" you asked. You tilted your head sideways, lifting your chin to look up at his jawline. "The routine of it all?"
"Do you?" he countered softly.
Before you could answer, he pressed a tender, lingering kiss into the crown of your head, then rested his chin right there, using you as his personal headrest.
"No," you admitted, your heart doing a familiar, happy flip. "I love cooking with you."
"And I love watching you do it," Carlos said, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the quiet, domestic safety of the room. "I love you."
"I love you more," you said, turning off the burner. "Now move your chin, giant, or we're going to be eating burnt garlic.”
iii. max verstappen
— grocery shopping
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed a quiet, sterile tune, casting a bright glare over the polished linoleum floors.
Logically, you and Max didn't need to be here.
Max had a team of people who could orchestrate a full pantry restock with a single text message, but you had insisted. To you, love wasn’t just built in the quiet corners of his Monaco apartment or amidst the deafening roar of the paddock; it was built here, arguing over breakfast brands in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. It was the only place where no one expected him to be a champion—just a guy holding a wire shopping cart.
Max had whined about it the whole way down, of course, offering a theatrical sigh as he grabbed a cart. But you knew him. You saw the way his shoulders dropped the moment you walked through the sliding glass doors, the way he subtly shielded you from the occasional wandering glance of a stranger. He loved the mundane reality of it just as much as you did.
Right now, you were anchored in the frozen aisle, standing before a wall of glass freezers lined with a colorful mosaic of frozen comfort food. You pulled open the heavy door, a rush of artificial winter spilling out against your skin. You reached in and grabbed a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, a box of breakfast sausages, and a sleeve of frozen hash browns, stacking them neatly in your arms.
"We don't need all of that, schat," Max said from behind the cart, his hands loosely gripping the handlebar. He looked entirely out of place among the frozen peas and waffles, yet completely at home next to you.
"I don't need it, but you do," you countered, sliding the freezer door shut with your elbow before drifting toward the next section. "Have you seen the inside of your fridge lately? Because I have. It looks like a vending machine sponsored exclusively by Red Bull. It’s becoming hazardous to your health. What would your trainer say?"
Max let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, rolling the cart a few inches closer to follow your steps. "And you think processed food is a health cure?"
"Don't complain," you smiled, opening another freezer door and unceremoniously tossing a pack of premium hot dogs into the cart. They landed with a dull thud right on top of the hash browns. "I know for a fact you eat these when you think I'm not looking."
Max opened his mouth to defend his honor, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. He let out a soft huff, a quiet surrender. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They're efficient."
You let out a laugh—hearty, light, and completely unbothered by the chilly air of the aisle. It was a sound that seemed to cut right through his usual guarded exterior, and you watched the remaining tension leave his jaw. He melted, his expression softening into that private, boyish warmth he only ever showed you.
"You're very lucky I love you," he murmured, shaking his head as he nudged the cart forward, his eyes locked onto yours.
"I should hope so," you teased, turning around to face him fully, a playful glint in your eyes. "You did just asked me to marry you a few weeks ago. It would be a bit awkward if you changed your mind over frozen sausages."
Max rolled his eyes—a dramatic, harmless gesture—but the sudden, bright flash of the silver band on your finger caught the grocery store light, making him smile anyway.
"I love you," you added softly, your tone shifting from teasing to something deeply tender as you reached out to lightly tap the tip of his nose.
"I know," he said, catching your hand for just a brief second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go so you could keep scanning the shelves. He followed a step behind you, content to be the keeper of the cart, navigating the small, ordinary aisles of a life you were building together, one grocery trip at a time.
oiv. charles leclerc
— bathing leo
The quiet luxury of the bedroom was suddenly pierced by a very distinct, very un-luxurious aroma.
“Baby, you smell bad!” you dramatically exclaimed, extending your arms to lift Leo into the air before his fluffy, four-legged self could collapse onto your clean duvet. The little dog blinked innocently down at you, completely oblivious to the fact that he currently smelled like a walking diaper disaster. “Oh, sweetie, what did you roll in?”
“What? I literally just showered!” Charles’s voice echoed from the hallway, dripping with wounded pride.
You heard the distinct rustle of a wrapper—he was undoubtedly in the kitchen, hunting down his afternoon chocolate stash. A moment later, he walked into the bedroom, his brows furrowed in deep offense, a half-eaten bar of chocolate in hand.
“Not you,” you laughed, shifting the furry culprit so he was propped against your hip. “It’s Leo. I think he desperately needs a bath.”
Charles took one step closer, caught a whiff of the air, and visibly winced. “Ah. Mon dieu. Shit, I forgot to book his appointment at the groomer’s, didn't I?” He immediately fished his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen. “I’ll call them now. They can take him, surely.”
“Nah, don't bother,” you said, cooing softly at Leo, who was trying to lick your chin. “It’s already late, Charles. The vet and the groomers are probably closed by now anyway. It's totally fine, I can just wash him here.”
Charles paused, looking up from his phone with a frown. “Bébé, you don't need to do that. It’s a mess. He’s a nightmare when he’s wet.”
“C’mon, it’s just a little water,” you insisted, giving him a reassuring smile.
After a few more rounds of gentle arguing, Charles finally succumbed to your stubbornness. You marched into the master bathroom, armed with a tiny plastic basin you had painstakingly excavated from the depths of Charles’s hallway closet—a chaotic storage space filled with old racing trophies, random charging cables, and far too many unnecessary gadgets.
You set the basin in the center of the spacious shower, adjusted the water temperature until it was perfectly lukewarm, and gently lowered Leo into it. The moment the detachable shower head clicked on, the little dog froze, looking at you with the ultimate betrayal written all over his face.
Unbeknownst to you, Charles hadn't gone back to his chocolate. He was leaning casually against the marble doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching the scene unfold.
He had seen you wash Leo once before, months ago, after a chaotic, muddy run through the park when the groomers were fully booked. Seeing you do it again now—completely unbothered by the impending mess, your sleeves rolled up, talking to the dog in that soft, ridiculous voice you only used at home—made something shift in his chest.
A heavy, sweet wave of adoration hit him so fast it almost made his knees weak. The fast-paced, loud, adrenaline-fueled chaos of his racing world completely faded into the background. This was the real stuff. It was so incredibly mundane, yet so profoundly grounding.
“Okay, buddy, just a little soap,” you murmured, massaging the puppy shampoo into his fur until he looked like a tiny, pathetic polar bear.
Suddenly, Leo tensed.
“No, no, Leo, don’t you dare—”
Before you could finish the sentence, the dog executed a violent, full-body shake. A torrential downpour of soapy water spray erupted across the bathroom, covering the glass mirrors, the tiled walls, and most notably, the entire front of your shirt.
“Non!” you gasped, throwing your hands up too late.
From the doorway, Charles let out a bright, melodic laugh that echoed off the tiles.
“You’re going to need a shower of your own after this,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he walked over to hand you a dry towel.
You wiped a stray bubble off your cheek, shaking your head as you shot him a playful smirk. “Shame. You’ve already showered and changed.”
Charles stepped into the shower enclosure, completely unbothered by the wet floor. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your damp back, ignoring the fact that your shirt was soaked. He tilted his head down, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“I will gladly take another shower just so I can join you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register that made your heart skip. “I love you like that. Mess and all.”
“Mhm? Is that an offer, Leclerc?” you chuckled, turning your head slightly to catch his lips.
“Always,” he whispered, smiling into the kiss while Leo whimpered below you, demanding to finally be dried off.
oov. george russell
— folding laundry
The low, rhythmic chime of the dryer signaled the end of its cycle, leaving a heavy, comforting silence in its wake. It was a Monday morning, the kind where the world outside felt entirely distant. Inside, the bedroom smelled deeply of lavender detergent and warm fabric.
You pulled the massive, plastic basket into the center of the room, tipping it over until a mountain of fresh laundry tumbled out onto the carpet—a warm, chaotic heap of cotton, linen, and soft knits.
George was sitting on the edge of the mattress, scrolling idly through his phone. He wasn't busy, a rare occurrence in his tightly scheduled life, so when he saw you drop down onto your knees to tackle the pile, he quietly slipped his phone into his pocket and slid down onto the floor beside you.
He had never really given much thought to the anatomy of a household chore. To him, laundry was a functional necessity, a task usually relegated to the background of his hyper-focused world. But as he sat there, picking up a rogue pair of socks, a sudden, heavy wave of warmth caught him entirely off guard.
There was a strange, poetic architecture to the scene. You were already in your element, efficiently turning a chaotic jumble of fabrics into neat, sharp-edged squares. You reached into the pile and pulled out one of his oversized, faded team t-shirts. Instead of folding it, you set it aside in a distinct, isolated pile on your left.
“George,” you called out softly, breaking his trance. He had been staring at your hands. “Can you hand me the other basket for the whites?”
He shook himself out of his daze, immediately reaching for the plastic handle. “Here. Actually, let me take over. I'll do them.”
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you took the basket. “No way. We can do it equally. Team effort, Russell.”
“I am highly efficient at folding,” he pointed out, his tone shifting into that signature, slightly posh, competitive register. “My straight lines are unmatched.”
“We’ll see about that,” you teased, tossing a crumpled pair of his sweatpants into his lap. “Prove it.”
For the next ten minutes, the bedroom was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of domesticity—the crisp snap of fabric being shaken out, the smooth slide of hands smoothing out wrinkles against the carpet, and the quiet sliding of the dresser drawers.
George watched you out of the corner of his eye. You were completely unbothered, sitting cross-legged in a pair of soft shorts and a sweatshirt that you had undoubtedly stolen from his closet six months ago. As you leaned forward to organize his sweater drawer, sliding his knits by color, the domestic safety of the moment hit him again, sharper this time.
“You look incredibly pretty,” he blurted out. The words left his mouth entirely without his permission, completely bypassing his usual analytical filter.
You paused, a half-folded polo shirt suspended in your hands. You turned your head, looking at him with an amused, raised eyebrow.
“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself,” you teased, nudging his knee with your foot. When his expression remained intensely earnest, your smile softened. “I’m kidding, handsome. What’s with the random compliment?”
“Nothing,” George said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more grounded register. He rested his forearms on his knees, a pair of folded boxer shorts still held loosely in his hand. “You just look really... homey. Sitting there, folding my clothes and arranging them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don't know. It caught me by surprise.”
You chuckled, a warm, hearty sound that echoed softly against the wooden furniture. You set the polo shirt into the drawer, smoothing the collar down. “So, seeing me handle your laundry is highly romantic to you, is it? Good to know my domestic skills are so deeply appreciated.”
“Extremely,” he insisted, a boyish, un-studied smile breaking across his face. The rigid, professional posture he held at the racetrack was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed slouch that he only ever used when it was just the two of you. “It’s very special.”
“Very special, huh?” You smiled, turning back to the mountain of clothes. You reached for the isolated pile on your left—the one containing his oversized t-shirt—and moved it a few inches further away from his reach.
George’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned slightly, his analytical brain immediately spotting the anomaly. “Wait a minute. Why is that shirt going over there? That’s my favorite grey one.”
“It was your favorite grey one,” you corrected smoothly, not even looking up as you picked up a pair of socks. “It is now my official bedtime shirt for the week. The fabric has reached peak softness.”
“That is blatant structural theft,” George laughed, reaching across the pile to try and reclaim it. “I’m helping you fold, and you’re actively robbing my wardrobe in broad daylight.”
“It’s the tax for my labor,” you shot back, slapping his hand away playfully. “Consider it a rental fee.”
He let out a soft huff, surrendering immediately as he sat back on his heels. He didn't care about the shirt; in fact, there was a ridiculous sense of pride that came with seeing you swim in his clothes. He watched you tuck the stolen prize safely away.
“I love you so much,” he murmured, the teasing tone evaporating into something profoundly tender. His eyes were locked onto yours, completely steady.
You paused, holding a pair of rolled-up socks, matching his gaze. The playful air between you softened into something quiet and sacred.
“I love you so much more,” you challenged softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Statistically impossible,” George replied, a faint, adoring smirk returning to his lips as he reached into the basket for the very last piece of clothing. “But I’ll let you believe it for now.”
ovi. lando norris
— eating breakfast
The rhythmic click-clack of a computer keyboard and the neon glow of dual monitors used to be Lando’s entire definition of a late night—and conversely, the reason his mornings barely existed. Before you, breakfast wasn't a meal; it was a conceptual myth. He woke up far too late for his manager’s liking and well past his trainer’s patience, usually rolled out of bed with dry eyes from staring at his PC until 4:00 AM, playing whatever game Max Fewtrell had dragged him into.
Now, he was sitting fully conscious at a solid oak dining table he couldn’t actually remember ever using for its intended purpose, eating actual food with you.
He had woken up early—not because of a screaming phone alarm or a demanding schedule, but because the warm, buttery aroma of toast and brewing tea had drifted into the bedroom and gently nudged him awake. Bleary-eyed and pulling a hoodie over his head, he had padded down the hallway to find you in his kitchen. You were completely barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing nothing but one of his oversized team shirts that swallowed your frame and pooled halfway down your thighs.
Watching you stand there, completely at ease in his space, a sudden, quiet epiphany had struck him right in the chest: You needed to live here. It wasn't just about the luxury of a home-cooked meal; it was the realization that he wanted you anchored in his life on this exact level. He wanted the ordinary, unglamorous, beautiful routine of sharing an apartment with you, talking about absolutely nothing and everything all at once while navigating the quiet corners of a normal day.
“You're up early,” you said, turning around with a wooden spatula in hand and offering him a soft, sleepy smile. “Did the kitchen noises wake you? I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” Lando murmured, his voice incredibly groggy, deep with sleep as he pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink away the haze. “Smells amazing, honestly.”
“Thank you,” you said, a happy little lilt in your voice as you plated up the eggs. “Tea?”
Lando blinked. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he’d willingly consumed tea in the morning. Usually, his breakfast consisted of a cold, neon-green liquid from a can that probably defied several health codes.
“Yes, please,” he smiled, the sleepiness in his eyes melting into pure warmth as he looked at you. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, baby,” you replied smoothly, pouring the hot water into a mug.
That first morning had been the catalyst. After that, Lando made sure you were in his Monaco apartment every single chance he got, counting down the days between race weekends just to get back to this specific quietness.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to shift. The welcome mat by the front door, which had spent years greeting only one pair of muddy sneakers, now held a second, much smaller pair of slides. The ceramic cup in the bathroom that used to hold just his lonely electric toothbrush was now tangled up with yours. Even the refrigerator, which had previously looked like a commercial storage unit sponsored exclusively by energy drinks, was suddenly stocked with actual, perishable groceries, vegetables, and milk that hadn't expired three months ago.
He loved every single bit of it. For a guy whose life moved at two hundred miles an hour surrounded by screaming engines and constant public scrutiny, this quiet, ordinary domesticity was the ultimate luxury. He trusted you completely, and the changes you brought into his world didn't feel like a compromise—they felt like coming home.
Lando watched you set the steaming mug of tea in front of him, followed by a plate of perfectly done eggs and toast. He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist gently before you could pull away, tugging you just enough so you’d lean down. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.
“What’s this for?” you asked, a playful smile tucking at the corners of your lips.
“Just making sure you’re real,” Lando teased, his voice finally losing its morning gravel. He picked up his fork but kept his eyes locked on yours. “And to make sure you aren't going to charge me a service fee for the tea.”
“Oh, the tea is free,” you chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his messy, uncombed curls. “But if you stay up until 4:00 AM on the simulator again tonight, I’m locking you out of the kitchen tomorrow.”
Lando let out a bright, boyish laugh, pulling you a little closer by the waist of his oversized shirt. “Deal. But only if I get a bite of your toast right now.”
vii. oscar piastri
— watering plants and flowers
Oscar’s apartment used to look less like a home and more like a high-end corporate waiting room. It was a study in aggressive minimalism—stark grey lines, industrial concrete, and furniture that seemed designed more for architectural symmetry than actual human bodies. He had never taken the time to decorate it; he simply didn't possess the domestic bandwidth. Even his sister, Hattie, had once staged a minor intervention, pacing through his living room and threatening to forcibly mail him a colorful rug because the sheer, unyielding bleakness of the space was "painful to look at." Oscar had just shrugged, entirely content with his empty shelves.
Then, came you.
You arrived with a quiet, stubborn mission fueled by soil, greenery, and an abundance of fresh flowers. Before you officially moved in, you began staging a slow, hostile takeover of his minimalist haven, one small pot at a time. Every time you visited, you’d slip a new plant onto a bare surface—resilient, low-maintenance varieties that could survive on nothing but pure spite, clean water, and the faint glow of the LED strip lights beneath his kitchen cabinets.
When the day finally came for you to officially unpack your bags, you brought out the big guns.
Suddenly, the cold corners of the living room were anchored by massive, leafy Monsteras that stretched toward the ceiling. The concrete balcony became a cascading waterfall of hanging pothos, their vines dancing in the Monaco breeze. Delicate orchids appeared on the dining table and the sleek marble coffee table, their structured blooms mirroring his love for precision, while a vase of vibrant tulips sat permanently on your bedside table, catching the morning sun.
But the undisputed crown jewel of the entire collection sat squarely on his bedside table: a small, dark ceramic pot holding a single, meticulously nurtured hibiscus plant. It was the moving-in gift you had ceremoniously handed him, and despite Oscar’s usual hands-off approach to nature, he took agonizingly great care of it. He checked the soil moisture with the gravity of a race engineer analyzing telemetry data. He loved it fiercely.
Lately, Oscar’s absolute favorite thing to do when the racing world paused was simply to sit and watch you tend to your kingdom. There was something profoundly hypnotic about the way you moved from room to room with your small, copper watering can. The fast-paced, high-adrenaline chaos of the paddock—the screaming engines, the media scrums, the constant pressure—all of it completely evaporated against the quiet, rhythmic sound of water hitting soil. It made him feel entirely grounded. He had lived in this apartment for a long time, but it wasn't until he watched you meticulously wipe dust off a broad green leaf that he realized he was finally home.
He had never imagined that something so intensely mundane could become the anchor of his entire week.
“Did you water Mrs. Hibby?” your voice drifted in from the balcony, light and slightly muffled by the glass door.
Mrs. Hibby was, of course, the bedside hibiscus. You had christened the plant on day one, a naming convention that Oscar had initially resisted with a look of pure, deadpan horror. He had complained that calling a flower 'Mrs. Hibby' made him feel like he was trying to get it with an elderly schoolteacher, but like the rest of the greenery, the name had stubbornly grown on him.
“Already did, baby,” Oscar called back, his deep, relaxed Australian drawl cutting through the quiet apartment. He was stretched out on the couch, his long legs draped over the armrest, his eyes tracking you as you stepped inside.
“And did she get any sun—” you started, tilting your head as you nudged a stray strand of hair away from your forehead with the back of your hand.
“Yep,” he cut in smoothly, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Gave her twenty minutes of direct morning light right by the window, checked the drainage, and gave her a polite nod of encouragement. She’s thriving.”
You let out a soft, melodic chuckle, stepping closer to the couch and setting the copper watering can down on the floor. “A polite nod? Wow. You’re really leaning into the plant-dad persona, Piastri.”
“I have a reputation to uphold,” he murmured, reaching out and catching your wrist as you stepped past him. With a gentle, effortless tug, he pulled you down onto the couch, adjusting his position until you were tucked securely against his chest, your back resting against his ribs.
He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, fresh scent of your shampoo mixed with the earthy fragrance of wet soil.
“You know,” you said softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his forearm where it rested against your stomach, “Hattie called me yesterday. She wanted to know if the apartment still looked like an underground bunker.”
Oscar let out a quiet huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. “And what did you tell her?”
“I told her it’s a jungle now. I told her her brother spends his mornings talking to a tropical flower.”
“I don’t talk to her,” Oscar corrected defensively, though the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his smile. “We just have a mutual understanding. She stays alive, and I don’t get yelled at by you.”
“Mhm. Sound strategy,” you teased, turning your head slightly so you could look up at his sharp jawline.
Oscar shifted, his gaze dropping to meet yours. The playful sarcasm in his dark eyes softened, melting into that private, fiercely protective warmth he only ever reserved for the quiet spaces inside these four walls. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and unhurried.
“Thank you,” he whispered against your mouth, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the warm, sunlit safety of the room.
“For what?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.
“For bringing some color in here,” Oscar murmured, his eyes scanning the vibrant room before settling back onto your face. “For making it real.”
viii. oliver bearman
— reading
Reading had never been high on Oliver Bearman’s list of priorities. In fact, it usually ranked somewhere between sitting through data telemetry meetings and watching paint dry. If things got boring, his immediate reflex was to look for a steering wheel, a simulator, or at the very least, a video game controller. Pages of dense, unmoving text just couldn't compete with a life lived at two hundred miles an hour.
But then, the universe decided to shift gears during the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.
The Haas garage was its usual symphony of controlled chaos—air guns whining, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, and engineers staring intensely at banks of monitors. Yet, tucked away in the furthest, quietest corner of the garage, sat an entirely unfamiliar face. You were completely oblivious to the high-stakes madness around you, your knees tucked up to your chest, your nose buried so deeply in a paperback book that the rest of the world might as well not have existed.
As it turned out, your mum was one of the senior trackside engineers, and you had tagged along to visit her at work. Ollie had spotted you the second he walked into the garage, and for a moment, his racing brain completely locked up. You looked so entirely peaceful amidst the roaring machinery. When you finally left later that afternoon, you accidentally dropped your bookmark—a simple, slightly frayed piece of cardstock covered in little painted wildflowers.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and just handing it to your mum to give back to you, Ollie had been stubbornly persistent. He tracked your mum down under the guise of "just being a helpful, polite guy," asking around for your contact information or if you'd be coming back the next day. Your mum, utterly charmed by his polite, boyish demeanor, assumed he was just being an extraordinarily friendly driver welcoming a colleague's family. She had absolutely no idea that Ollie had been completely captivated from the exact moment his eyes landed on you.
It took a year of slow-burning text messages, shared book recommendations that Ollie secretly struggled through just to have something to talk to you about, and a patient, quiet courtship. He waited for you to see him as more than just her mum's polite young driver. He waited until you finally loved him back.
Now, a year into being yours, the fast-paced world of his felt miles away from the quiet sanctuary of his apartment. The rain was drumming a soft, rhythmic beat against the windowpanes, matching the low hum of the city outside, but inside, everything was warm.
You were both squeezed onto his too-small couch, tangled together in a messy, comfortable heap. You were lying on your side, the heavy hardcover book propped up in your hands, while Ollie was molded perfectly against your back. His long arm was draped heavily over your waist, anchoring you to him, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin exposed by the hem of your sweatshirt. His chin was resting right on top of your head, his dark curls mingling with yours, his eyes tracking the lines of text simultaneously with yours. He was supposed to be reading along, but his focus kept fracturing, slipping from the printed words to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, to the soothing cadence of your voice vibrating against his torso.
“You’re not even processing what we’re reading, are you?” you accused him softly, pausing mid-sentence. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him with a knowing, playful smirk.
Caught red-handed, Ollie didn't even try to deny it. A sheepish, boyish smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You were right, of course. The last three paragraphs had been a total blur of syllables that meant absolutely nothing to him. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The sound of your voice reading aloud was a melody he never wanted to turn off; it was a gentle, grounding anchor that could effortlessly send him straight to cloud nine after a grueling week on the track.
“I love your voice,” he reacted, his voice dropping into a calm, quiet register that felt almost foreign compared to his usual upbeat, energetic tone. It was a soft, vulnerable admission, heavy with the comfort of being entirely at ease.
“Just my voice?” you teased, a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest as you nudged his arm with your elbow.
Ollie’s smile softened, turning into something profoundly tender. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer against him, solid and real. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss into the crown of your head, letting his lips rest there for a quiet beat before he spoke.
“I love you. You know that.”
The tease melted away from your expression, replaced by a warm, private sweetness that only ever bloomed when it was just the two of you in the quiet spaces of his home. You rested your hand over his where it lay on your stomach, your fingers interlacing with his.
“I know,” you murmured softly, turning your head just enough to catch the edge of his jawline with a tender smile. “I love you, too, Mr. Bearman.”
ix. andrea kimi antonelli
— cleaning
Cleaning from top to bottom was a sacred, albeit exhausting, monthly ritual inside the sun-warmed walls of the apartment you shared with Kimi in San Marino. It was a chore born out of necessity, but over time, it had evolved into something entirely yours—a rhythm of spray bottles, damp rags, and bare feet sliding across freshly scrubbed tiles.
You and Kimi had known each other since the diaper days, a lifelong bond forged by fate and the fact that your parents were practically attached at the hip. For a long time, you were just an inseparable duo, the best friends who shared secrets and scrapes. But somewhere between the clumsy growing pains of adolescence and the quiet realization of adulthood, the lines had shifted. The comfortable gravity of friendship deepened, pulling you both into something profoundly romantic, soft, and lovely.
Growing up, whenever your families would escape to the coast to the summer home your parents had built together, the chore assignments were always entirely predictable. You and Kimi were invariably banished to the living room and hallways, tasked with scrubbing every baseboard until it gleamed, while the adults held court in the kitchen, seasoning the grill, and prepping the pool and hot tub. Back then, the coast trips were heralded by the sounds of the two of you aggressively whining, dragging your feet, and turning a simple dusting session into a dramatic, coordinated protest.
But now? Now, you were doing it entirely willingly. There was no parental oversight, no grumbling over unfair divisions of labor. You had chosen a life of independent together-ness, and taking care of these few square meters of the world felt less like work and more like a quiet celebration of the home you were building.
The deep, melancholic swell of Hozier was blasting from the Bluetooth speakers, a familiar fixture from your personal playlist that Kimi had grown to secretly love, even if he pretended to only tolerate it. You were currently armed with a microfiber cloth, aggressively wiping down the surface of the coffee table, while Kimi was leaning on the handle of the mop, supposedly tackling the hallway but mostly just watching you move.
The transition from cleaning to chaos happened entirely without warning. As the melody shifted into a slow, sweeping rhythm, Kimi dropped the mop against the wall with a hollow clack. He sauntered over, his heavy socks sliding effortlessly across the slick floor, and caught you by the waist before you could finish polishing the wooden surface.
"Oh, so we're abandoning our responsibilities now?" you teased, though you didn't pull away as he tucked your hand into his.
"Just taking a mandated union break," Kimi murmured, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He didn't wait for your approval. With a sudden, playful burst of energy, he pulled you into his chest, counting a completely fabricated rhythm under his breath as he began to lead you in a clumsy, slow dance. The space between the sofa and the television became your ballroom. Kimi guided you with a theatrical flourish, his hand firm on your back as he twirled you around, the fabric of your oversized t-shirt swirling around your thighs. You were laughing now, the breathless, genuine kind of giggle that always bubbled up whenever he let his guarded, quiet demeanor slip into something entirely silly.
Emboldened by his own rhythm, Kimi grinned, his eyes sparkling with a sudden, competitive spark. "Hold on," he warned.
"Kimi, wait—"
Before you could brace yourself, he attempted a dramatic, sweeping dip. The execution, however, lacked structural integrity. His sock lost its grip on the freshly polished tile, his knees buckled slightly under the sudden shift in weight, and instead of a breathtaking, cinematic swoop, the two of you went down in a tangled, undignified heap. The living room rug cushioned the blow, but the sheer gravity of the failure had you gasping for air from laughter.
"Absolutely terrible," you gasped, resting your forearm over your eyes as you lay flat on your back, your shoulders shaking. "I am deeply offended. You cannot dip me to save your life."
"I absolutely can!" Kimi retorted defensively, sitting up and brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He looked entirely unbothered by his bruised ego, a boyish, stubborn grin spreading across his face. "That was a practice run. The floor is a hazard zone."
To prove his point, he scrambled back to his feet, stretching a hand down to you. You took it, letting him hoist you back up into his space. Your feet had barely found their footing before he pulled you flush against him again.
"Watch and learn," he whispered.
This time, his footing was secure. With a deliberate, smooth sweep of his leg, he leaned you back over his arm. It was a perfect, steady dip—the kind that suspended you in mid-air, your heart doing a familiar, dizzying flip as you looked up at him. Your hair brushed the floor, but you felt entirely weightless, anchored completely by the solid, unwavering grip of his arm around your waist.
"See? I told you I could," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, private register reserved only for the space between the two of you.
Before you could offer a witty comeback, Kimi leaned down, and his lips found yours. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck, fingers tangling into the short hairs at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. The playful energy of the living room instantly softened, melting into something deeply romantic and tender. The music continued to hum in the background, a beautiful soundtrack to a completely ordinary afternoon, but right there, suspended in his arms on a half-cleaned floor, everything felt perfectly, beautifully still.
