daisy chain daydreaming

You tap your foot against the durasteel floor of the marauder, the walkway extended before you, almost pointing to the cause of your annoyance striding towards it. Crosshair wears a tipsy smirk as he stares up at you, beginning his walk of shame up the steps. From this angle you catch sight of lipstick marks trailing down his neck and disappearing beneath his blacks. So that’s where he’s been.

“You’re late.” Your head shakes disapprovingly, the lasting effects of all the free drinks at 79’s only made you more irritable. You and Crosshair did typically get along - just not when he decided to make you all late for a mission just so he could enjoy having some girl wrapped around him.

“What, jealous?” Crosshair’s taunting voice carries over Wrecker’s snores as you pass by the larger clone slumped over in his chair, he had fallen asleep about twenty minutes prior, when the alcohol at least still had you feeling giddy.

“No, I’m annoyed because now we’re running behind because you decided it would be a good idea to kriff around with a Civ!” You drop yourself into your seat, yanking down the bar to secure yourself, and Crosshair does the same next to you.

Tech, the only one who’s entirely sober, has already begun preparations for take off, eyeing the pair of you between his ritualistic preparations for the Marauders flight. Always the designated pilot, it allowed the rest of you to soak up the drinks at 79’s and sleep them off before you all have to serve your duty in the war. You were thankful of his reliability every time he caught you from stumbling around like a newborn deer, and would wrap his arm around you to guide you back to the safety of the ship on those nights.

“Maybe if it were you, you wouldn’t be so uptight.” His voice is humorous as he knocks his leg with your own, but you’re not in the mood to laugh with him.

“Kriff off, Crosshair.” You bite back before Hunter, despite being the most inebriated out of all of you, finds it in himself to pull out the sergeant card to get the two of you to stop bickering.

Crosshair was right though, you were jealous, but not in the way he thinks. Your mind flashes back to sweating bodies, discomfort, and ultimately - disappointment. Sure, you were still young, and given that you were following these soldiers into battlefields on any given day it didn’t exactly give you the opportunity to meet any men. Despite these factors, you were beginning to think there was something wrong with you.

Not a moment longer past the time you’re safely in hyperspace, you make an exit towards the bunks, not caring for any eyes that may be staring at your back before the door closes.

A soft knock echoes through the room and you take a deep breath as you hit the control panel, ready to tell Crosshair to go wash away the heavy smell of cheap perfume that now lingered in the cockpit, but the door opens to reveal someone else.

“It is just me.” He steps inside and you move back to the bunk, flopping down onto your back with as much grace as a bird shot from the sky. He closes the door behind him and takes a seat on his bunk, directly across from your own.

“Where are the others?” You’re surprised none of them have rushed in yet to claim their bunks for the night.

“They are already asleep,” Tech informs you, fiddling with his gloves in the absence of the data pad usually present in his hands. “You are upset.”

“Yes.” You confirm with a huff.

“Because of Crosshair's comment on your lack of sexual activity?” Credits to him, he had it right. Any of the others would have guessed it was just the delay the sniper had caused you, but not Tech. Despite his aversion to most people, he did understand you, and you liked to think you did in return.

“Why are you here, Tech?” You roll onto your front and groan into your pillow, which of course being GAR issued, barely muffles the noise.

“Why are you upset?” Tech sounds genuinely confused at your misery.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” You half laugh at his question.

“Because you have not engaged in intimate activities since-“ You cut him off before he can make you feel any worse about the night in question, how he had bumped into a man who never even got the opportunity to get out of his own pants. You remember how Tech had actually blushed, and was unable to make eye contact with you the whole next rotation.

“Because I can’t,” The words are spilling out to your friend before you can stop them, the alcohol in your brain only making them slip out easier. “I’m broken, Tech.” You pull yourself up to sit on the edge of the bunk to mirror him, the room spinning as you do so.

“I..” Tech pauses, his eyes momentarily flicking downwards to your thighs as he adjusts his goggles. “I am afraid I do not understand what you mean.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now.” You let yourself fall back onto the bunk once more, “I just can’t… finish.”

“Ah, you cannot achieve an orgasm.” The realisation in Tech’s voice makes your face burn.

“Oh maker.” You rip the pillow out from under your head and instead pull it over your face, as if you were a child hiding from an imaginary monster. But instead you’re just wishing the void of space would swallow you whole and save you from this conversation with Tech.

“It is nothing to be embarrassed about, would you say it is because your previous sexual partners were unsatisfactory or do you believe you are experiencing physical-“ He begins to reel off questions, each one making your face burn hotter.

This was not a conversation you wanted to be having with anyone on the team, let alone Tech, who would now just look at you as a broken part to a ship begging to be fixed.

“Tech!” You cut him off. “Just, leave, please?” You plead into the pillow, hoping he’s understood you.

You can’t see him, but you hear the soft creak of the bunk, and footsteps leading towards a door which opens with a soft whoosh.

He pauses, “I thought you wanted my help.” He lingers for a moment, until he’s sure you won’t respond, before leaving you once more.

Following the next mission, once you and Crosshair begrudgingly made up over Caf and teasing Hunter for being a lightweight before the batch and yourself as their medic head into battle, the Marauder is silent. For once, there is no bickering between the brothers, all of them having left to enjoy some local festivities on the planet you were stationed on for this evening. The only noise echoing throughout the bunks is the faint buzz of a vibrator and your shallow breaths.

You had it perfect, you’d showered, read a book to clear your mind, and even had a small glass of corellian whiskey to yourself. You’d received the bottle as a thank you for aiding an injured civilian and meant to save it for a special occasion, but something inside you said now was as good a time as any, especially considering the odd blaster bolt that came too close for comfort over the last few rotations.

All of the effort seems to be for nothing as you twist your free hand in the sheet, not in pleasure, but at irritation of your struggle for release. The other hand circles the edge of the vibrator over your clit, occasionally dipping down in an attempt to push it inside of you, but you’re not nearly relaxed or wet enough.

You’re so caught up in your frustration that you don’t hear the knock on the door, and the only warning you get to cover yourself comes from the light flooding into the room from the cockpit.

You jump upright, clutching the thin blanket to your bare chest and rip the vibrator away from between your legs.

“Oh,” Tech stammers from the doorway, still armoured and only lacking his helmet and gloves, his face flushed red. “I believe I have interrupted you.” Seemingly unsure of what to do, he slams his hand to the control panel, locking you both in the warm room.

“Yes.” You gulp, heart racing in your chest, fumbling to turn off the vibrator while it continues to buzz, as if it were laughing at you for your inability to cum.

“Any luck?”

Is he seriously asking you if you came?

“Tech.” You give a light warning, finally managing to switch off the device.

He gives you a questioning look, and you groan, sliding down against the mattress in defeat “No.”

Maybe it was the built up tension in you, or the fact you had a few drinks prior to your attempts but suddenly the confession works its way out of your throat.

“It’s just so frustrating, no matter what I do it’s not enough!” Tears threaten to fall and you scrunch your eyes closed.

“As I said before, I could help if you let me.” His voice is soft, level.

“How?” Your eyes open with an empty laugh and you find yourself staring at him, “Sorry, but I don’t exactly think the basic med training covers women’s intimacy issues, I know mine didn’t.”

“Perhaps I can find out the cause of your issue, if you will allow me to look.” He suggests, kneeling next to the bunk, his tone as casual as if he were discussing an issue with the Marauder.

“You want to watch me?” The words sound even more ridiculous aloud. Tech was your closest friend on the team, surely this would be crossing every line possible.

Tech looks at you with soft eyes full of reassurance, as if reading your thoughts, “I promise that nothing will change between us.”

His gaze is fixed on yours and something in his eyes makes the protest die on your tongue, his hand covers your own that is gripping the blanket to your chest. It feels warm and comforting, and your heart slows at the contact. His other hand presses on top of your knee that peeks out of the blanket, and you can’t recall a time he’s ever touched you with such purpose.

You pause for a moment, suppressing a shiver at the way his thumb brushes comforting circles on your knee, and take the opportunity to look into his eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation. Finding none, with the help of the whiskey you exhale your concerns, ripping off the proverbial bacta patch as you allow him to pull the blanket away from your bare body.

When you close your eyes in a mixture of arousal and embarrassment at Tech seeing you this way, you miss the way that his own widen in slight surprise and adoration, before darkening with lust.

He gives an encouraging nod as he applies light pressure to the inside of your knees, guiding them apart. If he feels any of the embarrassment that you do now, he certainly doesn’t show it with his gaze fixed between your legs.

“To begin, I would like for you to attempt to make yourself orgasm.” Your eyes snap open again, stomach tensing at his request. “Breathe, dear, it’s just us.”He quickly calms you, continuing to brush his thumb on your knee, and seats himself at the end of your bunk.

It’s just Tech, you’re friends, it’s not weird, he’s here to help you. You remind yourself, drawing a breath at his expectant eyes before trailing a hand down your body, which is entirely bare despite the fact that Tech remains near fully armoured. You think you hallucinate the small gasp from the end of the bunk when your fingers reach their destination, dragging slow circles on your clit.

“Would you like me to record this? I know that I typically record everything without asking but I need your consent in this situation.” His offer is uncharacteristically fast for the man who is used to keeping a level head in the middle of battle.

You bite your lip, your head already nodding before your brain can formulate an answer, and your cheeks flush at how the knowledge of Tech recording you makes your stomach tighten and wetness coat your fingers.

You withdraw your hand from between your legs, waiting as he presses the button on the side of his goggles and a small red light assures you it’s recording. “Continue what you were doing before.” He instead presses the vibrator to your open hand, turning the device on.

“Remember what I just told you, dear, breathe.” Tech reassures you once again when your breath begins to quicken. He keeps one hand on your knee as the other guides your own to position the vibrator on your clit, and you suck in a sharp breath at the contact, suppressing the moan begging to be heard.

“It is just us here, you do not have to silence yourself.” Tech's voice is hushed, but still floods your ears. The sound of it only makes you tighten around nothing.

You try to tell him that you can’t, that it’s bad enough that you’re in this situation, but that he’s helping you with it. Tech, your teammate, your friend. But, you’re not given much choice when he guides your own hand to add pressure with the vibrator, “Tech!”

You swear you hear his breath hitch at the unrestrained cry, or perhaps it’s your own.

“Very good.” He withdraws his hand.

Has his voice always sounded that tense?

You continue your movements, allowing your head to fall back on the thin pillow which seems to be the only thing grounding you to the real world at this moment. You let out a small moan when the bunk creaks and a bare hand presses to your inner thigh, forcing one of your legs into a position that will allow him a better view.

“It seems you are approaching an orgasm.” He encourages, leaning forward in quiet awe. You don’t respond, you already know what’s coming, just as you’re steps away from the precipice, the fire diminishes, leaving your body flushed and unsatisfied.

“That’s what I mean, Tech.” Your eyes finally settle on him between your legs, and despite your failed attempt to cum, you involuntarily tighten. You switch off the vibrator, discarding it on the bunk, but Tech raises his hand to catch your wrist before you can pull the covers over your naked form.

“Fascinating,” You’re about to kick him away at that, until his next statement renders your body useless. “May I try?” Techs hand guiding your own was one thing, but for him to use his own on you has your heart going faster than a pod race. You don’t know what’s possessed you, but your body responds before your mind has made its decision and you’re giving him a small nod.

He waits a moment, eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation, before he’s leaning back to take his position between your legs, which had closed again on instinct.

“Please, relax for me.” He gently pulls apart your thighs, his fingers immediately moving upwards, lightly grazing over the soft skin.

“You appear to be wet enough, no issue there.” His thumb smears the fluid up your slit to your clit, opening you up in one motion and you gasp. Your hands find purchase in your bedsheets, and it takes every bit of control in you to not chase after his hand with your hips.

“No lessened sensation either, good.” He mumbled to himself but you can barely hear him over your own heartbeat as he moves to drag slow circles around your clit with his thumb, earning him another moan from you. At the noise, you catch Tech briefly adjusting his codpiece, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“Tech?” Even in battle you’ve never been so breathless, and he gives a strained hum of acknowledgment, his middle finger dipping back down to circle your entrance.

“You can take it off if it’s - ah!” The words are stolen when his finger sinks into you effortlessly, and your hand grips the metal edge of the bunk while your brain scrambles to find the end of the sentence. “If you’re uncomfortable.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but the soft click of his codpiece being released signals that he’s heard you, and he presses his hips back to the mattress. Once certain you have adjusted, he adds another finger, working them inside you with a scissoring motion that has you chanting his name in a breathless prayer.

You become increasingly aware of how he’s grinding himself into the mattress with every strangled moan and whimper he can pull from you, slipping from his usual control.

You can barely begin to form words at this point beyond his name, your senses instantly zeroing in on the harsh warm breath fanning across your exposed cunt as his fingers withdraw from you. You barely get a moment to glance at his head between your thighs before his lips press to your clit, tongue darting out to taste you.

“Is this okay?” Tech’s voice is rough, nearing Crosshair levels of hoarse.

“Maker, yes Tech.” You practically sob, and just as your mouth utters his name, he’s diving in, tongue exploring you like a man starved. At the intensity of the sensation, your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he’s fast to hitch one of your legs over his shoulder while pinning the other one down to keep you open for him.

A thin layer of sweat forms on your skin as your hands tightly grip the sheets at his attention to your cunt. First, he’s zeroing in on your clit, licking and sucking in a way that almost has you in tears, before he moves down to dip inside you, tasting you, and then repeats the process.

The orgasm is approaching fast like a wave threatening to break at shore, but then the tide begins to recede. Tech seems to sense this, pulling back and releasing your clit with a wet noise that seems to echo through the empty room.

”Look at me, Mesh’la.” Tech demands and you meet his burning gaze. Through the flames in his goggle framed eyes, you find encouragement. He wants you to watch him. Once he’s sure you’re focused on him, he returns his mouth to your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth whilst delving two fingers inside.

You don’t know what possesses you to make the offer, whether it be the haze of pleasure in your mind, or the way his hips continue to rut into the mattress, but it spills from your lips without any filter “Tech, I can help you too- Kriff!” He sucks particularly hard at this before releasing you so he can listen to your offer, “But I’m not sure how to take care of us both at once, or if you want to…” you gesture down to his erection straining against his blacks, “Help your own situation?”.

You practically see the cogs whir in his mind, and he sits up, beginning to rid himself of his armour. “Stand up.” He orders, and despite the way your legs shake, you obey the order, gripping the upper bunk for support.

You stare at Tech, slightly confused, and a small smile graces his lips, still coated with evidence of your arousal. He’s bare from the waist up, and his hands now make steady work of removing his lower blacks in one swift motion. Your attention is caught by the sight of his cock standing proud against his tanned abdomen. You knew biologically there is some correlation between height and the size, and with Tech being tall that he would be above average, but your lips fall open at the length. You still weren’t sure what he had in mind, but you’re suddenly unsure you can handle it.

“Do not be intimidated, Cyar’ika, I will help you.” One hand reaches to your jaw, brushing a thumb along it almost lovingly while the other settles on your hips, pulling you down onto the bunk with him. Both hands are now slipping below your thighs, pulling you into a position so that you’re straddling his chest, facing towards the foot of the bunk, facing his cock.

So this is what his solution is.

“Move closer.” Tech’s grip on your hips is as firm as his voice when he tugs you up to his mouth, hot breath fanning across your cunt in another soft warning before his tongue runs over your slit in one strong motion.

Tech seems to be paying attention to the way your legs shake from the effort of holding yourself up, because one of his hands extends to your upper back, pushing you into a position where your breasts press to his stomach. At this new angle, you’re fully seated on his face, and you’re able to wrap a curious hand around his girth to give his cock an experimental tug. The moan that reverberates against your cunt has you sending a thank you to the maker that Hunter wasn’t nearby to overhear the methods his brother was using on you to assist with your predicament.

Tech’s cock is now inches from your lips and you marvel at it momentarily before allowing your tongue to run over the head, beginning to move your hand to at least grant him some relief. He jolts, groaning, and you pull back.

“Are you okay - am I hurting you?” In your limited experience with this, you’d never had any complaints, but now you worry that your partners just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

“No!” He protests immediately, as if you were asking him if he’d like to be executed, “You’re not hurting me, please continue.”

At his insistence, your tongue licks another wet circle over the weeping head of Tech’s cock, and his thighs tense at the effort not to thrust into your mouth. You appreciate the sign of restraint from him and you tighten your hand around the base of his cock, finally taking him into your mouth. The taste and smell of him intoxicate you, igniting memories of every time you’ve stood just an inch too close to each other to the point you could practically inhale his calming presence.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t thought this before, being here, with him. Suppressed thoughts rise to your mind and you close your eyes to bask in the moment with him, like it’s a dream that will be ripped from you.

Due to his impressive length, your lips are barely touching your fingers by the time he hits your throat and you release a drawn out moan, muffled by his cock. He sucks your clit into his mouth at this action, bringing tears to your eyes from the overwhelming stimulation.

You feel him draw his hips back, sliding out of your mouth and allowing you to take a breath before giving a short thrust in to stop at the back of your throat, which causes drool to begin leaking down his exposed cock and on your fingers.

Soon enough, the pair of you are a sight that would make a brothel patron blush. Tech continues his measured thrusts into your mouth and you take it with a moan when he begins to work you on his fingers once more. You can feel yourself practically dripping down his chin, and your stomach begins to tense - until the expected disappointment. Just as you begin to approach that high, it seems to pull further and further away from you once more.

Not again.

Tech seems to have read your mind and agreed with a strained “No,” as he pulls away from your cunt, but the room still echoes with the wet sound of his fingers scissoring into your heat.

“I need your full focus, I will not fail you at this Mesh’la.” He lifts you off his face and you release his throbbing cock from your lips. His grip is firmer than before, likely from the mounting frustration at his incomplete task, as he pulls you to face him. In this new position, you’re straddling him and you can feel the press of his cock to your inner thigh.

“Do you trust me?” There’s determination in his eyes, as if you’re a piece of the Marauder that he needs to fix.

“Always, Tech.” His eyes soften momentarily at this, but he reminds himself of the task at hand and with a speed you’ve only seen him use in battle, he’s flipped you both so you’re pinned underneath him once more.

Now that he’s above you, his length seems even more daunting and your hand grips his shoulder when you feel the head of his cock press to your entrance. Your whole body seems to tense, and you can’t help but dig your nails to his shoulder, which brings his eyes to yours.

“Shh, Mesh’la, that’s it, relax.” Tech’s voice is gentle but authoritative as he instructs you, pressing a kiss to your jaw. Even with his thorough preparation of your body, the stretch as he enters you is overwhelming, and yet, it’s better than anything you’ve ever felt. You had been preparing for the usual pain and discomfort, but this was on the opposite end of the scale.

“Breathe for me Cyar’ika,” he presses another kiss just below your ear and his voice sounds almost strangled. “That’s it, good girl.” He pulls out ever so slightly before rocking his hips back into yours, delving deeper into you.

“Just a little more, I promise, you can take it, you’re-“ a low groan sounds in his throat and you feel his lips ghost against the edge of your ear. “Taking me so kriffing well already.”

Is this the first time you’ve ever heard Tech swear?

He’s entirely inside you and the fullness is now euphoric. Tan skin is coated with a sheen of sweat that makes him look almost angelic, his lips and cheeks flushed from the effort of holding back from pushing you too far when he begins to rock his hips into yours.

A string of Mando’a curses tumble from his mouth as he falls into a rhythm of slow thrusts, keeping the pace your body needs to chase its high that hasn’t quite worn off from all the previous work his mouth set you up for. The precipice is no longer escaping you, he’s keeping you there, dangling you over the edge of it whilst simultaneously grounding you to him.

The room echoes with every gasp, thrust, and moan. It’s some kind of erotic orchestra conducted by Tech to encourage you along, and it’s working. One of his hands tangles in your hair, pulling your head to the side so he can press wet, open mouthed kisses against your pulse point.

Every action that Tech’s making, no matter how small, has you more intoxicated than any drug in existence, and your legs tighten impossibly around his hips in an attempt to keep him close to you. To help you let go.

“It’s okay, you can let go for me, Cyar’ika.” Tech’s reassuring words speaking your own thoughts are all you need to push you over the edge. You’re gasping into his shoulder, and you can’t help but bite into the soft skin with a desperate plea of his name. He shudders at this, slamming into you with now uneven thrusts as he buries his face in your neck.

“That’s it, I’ve got you.” Tech is coherent enough to be guiding you through your own release, despite being overcome with his own. His lust laced voice is all you can hear over the overload of your senses, a sharp whisper in your ear to guide you through this new world of pleasure where you tighten around his cock like you’re trying to keep him deep inside you.

It’s a blissful moment, with Tech entirely spent between your legs, tears rolling down your face and his name still in your mouth. It’s a moment that’s over too soon when he withdraws from you, and you can’t help but moan at the release of fluid between your thighs. Your friend's cum is leaking out of you, only momentarily, because he’s already grabbed his blacks from the end of the bunk to press between your thighs, cleaning the mess from your legs.

“I’ll wash them.” He assures you.

Once satisfied that you’re both taken care of, he lays next to you on the defiled bunk, pulling your half limp body against his. You never thought that Tech would be the kind for intimacy after sex, and yet you can hear his steady heartbeat against your cheek. You’re honoured, almost, for him to hold you like this when he found discomfort in most physical contact.

“I told you that you were not broken, Cyare, I am always correct.” He presses his lips to your forehead, and despite how he’s just brought you to the very brink of what your body could handle, your chest tightens.

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

📍Melbourne, Australia

You're huddled in the darkest corner of the Mercedes garage in Melbourne, your silver shirt dampened with tears as you try to muffle your sobs. The Australian Grand Prix weekend has barely begun, but your heart is 16,000 kilometers away in London, where your five-year-old daughter Amelia is fighting a nasty fever. Your mother had called an hour ago - Amelia's temperature wasn't going down, and she kept asking for you between fitful naps.

The garage is a flurry of activity, with mechanics and engineers rushing around to prepare for the first practice session of the 2025 season. You know you should be at your station, going through the setup parameters with Kimi, who you'd worked with during his F2 championship run at Prema last year. The transition from F2 to Mercedes F1 had been smooth, largely because Kimi had practically begged the team to bring you along when they signed him. But right now, you feel like the worst mother in the world for being so far away from your baby girl.

"Hey, are you alright?"

The soft, distinctly British voice makes you jump. You quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, mortified to find George Russell, your other driver, standing there with concern etched across his features. At 27, he's the same age as you, but while you're a mess of tears and worry, he looks immaculate in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist.

"I'm so sorry," you stammer, trying to compose yourself. "I'm being completely unprofessional. I should be with Kimi, going through his-"

"No, no, don't apologize," George interrupts, crouching down beside you. His eyes are kind, and there's genuine worry in his voice. "Kimi mentioned you seemed upset. He's worried about you too, kept asking if anyone had seen where his 'Team Mom' disappeared to."

You manage a weak laugh at that. Kimi had started calling you that in F2, and the nickname had stuck. "I should go find him, he'll be nervous about his first F1 weekend-"

"He's fine," George assures you. "What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"

The kindness in his voice makes fresh tears well up in your eyes. "My daughter," you manage to say. "She's sick back home in London. She's only five, and I've never been away from her for so long, and now she has this fever that won't break, and I just-" Your voice cracks.

"I didn't know you had a little girl," George says softly. "What's her name?"

"Amelia," you reply, a small smile breaking through your tears at the thought of your daughter's bright brown eyes and untameable curls. "She was so excited when I got this job. She made me promise to bring home one of those tiny Mercedes model cars they give out during race weekends."

George smiles warmly. "I'm sure you have an amazing support system back home helping you out with her?"

You bite your lip, looking down at your hands. "It's just me and her, really. And well, my parents help when they can. I'm a single mum."

His expression shifts to one of deeper understanding. "Oh, I didn't know that. That must be really challenging, especially with a job like this."

"It is," you admit, wiping away another stray tear. "Most days I can handle it, you know? We have our routine, and Amelia's such a good girl. The team at Prema was amazing with her too, always making sure we could manage. But being so far away when she needs me..." You trail off, the lump in your throat growing bigger.

"Listen," George says, his voice gentle but firm. "Being a single parent in F1 is incredibly tough. I can't even imagine how you manage it all. But you're here, following your dreams, showing your daughter that anything is possible. That makes you an amazing mum."

You look at him, touched by his understanding. "It's just... I feel like I'm failing at both jobs right now. I should be focused on the race weekend, but all I can think about is Amelia."

"You're not failing at anything," he insists, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "And you know what? I bet Amelia is going to be so proud when she tells all her friends that her mum works for Mercedes F1. Speaking of which, we definitely need to get her one of those model cars. And maybe a signed cap too?"

You can't help but laugh through your remaining tears. "She'd love that. She's already telling everyone at school that she knows George Russell."

He grins, his eyes twinkling. "Well, now she actually does. Come on, let's get you some water, and you can tell me more about this little fan of mine. I've got some time before practice, and I'd love to hear about the girl who's apparently been spreading my fame in London playgrounds."

As you follow him toward the team's hospitality area, you feel a little lighter. Your worry about Amelia hasn't disappeared, but somehow, sharing it with someone who seems to genuinely care has made it a bit more bearable. Sometimes comfort comes from the most unexpected places, even from a Formula 1 driver in the corner of a garage in Melbourne.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 987,487 others

f1 NEW ADDITION TO THE SILVER ARROWS!

Mercedes F1 Team welcomes YN as their newest Race Strategy Engineer for the 2025 season! The 27-year-old British engineer joins from Prema Racing, where she spent three years working on race strategy and simulation.

Fun facts about YN: First class honors in Mechanical Engineering from Imperial College London Started her motorsport journey as an intern at Sauber in 2020 She was key to Kimi Antonelli's championship last year (he even calls her "Team Mom") She's a mum to 5-year-old Amelia 👶 Youngest strategy engineer on the current Mercedes team

Welcome to the Silver Arrows family, YN! 💫

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username1 love seeing more women in F1! and a mum too, that's incredible!

username2 i already stan her so bad

mercedesmagf1 Welcome to the best team on the grid! 🏁

kimi.antonelli THATS MY TEAM MOM!

username3 impressive cv

username4 One of the minds behind Prema's brilliant season last year! Mercedes making smart moves for 2025

username5 Imperial College London grad 🤓 She's definitely got the brains for this!

username6 THIS DIVA

georgerussell63 Welcome to the team! 🌟

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 54,098 others

yourinstagram First race weekend with @/mercedesamgf1 in the books! ✨

Still pinching myself that this is real. What an incredible start to the season: P3 for @/georgerussell63 and P4 for @/kimi.antonelli! Proud to be part of the team that made this result possible.

Special shoutout to everyone in the garage who made this rookie engineer feel so welcome (especially when I was having a bit of a mum meltdown missing my little one 🥺). The Silver Arrows family is real!

And to my little Amelia back home: Mummy's bringing back some very special presents from George and Kimi (aka Baby Driver) Thank you for being such a brave girl this weekend. You're the reason I push myself to achieve these dreams ❤️

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username1 AWE THIS IS SO CUTE

username2 her little girl must be adorable

georgerussell63 Couldn't have done it without you! See you in China (with presents for a certain little fan )

↳ username1 THE WAY HE SAID LITTLE FAN I'M CRYING

↳ username2 George is so sweet omg

mercedesamgf1 Silver Arrows family forever! 🌟

friend1 So proud of you! Amelia was screaming watching the podium 😂

username3 living the dream! you're such an inspiration!

username4 From one racing mum to another - you're crushing it! 💪🏼

username5 the way the entire F1 community is rooting for you

username6 I BET AMELIA CALLS KIMI BABY DRIVER AHH

kimi.antonelli love you team mom

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📍Shanghai, China

The Shanghai paddock is relatively quiet this early in the morning, and you've found a peaceful corner in the Mercedes hospitality area to have your breakfast while FaceTiming Amelia. She's excitedly showing you her school art project, a rather creative interpretation of a Mercedes F1 car, complete with glitter.

"And look, Mummy! I made George extra tall in the drawing!" she giggles, holding up her artwork where she's drawn a stick figure at least twice the size of the car.

You're in the middle of laughing when a familiar voice comes from behind you. "Did I hear someone say my name?"

Amelia's eyes go wide as George Russell himself appears in the frame, leaning over your shoulder with a warm smile, a coffee in hand.

"George!" Amelia squeals, pressing her face closer to the camera. "I drew you! You're really tall in my picture!"

George laughs, pulling up a chair beside you. "Well, I am quite tall in real life too! How are you feeling now, Amelia? All better?"

"Much better! I got a golden star at school yesterday for my maths!" She beams proudly. "And Sophie believes me now that my mummy knows you because I showed her my signed cap!"

"That's brilliant!" George responds enthusiastically. "You'll have to show me your maths skills sometime."

"Okay, sweetheart," you cut in, noticing the time. "You need to get ready for school now. Be good for Grandma, alright?"

"Okay, Mummy! Bye George! Good luck in the race!"

After you hang up, you can't help but smile at how Amelia has somehow managed to wrap one of Formula 1's top drivers around her little finger without even meeting him in person.

"You know," George says thoughtfully, taking a sip of his coffee, "why don't you bring her to one of the European races?"

You look up from your tea, surprised. "Oh, I... I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, I'd love to, but managing a five-year-old in the paddock while working..."

"Bring her to Silverstone," he suggests. "It's home race, your parents could come too. The team would love to meet her - she's practically our mascot now, the way Toto smiles whenever someone mentions 'George Russell's biggest fan.'"

You laugh, remembering how the team principal had been thoroughly amused by the story of Amelia's reaction to George's message. "She would absolutely lose her mind. She's been begging to see a real race."

"Then it's settled," George says with that characteristic Russell determination. "I'll talk to Toto about getting extra passes for your family. We can set her up in the garage with some headphones, show her the cars up close." He grins. "Plus, I need to see if she's as good at maths as she claims."

"George, you don't have to-"

"I want to," he interrupts gently. "You're part of the team now, and so is Amelia, in her own way. Besides," he adds with a playful smile, "I need to make sure my biggest fan gets the full Mercedes experience, don't I?"

You feel a warm glow in your chest, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you, George. Really."

"Don't mention it," he says, standing up. "Now, how about you tell me more about this artwork where I'm apparently a giant? Should I be concerned about how I'm being portrayed to the next generation?"

As you describe Amelia's creative interpretation of the Mercedes team, complete with glitter and impossibly tall drivers, you find yourself looking forward to Silverstone more than ever. The thought of sharing your new world with your daughter, of seeing her eyes light up at the sight of the cars and meeting the team she's heard so much about... maybe George is right. Maybe it's time to bring your two worlds together.

"Oh, and YN?" George adds as he's about to head to the engineering briefing. "Tell Amelia to practice her maths. I'll be testing her when I see her."

You shake your head, laughing. Who would have thought that your daughter would end up with a Formula 1 driver as her personal maths tutor?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

📍Suzuka, Japan

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 10,985 others

f1updates Spotted: Mercedes driver George Russell grabbing coffee with the team's new strategy engineer YN outside the Suzuka paddock this morning. Could there be a new F1 couple on the horizon?

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username1 omg they look so cute together!! did you see how he's looking at her? 🥺

username2 okayy let's not be weird about this

username3 please chill out they're coworkers grabbing coffee

username4 she's the one who came from prema with kimi right? love seeing her settling in at mercedes!

username5 wait isn't she the single mom everyone was talking about during the melbourne weekend? when george was so sweet about her daughter being sick?

username6 kimi's team mom and george

username7 george russell 🤝 having excellent taste in both coffee and women

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The Bahrain paddock is eerily quiet at 1 AM, most of the team having retreated to their hotels hours ago. The gentle hum of your laptop and the occasional click of your mouse are the only sounds in the engineering room as you pore over tomorrow's race simulations for the hundredth time.

"You do know quali ended six hours ago, right?"

You jump slightly at George's voice. He's leaning against the doorframe, changed out of his race suit into casual wear, looking at you with concern.

"Just want to make sure we've covered all the scenarios for tomorrow," you mumble, stifling a yawn. "Your start position gives us a real chance at a win, I just need to-"

"YN," he interrupts softly, walking over to your desk. "It's 1 AM. The simulations will still be here in the morning."

You shake your head, forcing your tired eyes to focus on the screen. "I'm fine. I just need to run through these few more scenarios. Can't afford to miss anything."

George pulls up a chair, sitting beside you. "Can't afford to, or won't allow yourself to?"

Something in his gentle tone makes your carefully constructed walls crack a little. You sit back in your chair, running a hand over your face.

"I just... I need to prove I deserve this position," you say quietly. "I need this job, George. It's not just about the racing anymore. I have to put food on Amelia's table, pay for her school, her clothes, her future." Your voice catches slightly. "I'm all she has."

"What about her father?" George asks carefully, then immediately adds, "Sorry, that's none of my business-"

"No, it's okay," you say, surprising yourself. Maybe it's the late hour, or maybe it's just George's caring presence, but you find yourself wanting to talk. "He left when I told him I was pregnant. Said he wasn't ready to be a father, that it would ruin his career plans." You let out a bitter laugh.

George's expression darkens. "What a-" he catches himself, but you can guess the word he's thinking of.

"Yeah," you agree. "Anyway, he signed away his rights before she was born. Hasn't seen her once in five years. Doesn't pay any support." You fidget with your pen. "So it's just me. Every promotion, every extra hour, every bit of overtime, it all goes to giving her the life she deserves."

"YN," George says softly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "You're already giving her an amazing life. You're showing her what strength looks like, what dedication looks like. But you can't pour from an empty cup."

Tears prick at your eyes. "I'm just so scared of failing her," you whisper. "Every time I see a bill, or she needs new shoes, or I think about university fees in the future... I can't mess this up, George. I can't let her down."

"Hey, look at me," he says firmly. "You're one of the best engineers I've worked with. Toto wouldn't have hired you if he didn't see that. The team trusts you, I trust you. But working yourself to exhaustion isn't going to help anyone - especially not Amelia."

You wipe away a stray tear. "I just want her to be proud of me."

"She already is," George says with certainty. "I've seen how she talks about you, her mummy who makes the silver cars go fast. But I bet she'd be even prouder knowing her mum takes care of herself too."

You manage a weak laugh. "When did you get so wise?"

"Must be all those post-race press conferences," he grins, then stands up, offering his hand. "Come on. I'm calling you a car, and you're going to get some sleep. That's an order from your driver."

"Oh, pulling rank now, are we?" you tease, but you're already saving your files and shutting down your laptop.

"If that's what it takes to get you to rest, absolutely," he says. As you gather your things, he adds softly, "You know, you're not alone anymore, YN. The team... we look after our own. You and Amelia, you're family now."

Something warm unfurls in your chest at his words. As you walk with him through the quiet paddock, you feel a little lighter, like you've shared some of the weight you've been carrying for so long.

"George?" you say as you reach the paddock exit. "Thank you. For listening, for caring... for everything."

He smiles, that genuine Russell smile that makes his eyes crinkle. "Anytime. Now go get some sleep - we've got a race to win tomorrow. Can't have my strategy engineer falling asleep on the pit wall, can we?"

For the first time in weeks, you fall asleep without worrying about simulations or spreadsheets, George's words echoing in your mind: you're not alone anymore.

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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 67,890 others

yourinstagram Great triple header with a bunch of points for the team ! Super proud of George and Kimi and all the team who makes everything possible. Now it's home time where a certain little girl is waiting for me with hugs and drawings for her favorite drivers 🤍

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username1 WE LOVE YOU YNNN

username2 sometimes i forget that team members have families waiting for them at home and they spend so much time away at races

mercedesamgf1 Proud of our favorite engineer ✨

lando the famous amelia! eager to finally meet her

↳ yourinstagram She says her favorites are the silver arrow boys, but the papaya ones are also cool

username3 amazing job now time to resttt

username4 amelia must love kimi and george i'm crying

username5 you're a super mom! your little girl should be really proud

username6 rest queen you deserve it

kimi.antonelli love you team mom, say hi to my little bestie for me

↳ yourinstagram She says she can't wait to see you, baby driver

georgerussell63 Can't wait for more of Amelia's glittery good luck drawings

↳ yourinstagram She made you extra tall in those again

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You're curled up on your couch in your London flat, finally home after three grueling weeks of racing across different countries. The morning sun filters through your curtains, casting glow over Amelia's curls as she snuggles against you. She hasn't left your side since you got back yesterday, following you around the flat like a tiny shadow, even waiting outside the bathroom door. Now she's nestled into your side, her small hand playing with the sleeve of your jumper, a self-soothing habit she's had since she was a baby when she wants to make sure you're really there.

The TV is playing her favorite morning cartoons, but you can tell she's not really watching. She keeps glancing up at you, as if making sure you haven't disappeared in the last thirty seconds.

"Mummy?" she asks during a commercial break, twisting to look at you. "Does George miss us when we're not at the races?"

You smile at her use of 'us', even though she's never been to a race. "I don't know, sweetheart. Why do you ask?"

"Because you said he asked about me in Japan," she says matter-of-factly. "And he always says hi when you call me from the track." She pauses, then adds, "Sophie says her dad doesn't even remember to call when he goes on business trips."

You pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her head. Sometimes it startles you how perceptive five-year-olds can be. "That's because George is special. And you know what? You'll get to meet him at Silverstone."

"That's so far away," she pouts, crossing her arms. "It's ages and ages away. Does he know I got full marks in maths last week? Mrs. Thompson said my adding up was ex-cell-ent."

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes with a text. Speaking of the devil...

Your heart does a little flip as you read the message.

"Melia?" you say, running a hand through her curls. "How would you like to meet George today?"

The speed at which she sits up is almost concerning. "Really? Really really? Not just on FaceTime?"

"Really really," you confirm. "He wants to get coffee near the park."

Amelia launches herself off the couch, practically vibrating with excitement. "Can I wear my special cap? The one he signed? And my Mercedes shirt? And can I bring my drawings to show him? And-"

"Slow down, love!" you laugh. "Yes to the cap and shirt, and yes, you can bring one drawing. Now go get dressed while I text him back."

Two hours later, you're walking through Hyde Park, Amelia's small hand clutching yours tightly. She's wearing her prized Mercedes cap and has been chattering non-stop since you left home.

"Do you think he's as tall in real life as on TV?" she asks for the third time. "Will he remember that I said his car looked like a rocket ship? Can I show him my times tables? Do you think-"

"Breathe, sweetheart," you remind her gently, amused by her enthusiasm.

You spot him before she does, sitting at an outdoor table of the café. He's dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt, sunglasses perched on his head, looking nothing like the fierce competitor you see at races. He's doodling something on a napkin, and the sight makes you smile - he's nervous too.

"George!" Amelia calls out before you can stop her, and his face breaks into a bright smile as he stands up. He really is impossibly tall, you think, especially from a five-year-old's perspective.

"Hello there! You must be the famous Amelia," he says, crouching down to her level. "I've heard so much about you."

Amelia, usually so outgoing, suddenly turns shy, pressing against your leg. "Hi," she says softly, then adds with determination, "I got all my sums right at school. Even the hard ones with carrying over."

George's laugh is warm and genuine. "Did you now? Well, I brought something to test that." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small notebook and some colored pens. "Thought we could do some racing maths while your mum and I have coffee. What do you say?"

Amelia's eyes light up, and just like that, her shyness vanishes. "Can we do sums about how fast you go? Mummy says you drive at three hundred kilometers per hour sometimes!"

"That's right," George grins. "Should we calculate how long it would take me to drive to the moon at that speed?"

"Don't get her started on space," you warn with a laugh. "We'll be here all day."

Soon, the three of you are settled at the table, Amelia perched on a chair between you and George as he draws race cars and creates simple math problems involving lap times and pit stops. You've ordered coffee for yourself and George, and true to his word, he's gotten Amelia a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

"Right then," George says, drawing a simple track layout. "If I'm two seconds ahead of Max, and each lap takes one minute and thirty seconds..."

"That's ninety seconds!" Amelia interrupts proudly. "Because sixty plus thirty is ninety!"

"Brilliant!" George exclaims, and Amelia beams. "Now, if we do ten laps..."

You watch them interact, your heart swelling. George is surprisingly good with children, patient and engaging as he turns mathematics into a game about racing. He listens intently to Amelia's stories about school, asks her opinions about different racing tracks ("Abu Dhabi looks like a spaceship!" she declares), and seems genuinely delighted by her quick mind.

"Your daughter is brilliant," George tells you during a moment when Amelia is focused on coloring a particularly detailed Mercedes car. "She's got quite the mind for numbers. Wonder where she gets that from?"

"Like mother, like daughter," you reply, then catch him giving you a soft look that makes your cheeks warm.

"Mummy's really good at numbers," Amelia pipes up, not looking up from her coloring. "She helps me count my pocket money and everything. And she knows exactly how many sleeps until every race."

The afternoon passes quickly, filled with laughter and racing stories. George tells Amelia about his karting days, and she hangs on every word, occasionally interjecting with facts she's learned from watching races with you.

"I started racing when I was about your age," George tells her. "Maybe a bit older."

"Really?" Amelia's eyes go wide. "Mummy, can I do racing?"

You see George trying to hide his smile at your slightly panicked expression. "Maybe we can start with something a bit less dangerous," you suggest. "Like your school sports day?"

"Oh!" Amelia bounces in her seat. "George, I'm going to run in races at school! We have a special day and everything!"

"Is that so?" George leans forward, genuinely interested. "When is this big race?"

"Next Thursday!" she says excitedly. "We get to wear our own clothes instead of school uniform and everything! And Mummy's taking the morning off work to watch." She pauses, then adds hopefully, "Will you come see me race? I'm going to run really fast, like you drive."

"Amelia," you start to say, not wanting her to put George on the spot, but he interrupts.

"Well, I'll have to check my schedule, but I'd love to come see you race," George says seriously. "What events are you doing?"

"The hundred meter dash," Amelia pronounces carefully, clearly proud of remembering the proper term. "And the egg and spoon race. And maybe the three-legged race if Sarah wants to be my partner."

"Those are very important races," George nods solemnly. "Almost as important as the British Grand Prix."

"More important," Amelia declares. "Because Mummy says taking part is what matters, not winning."

You catch George's eye over her head, and he gives you a warm smile that makes your stomach flutter.

As the afternoon light starts to fade, you reluctantly check your watch. "We should probably head home, love. It's nearly dinner time."

"Five more minutes?" Amelia pleads, in the middle of showing George her detailed drawing of what she thinks the Mercedes factory looks like (complete with a rocket launch pad, because according to her, race cars are basically rockets).

"Tell you what," George says, "why don't I walk back through the park with you both? It's such a nice evening."

The walk back is filled with Amelia's chatter as she skips between you and George, occasionally holding both your hands to swing herself forward. She's completely at ease now, telling George about her friend Sophie's hamster and how she wants a pet too.

"Maybe a racing dog?" George suggests with a wink at you.

"George!" Amelia says suddenly, stopping in her tracks. "Will you come to my birthday party? It's not for ages and ages, but Mummy says we can have it in the garden and there might be a bouncy castle!"

"Amelia," you say gently, "George is very busy with racing-"

"When's your birthday?" George asks, ignoring your attempt to give him an out.

"In the summer!" she says proudly. "I'm going to be six!"

"I think I might be able to make it," George muses thoughtfully. "If your mum says it's okay, of course."

You're about to remind them both that summer is months away when you reach your street. As you're saying goodbye, Amelia surprises both you and George by hugging his legs. "Thank you for helping me with maths," she says. "And for making the silver cars go fast with Mummy."

George's expression softens as he hugs her back. "Thank you for being such a great student. Keep practicing those sums, okay? I'll need to test you again at sports day."

Later that night, as you're tucking Amelia into bed, she asks sleepily, "Mummy? I like George. He's nice."

You smile. "Yeah, baby. He is nice."

"He listens when I talk," she continues, fighting to keep her eyes open. "And he makes you smile the pretty smile."

You brush her curls back from her forehead, your heart full. "Get some sleep, love."

"Can we see him again soon?"

"We'll see," you say, kissing her forehead. "Sweet dreams, love."

As you close her door, your phone buzzes with a text.

You lean against the wall, smiling at your phone like a teenager. Something warm and hopeful blooms in your chest, a feeling you haven't allowed yourself to experience in a very long time. The way George was with Amelia today, so patient and kind, so genuinely interested in her thoughts and ideas...

You fall asleep that night thinking about George's smile, Amelia's laughter, and the way your little family of two suddenly feels like it might have room to grow.

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liked by georgerussell63, lando and 72,037 others

yourinstagram Someone special showed up to support our champion🥇 Thank you @/georgerussell63 for being such a good sport (literally) and making a little girl's day!

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username1 THIS IS SO CUTE OMFG

username2 IT WAS REALLY GEORGE

kimi.antonelli my team mom and dad being cute again 😎 tell my bestie i'm proud of her medal!!

mercedesamgf1 Our driver taking his coaching duties very seriously!

charles_leclerc this is adorable! congratulations amelia! 🎉

georgerussell63 Best co-pilot ever! Thanks for letting me join sports day, champ!

username3 GEORGE RUSSELL SHOWING UP TO SPORTS DAY AND DOING THE PARENT RACE?? this man is unreal 😭

username4 the way he's just casually becoming dad of the year?? help??

username5 THIS IS NOT REAL

username6 kimi calling them team mom and dad i can't- this family dynamic is everything

username7 the way the entire paddock is just watching these two co-parent at this point

username8 george showing up to support his engineer's daughter at sports day?? this is literally a romance novel

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You're in the Mercedes garage at Monaco, triple-checking the timing screens when Kimi bounces in, still buzzing with energy despite just finishing FP2. At seventeen, he's the youngest driver on the grid, but his talent is undeniable, having him move up to Mercedes feels like watching your second child succeed.

"There's my favorite strategy engineer!" he announces, dropping into the chair next to you. "Where's my bestie? I thought Amelia was coming to Monaco?"

You laugh, ruffling his hair despite his protests. "Silverstone, kid. That's the plan for her first race."

"But that's so far away," he whines, sounding remarkably like Amelia when she's disappointed. "I need her to draw me a good luck picture too. George keeps showing off the ones she makes him."

At the mention of George's name, you feel your cheeks warm slightly. Kimi notices immediately, his face splitting into a mischievous grin.

"Speaking of George..." he starts, wiggling his eyebrows. "I saw you two in the engineering room yesterday. Looking pretty cozy over those strategy plans."

"We were working," you say firmly, though your blush deepens.

"Sure, sure," Kimi nods sagely. "That's why George gets this dopey smile every time someone mentions your name. Because of work."

"Shouldn't you be in your post-practice debrief?" you deflect, trying to hide your smile.

"Oh, I'm gathering important team information right now," he says cheekily. "Like when George is finally going to ask you out properly instead of pretending he needs to discuss strategy at midnight."

You swat at him with your notebook. "Focus on your driving, kid."

"I am!" he protests. "Now let me focus on my other job, getting my two favorite people together." He pauses thoughtfully. "Well, three favorite people. Amelia's my number one, obviously."

"Of course she is," you roll your eyes fondly. "She asked about you this morning, by the way. Wanted to know if her 'baby driver' was being good."

Kimi beams at the nickname. "Tell her I'm being excellent. Unlike some people who keep pining away instead of-"

"Who's pining away?" George's voice cuts in as he enters the garage, and Kimi's grin turns positively wicked.

"Oh, just talking about-"

"Your tire management," you interrupt quickly, shooting Kimi a warning look. "Which needs work, by the way."

Kimi gives you an exaggerated wink before turning to George. "Hey teammate, YN was just telling me about Amelia's new drawing. The one where she drew you holding the trophy in Monaco?"

George's face lights up. "She drew that? Can I see?"

"It's not finished yet," you say, making a mental note to kill Kimi later. "She wants to add glitter."

"Of course she does," George laughs. "Speaking of Amelia, I found this great book about space and racing. Thought she might like it for her school project. I can bring it by later when we go over the quali strategy?"

"Quali strategy," Kimi mouths behind George's back, making kissy faces. You resist the urge to throw your pen at him.

"That would be nice," you say, trying to maintain professionalism despite Kimi's antics. "Thanks, George."

After George leaves, Kimi leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with numbers, you're really bad at calculating how totally in love with you he is."

"Don't you have some sim work to do?" you ask, but there's no bite to it.

"Fine, fine," he sighs dramatically, standing up. "But tell Amelia her baby driver misses her and needs more good luck drawings. And tell her that her future dad is doing great in practice-"

"OUT!" you laugh, pushing him toward the door.

"Love you too, Team Mom!" he calls over his shoulder.

As you turn back to your work, you can't help but smile. Between Amelia's enthusiasm, Kimi's teasing, and George's... everything, your life has become wonderfully complicated.

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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 82,478 others

yourinstagram Couldn't be prouder of these two! P1 for George and first ever podium for our baby driver. Special thank you to a certain 5-year-old whose lucky drawings (and very specific corner-by-corner instructions) clearly did the trick! 💫

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username1 COME ONNNN

kimi.antonelli BESTIE YOUR DAUGHTER IS MAGIC!! her rocket drawings made me faster, i have proof 🚀

georgerussell63 The fairy wings definitely gave us extra downforce today! Thanks chief engineer in training!

mercedesamgf1 Proof that rocket drawings = extra speed

alex_albon Need to know more about these magic drawings tbh 👀

username2 okay but can we talk about how george keeps amelia's drawings in his driver room?? proud dad energy??

username3 MY SON'S FIRST PODIUM 😭 and him immediately showing yn's daughter the trophy i'm deceased

username4 not me crying over kimi calling yn "team mom" and showing off his trophy like a kid who got an A+ 🥺

username5 the cutest f1 family doesn't exi-

username6 LIVING for george and yn trying to pretend they're not basically dating and co-parenting at this point

username7 george russell handsome successful f1 driver who keeps a 5 year old's drawings for good luck?? my heart can't take this

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The Silverstone paddock is buzzing with its usual race day energy, but today feels different. Your parents arrived with Amelia an hour ago, and watching your daughter take in the F1 world for the first time is making you see everything through new eyes.

"And this is where all the computers are," you explain, showing her around the garage. She's wearing her special Mercedes outfit, a miniature team kit that appeared mysteriously in your flat last week (you suspect George), complete with her own headset and passes.

"It's like a spaceship!" she whispers in awe, clutching your hand. "Is this where you make George and Kimi go fast?"

Before you can answer, a familiar voice calls out, "BESTIE!"

Amelia whirls around to see Kimi bounding toward her, already in his race suit. "Baby driver!" she squeals, running to hug him.

Kimi scoops her up, spinning her around. "Finally! I've been waiting forever to see you! Your drawings give me good luck, you know."

"Really?" Amelia beams. "I made you a new one for today! Mummy, can I show him?"

You pull the carefully protected drawing from your bag. Kimi and George's cars racing with what appears to be rockets attached to them. Kimi examines it with exaggerated seriousness.

"This is perfect! The rockets are exactly what we need," he declares. "Should we go put it up in my driver room?"

Amelia looks at you questioningly. "Can I go with Kimi, Mummy?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Grandma and Grandpa can go too." You turn to your parents, who are watching the scene with amused smiles. "I need to check some things before the race."

"Come on, bestie," Kimi says, still holding Amelia. "I'll show you where I keep all your other drawings. They're my lucky charms!"

As they head off, Amelia chattering excitedly about her rocket design theories, you hear your mother say to your father, "Did you ever think our granddaughter would have a Formula 1 driver as her best friend?"

You're reviewing last-minute strategy changes when George arrives, looking sharp in his race suit but slightly nervous.

"Is she here?" he asks, peering around the garage.

"Kimi kidnapped her," you laugh. "Something about lucky charm drawings."

George's face falls slightly. "Oh. I, uh, I got her something. For her first race." He pulls out a small package wrapped in silver paper.

"George..." you start, touched by his thoughtfulness.

"GEORGE!" Amelia's voice echoes through the garage as she runs back in, Kimi following with a grin. She launches herself at George, who catches her easily.

"Hello, trouble," he says warmly. "Ready for your first race?"

"Kimi showed me his room! And all my drawings are on the wall! And he has a special chair that spins around and around and-"

"Breathe, love," you remind her, sharing an amused look with George.

"I have something for you," George tells her, setting her down and handing her the package. "Every proper race engineer needs one of these."

Amelia carefully unwraps it to reveal a personalized notebook with "AMELIA - Race Engineer in Training" embossed on the cover, along with the Mercedes logo.

"It's just like Mummy's!" she gasps, running her fingers over the lettering.

"Look inside," George encourages.

She opens it to find the first page filled with messages - one from George, one from Kimi, and to your surprise, messages from Lewis Hamilton, Toto, and the entire engineering team.

"Now you can take notes during the race," George explains. "Study all our moves so you can tell us what we did wrong later."

Amelia hugs the notebook to her chest, then throws her arms around George's neck. "Thank you! I'm going to write down everything! Even when you make mistakes!"

"Especially when he makes mistakes," Kimi adds with a wink.

The pre-race preparations fly by, and before you know it, it's almost time for the drivers to head to the grid. Your parents have taken Amelia to their seats in the garage, where she's already making serious notes in her new notebook.

"Right," Kimi says, giving Amelia a high five. "I've got my lucky drawing, so P1 is basically guaranteed."

"No way," George argues playfully. "My drawing has more glitter. That's worth at least half a second per lap."

As they head out, you hear Amelia ask your mother, "Grandma, why does George look at Mummy the same way Prince Charming looks at Cinderella?"

You feel your face heat up as Kimi bursts out laughing and George nearly trips over his own feet.

The race itself is intense. Through it all, you can hear Amelia's running commentary behind you:

"Mummy told George to go faster and he did!" "The red car is being silly, Mummy make them move!" "Baby driver is catching up!"

And even though the race itself didn't bring good results for the team, the smile on George's face when he hugged you and Amelia after the race could probably light up London after dark.

Hours later, you're packing up your things in the engineering room after a long day of post-Silverstone analysis when George appears in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He's changed out of his team gear into casual clothes, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Hey," he says, lingering in the doorway. "Good day?"

"Yeah, just finishing up the race report," you nod, trying not to notice how good he looks in that light blue jumper. "You?"

"Same, all done with media." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Listen, I was wondering... would you like to get dinner?"

"Oh," you say, checking your watch. "I should probably get home soon. It's Amelia's bedtime and-"

"I meant just you and me," he interrupts softly. "Like... a date."

You freeze in the middle of putting your laptop away, your heart suddenly racing. "Oh," you say again, eloquently.

"I know this great place in Mayfair," he continues quickly, as if afraid you'll say no if he doesn't get all the words out. "And I already talked to your mum, she said she'd love to watch Amelia for the evening. If you want to, that is. No pressure at all, I just thought... well, after everything, and Silverstone was amazing, and you're amazing, and-"

"George," you cut off his rambling with a smile. "Are you asking me on a proper date?"

He runs a hand through his hair, that endearing nervous gesture you've come to love. "Yes. Very badly, apparently."

"You talked to my mum?" you ask, amused and touched.

"Well, yeah," he admits, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "She cornered me after the race actually. Said something about being tired of watching us dance around each other and that she'd happily babysit any time."

You laugh, remembering your mother's knowing looks throughout the race weekend. "Did my five-year-old and my mother conspire to set us up?"

"Don't forget Kimi," George grins. "He's been sending me links to romantic restaurants for weeks. And threatening to tell Amelia all my embarrassing stories if I didn't, and I quote, 'get my act together.'"

"Sounds like we've been thoroughly outmaneuvered," you say, your heart feeling impossibly full.

"So..." George takes a step closer, hope written all over his face. "Is that a yes?"

You pretend to think about it. "Well, since you've already gotten approval from my entire family, including my self-appointed eighteen-year-old son..."

"YN," he groans, but he's smiling.

"Yes," you say softly. "I'd love to have dinner with just you."

His face breaks into that brilliant smile that never fails to make your stomach flip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He takes another step closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I've been wanting to ask you for ages," he admits. "Since Barcelona, really. Well, since before that if I'm honest."

"What took you so long?" you ask, even though your heart is hammering so hard you can barely hear your own words.

"I wanted to do it right," he says. "Make sure Amelia was okay with it, that you were ready. That I wasn't misreading things." He pauses. "Also, Kimi told me I had to wait until after Silverstone because he had money on me asking you out this week."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Of course he did."

"So," George says, taking your hand. "Tonight? I can pick you up at eight?"

"Seven sounds perfect."

As if on cue, your phone buzzes with a text from your mother:

Mum: Amelia and I are having a girls' night! Don't worry about bedtime, we've got it covered. Have fun on your date! 😘

George peers at your phone and laughs. "I think we've been set up by the most elaborate matchmaking scheme in F1 history."

"Seems like it," you agree, squeezing his hand. "Better make it worth their effort then."

His eyes soften as he looks at you. "I plan to."

As you walk out of the engineering room hand in hand, you can't help but smile at how perfectly everything has fallen into place. Your daughter adores him, your family approves, and even your teenage driver-turned-matchmaker is thrilled.

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georgerussell63 Not the Silverstone weekend we wanted on track, but having this little engineer-in-training in our garage made everything better. Thanks for the lucky drawings Amelia - we'll get them right next time! P.S. Your detailed notes about my "silly mistake in turn 3" were very professional 😅

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username1 AHH THIS IS THE CUTEST THING EVER I CANT

username2 GEORGE SOFT ERA

kimi.antonelli she told me your mistakes too 😎 bestie keeps it real

lando mate she really wrote "george needs to drive more zoomy" in her notebook i'm crying

mercedesamgf1 Our newest team member giving very thorough feedback! 📝

yourinstagram She's already planning your strategy for Spa. Apparently it involves fairy dust and "extra zoom buttons"

username4 the way george claimed both yn and amelia is just to cute

username5 WE STAN AMELIA

username6 not to sound weird but you can tell that george ADORES both of them

username7 THIS IS MY FAMILY

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f1gossip BREAKING: Mercedes driver George Russell and chief race engineer YN spotted having dinner together at exclusive Mayfair restaurant. First time the two have been seen together outside of work events. 👀

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username1 HELLO??? THIS IS NOT A DRILL?? look at the way he's looking at her omg

username2 someone write this romance novel immediately

username3 not me zooming in on every detail 👀 THE HAND ON THE TABLE NEARLY TOUCHING HERS I'M SCREAMING

username4 not to be That Person but the way he's always so sweet with her daughter?? and now this?? im crying in the club rn

username5 don't be weird about this

username6 someone check on kimi, bet he's having a proud son moment watching his team parents finally get together

username7 manifesting the cutest f1 family rn 🕯️🕯️🕯️

username8 GEORGE RUSSELL BOYFRIEND ERA STARTS NOW

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It's well past Amelia's bedtime when you unlock your front door, cheeks still flushed from the perfect evening, and the goodnight kiss that made you feel like a teenager again. You expect to find your mother reading on the couch, but instead, you hear small feet padding down the hallway.

"Mummy!" Amelia appears in her pink princess pajamas, clearly having fought off sleep to wait for you. "You're home!"

"Sweetheart, why aren't you in bed?" you ask, though you can't bring yourself to be stern when she looks so excited.

Your mother appears behind her, looking apologetic. "Someone insisted on staying up until you got back. Said she needed to make sure the date went well."

"Did you have nice dinner?" Amelia asks, taking your hand and pulling you to the couch. "Did George tell you funny stories? Did he make you laugh? Sophie says her mummy went on a date and didn't laugh at all and never saw the man again."

You catch your mother trying to hide her smile as she disappears into the kitchen, clearly giving you space for this conversation.

"Yes, we had a lovely dinner," you say, settling onto the couch. Amelia immediately climbs into your lap, her favorite spot for important conversations. "And yes, George made me laugh a lot."

"Good," she says seriously. "Because you have a pretty laugh, Mummy."

Your heart catches at her observation. Sometimes you forget how perceptive she is.

"Did you wear your sparkly dress?" she continues, playing with your necklace - the delicate silver one George had noticed and complimented over dinner.

"I did."

"George likes sparkly things," she nods sagely. "He always says my glitter drawings are his favorite."

You smile, remembering how George had shown you a whole folder on his phone of photos of Amelia's artwork. "He does love your drawings."

"Mummy?" Amelia looks up at you, her expression suddenly serious. "Are you happy?"

"What do you mean, love?"

"When George is around, you smile different," she explains. "Like when we have ice cream on Sunday or when I learn a new word. It's your happy smile." She pauses, thinking hard.

You pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her curls. "You're right. George does make me very happy."

"Good," she declares. "Because he makes me happy too. And he helps me with maths. And he remembers what I like. And he makes baby driver behave." She counts off these qualities on her small fingers.

"Does he now?" you laugh.

"Mhm. Today when you were getting ready, he called to tell me a bedtime story about racing cars while Grandma did my hair. But then I had to promise not to tell you because it was supposed to be a surprise that he called."

Your heart melts at this revelation. You hadn't known about the bedtime story.

"And Mummy?" she continues, fighting back a yawn. "I think George has a happy smile when he sees you too. Like when you wear your sparkly dress or when you tell him he did good racing."

"Did well racing," you correct automatically, making her giggle.

"Did well racing," she repeats. "So can we see him again soon? Maybe for pancakes? He promised to show me how to make them in funny shapes."

"Did he now?"

She nods enthusiastically. "He said he can make race car pancakes! And he said maybe next time we can both come to dinner with him, and he knows a place that has the best chocolate cake ever."

"We'll see," you say, but you're already smiling at the thought. "But right now, little miss, it's way past your bedtime."

"One more question?" she pleads, giving you her best puppy dog eyes.

"One more."

"If George makes us both happy, and we make him happy, and he makes good pancakes..." she thinks carefully about her words, "does that mean he can stay? Properly stay?"

Your throat tightens with emotion. "Oh, sweetheart..."

"Because I think we should keep him," she says matter-of-factly. "He fits good with us. Like my puzzle pieces when they click together right."

"Fits well," you correct softly, blinking back tears.

"Fits well," she agrees, snuggling closer. "So can we keep him? He remembers everything. That's important, Mummy. Mrs. Thompson says remembering things about people you love is very important."

"When did you get so wise?" you ask, hugging her close.

"I learned it from you," she says simply. "And George says I'm smart like my mummy. I think we should definitely keep him."

Looking at your daughter's hopeful face, thinking about the perfect evening and how naturally he fits into your lives, you find yourself agreeing.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I think we should."

"Good," Amelia yawns, finally letting sleep catch up with her. "Because he makes everything better. Like sprinkles on ice cream."

As you carry your sleepy daughter to bed, she mumbles, "Mummy? I'm happy you're happy."

You tuck her in, your heart so full it might burst. "I'm happy you're happy too, love."

"Tell George I said goodnight," she murmurs, already drifting off. "And that he better not forget about the pancakes..."

Looking at your sleeping daughter, thinking about George's words, you realize that sometimes the best families are the ones you build yourself, piece by perfectly fitting piece.

You fall asleep that night with a smile on your face, dreaming of race car pancakes, perfect puzzle pieces, and the way happiness feels when it finally clicks into place.

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The summer heat has turned your London flat into a lazy afternoon paradise. You're in the kitchen preparing cold lemonade while Amelia sits at the counter, tongue stuck out in concentration as she works on her latest masterpiece - a drawing of what she claims is Kimi's car with rocket boosters.

"Mummy, do you think baby driver will like the purple rockets?" she asks, reaching for another crayon.

"I think he'll love them," you assure her, just as there's a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Amelia scrambles off her stool before you can stop her.

"Amelia, wait-" but she's already running to the door.

"Who is it?" she calls out, following your safety rules.

"It's George!" comes the familiar voice, and Amelia beams at you.

"Can I open it, Mummy? Please?"

You nod, and she throws the door open to reveal George standing there in casual clothes, looking unfairly handsome in a simple white t-shirt and jeans.

"George!" Amelia launches herself at him, and he catches her with practiced ease. "Are you here to see my new drawings? I made one for baby driver with rockets!"

"Of course I am," he grins, carrying her inside. His eyes meet yours over her head, soft and warm. "Hi."

"Hi," you reply, trying to control your smile. "This is a surprise."

"Good surprise?" he asks, setting Amelia down.

"Look!" Amelia interrupts, grabbing his hand and pulling him to her artwork. "See? Purple rockets!"

"Very aerodynamic," George nods seriously, examining the drawing. "Though I think the Mercedes might need some rockets too, don't you?"

While Amelia launches into an elaborate explanation of her rocket distribution strategy, George catches your eye again, mouthing 'kitchen?' with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll get you some lemonade," you say, heading to the kitchen. Moments later, you hear him tell Amelia he'll be right back to help her with the Mercedes rockets.

As soon as he enters the kitchen, he's in your space, hands settling on your waist. "Hi," he says again, softer this time.

"You said that already," you tease, even as your heart races.

"Didn't get to say it properly though," he murmurs, leaning down. "Been thinking about doing this all week..."

His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss that makes your knees weak. You wind your arms around his neck, melting into it as he pulls you closer-

"Mummy? George? What are you doing?"

You jump apart like teenagers caught by their parents. Amelia stands in the doorway, head tilted in confusion, her purple crayon forgotten in her hand.

"We were just..." you start, face burning.

"Were you kissing?" she asks directly, making you both flush deeper.

"Um," George runs a hand through his hair nervously. "Yes?"

Amelia considers this for a moment. "Oh. Like in the princess movies?"

"Something like that," you manage, wondering how to handle this situation.

"Okay," she says simply. Then, "Can I have more lemonade?"

You blink at the sudden change of subject. "Of course, love."

As you pour her drink, she looks between you and George thoughtfully. "Does this mean George is your boyfriend now?"

George makes a choking sound beside you, and you nearly spill the lemonade.

"Well..." you look at George, who seems equally unsure how to answer.

"Because Sophie from school says when people kiss they're boyfriend and girlfriend," Amelia continues matter-of-factly. "And you smile a lot when George is here. And he brings me drawings from baby driver. And he remembers I like the blue cup not the red one."

She says all this while George hands her the correct blue cup, proving her point.

"Would that be okay?" George asks carefully. "If I was your mummy's boyfriend?"

Amelia takes a long sip of lemonade, clearly thinking it over. "Will you still help me with my drawings?"

"Of course."

"And tell me racing stories?"

"Absolutely."

"And you won't make Mummy sad?"

Your heart clenches at that, and you see George swallow hard.

"I promise," he says softly, "I will try my very best to only make your mummy smile."

Amelia nods, apparently satisfied. "Okay then. Can we do the rockets for your car now?"

"Lead the way, boss," George says, shooting you a relieved smile.

As Amelia skips back to her drawings, George quickly squeezes your hand. "That went better than expected?"

"Yeah," you breathe out. "Though we might want to be more careful with the kitchen kisses."

He grins, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. "Noted. Though I can't promise I won't want to kiss you every time I see you."

"George!" Amelia calls. "The rockets won't draw themselves!"

"Coming!" he calls back, then quickly steals one more kiss. "For the road."

You watch him join Amelia at the counter, the way he listens intently to her explanation of rocket physics (mostly gathered from cartoons), and feel your heart swell. It's early days still, but watching them together, you can't help but hope this is just the beginning of something wonderful.

"Mummy!" Amelia waves you over. "George says we need strategy for the rockets. That's your job!"

"Can't argue with that," you laugh, joining them at the counter.

As evening settles in, you find George and Amelia sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by LEGO pieces. The instructions for her new F1 car set lie forgotten as George helps her create what appears to be a highly modified version.

"See, if we put this piece here," George explains, "it makes the perfect spot for your rocket boosters."

"Can we make the wheels rainbow colored?" Amelia asks through a yawn.

"Of course we- did you just yawn?" George teases, poking her side gently.

"No," she protests, even as another yawn escapes. "M'not tired."

"Really?" you ask from your spot on the couch. "Because it looks like someone's about to fall asleep in her LEGOs."

"But George hasn't finished helping me," she whines softly, rubbing her eyes.

George catches your eye, silently asking permission. At your nod, he says, "How about I help you get ready for bed, and tomorrow you can finish the car?"

Amelia perks up slightly. "Promise you'll come back tomorrow?"

"Actually, sweetheart," he says carefully, "I have to go to Monaco for a few days. But I'll be back for your birthday next week."

Her lower lip trembles slightly. "You won't miss my party?"

"Miss your sixth birthday party? No way," he assures her. "I've already got your present picked out and everything."

"Really?" she asks sleepily.

"Really. Now, bedtime?"

She holds up her arms. "Will you carry me like when I fell asleep at the factory?"

George scoops her up easily, and your heart melts as she immediately snuggles into his shoulder. "Story?" she mumbles.

"One story," you say, following them to her room.

You watch from the doorway as George helps her into her pajamas and tucks her in, making sure her favorite stuffed car is properly positioned.

"Can you tell me about Monaco?" she asks as he sits on the edge of her bed. "Since that's where you're going?"

"Well," he starts, smoothing her hair back, "Monaco is like a magical kingdom by the sea. The buildings are all white and shiny, and the race track goes right through the city..."

You listen as he weaves a story about princesses who race cars and dolphins who watch from the harbor. By the time he's describing the tunnel section, Amelia's eyes are fluttering closed.

"G'night George," she mumbles. "Love you."

George's hand stills in her hair for a moment, and you see the emotion cross his face. "Goodnight, princess," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sweet dreams."

He joins you in the doorway, both of you watching as she snuggles deeper into her blankets.

"You okay?" you ask softly, noting his expression.

He nods, leading you back to the living room. Once you're out of earshot, he pulls you close, burying his face in your hair.

"She said she loves me," he murmurs.

"She does," you confirm, wrapping your arms around him. "You've become very important to her."

He pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes intense. "You know you both are important to me too, right? I know we haven't been dating long, but..."

"I know," you assure him, reaching up to touch his cheek. "We know."

He leans into your touch. "I hate that I have to go to Monaco."

"It's only for a few days," you remind him. "And it's part of the job."

"Yeah," he sighs, pulling you toward the couch. You curl into his side automatically. "I just... I'll miss this. Miss you both."

"We'll miss you too," you admit. "But you'll be back for the party. Speaking of which, what exactly have you got planned? Amelia's been trying to guess all week."

His face lights up. "Ah, that's classified information. But I think she'll love it."

"George..."

"Don't worry," he laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Nothing too extravagant. Well, maybe a little extravagant. But she's only turning six once!"

You shake your head fondly. "You're going to spoil her rotten."

"That's my job, isn't it?" he asks, then seems to catch himself. "I mean, not my job, but... you know what I mean."

"I do," you say softly, understanding the weight of what he's not saying. It's early days still, but you both know this is heading somewhere serious.

He pulls you closer, and you sit in comfortable silence for a while, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

"When do you leave?" you ask eventually.

"Early tomorrow," he sighs. "Need to be there for some sponsorship events."

"Then we should probably clean up these LEGOs before someone steps on one in the morning."

He groans dramatically but helps you up. As you both kneel to collect the scattered pieces, he keeps stealing glances at you.

"What?" you ask after the third time you catch him looking.

"Nothing," he smiles. "Just... thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me be part of this," he gestures around the flat, at Amelia's drawings on the fridge, the LEGOs, the life you've built. "For trusting me with her. With both of you."

Your heart swells. "Thank you for wanting to be part of it."

He reaches for you then, LEGOs forgotten as he pulls you into a soft kiss. It's different from the heated kitchen kiss earlier - slower, deeper, full of everything neither of you are quite ready to say out loud.

When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "I should go," he whispers. "Early flight."

"Okay," you murmur, stealing one more kiss.

At the door, he turns back. "Tell Amelia I'll FaceTime her from Monaco? And maybe..." he hesitates, "maybe we could FaceTime too? After she's in bed?"

"I'd like that," you smile.

"And you'll text me if you need anything? Or if she does?"

"George," you laugh softly, "it's three days."

"I know, I know," he runs a hand through his hair. "I just... I got used to seeing you both every day. This is different."

"We'll be fine," you assure him. "Just come back in time for the party. Can't disappoint your biggest fan."

His expression softens. "Never." He kisses you one last time, gentle and sweet. "Sweet dreams, beautiful."

Later, checking on Amelia before bed, you find she's kicked off her blankets as usual. As you tuck her back in, she stirs slightly.

"Mummy?" she mumbles. "Is George gone?"

"Yes, love. But he'll be back soon."

"Good," she sighs, already drifting back to sleep. "He gives good hugs. And he makes you smile the proper way."

Looking at your sleeping daughter, thinking of George's gentle ways with her, his careful consideration of her feelings, the way he's slotted so perfectly into your lives, you can't help but smile "the proper way."

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f1gossip George Russell pulled up to a Mercedes event in Monaco… and brought a model with him 👀

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username1 OHHHHH

username2 what about yn...

username3 THEY LOOK SO GOOD

username4 george single era is coming

username5 this is why i told y'all not to be weair about him and he merc strategist

username6 NOOO HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WITH YN

username7 yn and amelia are literally right there

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The flat feels quiet without Amelia's laughter echoing through it. Your mother had taken her for a girls afternoon, and you stayed back home doing some chores. A certain British driver's smile coming to your mind as you move through the house.

You're curled up on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when they appear, photos that make your heart stop. George at some glamorous Monaco event, looking devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit. But it's not his appearance that makes your stomach churn, it's the stunning model on his arm.

They look perfect together - like something out of a magazine spread. The kind of couple that belongs at these events.

Your phone rings, making you snap out of it. Kimi's name appearing on screen. For a moment, you consider letting it go to voicemail, but he'd only keep calling.

"Hey," you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Finally," he grumbles. "Been trying to figure out what to get the little monster for her birthday. Does she still like those unicorn games?"

"Yeah, she does."

"That's enthusiastic," he says sarcastically. "What about- hang on. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Don't bullshit me, YN. I've known you too long. You're my team mum."

You sink deeper into the couch, pulling a throw pillow to your chest. "I'm fine."

"You sound like when George beat you at Mario Kart and you pretended it didn't bother you for two weeks."

"That was different," you protest weakly. "He cheated."

"Stop deflecting. What happened?"

You're quiet for a long moment, then, "Have you checked social media today?"

There's rustling, then typing. A long pause. "Ah, fuck."

"Yeah."

"YN..."

"Don't," you cut him off, voice thick. "Don't try to explain it away. I get it. She's gorgeous and sophisticated and probably knows all about sponsorship events and doesn't have a complicated life with a six-year-old and-"

"Stop," Kimi interrupts firmly. "First, you're spiraling. Second, you know these events are bullshit. Remember when they tried to set me up with that Instagram model?"

"This is different."

"How?"

"They look..." you swallow hard, "right together. Like they fit. Like they make sense."

"And you and George don't make sense?" Kimi asks skeptically. "Because from where I'm standing, you fit better than most things in this ridiculous sport. Like Amelia says, puzzle pieces."

"I thought..." your voice cracks. "I really thought maybe this time would be different. That maybe..."

"Have you talked to him?"

"No."

"YN..."

"I can't," you whisper, tears finally falling. "I can't hear him say that this was fun but he's found someone more suitable or-"

"Now you're being stupid," Kimi cuts in. "George isn't like that. You know he's not."

"Do I? Because I thought Amelia's father wasn't like that either, and look how that turned out."

There's a long pause. When Kimi speaks again, his voice is gentler. "George isn't him. You know that."

"I can't risk it," you say softly. "I can't risk Amelia getting hurt. I can't have her wait by the window, hoping he'd come back."

"And that's exactly why you should talk to George," Kimi insists. "Because he's not the kind of man who makes little girls wait by windows."

"But what if he is?" Your voice is barely audible. "What if I let her love him and then..."

"Then you'll deal with it. But you can't protect her from everything, YN. And maybe you're protecting her from something beautiful."

You wipe your eyes. "When did you get so wise? Why am I taking advice from my 18-year-old work son."

"I've always been wise. You just never listen." His tone turns serious again. "Have you checked your phone? Has he tried to contact you?"

You glance at your notifications - nothing from George. The realization makes your chest ache. "No."

"Give it time. There's probably an explanation."

"Yeah," you say hollowly. "The explanation is probably five-foot-ten with perfect hair and no emotional baggage."

"YN..."

"I should go," you cut in. "Amelia will be home soon and I can't... I can't let her see me like this."

"You don't have to handle everything alone, you know."

"Yes, I do," you say quietly. "That's what being a single mother means."

Before he can respond, you hear keys in the door. "They're back. I have to go."

"YN, wait-"

You hang up just as Amelia bursts in, already talking excitedly about her day with grandma.

"And then we saw the biggest dog ever and- Mummy?" she stops suddenly, looking at you with those too-perceptive eyes. "Are you sad?"

"No, love," you force a smile, quickly wiping your face. "Just tired."

She climbs onto the couch next to you, her small hand reaching up to touch your cheek where a tear had fallen. "You look sad though."

Your heart clenches. This is exactly what you were afraid of - her picking up on your pain, carrying it. You won't do that to her.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," you say, pulling her close. "Tell me more about your day with grandma."

"Well..." she starts, but then pauses. "When is George coming back? He promised to help me finish my LEGO car."

The innocent question feels like a knife to your heart. "He's very busy with work right now, love."

"But he'll be back for my party, right? He promised."

You hold her tighter, breathing in her familiar sweet scent, trying to find the right words that won't hurt her. "Sometimes... sometimes grown-ups have to change their plans."

"Oh," she says quietly, and you can hear the beginning of disappointment in her voice. It makes you want to cry all over again.

Looking down at Amelia, at her tiny fingers playing with the bracelet George gave her, you think maybe some risks aren't worth taking. You won't let her build hopes around someone only to watch them crumble.

Better to step back now, before she gets even more attached. Before those goodnight calls and LEGO sessions and racing stories become something she can't live without. Before George becomes a person she waits by windows for.

Even if it means breaking your own heart in the process.

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The soft knock at your door comes just after ten. You knew he'd come, George Russell isn't the type to let something go, especially not this. Still, your hands shake as you open the door.

He looks exhausted, still in his travel clothes, hair messy like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. The moment he sees you, his face crumples with relief.

"YN," he breathes, stepping forward, but you move back.

"You shouldn't be here," your voice is barely a whisper, conscious of Amelia sleeping down the hall.

"Where else would I be?" He stays in the doorway, respecting your space even as his eyes plead with you. "Please, just talk to me. What happened? What changed?"

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together. "I saw the photos."

"The- oh god, the event photos?" His eyes widen. "YN, that wasn't- it was just PR. Mercedes arranged it, I should have told you but I didn't think-"

"It's not about the photos," you cut in, though your heart clenches remembering them. "It's about what they made me realize."

"Which is?"

"That this isn't fair. To any of us. But especially not to Amelia."

His face falls. "What are you talking about?"

You glance down the hallway, making sure her door is still closed, then move further into the living room. George follows, closing the front door softly.

"She never met her father," you say quietly. "He left when I told him I was pregnant. Said he wasn't ready for a family, for responsibility. Last I heard he was in Australia somewhere."

"YN..."

"She used to ask about him," you continue, voice thick. "When she was younger. Why didn't she have a daddy like other kids? Was it because she wasn't good enough? Did she do something wrong?"

"She was just a baby," George says softly. "It wasn't her fault."

"No, it wasn't. It was mine. For letting someone into her life who could hurt her." You look at him directly. "I won't make that mistake again."

"I'm not him," George steps closer. "I would never-"

"You can't promise that," you cut in. "You can't promise you won't wake up one day and realize this is all too much. The responsibility, the complications, the fact that you're barely twenty-seven and suddenly playing father figure to a five-year-old."

"I'm not playing at anything," he says fiercely. "I love her. I love you both."

"Now you do. But what about in six months? A year? When the novelty wears off and you realize you could have someone without all this baggage?"

"Is that what you think this is?" He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "That you're some kind of novelty? That Amelia is baggage?"

"I think you're young and successful and have your whole life ahead of you. And I think one day you'll realize that life could be a lot simpler without us in it."

"You don't get to decide that," he says, voice rising slightly before he catches himself, lowering it again. "You don't get to decide what I want or how I feel."

"I get to decide what's best for my daughter."

"And you think pushing away someone who loves her is what's best?"

"I think..." your voice cracks. "I think protecting her from another heartbreak is what's best. You should have seen her face yesterday, when she thought you might miss her party. The way her whole world dimmed, just at the possibility. I can't... I can't watch her go through that for real."

"Then it's a good thing she won't have to," he steps closer again. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can." He reaches for your hand but you pull back. "YN, please. Look at me."

You shake your head, tears falling now. "I can't risk it. The way she looks at you... she trusts you completely. She loves you so much already."

"And I love her," he insists. "More than I ever thought possible. Do you know what I keep in my wallet? That drawing she did of us, where she put all three of us together and wrote 'my family' at the top. I look at it every day. It's not some game to me."

"George..."

"No, listen to me. I know you're scared. I know you're trying to protect her. But pushing me away isn't the answer. Let me prove to you that I'm not going anywhere."

From down the hall comes a small voice: "Mummy?"

You both freeze as Amelia appears, rubbing her eyes sleepily. The moment she sees George, her whole face lights up.

"George!" she runs to him and he catches her automatically, lifting her up. "You came back!"

The way she clings to him, the natural way he holds her, the absolute trust in her eyes - it makes your heart ache.

"Of course I came back, princess," he says softly, but his eyes are on you. "I'll always come back."

"Promise?" she asks, already drifting back to sleep against his shoulder.

"Promise," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hair.

You watch them, your chest tight with love and fear and possibility. "I should put her back to bed."

"Let me?" he asks quietly. When you hesitate, he adds, "Please?"

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

You follow them to her room, watching as he tucks her in with practiced ease, making sure her favorite stuffed car is properly positioned.

"G'night George," she mumbles. "Love you."

"Love you too, princess," he whispers, smoothing her hair back.

Back in the living room, he turns to you. "That's what you're trying to protect her from? Love?"

"I'm trying to protect her from losing it."

"Then stop trying to make her lose it," he says gently. "Stop trying to make us both lose it."

"I'm scared," you admit, voice breaking.

"I know," he steps closer, and this time you don't move away. "But I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you make me."

"She needs stability."

"I know. Let me be that for her. For both of you."

"George..."

"Look at me," he pleads. "Really look at me. Do I look like someone who's going to walk away from this? From her? From you?"

You do look at him - at the sincerity in his eyes, the way he's still oriented toward Amelia's room like he can't help it, the drawing you know is worn at the edges from being taken out of his wallet so often.

"I can't lose you," you whisper. "Either of us."

"Then don't push me away," he reaches for you again, and this time you let him pull you close. "Let me love you both. Let me prove to you that some promises are worth believing in."

And there in the quiet of your flat, with your daughter sleeping peacefully down the hall and George's heart beating steady under your ear, you think maybe he already has.

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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 90,122 others

yourinstagram Six years ago, you made me a mother. Six years of endless love, racing car stories, messy art projects, and the kind of joy I never knew existed before you. You amaze me every single day with your kindness, your intelligence, and your incredible spirit. The way you see the world, the way you love so fearlessly, the way you make everyone around you smile. You're magic, my darling girl. Happy birthday to my little racer, my best friend, my greatest adventure. Here's to many more years of race car pancakes, LEGO building sessions, and hearing you explain aerodynamics to anyone who'll listen (sorry about that, fellow airplane passengers). I love you more than all the checkered flags in the world. ❤️

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username1 THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL

username2 happy birthday to little amelia !

georgerussell63 Happy birthday to the most amazing co-pilot anyone could ask for ❤️ Can't wait to finish that LEGO car with you today, princess. Love you lots x

kimi.antoneli happy birthday little monster. your present will make your mother cry. you're welcome.

carlossainz55 Feliz cumpleaños pequeña! 🎉 Still waiting for that rematch on the simulator!

lando HAPPY BIRTHDAY MELIA!

username3 the entire paddock loves her i'm crying

mercedesamgf1 Happy birthday to our youngest team member!

username4 yn is the best mama ever, doing it on her own too

username5 GEORGE THIS IS YOUR FAMILY

alex_albon Happy birthday Ames! 🎈 Still using those overtaking tips you gave me

username6 george bonus dad ever

username7 I LOVE THIS FAMILY SM

username8 Happy birthday to F1's favorite little princess

username9 george's comment 🥺 he loves them so much

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The house is finally quiet, scattered remnants of the party everywhere - wrapping paper, balloons, the racing track cake that took you hours to perfect. You're gathering paper plates when you hear George's soft footsteps coming from Amelia's room.

"She's finally asleep," he whispers, leaning against the doorframe. "Had to read the racing manual three times, but she's out."

You can't help but smile. "The manual? Really?"

"Her choice," he grins. "Said she needed to dream about proper racing lines."

"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly, continuing to clean up.

"Hey," he catches your hand gently as you pass. "Leave it. Just... sit with me for a bit?"

You hesitate, but nod, letting him lead you to the couch. You both sit, a careful distance between you that feels wrong after how close you've been these past months.

"She had a good day," you say softly, filling the silence.

"The best," he agrees. "Though I think Kimi might have gone overboard with the simulator."

"Might have? She's going to be impossible to get to school now."

George laughs quietly, then sobers. "YN... can we talk? Really talk?"

Your heart speeds up. "About?"

"Everything. Us. What happened this week. What you're afraid of."

You pull your knees up to your chest, making yourself smaller. "George..."

"Please," he says softly. "I need to understand. I need to know how to fix this."

"It's not about fixing," you say, staring at the birthday banner hanging crooked on the wall. "It's about... reality."

"What reality?"

"The reality that you're 27, successful, with your whole life ahead of you. And I'm..." you gesture vaguely, "complicated."

"You think that's how I see you? As complicated?"

"Isn't it true though? I come with so much... stuff. A child, responsibilities, limitations-"

"Stop," he cuts in, turning to face you fully. "Just... stop. You want to know what I see when I look at you both? I see family. I see home. I see the way Amelia's face lights up when she masters a new racing game. I see the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating on work. I see movie nights and pancake mornings and silly dance parties in the kitchen."

"George..."

"No, let me finish. You think you're some burden I'm carrying? You're not. You're the best part of every day. Both of you. Even when Amelia's giving me detailed critiques of my qualifying laps or when you're stress-cleaning at midnight before a deadline."

You feel tears forming. "But your life would be so much simpler without us."

"Simpler?" he laughs incredulously. "My life before you was empty. Sure, I had racing, but I came home to quiet rooms and takeaway for one. Now? Now I come home to crayon drawings on my fridge and LEGO cars in my shoes and two people who make everything better just by existing."

"But what about your career? The traveling, the events..."

"What about them?"

"I saw those photos, George. That world... it's so different from this one."

"You think I care about that world?" he moves closer. "You think I'd choose fancy parties over helping Amelia build racing tracks in the living room? Over watching you fall asleep during movies? Over this?"

"I don't want to hold you back."

"You don't," he says firmly. "You push me forward. Both of you do. Do you know what Amelia said to me tonight? She said we fit together like puzzle pieces. And she's right."

You wipe your eyes. "She's too smart for her own good."

"She gets that from her mum." He reaches for your hand, and this time you let him take it. "I know you're scared. I know you're trying to protect her. But I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you make me."

"I don't want to make you," you whisper. "That's what terrifies me."

"Why?"

"Because..." your voice breaks. "Because I love you. We both do. And if you leave..."

"I won't."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can," he says fiercely. "I can promise that every single day for the rest of our lives if you'll let me. I can promise that I'll always come home to you both. That I'll always be there for school plays and birthdays and random Tuesday mornings. That I'll love you both more each day than the last."

"George..."

"You know what scared me most this week?" he continues. "Not just the thought of losing my girlfriend. The thought of losing my family. Of not hearing Amelia's bedtime stories or your laugh first thing in the morning. Of not being the person she runs to when she masters a new racing game or you turn to when you've had a hard day."

You're fully crying now. "When did you become so important to us?"

"Probably around the same time you became everything to me." He wipes your tears gently. "I love you, YN. Both of you. The busy mornings and quiet nights and everything in between. The complicated parts and the simple ones. All of it."

"Even when Amelia corrects your driving technique?"

He laughs softly. "Especially then. She's usually right anyway."

You lean into him finally, letting yourself feel the familiar comfort of his arms around you. "I'm sorry I pushed you away."

"I know why you did it," he kisses your hair. "But please don't do it again. Talk to me instead. Let me prove to you that some people stay."

"I'm still scared," you admit.

"That's okay," he says. "We can be scared together. Just don't shut me out."

From down the hall comes a small voice: "Mummy? George?"

You both look up to see Amelia standing there, clutching her stuffed race car.

"What's wrong, princess?" George asks.

"I forgot to say thank you," she says seriously. "For the best birthday ever. And..." she looks between you both. "Are you staying? For real this time?"

George looks at you, letting you take the lead.

Looking at them, at the man who loves your daughter like his own and the little girl who's already given him her whole heart - you make your decision.

"Yes, love," you say softly. "He's staying."

And sitting there, with your daughter asleep between you and George holding you both like he'll never let go, you think maybe it's okay to be scared sometimes. Maybe it's okay to let someone in, to trust that they'll stay, to believe in the kind of love that builds homes in hearts.

Because some puzzles are meant to stay together, even if it takes a six-year-old to show you how the pieces fit.

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liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 601,299 others

georgerussell63 The best kind of Sunday 🚲❤️ From "I can't do it!" to "Watch how fast I can go!" in under an hour. Couldn't be prouder of my favorite co-pilot. Even if we had a few crashes into the bushes (sorry about that, YN). Worth every scrape and tear for that victory smile at the end. Now she wants to know when we can upgrade to a motorized version... Think that's a conversation for another day

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username1 THIS IS SUCH A PROUD DAD MOMENT

username2 he's protecting her from falling while letting her be brave

username3 george russell: world class driver, even better bonus dad

username4 "My favorite co-pilot" I'M NOT OKAY

username5 the way he naturally stepped into being her dad though 🥺

lewishamilton Next generation driver in training! 🙌🏾

lando should we be worried about our jobs?

yourinstagram Love you both, you troublemakers

username6 GEORGE REALLY IS THE FATHER WHO STEPPED UP

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The garage is a flurry of activity, screens displaying data streams and weather patterns while mechanics rush around with last-minute adjustments. You're deep in conversation with Bono about tire strategies when your phone buzzes with Amelia's FaceTime call.

"Hi baby," you answer, trying to keep one eye on the radar. "Ready for the race?"

"I've got ALL my lucky charms!" She holds up an assortment of trinkets, including the Mercedes keychain George gave her. "And Grandpa's watching with me! He says hi but he's pretending to be grumpy."

You hear your father's distinct grunt in the background and laugh. "Tell him I said-"

"Is that my favorite co-pilot?" George appears behind you, still in his race suit, hair messy from the helmet.

"GEORGE!" Amelia practically screams. "I miss you! Are you going to win today? I told everyone at school you would!"

His face softens in that way it only does for her. "Well, now I have to, don't I? Can't disappoint my biggest fan."

"I drew you a new good luck picture! Mummy has it!"

You pull the slightly crumpled paper from your pocket - a detailed drawing of a Mercedes car with "GO GEORGE!" written in wobbly letters.

"It's perfect," he beams. "Just what I needed."

"Mummy says it's going to rain," Amelia says seriously. "Remember what we practiced about wet weather racing?"

"Smooth inputs, gentle throttle, stay off the kerbs," George recites dutifully. "Did I pass the test?"

"Mmhmm. You can race now."

You both laugh at her solemn approval.

"Thanks, princess. Better go get ready now, okay? Watch out for me on the podium."

"Love you George! Love you Mummy!"

"Love you too, baby. Be good for Grandpa."

After you hang up, you notice George hasn't moved, still staring at the spot where Amelia's face had been.

"George? You okay?"

He seems to make a decision, turning to face you fully. "Move in with me."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Both of you. Move in with me." His eyes are intense, certain. "The summer break is coming up. I've already been looking at furniture for Amelia's room, there's this racing car bed I found that she'd love, and the spare room would be perfect for your home office, and-" he stops, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's fast, but it doesn't feel fast, does it? It feels like we should have done this ages ago."

"George..."

"I hate coming home to an empty house," he continues. "I hate not hearing Amelia's morning chatter or your late-night typing. I hate that my fridge doesn't have her drawings on it, that my shelves don't have your books mixed with my racing magazines. I hate that when I buy groceries, I automatically get things for three people but there's only me there to eat them."

You glance around the garage, but everyone is deliberately focusing elsewhere, giving you privacy in the midst of chaos.

"The house is too big," he says softly. "Too quiet. Too... not you. Not us."

"Are you sure?" your voice barely a whisper. "This is a big step."

"I've never been more sure of anything." He takes your hands. "I want to wake up to Amelia jumping on our bed demanding pancakes. I want to fall asleep watching you work on race strategies. I want to build that LEGO city she's been planning in the spare room she already thinks of as hers. I want... I want everything. With both of you."

A mechanic calls out the five-minute warning.

"You need to go," you say, but don't let go of his hands.

"I need an answer more."

You look at him, this man who loves your daughter like his own, who makes you both feel safe, who wants to build a home with you.

"The racing car bed better be amazing," you whisper.

His face breaks into that brilliant smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You squeeze his hands. "Now go win this race so we can celebrate properly."

He starts to walk away, then turns back. "YN?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Both of you. So much."

You smile, feeling something settle in your chest. "We love you too. Now focus on the race, or Amelia will never let you hear the end of it."

"Yes ma'am," he grins, pulling his helmet on.

You watch him walk to the car, your heart full. Outside, the Belgian sky opens up with rain, but for once, you're not worried about the weather.

And as George's car roars to life, as Amelia undoubtedly bounces with excitement on your couch at home (soon to be your old couch in your new home) you think about puzzle pieces and racing car beds and the way love builds itself into something permanent when you're not looking.

‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch. 

It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.

Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.

This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.

“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.

“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”

So much for a good first impression.

You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.

Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.

Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”

In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”

Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.

Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.

“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”

Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.

“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”

As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.

Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.

Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.

“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.

“Fine.”

“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”

“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”

You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.

“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”

“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.

“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”

Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”

“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”

“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”

“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”

“I said I don’t want a fucking –”

Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”

“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.

“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”

“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”

You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.

When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.

It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason’s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.

The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.

The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.

Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”

“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”

“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.

It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.

The only word to describe the walk back is painful.

It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.

Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.

“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”

Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.

Then he turns and walks away.

You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.

Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.

As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.

To never see Jason again.

Spring

It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.

Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.

The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.

Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.

Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.

You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.

“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.

Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.

“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.

“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.

“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.

“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Is that so?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.

Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”

“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.

It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”

You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.

“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”

He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.

“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”

He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”

“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.

“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”

You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.

“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.

“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”

The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.

“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.

The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.

“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”

He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.

“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.

“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”

“I would like that.”

And with that he’s gone.

You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.

You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.

“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.

“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”

You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”

“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.

You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.

“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”

“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”

“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”

There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.

“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”

“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”

The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.

“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”

It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.

You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.

“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”

Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.

“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”

The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.

“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”

The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.

You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”

“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”

“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”

“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”

You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.

Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.

Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.

“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.

You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.

“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.

It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.

You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.

Summer

If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.

It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.

You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.

You’d run into Jason a few times.

It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.

Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.

Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.

You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.

It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.

To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.

Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.

Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.

It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”

“What?”

“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.

“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.

Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.

“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”

“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”

“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”

“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”

“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.

“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”

“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”

The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.

“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”

“Well, Dick, for starters –”

“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”

“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.

“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”

The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.

Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.

He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.

“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”

And then he disappears inside.

Autumn

All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.

You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.

It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.

Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.

“What did you want to –”

“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.

“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.

Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”

Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”

You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”

“How come you’re asking me and not him?”

“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.

Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”

“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”

“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”

You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.

“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”

“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.

“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.

“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”

“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”

It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”

Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”

“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”

Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.

It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.

You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.

Winter

Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.

Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.

Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.

Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.

Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.

Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”

As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.

“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”

From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.

“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”

Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.

You grimace at the thought.

All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.

Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.

You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.

It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.

If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.

“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.

“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”

It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.

“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.

It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.

It’s Jason.

Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.

You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.

It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.

Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.

“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”

The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”

If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”

You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”

“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.

You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”

Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Spring

You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.

You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.

“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.

“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”

You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”

“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”

“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.

“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”

“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”

“I know you do, baby, I know.”

This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷‍♀️

also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔

family holidays were, usually, fun. they should be, right? spending time with loved ones, going to new places, revisiting old ones. they used to be fun.

keyword: used.

now, you dread going on these vacations. ever since your mom married his dad, things had been… weird.

oscar was nice, at first. well. he was nice enough. he didn’t talk much, but he was great at listening. and he liked to look at you. a little too much… sometimes, it bordered on creepy, the way he’d stared. but, you’d always been the type to see the best in someone!

until now.

the summer sun is bright as it shines down on you. your skin is warm, if a bit sandy, but you feel good. it’d been a while since you’d had a chance to sunbathe, and this beach trip was just what you needed. down by the water, you can hear a few of your cousins giggling and splashing one another in the ocean. your mom was reading a book, tucked beneath the big beach umbrella. oscar’s dad was next to her, rubbing a hand over her shoulder.

everything had felt perfect, until your sunshine had been blocked. opening your eyes, oscar was standing over you, eyes squinted as he watched you tan.

“when’s the last time you put on sunscreen?” he asks, head tilted. your brows pinch together as you sit up, pushing your sunglasses up onto your head.

“whatever happened to ‘hi’? or, perhaps, ‘hello’?” you squint, staring up at him, confused.

he just rolls his eyes. “hi. hello. when’s the last time you put on sunscreen?” the repeated question has you bristling a bit.

“didn’t know i had two moms,” you tease, rolling your eyes behind your glasses. “i just put some on, like, two hours ago.”

oscar tuts, kissing his teeth as he shakes his head. “not good. you need to reapply every hour. especially if you’re going to be in direct sunlight like this. come here, i’ll help you.” your eyes widen as he speaks, confused by what on earth he’s talking about.

“oscar—what? i’m a grown adult. i don’t need you to help me reapply sunscr—“

“—nonsense. of course, you do. don’t want you to miss any spots. remember last year? you complained for hours because you missed that spot right under your arm.” his fingers stretch out, tickling the soft bit of skin that peeked out from under your arm. you yelp, batting his hand away and cover the spot with your own.

“oscar!”

that grabs the attention of your parents who only turn to look at both with an amused expression. “honey, just let him help you. it’s good practice!” your mom calls, smiling fondly as oscar’s father presses kisses to her shoulder. a soft gagging sound escapes you at the sight.

“ew,” you mutter under your breath. “if i let you do this, will you leave me alone?”

oscar looks like a the cat who got the canary. he hides it well, but the way his eyes crinkle as he kneels behind you gives him away. “yep. promise.”

the click of the cap has you shuddering, as does the cold touch of sun cream. you let out a soft yelp, squirming away from his touch. oscar groans. “hold still—“

“—that’s cold—!”

“—i said hold. still.”

his hands wrap around your shoulders, tugging you backwards. your back presses against his stomach, all toned and hard-edged. he’s warm, too. something curls in your belly. something you don’t want to think about. especially not with your fucking step-brother of all people.

there’s an urge to squirm away again, especially when something nudges at the top of your spine. your breath catches, hands fisted in the towel beneath you.

oh no. no, no, no. there’s no fucking way—

“um, on second thought,” you start, scrambling up and away from him. he’d barely managed to rub the lotion into your skin completely before you’re managing to stand on two legs, albeit a bit shaky. oscar looks up at you with a glint in his eye, jaw set in masked confusion. “i think i’m—i think i’m done. out here. i think ‘m gonna head inside. get showered, y’know? too much sun! feeling a bit, um, woozy…”

gathering your things, you stumble to rush toward the bridge that led down to the beach. the sand is hot under your feet, making you fumble with your things. you drop a sandal here, lose your sunglasses there. none of it matters, so long as you can get as far away from oscar as possible.

the a/c in the motel is blasting, temperature cranked down well below 70 degrees. you shiver, sun-soaked skin not acclimated to the cool air. goosebumps raise along your arms as you drop your things by the front door. well, what was left of it, anyways.

the motel room is small. your family had booked out two rooms; one with a single, queen-sized mattress, kitchenette, and full bathroom for your mom and her husband. the other, a two-bed room with a mini fridge, a small sink, and a bathroom to match. just for you and oscar. of course...

swallowing any thought of your step-brother, you decide to shower. just a quick one to rinse off the sand and sea-salt. it calms you more than you had expected, aside from the light prickle of a budding sunburn. fucking oscar, you think, poking at the tops of your shoulders. whatever!

as you dry yourself off, you notice you'd forgotten to shut the bathroom door all the way. the hair on the back of your neck stands up when you see the shadow of a figure darting across the room.

oscar was the only one with the second key.

"hey, osc?" you try, unconsciously crossing your fingers. "is that you?"

there's the sound of fumbling, followed by a crash and then a thud. startled, you wrap the towel tight around yourself, rushing out of the bathroom. on the ground lays oscar, holding his knee to his chest and groaning. "dude!" you cry, keeping one hand tight around the knot in your towel while you kneel next to him. "what'd you do?"

oscar just grunts, waving you off. "'m fine. it's—" he pauses, opening his eyes to look at you. you catch the exact moment he realizes what you're wearing and the implications that has. his mouth opens, dry as he drags his gaze over your form. water drips down your neck, pooling in your collarbones. he follows, hungrily, as one dips down between your breasts, pushed together by the towel.

a noise escapes him, pained and strangled.

confused, you look down to see where he was staring. you gasp, shoving away from him. shoving him. "what the fuck!" you shout, scrambling up off the floor. his eyes grow wide as he, too, pushes himself up. he winces when it pinches whatever he'd messed up in his knee, but you can't focus on that. you're much too concerned about that fact that oscar, your step-brother, was staring at your boobs. what the fuck?! "you fucking—get out! fucking pervert, get out!"

oscar doesn't need to be told twice. especially not when he sees you grabbing the motel pillow, ready to throw it at his head. he escapes outside, door slamming hard enough to shake the window.

sitting on the edge of the bed, you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. your brain is a constant looping of "what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck". it's only made worse when you shift in your towel and feel something slick clinging to your thighs. "oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding," you breathe, standing up off the bed. sure enough, as you swipe your fingers through your folds, they come back glistening. you angrily wipe them on your towel before you head back into the bathroom for a second shower. this time, you remember to lock the door.

—

dinner goes about as well as it can. your entire family had gathered out on the little deck. oscar's dad grilled, your mom made mac'n'cheese. music was playing and your cousins were all happily chasing each other through the grassy area. you'd successfully managed to avoid oscar. he had apparently gone to grab more ice from the store with one of his cousins.

you let out a deep breath, tucking your feet up beneath you on the deck chair you settle into. your mom raises an eyebrow.

"everything alright, honey?"

her question startles you. it seems like everything does. "huh? oh, i'm, uh… i'm fine, ma. no worries." she doesn't seem to buy it, but doesn't push harder on account of the smile you plaster to your face.

she walks away, leaving you to sit with your own thoughts. you don't realize just how deep down the rabbit hole you'd gotten until someone shoves a plate of food in your face. it's oscar.

your breath catches in your throat, ready to bolt, when he holds a hand up. you stop, relaxing back into the chair. your throat moves as you swallow.

oscar takes the chair next to you, passing over the plate he'd held out. it's got all your favorites on it. "thanks," you mumble, glancing at him once before you take a bite. he just hums, looking like he wants to say something. his hands fidget, curling over one another in his lap and you can't help it when the thought of how nice they are pops into your brain.

no, you tell yourself, swallowing again, this time around a bite of food.

sure, oscar had pretty hands. they were all long digits, pale skin, pink knuckles. if he flexed them just right, they were veiny and knobby-knuckled. when he trimmed his nails, they looked like they'd fill you just—

you gasp, pushing back in the chair just enough to make him jump. oscar looks at you with wide eyes, confusion painted all over his face. his sweet, innocent face…

"hey," he mutters, reaching a hand out to rest on your knee. your first reaction is to jerk it away, no pun intended. oscar looks hurt, but his hand doesn't move. it just curls around your leg a little tighter, thumb moving is slow, gentle swipes. "relax. it's okay. i'm just…" his voice lowers a bit and he clears his throat, leaning close. "just tryin' to apologize for… earlier. in the bathroom? i didn't—that was inappropriate of me. and, i'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

your skin burns under his palm; fire licking up your skin, toes curling under the table. your breath hitches in your throat. "oh." is all you manage after a moment, eyes darting everywhere but at oscar's face. he sounds sincere, like he's truly sorry, but the way he rubs his thumb against your skin…

"uh, it's—don't worry about it. it's fine, oscar. just an accident." the words are rushed and stuttered as you try to push his hand off your leg. you try to tell yourself it's nervousness. that it's disgust and something awful that twists in your gut. you know it isn't, though. not when you can feel the seat of your panties slicking up, sticking to your skin even though you showered and wiped away any remnant of arousal. it has your cheeks burning hot as you make eye contact with oscar, finally.

oscar's eyes have you going still in your seat, hand still clutching his. they're dark—darker than they were before. something swims in them, different from the usual disinterest he holds in his gaze. it's different from the bright shine of panic that swam in his irises when he'd been caught staring at your tits.

this oscar… this oscar looks hungry.

a soft, strangled sound leaves your throat, spine curving as you lean forward, pushing his hand away with some finality. taking your plate, you rush off to the motel room.

your plate is dumped in the trash, heart feeling like it's going to explode out of your chest. deep breaths fill your lungs as you try to calm down, thighs shaking from how fast you'd left the table. you'd heard your name being called, but couldn't find it in you to turn back around, needing to put distance between you and oscar. as much distance as possible before it was time to turn in for the night.

the sticky, wet feeling in your underwear only made you groan. there was no way you were leaking over oscar piastri, your fucking step-brother. sure, he hadn't been a part of the family for long. your parents had gotten married a little over a year ago and they'd been dating for three prior to that, so it's not like you guys grew up together, but still. it's the principle of it all…

pressing your back to the door, you whine when your thighs squeeze together, searching for friction. you shake your head. no. it's just… it's been a while. that's all. you were in a bit of a dry spell. a… two year dry spell, but still! point is, you haven't gotten any lately and it's just… just your body reacting to the physical touch of someone else. and, yeah, maybe if oscar wasn't your step-dad's son you'd maybe find him attractive, but that's besides the point!

you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and pinch your thigh, willing the thoughts of oscar out of your head. there was no way you were going to spend the night thinking about him like that. absolutely fucking not.

—

when nightfall comes, you're in your bed, pressed to the wall. your back faces the door, curled up under the motel blankets. they're scratchy on your skin and they're somehow too hot and too cold. your feet couldn't find comfort as the sand and saltwater had dried them out and forced them to catch on the sheets unpleasantly. your pillow was warm as it pressed against your head. and, to top it all off, the t-shirt you'd packed to sleep in kept twisting unpleasantly around your torso every time you flipped over. stuffing your face into the pillow, you groan.

"y'alright?"

the voice has you shooting up straight, eyes wide as you stare at oscar. even in the dim lighting of the room, you can see his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wide. his hand gripped the doorknob as he swayed a bit.

great. not only was he a pervert, but he was now a drunk one, too.

"i'm—" you start, watching him as he stumbles forward toward his bed. it's closest to the door. he falls face first with a soft, oomph. you frown, crawling out of your bed to check on him. his back rises and falls slowly, deep breaths that would hint that he'd fallen asleep if not for the groan he lets out. "jesus, oscar. are you drunk?"

instead of an answer, oscar just gives a halfhearted shake of his hand. you scoff, rolling your eyes. "at least go brush your teeth," you huff, stepping back to crawl into your bed. your hackles raise a bit when oscar reaches to grab your wrist, hanging limp by your side.

"don't go," he whispers, hand warm where it's curled around yours. his thumb swipes at the heel of your palm, tender and sweet. if he hadn't freaked you out twice today, the gesture might have come across as cute, but right now? your skin prickles and you want nothing more than to curl up under your own sheets. "please." something about the way he says it has your belly twisting, curling in knots as something hot floods your system.

when he picks his face up, his eyes are glazed over and wide and his mouth is the prettiest shade of red. he licks at his lips, throat working as he swallows. "'m not… not drunk. just—tipsy. had two or three drinks. s'all."

well…

"please, i just—just want to apologize."

"oscar, i told you. it's fine—"

"no!" he whines, face looking distraught as he tries to push himself into a sitting position. he manages it, all while keeping his hand around your wrist. "no, it isn't fine. i shouldn't have—i made you uncomfortable. and i am so sorry."

standing this close to him, this is the first time you notice that he has freckles. they're faint, but being in the sun for a few days has certainly darkened them. they dust his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, speckling up and across his forehead. you open your mouth to speak, only to get distracted by the awful puppy-dog stare he's giving you; like if he looks at you for long enough, you'll drop the whole thing.

"oscar, it's okay. really. i forgive you. no worries," you rush out, trying to keep from falling into those pools of warm, honeyed hazel. had his eyes always been that pretty?

you clear your throat, coughing a bit as you tear your gaze away from oscar's. nope. just a dry spell, remember? it's just a dry spell, your body is desperate, and you aren't that insane, you tell yourself.

oscar just stares at you like you'd unlocked all of the wonders of the universe; all starry-eyed and soft-mouthed. your stomach curls again.

“promise?" his lips wrap around the word like a dream, accented and gentle. you ignore the way your skin tingles.

"uh, yeah. yeah, i promise, osc. now… go brush your teeth for me? maybe wash your face. you'll regret it in the morning if you don't…" your voice is tight as you speak, trying your best to untangle his hand from around yours, though you can't deny that you like how it feels—does dry spell mean nothing to you?

oscar smiles, all dopey and not-so-sober. "okay," he whispers, cheeks bunching and rounding out as he lets go finally and slips himself off of his bed.

and, yeah. dry spell means nothing to you.

—

a sigh escapes your mouth when you finally relax back down into your own bed, only a few feet from oscar's. light floods the room from the crack in the bathroom door and the sound of water running fills the space. oscar brushes his teeth diligently, seeming to have no clue that you're suffering internally. your thighs shift against the scratchy sheets, white and sterile in a way that makes you squirm. wet slick sticks to your sleep shorts and your face is flushed. everything feels worse than before oscar had come in.

the light from the bathroom turns off as oscar stumbles out of the door. his feet sound heavy against the carpeted floor and you can hear the shuffling of what you think are blankets.

wait. wait.

you inhale a sharp gasp when a soft hand wraps around your waist, tugging you close. "oscar!" you whisper-shout for what feels like the hundredth time today. "oscar, this isn't your bed…"

he hums, pushing his face close to the back of your neck, inhaling the scent of your body wash. his hand only tightens around your waist, palm splaying out over the material of your t-shirt. "i know," he mutters back. his breath is warm where it hits your skin and the tingling between your legs only worsens when he presses himself fully against you.

you can feel everything—the breadth of his chest and the toned muscle he's started to put on. the strength of his thighs as they push up against the backs of your own, where his knees bend to fit alongside yours. where his foot rubs against your calf as he nuzzles closer into your neck.

a whimper escapes your mouth when you feel him. half hard in his boxers, pressing right against the seam of your sleep shorts. he only gets harder at the sound.

"then what—what are you doing?" his hand rubs in slow, soothing circles, almost lulling you into a false sense of security. "osc, please. go back to your bed…"

oscar releases a breathy chuckle, low and a little bit mean. it has you tensing in his hold, curling into yourself. "don't run away from me," he croons, arm now locked around you as he tugs you against him roughly. your back arches, a soft whine leaving your mouth. "i saw the way you were looking at me at dinner… you want this just as bad as i do."

"no, i don't…" your voice wavers as you squirm, trying your best to roll over despite being wedged between him and the wall. "i don't! that'd be so fucking weird—"

oscar cuts you off with a soft tut and a kiss to his teeth. "oh, don't give me that bullshit." his voice is firm, though still soft around the edges. "we aren't related. not really. c'mon, i know you want this. can feel you rubbing your thighs together. n'aw, aren't you cute."

you want to squirm away. you know you should try harder, should fight more. but, the soothing hand on your belly and the hard line of his cock against your ass has you floundering, not sure what you should be doing. goosebumps prickle along the length of your arms when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt. it's slow and warm, palm wide as it walks up your torso, then drags back down toward the waistband of your shorts. your breath stutters when oscar's fingers just barely slip underneath.

"if you didn't want this, you'd have shoved me off by now," he says, lips right next to your ear. you shiver, shoulder raising to push him away. "bet if i stuck my hand in your little shorts, you'd be soaked. am i right?"

biting your lip, you screw your eyes shut and shake your head.

"that's not an answer, baby."

the pet name has heat roiling in your gut, chest tight as your face only warms. "you're wrong," you manage to whine, trying to jerk your hips away from where his fingers are toying with your pajamas.

oscar's hand moves to grip your hip, stilling you. the nails on his hand had been clipped considerably. you gulp, thinking about what that might imply. "stay still," he breathes, rolling his hips forward. "i know what you want. could tell when i grabbed your knee earlier. should'a seen yourself. did you get wet then, too?" oscar's fingers sink into the plush of your side, deeper, sure to leave little indented crescents on your skin.

he takes another deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds his hips against you. "you're so soft," he groans, hand releasing your waist to explore. he takes his time, letting his lithe fingers trail over your stomach, down the side of your hip, gripping your thigh. the whole time, oscar breathes out soft, little moans, cock pressing up against your ass. you whine, feeling like your skin was on fire.

distantly, you hope that the curtains had been pulled shut. not that anyone could see the two of you since you were tucked up under the blankets, but still. the idea that anyone could see you… in bed… with oscar?

a gasp is ripped from your throat as oscar's hand cups you through your shorts. he lets out a low chuckle. "holy shit," he laughs, moving his palm just right. you whimper, squeezing your thighs tighter around his hand. "you're fucking soaked, baby. and you called me a perv…"

oscar grinds the heel of his palm right up against your clit, making your eyes squeeze shut again. "osc," you try for a final time, reaching to grab his hand. for a moment, you think he's done fucking with you until he smacks the back of your hand, batting it away.

"let me have this," he growls, rendering you speechless. your body stills and a soft cooing sound fills your ears. "good girl… been waiting for this. for you. you've been playing with me for so long—teasing me, giving me those eyes. like, tonight. at dinner? the way you ran away… you wanted me to chase you."

your mouth falls open when oscar finally, finally slips his hand under the band of your shorts. oscar groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "no fucking panties, and you're dripping? i knew you wanted this."

"oscar," you breathe, all whimpered and soft, as his fingers swipe through the pooling slick, spreading your folds and dragging the wetness up and over your clit. your entire body jolts, sensitive. it makes him grin where he's got his mouth pressed to your neck. "please…"

"oh? please, what, baby?"

your thighs tremble already, not used to the touch of someone else after so long. you make a soft, throaty sound, turning your face to bury in the pillow. oscar tsks, pulling his hand out of your shorts to grip your chin. turning your head as far as he can, he finds your eyes. "don't hide from me, pretty girl. let me see your face when i make you cum. when your step-brother makes you cum."

a mewl leaves your lips as he says it, drawing the words out if only to drive them home. heat curls and twists violently in your gut, nerve endings buzzing and feeling alight with something you haven't ever experienced.

your legs open wider, keening softly in submission. oscar, for a moment, looks taken aback. once the initial shock wears off, though, he grins. big and toothy as he sits up a bit to grab your jaw again. leaning over you, oscar looks almost wolfish. it's a stark contrast to the way he usually looks: wide-eyed, soft cheeked. his bunny teeth were always on display, but right now? they looked lethal.

leaning in, he kisses you. it's not soft, it isn't gentle. it's rough and sloppy and the angle has your neck pinching just so. you can't find it in you to care, though. not when oscar's tongue pushes into your mouth. not when he licks behind your teeth, tasting everything you have to offer him. oscar makes a noise like you'd just offered him ambrosia on a silver platter, kissing you deeper, deeper, deeper, like he can fit himself inside of you; melt into you. the hold he has on your cheeks keeps you from pulling away, and slowly, you realize that that's exactly how he wants you. your eyes roll.

when he finally pulls back, saliva sticks to your bottom lip, stringy and sticky and so fucking hot. you whimper, breathing in as you try to chase his mouth. he stills you with a hand pressed to your chest, though. oscar laughs. "easy, girl. i'll kiss you again in a minute. let's get you re-situated, yeah?"

confused, you furrow your brows. "re—?"

oscar sits up and pushes at your shoulder, rolling you flat on your back. this way, he gets a complete view of the way in which he's going to absolutely ruin you tonight. maybe forever.

his hands push at the hem of your shirt, exposing the length of your belly. goosebumps prickle there, skin tingling with want as oscar straddles your thighs, leaning down to kiss a path up your stomach. he holds the shirt right where it bunches against the underside of your breasts, pushing them up before he releases the grip, exposing them. he groans, low and long as he just. stares.

you've seen that look. you know that look. that's how oscar had looked at you earlier, with his hand on your knee, when your tits where right in front of his face, when he'd said you needed to put on more sunscreen. you moan, outright and unabashed, head dipping back against the pillow as you push your chest up, reaching to tangle your fingers in oscar's hair.

"are you gonna fucking keep staring at them, or are you going to do something?"

oscar seems to snap out of it at that, lips pulling into a wicked grin before he's diving down. one hand cups your left tit while his mouth gets around the nipple on your right. he laps at it, kittenish and teasing before he sucks the whole of it into his mouth. he groans, eyes fluttering shut. his other hand cups the underside, massaging and fondling while you're left helpless, covering your eyes with your forearms. stuttered gasps leave your chest, eyes rolling back.

usually, you wouldn't react like this to having your boobs toyed with, but something about… about oscar, about the situation, about the fact that it'd been over two years… it has you keyed up, back arching and thighs trying to spread open where they're trapped between oscar's knees.

"mm—osc—" you gasp, spine rolling into a pretty arch, pushing your chest further up into his mouth. "please…"

you can feel the way his lips curl into a smile around your nipple, tongue circling it before he pulls away, breathing heavily. the drying spit has your bud stiffening even further.

"mhm? what d'you need, baby?" oscar's voice already sounds rough, lower than you've ever heard it. his accent seemed to thicken, mouth lazy as it curls around the vowels. he leans down again, pressing wet kisses against the underside of your jaw, nipping at the skin gently.

"you. need you. please…"

oscar coos again at the breathlessness in your voice. he sits up, reaching behind him to tug at the collar of his shirt and pulling it over his head. he tosses it somewhere, uncaring. he'll find it in the morning. your eyes widen just the slightest as his bare torso comes into view. it's the first time you've really taken to looking at him and part of you wishes that at least the table-side lamp was on.

"jesus," you breathe out, raising your hands to trace the planes of his stomach, toned and warm. there's a sparse patch of hair that trails beneath the band of his boxers. a part of you, some weird, animalistic part, wants to sink your teeth into the dip of his waist. take a chunk out of him. chew on him like a chew toy. instead, you just sink your nails into hardened muscle.

oscar smirks down at you, tensing his abdomen when your nails scratch his skin. "like what you see?" he hums, rubbing a hand over his chest. somehow, it was bare, unlike his legs and arms. your thighs rubber together, making him laugh. his thighs were strong where they bracketed your own, flexing as he held himself up.

you nod, quickly. oscar just grins before he tugs your own shirt further up. you sit up to help, watching as he tosses it in the same direction his had gone. "good… now, let's get these off of you, hm?" oscar's fingers dance around the hem of your shorts, pulling it up before letting it snap back against your skin. it's gentle and relatively painless but you can't help the way you gasp.

oscar crawls off of you, shimmying down toward the end of the bed. his fingers curl into your shorts, dragging them as he goes. he groans at the sight of your cunt, exposed and glistening with slick. oscar's mouth drops open, tongue wetting his lips as he stares. "i fucking knew you'd be pretty here, too." one of his hands snakes up the inside of your leg, pushing your thigh up so your legs are spread. you can see the way his adam's apple bobs, swallowing around the saliva that's probably pooled on the back of his tongue.

you jolt when his fingers brush against your pussy, sensitive like a live wire. "hng—oscar, please… don't tease me," you whisper, giving him your best set of pleading eyes. he quirks an eyebrow, drawing his hand away just the slightest. he wants to watch you squirm.

"don't tease you? like you haven't been teasing me for days? d'you know how hard it was keeping my hands to myself while you're running around soaking wet, half-naked? you think that was fair?"

you swallow, whining high in the back of your throat. your head tips back, thighs spreading wider as you buck your hips, desperate to get his hand back where you need it.

"you're gonna beg me for it," oscar growls, low and dangerous as he leans forward, lips ghosting over yours. his hand rests flat over your stomach, pushing down just a bit. just enough to push the air out of your lungs. "do you understand?"

you blink, brain slow to processing just exactly who this version of oscar is. this oscar was so different to any other version of him you knew. the other oscar was timid, reserved. he'd never speak so… forcefully? he wasn't much for giving orders, so much as he was for taking them, with his bambi eyes and cherubic smile.

this oscar was… hot. he made butterflies fill your belly. he made your legs tremble from a simple kiss. his words were like a balm, soothing the itch beneath your skin.

"yes, oscar." it's simple. it's sweet. and oscar? he can't get enough of it. the way your voice cracks around the syllables of his name has his eyes rolling.

"go on, then. beg."

your hands move to find his biceps, curling around them, tryin to get him closer. "please, osc? please. i need it…"

he tuts, tilting his head. "mmm, i think you can do better than that, sweetheart. what do you need?"

your cheeks flush, hot and warm and your head swims. if you weren't so fucking turned on, you'd feel some semblance of shame, submitting and baring yourself like this to oscar. to oscar. you shudder, back arching. "touch me," you rush. "please. need your fingers—your mouth… want your…" your words trail off, nails digging deeper into his arms. you whine, keening at the words that you want to say.

"go on, baby. you're doing so well."

"need your cock inside me… please, baby. oscar, please!"

and, oh. who is oscar to deny you of anything when you sound so sweet begging for his fucking cock?

he grins, wide and wicked, as his hand finds a home between your thighs again. his fingers swipe through the mess before two fingers rub tight, little circles around your clit. it has your chest collapsing, breath leaving you stuttered and broken.

"mhm… that's it, baby. let me get you ready. gotta stretch this perfect, little cunt if i'm gonna fit inside…" confusion paints your face for a moment, but it's washed away when he pushes those two fingers inside. a low groan leaves your mouth, unabashed and unbidden. "that's what i thought… fuck, you're tight. when's the last time you got laid?" it comes out as a joke, intended to just be a dig at you, but when you fall silent and your eyes dart away from oscar's face, his hand stills. you whine, shaking your head as you try to rock your hips, wanting him to keep going.

he says your name low, like a command, as his free hand grips your hip. "i asked you a question."

meek, you blink up at him again, shy. "a… it's been a while."

"how long's a while?" he's looking at you with something you can't quite explain. it's hunger, but it's something… deeper. "sweetheart, how long has it been? answer me, like a good girl."

you whimper, hating that he's so quickly figured out how to push all of your buttons. turning your head, you press your mouth to your shoulder, muffling the words. "two years…" you can't miss the way oscar's eyes nearly bug out of his head while his fingers withdraw from inside you. you cry out at the loss, reaching to grab onto his wrist. "oscar! please, i want—i need—you to keep going. please, i want this so bad, baby… want you."

oscar's face softens, mostly at that sugary sweet tone of voice you've taken on. "'m gonna fuckin' ruin you," he growls before pushing his fingers back inside, roughly. you gasp, fingers tightening around his forearm as he spreads his fingers, stretching your walls. slick drips down his fingers, pooling a bit in his palm. the sight has oscar's cock twitching where it's pressed up against your thigh, still trapped in his boxers.

there's a wet spot, staining right over the tip. if it weren't for the plaid print, you could probably get a good estimate on just how big he is. if he was just talking shit about needing to get you ready for him to fit. he does feel thick, though… heavy, when he ruts his hips forward, letting his cock rub over the top of your thigh.

oscar's fingers curl inside you, hooking up and finding that spongy spot. you let out a startled yelp, like he'd electrocuted you. a strangled gasp leaves your lips and oscar makes a low noise, deep in his chest. "you're so easy," he teases, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. you let out a muffled sob, head falling back once more. you cover your mouth, trying to keep in all of the little noises his fingers are squeezing out of you.

his hand speeds up, eyes locked on your heaving chest as he scissors and curls his fingers. there's a loud, squelching noise that fills the room. it makes your face burn, heat moving to prick at your ears.

when you lift your head again, wanting to watch the way oscar fingers you open, you catch sight of his lip tucked between his teeth, brow set in a low furrow. he looks determined. your mouth drops open when he nudges a third finger in. "fuck, baby," oscar groans, slowing down the in-and-out motion of his fingers. he switches to curling them upward, stroking along your sweet spot.

the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens, oscar's thumb catching on your clit. your hand slaps down over your mouth, holding in a soft cry of oscar's name. sure, you're at a motel. but your family is only a door or two down.

oscar watches, eyes low and half-lidded as he fucks his fingers into you harder, spreading all three digits wide. he can feel the way your walls flutter around them, sucking them deeper inside. he hums, leaning down to press his nose to your temple. you squirm with one hand gripping his forearm, the other pressing harder down over your mouth all while your chest heaves.

"you g'nna cum?" oscar groans in your ear. the feeling of his breath, hot and heavy, tickles, but it also makes you clench down around his fingers. "yeah… you are. can feel it. c'mon, sweetheart. let me make you cum on my fingers. please."

the way his voice sweetens on the please and the feeling of his fingers and thumb working in tandem has you gripping the pillow under your head, mouth now agape. high-pitched, breathy mewls escape you, mixing with oscar's name. he grins at how broken it sounds on your tongue. he watches with rapt attention as your back arches, stomach tensing, trying to hold it back.

"look at me. look at me and you can cum," oscar drawls, speeding his fingers up. "c'mon. be good."

your eyes dart around the ceiling for a second, taking in a deep lungful of air before you finally manage to settle your eyes on oscar. he coos, swiping his free hand over the taut surface of your belly, muscles flexed as you stave off the impending orgasm.

"there we go. atta girl. cum."

it feels like your brain has turned to mush when you let yourself go. oscar's fingers don't stop, only fucking into you faster, trying to prolong your orgasm. your legs tremble, kicking out before trying to close up around his hips. your back arches high off the bed, moans spilling from your lips. oscar's name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

he drinks it in. oscar thinks that he could cum just from this—from watching you let go. pride blooms hot and possessive in his chest, spreading out to his limbs. it curls around his ribs and settles into the spaces, needy and wanting.

there's a near-permanent grin on his lips, eyes a little awestruck as you come down. his fingers have since stopped, thumb no longer making you twitch from aftershocks. a soft, breathy giggle escapes oscar, so different from the way he'd sounded only a few seconds ago.

when the ringing in your ears stops, you blink a few times, trying to focus your vision again. oscar looms over you, pushing your hair out of your face with his clean hand. "y'okay?" he whispers, nudging his nose against yours. "still with me?"

it's a few seconds before you can find it in you to respond. it's a sharp groan, body trying to twist away from oscar. he just chuckles, pulling his fingers out slowly. you mourn the loss of fullness immediately. oscar pets over your thigh, making you grimace when he drags sticky, wet slick against your skin. "relax. you're alright, baby. you did so well," he croons, kissing the apple of your cheek.

you just groan again, using both of your hands to wipe over your face. you whine, refusing to look at oscar.

he isn't having any of that.

"nuh-uh. is that how we thank someone who just gave us a mind-blowing orgasm after a two-year dry spell?"

your hands push out, shoving his face away from yours. "what? y'want me to suck your dick or something?" you grumble, pushing up onto your elbows. your back aches with the movement, pinched from being arched like bowstring.

oscar hums, moving a bit to give you space. both of his hands find your waist, thumbs digging into the plush flesh. he likes watching the way your skin dimples under his touch. "as nice as that sounds, no." you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. "i recall you saying you just needed my cock inside you. isn't that right?"

you whimper, letting your eyes trail down the length of oscar's body where he's knelt between your thighs. the wet spot on the front of his boxers had grown considerably. his hands move to adjust where he's rock hard, pushing his cock up and trapping it beneath the waistband. you can see the tip peeking out—bright red, leaking pre-cum. your breath catches in your throat.

"osc," you start, swallowing around the spit that's pooling in the back of your mouth. his eyes are dark when he looks down at you. something about the position—him looming over you, tall and strong—has your head spinning. you reach out to cup him, to try and get your hand around his cock. your mouth dries up when you realize just how big it really is.

"take them off," oscar tells you, jutting his chin forward with a lazy smirk on his mouth. you listen, obedient. the orgasm from earlier had flushed out any rebellious streak you may have had in you.

you move slow, curling around the elastic of his boxers, tugging them down. each inch of skin exposed has your thighs tightening, walls fluttering around nothing. oscar just watches as you realize what you've gotten into.

"no fucking way," you mutter, eloquent. oscar's cock is long and thick, hanging heavy between his legs without his boxers holding it up. the tip is an angry red, matching the flush that paints his chest and cheeks. he's trimmed about as neatly as he could be despite the trail of fuzzy hair that would lead you think otherwise.

oscar grins lazily at your reaction. "yes fucking way." his cock twitches, a blurt of pre-cum dripping from the tip. your thumb stretches to catch it, making oscar hiss through his teeth. his hips jerk forward. "fuck—lay down."

it's not something you need to be told twice.

reclining back against the pillows, you spread your legs wide open. one hand trails down your belly, cupping your sex. oscar's eyes dart to follow your fingers, tongue peeking out as he wets his mouth. he lets you play with yourself for a moment, watching the way your fingers spread your cunt open, how you dip a finger into yourself, how your head falls back with a sweet, bitten-off moan. he wants to swallow you whole.

kneeing himself forward, oscar grips his length in one hand as he pushes one of your thighs up and out of the way. your hands freeze, eyes wide when you realize what exactly is about to happen between you and oscar. a quiet mewl leaves you when you feel yourself leaking more slick onto the motel bed.

oscar bats your hand away. his cock bobs where it's gripped in his fist, looking so hard and flushed it must hurt. and you… well, you can make it better.

"ready, baby?" oscar asks, voice rough as he rocks his hips forward. his length slips through against your cunt, slicking himself up. your eyes flutter shut for a second as his tip catches your clit, hips jerking up. oscar just chuckles, amused by the reaction. he moves his hips harder, teasing you now. you whine, reaching to wrap your hand around him.

"don't—i said don't tease me… please, i'm giving you what you want…" oscar can't say no when you beg so sweetly for him…

"shh, i'm gonna give it to you, sweetheart. gonna give it to you…" he trails off, eyes stuck on the way your cunt wraps around him, slick and swollen. "'m gonna ruin you."

without anymore preamble, oscar aligns himself before he pushes in, just the tip. your eyes widen at the pressure—at the stretch. sure, it'd been a while, but oscar was just… he was going to split you in half. your walls tense and flutter around him, sucking him deeper.

he sighs at the feeling, eyebrows raising as his eyes fall shut. a strangled, high pitched sound escapes oscar, rocking his hips back and forth to get you used to the stretch. "holy fuck," he breathes. once his eyes open, he looks down to see you fisting the pillow beneath your head. your mouth is dropped open, clearly not expecting him to feel like that. and it's only the tip. "i can fucking feel you trying to suck me in."

you groan at his words, eyes squeezing shut when he sinks another inch inside. a deep breath fills your lungs, only to be punched out as oscar pushes in deeper, deeper, deeper. by the time he's bottomed out, your thighs are trembling where they're pressed against his hips, eyes barely open. your pussy throbs, walls squeezing tight around oscar's cock. he groans, a deep and satisfied sound as you practically milk him.

"can you feel me, baby?" oscar whispers, moving a hand to press against your stomach, right below your belly button. "can you feel me right here?" his index finger swirls and circles around right about where he estimates his tip sits.

letting out a wheeze of a breath, you nod. your voice is strained when you say, "can feel you in my fucking throat, holy fuck, oscar…" there's a self-satisfied smile on his face, smug and proud of himself for finally getting what he wants. for giving you what he's known you wanted all along.

"god, you're so fucking—" he starts, pulling out just barely, only to shove himself in again. it punches a sharp breath out of you, head digging back into the pillows. your hands find his biceps, grappling for something to hold onto. oscar smiles blissfully when you let out a choked-off noise. "tight."

you whimper, nodding while your hands try to find purchase wherever they can. oscar tuts, surprisingly composed for someone whose dick is being strangled by a pussy as tight as yours. well, maybe he's just that big. it certainly inflates his ego a little bit.

"easy, sweetheart," oscar coos, grabbing your hands. he laces your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your hand. "just relax for me. open up. let me in."

something about the way he says it, low and accented and voice like warmed honey, has you listening. you breathe in, slow and deep, letting your walls relax as best as they possibly could. he knees forward again, letting go of one of your hands to hike your hips up into his lap. the change in angle has a shocked cry leaving you.

oscar drops his head. one hand grips your hip where it's cradled by his own, thrusting forward to start up a rhythm. it's long and languid, oscar nearly pulling out all the way before he's sliding back in. he can feel you clenching and pulsing around him, eyes rolling back as his cock punches that sweet spot over and over.

stars line your vision, hips rolling to meet his. "oh, fuck, oscar!" you cry, back bowing taut when he bottoms out inside you again. he groans, deep and throaty before he's leaning over you. it makes your thighs stretch, pulling the muscle in a way that borders on the right side of sore. "ngh—hah—please."

oscar curls his body over yours, caging your head between his forearms as he fucks into you, thick cock stretching you open. the way he moves, the way he kisses you—all teeth and tongue and low, crooning noises each time your walls tighten up around him—it feels like he's fucking you with a point to prove. to say that he did this. he made you cum. he had you begging for his cock. that is was him who carved out a space inside you and left you ruined for anyone else.

he moans, whiny and soft, into your mouth when you buck your hips up to meet his. it's a sweet sound, immediately followed by a broken yelp when he tangles a fist in your hair and pulls, tilting your head back to suck dark, purpling bruises into your skin. "osc—oscar," you pant, eyes wide. "no—don't leave marks."

oscar just groans, digging his teeth in deeper, sharper. he nips at the skin beneath your jaw, tongue laving a pathway from your chin, all the way to your ear. a loud, keening moan leaves you, startled by the sudden onslaught of pleasure. his teeth dig into your earlobe, pulling and suckling roughly. it punches a throaty cry out of you, not expecting it to feel that good.

"oh, do you like that?" he breathes, right into the ear he was licking and sucking at. there's an airy giggle that follows it when he licks at the shell of your ear, groaning when you squeeze around him. "fuck, yeah… do that again. c'mon, baby. squeeze me."

at this point, it isn't even intentional. oscar's fucking into you at a pace you hadn't imagined he could find. his hips were slapping against the backs of your thighs, the harsh sound of skin on skin filling the small motel room. a tiny voice in the back of your head hopes you're being at least quiet enough that you won't receive a noise complaint.

oscar's cock drills into you, hands pushing your thighs up, spreading you wider and wider as his mouth attaches to your neck. sweat beads along your hairline and pools in the dip of his back where your hands are scrabbling for purchase.

"perfect—fucking—pussy—" oscar growls. his nails dig rough crescents into your skin where he's keeping you spread out. you can feel your own wetness leaking around his thickness and staining the sheets beneath you. "fuck, 'm g'nna cum."

you whine, walls tightening again, fluttering around his cock like you're trying to keep him inside, wanting him as deep as he can get. "please, osc. n-need…" oscar just shushes you, presses his mouth to yours hotly. he releases one of your thighs, snaking his free hand between your bodies where he finds your clit. roughly, he rubs tight, little circles into it, shuddering at the wail you let out.

"yes!" you cry, legs wrapping around his waist, ankles crossing to keep him close. "fuck, yes, osc… oscar, 'm gonna…" a sob hiccups out of your throat, warmth pooling and pulling harshly in your belly. "oh, my fucking god… you're gonna make me cum—!"

"yeah, i am," oscar grunts, hips snapping against yours twice before he speeds up again, focused on giving you the most pleasure possible. his fingers are soaked where they're pressed to your cunt, circling your clit until oscar can feel your thighs trembling around him. "cum for me, baby. cum on my cock."

it feels like that was all you needed, his permission, before you're arching up, nails dragging pretty, pink lines down the expanse of oscar's back as you cum. white explodes across your eyelids when they squeeze shut, mouth falling open. you think you moan, though you don't know what. it felt like oscar's name, chanted like a prayer. each syllable getting louder and louder until eventually, oscar has to slap a hand over your mouth to quiet you.

oscar cums like that, too: hand tight over your lips, hips stuttering as he fucks in twice more, then buries himself in to the hilt. the noises he makes are breathy and high pitched—whined little sounds, choked off and hoarse, like he couldn't believe he was finally getting this. getting you.

as his hips slow to a stop, oscar moves his hand away to press a hot, searing kiss to your lips. it's mostly all spit and tongue and the taste of oscar's toothpaste on your tongue. you whimper, blinking your eyes open slowly as he pulls away. his hand cups your cheek, gentle and shaky. oscar's thumb swipes at the space beneath your eye, tender. if he wasn't still buried inside of your pussy, you'd find the gesture sweet. romantic, even.

pretty brown eyes stare down at you as you finally feel like your vision is focused again. oscar's mouth a bright red, lips bitten and swollen from kissing. sweat clings to his temple, but there's a flush to his cheeks. it has your heart stuttering in your chest.

oscar smiles at you, pecking your lips once more before he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, gentle and delicate. you sigh at the touch, blissed out and full of something you can't quite put your finger on. whatever it is has you floating higher than a cloud.

"did so well," oscar mutters, peppering kisses to your face. "so fucking perfect, just like i knew you'd be." the hand on your cheek moves to stroke gently at the skin of your stomach. you can feel him softening inside you, cock nearly ready to slip out.

it's then that a new feeling washes over you. cold, like a bucket of ice dumped over your head. your eyes widen, voice shaky as you whisper oscar's name. "did you—did we—did you fucking cum inside me?" you ask, looking up at him.

oscar's cheeks turn bright red, flushing a deeper shade than he'd been all night. "i—" he starts, swallowing. "you didn't—i thought—was i not supposed to?"

"oscar!" you whine, hands covering your face. "oscar, what the fuck!"

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lovelyleclerc maybe i just don’t leave 🧡

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, and 1.039k others

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charles_leclerc 💬 you promised you would watch me race!!

⤷ lovelyleclerc but the whimsy

⤷ charles_leclerc fuck whimsy, keep your promises 😸

⤷ lovelyleclerc die

⤷ charles_leclerc the way this season is going, i might. 😬

⤷ lovelyleclerc ferrari moment (❤️)

oscarpiastri 💬 I wouldn’t either

liked by lovelyleclerc

⤷ lovelyleclerc finally someone who understands whimsy ✨

⤷ oscarpiastri I try my best

°｡🍊𓏲⋆.🧺 ₊˚

Race days were always loud. The kind of loud that couldn’t be ignored. That begged to be noticed. With your bags full of ripe fruit, sunglasses from the 1970s, and more iced coffee than you’d admit to anyone, you stepped right into it. The train in left at the crack of dawn, the bustling excitement of fans heading in from all over Italy to watch the race in Monaco felt intimidating. You’d stuck to your assigned seat, bags taking up extra space, head deep in a book you’d picked up from the old woman who lived down the road from you (ten minutes by bike, twenty by foot, which was as close as neighbours got). You’d ignored their speculations on who would win the gem of the F1 calendar. You ignored their comments on Charles Leclerc most of all, trying not to gag when they spoke of his passionate gaze. Gross.

The paddock was bustling, nestled between buildings ingrained into the city’s heart. A place you only came for family dinners and races. Monaco was too … well put together for someone like you. Or so you’d always thought. The country was simpler, easier. Sure, your window shutters were falling apart, your kitchen needed to be redone, and your fences were rotting. But it was yours. None of this had belonged to you, despite the way your brothers said it did.

You checked the list in a crumpled notebook. To Ferrari first, as always. To check up on your brother and deliver produce. Despite never asking for it, Charles ordered all his produce from you. You’d protested at first, as a sibling always does when their brother decides to do what brothers do best.

“I’m no different than a customer,” he’d argued. “We are related, that’s all. I still know it’s better than what any stores offer here.” He hadn’t been wrong. You’d seen the produce in some of the grocery stores the other drivers frequented. You’d been silent, but your disgust had apparently spoken volumes.

Your paddock pass hung loosely around your neck as you weaved through crowds of technicians, strategists, and social media admins filming race day content. The hat on your hat fell sloppily over your eyes. You’d made it, or, tried to. In the end, you’d given up, and asked Signora Bonetti to finish it. You’d tied the bow on, though, which was your proudest achievement.

The Ferrari hospitality zone was too modern for your taste. You stuck out like a sore thumb, with clothes sewn on rainy days or thrifted from the handful of elderly women within an hour walking distance (there were more than you could have thought). Most people glanced through you, but you’d never minded.

“Ah, ducky!” Charles’ voice rang out. You turned, catching him leaving his driver’s room, race suit halfway on.

“Hello, Charles,” you greeted with a gentle smile. He rushed towards you, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulder. Never full hugs with him, not because of discomfort, but because his race suit made him sweat, and smell. Which you’d been vehemently against.

“No pleasantries?” He asked. “You wound me!” He placed a hand over his heart.

“I’m sorry, bub,” you spoke quietly. Charles offered you another smile. “It’s been a long day.” Charles furrowed his brows.

“It’s 10 AM.”

“Yes.” Charles blinked and shrugged. “How are you, though? Nervous for the home race?” The race he’d yet to win. The one place he wanted to win the most. For many drivers, the home race was important. More important than the WDC, in some cases. Charles was already a world champion, in your eyes at least. But he needed to win at home to prove he could do it. That he deserves to be here, among the greats.

“I’m starting on pole, which is promising,” Charles explained. He sighed and shook his head. “I am scared shitless, ducky,” he confessed. You laid your head against his shoulder.

“You’ll be great,” you whispered. “Just don’t listen to your engineers and you’ll be fine.” You heard him snort. A silent agreement.

“I brought all your favourites, plus some extra.” You brought out one of your many handmade tote bags, filled with veggies and fruits, hand selected to excel in dishes of all kinds. You saw the joy creep into Charles’ face.

“Ducky, you didn’t have to,” he whispered as he took the bag from you. He fumbled under the weight. “How much extra did you put in there?”

“Enough,” you joked. The bag was nearly falling apart. Not your best work, by far. But that didn’t matter, not to Charles.

“How much do I owe you?” He asked.

“Nothing, bub. Just win your race.”

“Well, now I have to.” You simply nodded. He placed the fruit on one of the many chairs that decorated the hospitality suite. You adjusted the other bags on your shoulders. Charles drank them in.

“More deliveries?” He asked. You nodded, showing him your list. Charles whistled as he read the names.

“I claim credit for this, by the way,” he teased as he handed the list back to you.

“Because you grew all the fruit yourself, obviously.”

“Obviously.” It fell silent as his grip vanished from your side. “You’ll watch from Ferrari, right?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Your voice always came out gentle around your brother. The one closest in almost every way except age. Charles pressed a kiss to your forehead as he sent you a wave. You mirrored it, arms full of fresh produce. You turned and headed out. You had a few stops to make before the race started.

You went to Red Bull next, leaving Max strawberries and oranges for P, as requested. Then to Williams for Alex, who wanted cucumbers and onions. Fernando wanted an obscene amount of garlic, but you’d stopped questioning it.

You’d emptied most of your bags, save for two. The McLaren boys had each ordered as many things they could get their hands on. Their bags were the heaviest, aside from Charles.

You were let in by one of McLaren’s social team, who you gave an orange. Inside, it was chaos. The race was starting soon, so everyone was losing it, just a little.

You approached Lando’s driving room and knocked. He opened the door, his race suit messily done up. He smiled when he saw you, as he always did.

“Hello, stranger!” He chirped as he pulled you in for a hug.

“Hello yourself,” you mimicked him. You pulled back and held up his overflowing bag. His face brightened.

“Did I mention you’re my favourite Leclerc?” He asked as he pulled the bag from her.

“Don’t tell Charles that,” you replied as he let you into his driving room. “He still says you can be world champion.” Lando snorted.

His driver’s room was cleaner than anyone would expect. He offered you a seat while he adjusted his suit.

“How’s your farm?” Lando asked.

“It’s alright, the ducks miss you.” Months ago, you’d adopted a mother and baby ducks, and they’d all grown up. They marched around your land like they owned it, and they’d taken to Lando instantly. Because he’d been wearing orange the day they met, and he looked enough like a duck where they’d started following him around. They’d become his babies. The closest he’d get to a pet before he retired.

“I’ll just have to visit then,” Lando chuckled as he fixed his hair. Lando’s eyes caught someone moving in the mirror. “Oí, Oscar, come get your shit!” The Australian shuffled into the room.

“Hi,” he greeted you with a small smile. His suit was also mostly on.

“Hi, Oscar,” you greeted. You’d never been close with him. Not like Lando. He was sweet, of course, but Lando had become something of a best friend. Oscar was someone you knew well enough, but not enough to crack jokes with. Not yet, anyway. There was still time. Time to crack through the layers of him, like an onion.

He reached out for the last bag you were holding. You surrendered it. “Shit has been delivered,” you stated. Oscar smiled and chuckled. A quiet thing with no bite or teeth. A gentle thing best meant to be enjoyed by candlelight.

“It’s gorgeous,” he expressed. “You grow all this?” You nodded with a big grin.

“Oui, I have a farm a few hours from here. I have a special F1 driver discount.”

“Aren’t I lucky?” Oscar’s grin turned cheeky. “It looks great. Better than the grocery stores, I think.” You felt yourself beam with pride.

“That’s the goal!” Lando glanced at you from his spot in front of the mirror. You forced your smile down to something manageable.

“I should get going, Charles is expecting me to watch him win.”

“You told him not to listen to his engineers?” Lando asked.

“Of course, what do you take me for? A masochist?” Lando snorted. Even Oscar chuckled again. You offered a wave as you turned to leave.

“Wait,” Oscar called for you as you pushed the door open into the late spring air. He still had his bag of fruit and veggies. “Thanks, for the stuff.” He sounded awkward in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“You’re welcome. Anytime you need something fresh, just let me know.” He nodded gently. “Of course, with enough time to board a train and transport it.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“I don’t believe in fossil fuel,” you teased. You watched him smile again. You liked his smile, you decided. Oscar waved again and turned away. This time, you were the one who stopped him.

“Good luck, by the way,” you whispered. “Not too much, though. Charles needs this win.”

“So do I, technically,” Oscar shot back. You snorted with a shrug of your shoulders. “I won’t go easy on him.” Oscar warned as you pushed out the door. You turned back for a moment. He was still smiling.

“Good.”

lovelyleclerc HOME RACE WINNER! ❤️

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, and 10.6k others

view 491 comments …

charles_leclerc 💬 you can stop teasing me now!

⤷ lovelyleclerc how about no??

⤷ lovelyleclerc i’m so proud of you, bub. you deserve this win ❤️❤️

⤷ user best siblings 😭🙏

oscarpiastri 💬 no congrats for me?

⤷ lovelyleclerc good job, chéri, you’ll get it next time 😙

⤷ oscarpiastri so gracious with your praise, it warms my heart 🧡

⤷ charles_leclerc go away this is my moment

maxverstappen1 💬 About time!

⤷ lovelyleclerc truly, he’s almost dead he needs this win

⤷ scuderiaferrari 🫣 not the almost dead

⤷ maxverstappen1 Watch it, I’m older than him.

⤷ lovelyleclerc it’s too late for you 💀

°｡🍊𓏲⋆.🧺 ₊˚

He found you at the train platform, sweating, in casual clothes. He called out for you as the train appeared on the horizon. You stopped and turned back to him as he ran towards you.

“Oscar?” You asked, mostly in confusion. Because he shouldn’t be here. Emphasis on every word in that sentence. He shouldn’t be at the celebration McLaren was no doubt having, shouldn’t be standing across from you, here at the train station. Not when you knew he owned a car more expensive than your farmhouse. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, came to ask if you wanted a ride home.” His words were evenly paced as he forced himself to breathe.

“You … ran here to ask me if I needed a ride?” You asked.

“When you say it like that, it sounds dumb.” Oscar stood up straight as the train rolled in. “But, yes.”

“You have to buy a ticket to get on the platform,” you deadpanned. You caught a glimpse of a crumbled ticket to somewhere in Italy, in the same sort of direction you were.

“I didn’t say it was a great idea,” he chimed back. People were boarding, and the train would leave in two minutes. He looked so hopeful. He came all this way to ask to spend time with you. It didn’t make sense. Not the kind of sense it should.

“Have you … taken the train before?” You cringed at the question. But, Oscar smiled shyly.

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted in a gentle rasp. You found yourself holding out your hand.

“Why don’t you try? You already bought a ticket.” He stared at your hand for a few seconds, brain catching up to him. You watched the lightbulb go off.

“You’d want me there?” By there, you assumed he meant the house.

“Extra hands in the morning isn’t something I’d complain about,” you teased. Oscar seemed to brighten at that.

“Why the hell not? Lando always said I should be more spontaneous.”

“And we know Lando’s always right.” He took your hand as the announcer stated that the train was about to depart. He stumbled into the car, letting you show him to your seats for the ride back. A window seat. He settled in beside you, even though you insisted the view would be better across the way. He had shrugged.

“I think the view’s nice where I am.” You hadn’t asked if he meant you, because your heart couldn’t take the answer.

As the train pulled away from the hustle and bustle of Monaco, the sunset turned the sky from blue to reds and orange.

You never saw him take a photo. Only saw it the day after on his Instagram.

oscarpiastri Always a pleasure, Monaco. 🏆

liked by lovelyleclerc, lando, and 104.9k others

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lovelyleclerc 💬 white man takes train for the first time, thinks they’re fucking cool (they are)

⤷ oscarpiastri I had a great seat mate

⤷ lovelyleclerc finally someone with taste 🫶🏼 this isn’t getting you out of egg duty tomorrow

⤷ oscarpiastri Worth a shot 😔

user 💬 THE LAST SLIDE??

lando 💬 told you the produce scheme would work

⤷ lovelyleclerc scheme?? who tf does schemes anymore??

⤷ oscarpiastri 🌽 <- my wingman (thanks Lando, you’re a real one)

⤷ charles_leclerc ???? answer my texts what

⤷ lovelyleclerc suddenly my wifi isn’t working 🫥

maxverstappen1 💬 Do you need a ride back to Monaco?

There—just outside the McLaren hospitality tent, pressed close to the wall like she was part of it—stood a girl. She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just holding a clipboard above her head, trying and failing to shield herself from the rain.

It wasn’t working. Her jacket was soaked through, darkened and clinging to her arms. Damp strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. She wasn’t shivering exactly, but she looked cold. Quiet. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for her—and Oscar hadn’t been.

But now he couldn’t stop.

He had seen her before, in passing. Always tucked behind a screen, a clipboard, a lanyard with three laminated passes clipped to it. She was one of the logistics girls—paddock operations or scheduling, something like that. Always moving fast, always quiet, never stopping to chat like some others did.

He realized the comms handler was still talking.

“—you can grab lunch after that, I’ll make sure catering keeps something—”

“I’ll be right back,” Oscar said abruptly, and turned without explaining.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled his team jacket from around his shoulders, the warm interior already cooling in his hands, and started across the gravel toward her.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was trying to read something, squinting at her clipboard as if she could will the paper to stay dry. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, like she wanted to move but didn’t know where to go.

Oscar stopped just in front of her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened just slightly—nothing dramatic, but surprised. She hadn’t expected to be spoken to. Maybe hadn’t expected to be seen.

“Come inside,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You’re going to catch something out here.”

She blinked once. “I’m fine,” she replied quickly. Her voice was soft, like someone who didn’t speak up often. “I’m just—finishing something.”

“You’re soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, almost stubbornly.

He hesitated, then held out the jacket.

“Here. Just… take it. You can give it back whenever.”

She looked at it like he’d handed her something strange. Her fingers didn’t move. She just stared.

“It’s clean,” he added awkwardly. “I mean—it’s not sweaty or anything. I just grabbed it a minute ago.”

She didn’t reach for it.

Thunder cracked, far off in the distance, and just as she glanced toward the sound, the clipboard slipped from her hands. It slapped into the wet gravel, pages bending and streaking with mud.

“Shit,” she muttered, dropping to grab it.

Oscar didn’t think—just crouched beside her, tucking the jacket over her shoulders as she lifted the soggy clipboard and shook it off in frustration. She froze the second the fabric touched her. He lingered just long enough to make sure it was secure, then stepped back, giving her space.

The sleeves swallowed her hands. The jacket hung awkwardly off her frame, almost comically oversized, the orange stripes on the collar peeking up near her ears.

She didn’t say thank you. Not right away.

Instead, she adjusted the collar slowly, staring at the ground like she couldn’t quite make sense of what just happened. Rain still fell around them, soft but steady. Somewhere behind them, a mechanic shouted something in Italian.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I thought you looked cold,” he said quietly, unsure why he felt the need to fill the silence.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were clear, dark, a little guarded—but not unfriendly.

“I’ll return this,” she murmured, touching the collar of the jacket lightly.

“I hope you don’t,” he said before thinking, then faltered. “I mean—you can. Just… no rush.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Not full, not wide—just there for a breath of a second.

Then she nodded, gave him the softest little thank-you that he barely caught, and disappeared inside the tent.

Oscar stayed in the rain for a moment longer, jacketless, hands in his pockets, watching the spot where she’d stood like the silence she left behind had weight.

He didn’t know her name.

But now he needed to.

...

It was Sunday evening when she finally found him.

The paddock had thinned out — media crews packing up cables, garages half-empty, the air thick with post-race adrenaline and exhaustion. The sun was dipping low behind the Suzuka skyline, casting golden light across the gravel. Everyone moved slower now. The rush was over. Flights were being checked into. Vans were being loaded.

Oscar was leaning against the low fencing outside McLaren’s hospitality tent, his phone in one hand, the other tucked loosely into the pocket of his hoodie. He was laughing at something a team member had just said, easy and warm, that end-of-weekend looseness in his shoulders.

She almost turned around.

But then he looked up. Like he felt her there.

His eyes found hers almost instantly.

She stopped mid-step, jacket folded carefully in her arms — not lazily stuffed, but square and neat, like she’d taken the time to smooth it just right. There was something awkward in the way she held it, though. Like she’d been holding it too long.

He stepped away from the fence, expression softening. “Hey.”

“I—” she started, then paused, eyes flicking past him like she was checking if anyone else was watching. “I’ve been… trying to give this back since Friday.”

She held out the jacket.

He didn’t take it.

“Could’ve kept it,” he said, tilting his head just slightly.

Her grip didn’t loosen. “I didn’t want to keep it.”

“Didn’t want to?” he echoed, teasing, one brow raised.

Her face warmed instantly. She lowered her gaze to the folded fabric in her hands. “I meant— I was going to return it sooner, I just… you were busy. After qualifying, after the race, today especially…”

“Yeah. It’s been a bit mad.” He glanced at the jacket, then back at her. “You stayed dry, though?”

She nodded. “It helped. A lot.”

He gave a small smile, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m glad.”

For a second, neither of them said anything.

The breeze pulled softly at the ends of her sleeves, the hem of her shirt. His hoodie rustled against the wind, the remnants of race day trailing off into something quieter.

She cleared her throat, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you. Properly.”

“You already did,” he said. “I heard it.”

“Yeah, i guess you're right."

Oscar’s head tilted again, just barely. There was something thoughtful in his expression now. Like he was trying to memorize how she looked in that moment — the way her voice dipped, the way she fidgeted with the sleeve of the jacket she still hadn’t let go of.

“Can I ask something?” he said gently.

She glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why were you out in the rain like that in the first place?”

There was a beat.

Then she gave the tiniest, half-embarrassed shrug. “I didn’t want to miss a delivery. I was supposed to sign off on some updated logistics forms for Ferrari. It was time-sensitive.”

Oscar blinked. “You stayed outside in a thunderstorm… for Ferrari?”

“I take my job seriously,” she replied, almost defensively — then added under her breath, “Even if they never said thank you.”

His smile widened, honest and amused.

She glanced down again, finally extending the jacket fully.

He reached for it, but instead of pulling it away, his fingers brushed hers — deliberately, lightly, like he was testing something.

She didn’t move.

“…You sure you don’t want to keep it?” he asked, voice quiet.

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.

And then, without answering, she gently let go of the jacket.

But she was still smiling.

...

The next time he saw her, she was alone.

It was Saturday, late afternoon. Most of the garages had gone quiet — the kind of hush that settles over the paddock when everything’s temporarily under control. The sun was finally out, warming the pavement and making the air feel thick and slow.

Oscar had wandered from the debrief, one hand curled around a half-empty bottle of water, half-tuned out of his surroundings. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows. He didn’t know exactly where he was going — just away from the fluorescent lights and the tension and the lingering buzz of mechanics still swapping theories.

That’s when he saw her.

She was sitting on a low concrete bench near the back of the McLaren garage, tucked just far enough away that most people wouldn’t notice her. A small paper bento box rested on her lap. She was eating with wooden chopsticks, carefully picking at rice and vegetables while reading something off her phone with an expression of focus that was almost… endearing.

Her jacket was off today. Hair tied messily back. The same soft quietness as before, but somehow more at ease in the sun.

Oscar didn’t think. He just stopped walking.

And then, cautiously, stepped toward her.

“Hey,” he said, slower this time. Not startling — just a gentle greeting.

She looked up, eyes blinking once in recognition. “Oh.”

He smiled. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated, then shifted slightly to the side — not exactly an invitation, but not a no either. He took that as a yes.

He dropped onto the bench beside her, not too close, not too far. Close enough to smell the soy sauce from her bento. Close enough to hear the faint little crunch when she bit into a piece of tempura.

“You always eat here?” he asked, looking ahead instead of at her.

She shrugged. “It’s quiet. Nobody bothers me.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t like being bothered?”

Another bite. She chewed slowly. Then: “Depends on who’s doing the bothering.”

Oscar laughed, caught off guard. “Fair.”

Silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The breeze carried the hum of distant voices, tires being stacked, the occasional crackle of a team radio. A bird landed near the tire barrier. She flicked a grain of rice off her chopsticks toward it.

“What’s in that?” he asked, nodding to the bento.

“Vegetarian,” she said. “Not by choice. They ran out of everything else.”

He made a face. “Tragic.”

She looked sideways at him, dry as anything. “I can offer you one lonely carrot stick and half a dumpling.”

“Tempting.”

“You’re not getting the dumpling,” she deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled again, shaking his head. She wasn’t chatty, but she had timing. That quiet kind of funny — the kind you didn’t expect until it hit you sideways.

“I don’t think I caught your name last time,” he said after a moment.

She looked up again, finally meeting his gaze properly. A pause, then:

“Yn. Logistics.” She gestured vaguely toward the garage. “I do the boring parts so you lot can play with fast cars.”

He grinned. “Well, you’re very good at it. Even Ferrari got their papers on time.”

She huffed — almost a laugh — and returned to her lunch. “Barely.”

He didn’t leave right away. He stayed while she finished eating, talking here and there, mostly just sharing quiet space. It wasn’t anything big. Just enough.

Later, when she stood up to throw away the empty bento box, she glanced back at him and said, “You don’t need to be nice, you know.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I’m not being nice. I’m being curious.”

She raised a brow, half-skeptical.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I… like talking to you.”

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she nodded, barely, like she hadn’t expected that answer—but maybe didn’t mind it.

Then she was gone.

Oscar sat back on the bench and looked at the empty spot beside him.

And smiled.

She didn’t look back after she walked away from the bench.

Didn’t let herself.

Not even a quick glance. Not even a little over-the-shoulder peek to see if he was still sitting there. (Even though she knew he was. She could feel it. That light weight of attention that lingered in the air, warm like sunlight.)

Instead, she tossed the bento box into the bin, tucked her hands into the sleeves of her crew jacket, and kept walking until she was behind the nearest tent.

Then she exhaled.

Her heart was beating too fast. Ridiculously fast. Like she’d just sprinted through pit lane, not sat still for twenty minutes making dry little jokes about carrots and soy sauce.

What the hell was he doing?

She wasn’t stupid. She’d worked enough seasons to know how drivers were. Polite in passing. Some flirty. Some dismissive. Most didn’t even look up when you handed them a clipboard. They were in their own world. Tightly wound routines, PR-trained smiles, and eyes that were always somewhere else.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t like that. Not exactly. He was quiet too — but in a steady, watchful kind of way. Thoughtful. Grounded. And apparently, for some godforsaken reason… interested in her?

That thought alone made her stop walking again.

She frowned, staring at her boots for a second.

It had been easy to brush off the jacket thing. People did nice things sometimes. Especially if there were cameras nearby (there weren’t). Especially if it was raining (it was). And especially if they didn’t expect to see you again afterward (he definitely hadn’t, right?).

Except now he had seen her again.

And asked to sit with her.

And laughed at her dumb comments.

And told her, I like talking to you.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him — how could you not? He was calm, kind, absurdly good at what he did, and had a smile like it could make bad days fall apart at the edges. But still, it didn’t make sense.

Her fingers curled inside her sleeves, pressing into her palms.

It wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t be. She didn’t even know him. She just…

She liked the way he looked at her. Like she wasn’t invisible.

And maybe the scariest part?

She was starting to want him to look at her again.

...

It started small.

Little things.

On Sunday morning, she was checking inventory near the back of the McLaren hospitality tent — sleeves rolled up, hair already a mess from rushing around — when she looked up to find Oscar standing just outside the flap.

He wasn’t wearing his race suit yet. Hoodie again, cap pulled low. Hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t doing anything in particular.

“Oh,” she said, startled.

“Hey,” he said easily, like they bumped into each other like this all the time.

She blinked. “…Do you need something?”

“Just checking if breakfast is still open,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the garage entrance.

“It is,” she said. “The buffet’s still running.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t move.

She raised a brow. “You’re… waiting for someone?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Just killing time.”

And then he asked how her morning was. Just like that. Like it was normal. Like he always did that.

She answered — stiffly, carefully — because part of her was still convinced she was imagining this. But he kept going. Tossed her a soft joke about the weather. Commented on the energy drinks someone had stacked like an unstable tower behind her. She found herself smiling, before she even realized it.

He left after a few minutes, walking toward the buffet like that was his original plan all along.

But fifteen minutes later, when she passed through the side corridor between the garage and media tent, she found him again — leaning against the wall, sipping coffee.

“Twice in one morning,” he said, like it was some cosmic coincidence.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for the media run,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “They’re running behind.”

She didn’t believe him. Not really. But she didn’t call him out, either.

Instead, she just shook her head and walked past.

He followed, casually.

It kept happening.

During setup in Hungary, he appeared beside her while she was bent over a laptop near the freight containers. “Need a hand?” he asked, like he had any idea what she was doing.

In Belgium, he held the door open for her even though she was a good twenty steps away. “Timed it perfectly,” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes but said thank you anyway.

In Zandvoort, he brought her a croissant.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it over. Just pressed the paper napkin into her palm with a quiet “thought you might’ve missed breakfast,” then turned to leave like it was nothing.

It was never pushy. Never loud. Always just enough.

Little breadcrumbs.

And she followed them, even if she pretended not to.

One day, while walking past the driver’s lounge, she heard someone — one of the mechanics, maybe — murmur under their breath, “Piastri’s little logistics crush again?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.

But her ears burned for an hour.

It happened in Monza.

She’d been helping one of the hospitality interns unload supply boxes behind the garage when she saw him coming. Oscar, hands in his pockets, walking casually like always — except this time she didn’t pretend not to notice.

She straightened. Waited.

And when he got close enough, she said it plainly.

“Why do you keep finding me?”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. But it stopped him in his tracks.

Oscar blinked, just once, like he hadn’t expected the question — or maybe like he had, and just didn’t know when it would finally come.

For a moment, all the usual ease dropped from his face. No teasing. No polite smile. Just the softest trace of honesty behind his eyes.

“Because I want to.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Why?”

He shrugged slowly, hands still deep in his hoodie pockets. “Because you’re… interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, gently. Like it wasn’t up for debate. “You say weird things sometimes. And you’re quiet, but not in the way that makes things awkward. You just… notice everything.”

She stared at him.

“You don’t try to be liked,” he added. “And I think that’s rare around here.”

The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear out of habit, still holding his gaze. She wasn’t used to this. Attention like this — soft, specific, undeserved. Or maybe just unfamiliar.

“I thought you were just being polite,” she said eventually.

“I don’t talk to people I’m not interested in.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“You barely know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that.”

Silence.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She looked away, then back, her voice quieter now. “It’s… a little hard to believe.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m not the girl you’re supposed to notice.”

That made him smile — not teasing, not sarcastic. Just gentle.

“I don’t really care what I’m supposed to do.”

She didn’t say anything.

He stepped just a little closer, not invading, not pushing. “Can I walk with you?”

Her lips twitched, a breath caught in her chest. Then, after a long pause:

“…Sure.”

And just like that, they fell into step — not as logistics girl and driver, not as opposites in different worlds — but as something new. Something slow. Something real.

Oscar walked beside her in comfortable silence for a few steps. She glanced at him once, unsure if he was just being polite again — if maybe she’d misunderstood everything, if maybe this was nothing.

But then he spoke.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “Are you free after everything today?”

She blinked. “Why?”

He smiled, but there was something more serious underneath. “There’s a place in town. Nothing fancy, just coffee. I thought maybe…” He paused, then finally looked at her, steady. “I’d like to take you.”

She stopped walking, surprised — not because she didn’t want to say yes, but because it felt so deliberate. So clear. Like he wasn’t hiding behind jokes or polite small talk anymore.

“You mean like a—”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like that.”

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She tried not to overthink it, but the silence stretched a little too long.

“I mean—only if you want to,” Oscar added quickly. “No pressure.”

“I do,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. Then, quieter: “I want to.”

He gave a small, honest smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. “Okay. After press, I’ll find you.”

“You always do.”

His smile widened just slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

And then they kept walking — her heartbeat unsteady, his hands still in his hoodie pockets — something unspoken hanging between them, charged and careful and impossibly soft.