Rosiel Leclerc

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, friend3 and others

ynuser just waiting for the weekend so i can go to watch the f1 cars live!

friend1 literally us dragging ourselves through the week just to hear the lights go out on sunday 🏎️💨

ynuser @ friend1 if I have to look at one more screen before FP1 I'm actually going to lose my mind

friend2 the academic burnout in these pics is way too real 😭 you sleeping on the macbook in the last slide is my current mood.

user1 someone get this girl an espresso immediately ☕️

-

The Baku heat was sweltering, but you barely noticed it. Holding a guest paddock pass for the very first time, you were completely mesmerized by the sheer chaos and adrenaline of the Formula 1 circus. It was 2015, and the energy around the garages was electric.

You were standing near the Toro Rosso hospitality, trying to get a decent photo of the cars being wheeled out, completely unaware of the eyes on you.

A few yards away, Carlos was supposed to be listening to his manager discuss the schedule for the afternoon. It was his rookie year, and the pressure was immense, but at that exact moment, his focus was entirely derailed. He had stopped dead in his tracks in his blue and red race suit, his dark eyes locked on you.

"Carlos? Are you listening?" his cousin and right-hand man, Caco, asked, waving a hand in front of the young driver's face.

Carlos blinked, shaking his head slightly, though a faint blush crept up his neck. "Yeah. Yes. Hey, do you have a pen?"

Caco frowned, patting his pockets before pulling out a standard blue ballpoint pen. "Why?"

Carlos didn't answer. He hastily grabbed a small torn piece of paper from his pocket—a discarded printed timing sheet—and leaned against a stack of Pirelli tires to scribble something down. His heart was hammering against his ribs, bringing a completely different kind of nerves than what he felt behind the wheel. He folded it neatly, taking a deep breath before shoving it into Caco's chest.

"Give this to her," Carlos muttered, his thick Spanish accent laced with urgency. He pointed discreetly toward you.

"Are you serious?" Caco laughed, looking from the folded note to you, then back to Carlos. "You're an F1 driver now, mate. Go talk to her yourself."

"I have the engineering briefing in exactly two minutes, and if Franz sees me flirting in the paddock, he'll kill me," Carlos pleaded, practically pushing his cousin forward. "Please. Just give it to her. Tell her it's from me."

Before Caco could argue further, Carlos darted behind the safety of the Toro Rosso motorhome doors, though he kept one eye peeking through the tinted glass.

You were just putting your phone away when a guy in a navy blue team shirt tapped your shoulder.

"Excuse me," Caco smiled politely, holding out the folded piece of paper. "I was instructed to deliver this to you on behalf of a very nervous rookie."

You furrowed your brows, taking the paper. "A rookie?"

"Yeah. The Spanish one," Caco chuckled, gesturing over his shoulder.

You followed his gaze. Standing just inside the glass doors of the Toro Rosso hospitality was Carlos Sainz. When he saw you looking, his eyes went wide for a split second before he offered a shy, incredibly charming wave, his signature boyish grin breaking across his face.

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. You waved back softly, unfolding the paper in your hands.

I think you're the prettiest girl in this paddock. If you want to celebrate a rookie surviving Baku, text me. - Carlos (Toro Rosso #55) +34 6XX XXX XXX

You looked back up, but he was gone, swallowed by the busy garage. You tucked the note safely into your pocket, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip. The race weekend had only just begun.

-

ynuser

liked by user, friend1, friend2 and others

ynuser Baku dump 🇦🇿🏎️ surviving the street circuit chaos and dealing with friends who insist on wearing red… I’m sticking to my RB gear for now 💙🐂

friend1 WE WILL CONVERT YOU TO THE RED SIDE EVENTUALLY! Just you wait 🐎❤️

ynuser @ friend1 in your dreams! Toro Rosso/Red Bull supremacy all the way today 😌

friend2 The audacity to wear those socks while sitting next to us in the grandstands 😤

ynuser @ friend2 someone has to have some taste in this friend group!

-

-

The logistics of dating an F1 driver—let alone a rookie trying to prove himself to Helmut Marko—were a nightmare, but Carlos was determined.

Two weeks after the chaos of Baku, the calendar offered a rare, brief gap. He had flown you out to London, promising a dinner that didn't involve paddock hospitality food or his cousin acting as a messenger.

He chose a small, intimately lit Italian place tucked away in Soho. When you walked in, Carlos was already seated at a corner booth, nervously tearing a paper coaster into microscopic pieces. He was dressed casually but sharply—a dark button-down shirt that made his shoulders look broad, his messy curls slightly tamed.

When he looked up and saw you, the nervous energy vanished, replaced instantly by that devastating, boyish grin. He immediately stood up, pulling out your chair.

"You made it," he said, his accent wrapping warmly around the words. He leaned in to press a soft, customary kiss to your cheek, and you could smell a hint of expensive cologne mixed with something distinctly him.

"I did," you smiled, taking your seat. "And look at you. No race suit, no engineers, and most importantly... no Caco to do the talking for you."

Carlos groaned, hiding his face in his hands for a second, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "Please tell me you are going to let that go eventually."

"Not a chance, rookie," you teased, picking up your menu. "It's part of your origin story now."

The date flowed effortlessly. For someone whose life was dictated by hundredths of a second, Carlos was surprisingly relaxed, taking his time to ask you about your life, your studies, and your passions. He listened with genuine intensity, his dark eyes entirely focused on you, making the rest of the crowded restaurant fade away.

In return, he talked about his family in Madrid, the pressure of his first year in Formula 1, and his dreams for the future.

"I just want to prove I belong here," he admitted softly, swirling the remaining red wine in his glass. "That I'm not just a name. I want to build a real legacy. Maybe... maybe drive for a historic team one day. Fight for wins."

"You will," you said, your voice full of absolute certainty. You reached across the table, your fingers lightly brushing against his. "You have the talent, Carlos. Anyone who actually watches you can see it. You're going to do amazing things."

Carlos looked down at your hand, then up at your eyes. The playful, flirting rookie from the paddock was gone, replaced by someone looking at you like you were the most important thing in the room. He turned his hand over, gently lacing his fingers through yours.

"Thank you, Y/N," he murmured, his thumb drawing soft circles on the back of your hand. "I... I really like having you in my corner."

-

-

f1wags

liked by user1, user2, user3 and others

f1wags 🚨 SPOTTED IN THE PADDOCK 🚨 It is officially confirmed! After months of rumors and secret dinners since Baku, Carlos Sainz’s girlfriend, Y/N, has finally made her official paddock debut. But the best part? She arrived walking side-by-side with Mama Sainz (Reyes) and his sister! 🥺🇪🇸

user1 WALKING IN WITH HIS MOM AND SISTER??? Oh, it is serious SERIOUS 😭😭😭

user2 Okay, her style is impeccable, The Toro Rosso WAGs are stepping up their game! ❤️

user3 wait I am actually so obsessed with her. I saw a video on Twitter of Carlos running out of the garage just to hug her before FP1 started 🥺

user4 crying, throwing up, sliding down a wall. happy for him though I guess 🥲💔

user5 The fact that Reyes is smiling so big while talking to her says everything you need to know. Welcome to the grid, Y/N! 🏎️🇪🇸

friend1 EXCUSE ME THAT IS MY BEST FRIEND LOOKING LIKE AN ACTUAL SUPERMODEL 🗣️🗣️🗣️

f1wags @ friend1 tell your bestie she won the lottery for us!

-

ynuser

liked by carlossainz55, friend1, friend2 and others

ynuser One whole year of navigating crazy race schedules, stealing your hoodies, and laughing until my ribs hurt. Happy anniversary, @ carlossainz55 ❤️ Life is so much sweeter with you in it

carlossainz55 I only let you steal the hoodies because you look better in them anyway. Happy anniversary, mi amor ❤️

friend1 THE PHOTO BOOTH PICTURES 😭 I am entirely unwell! You two are perfect

carlosonoros I am just saying, I deserve at least a 10% credit fee for this relationship reaching the one-year mark

ynuser @ carlosonoros your gift basket is in the mail, Caco, don't worry!

user1 We love a supportive F1 couple! From the beach vacations to the garage… you guys are goals 🥺

user2 The way he is looking at you in that photo booth strip… yeah he is completely gone for her

-

The auditorium in Barcelona was a sea of black robes, nervous energy, and the echoing chatter of proud families. For the last two hours, you had been sitting in the middle row, rhythmically bouncing your leg and checking your phone every three minutes.

10:15 AM - carlos :) Flight finally landed! Running to the terminal now

10:45 AM - carlos :) Y/N, the traffic on the C-32 is completely stopped. I am going to murder my driver. I am so sorry, mi amor, I am trying

11:10 AM - Y/N Don't stress, Carlos! It's okay. Just get here safely ❤️

It was now 11:30 AM. Your faculty was up next.

You knew exactly how difficult this was for him. The 2016 calendar was relentless, and Carlos had been stuck in the Milton Keynes simulator until late Thursday night trying to fix a downforce issue on the Toro Rosso. He had promised to move mountains to be at your graduation on Friday morning, but F1 logistics rarely cared about personal promises.

"Nervous?" your best friend whispered, nudging your shoulder as the dean took the podium.

"A little," you admitted, smoothing down your gown. You glanced at the massive double doors at the back of the hall one last time. They remained stubbornly closed.

The names started alphabetically. The applause was deafening, bouncing off the high ceilings. You swallowed the lump in your throat, reminding yourself that Carlos being an F1 driver meant sacrificing normal couple milestones. You had accepted that. You were fine.

But when the dean leaned into the microphone and called out, "Y/N," your heart still gave a hopeful little flutter.

You stood up, pasting on a bright smile as you walked across the stage. The lights were blinding, but as you reached out to shake the dean's hand and accept your diploma folder, a sudden commotion at the back of the auditorium caught your eye.

The heavy wooden doors had swung open.

Standing there, entirely out of breath, was Carlos. He was wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit—a stark contrast to his usual team gear—with his tie slightly loosened and his curls in absolute chaos. He had one hand braced against the doorframe, chest heaving, his dark eyes frantically scanning the stage.

The moment his eyes locked onto yours, the panic melted off his face. He broke into that massive, boyish grin that you loved so much, raising both hands to clap enthusiastically, completely ignoring the curious stares from the parents around him.

You couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You held up your diploma, beaming right back at him as you walked off the stage.

Ten minutes later, the ceremony concluded, and the crowd spilled out into the sunlit university courtyard. You had barely made it down the steps before a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, spinning you around.

"You made it," you gasped, burying your face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of an airport.

"I told you I wasn't going to miss this," Carlos breathed out, setting you down but keeping his hands firmly on your waist. He leaned back to look at you, his eyes shining with pure pride. "Look at you. An official university graduate. I am so incredibly proud of you, Y/N."

"I thought you were stuck in traffic on the highway."

Carlos laughed, shaking his head. "I was. So I made the driver pull over near the metro station, jumped out, and took the train the rest of the way. I literally sprinted the last four blocks. I think I broke my own track record."

Your eyes went wide, taking in his slightly disheveled state and the dress shoes that were definitely not meant for sprinting through Barcelona. "You took the metro? In a tailored suit? Carlos, you are insane."

"I am dedicated," he corrected, pulling you in for a soft, lingering kiss, completely oblivious to the chaos of the graduates and families around you. When he pulled away, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, slightly crushed velvet box.

"I didn't have time to get flowers because I was running for my life," he confessed, handing it to you. "But I got you this in London yesterday."

You opened the box to find a delicate, beautiful gold necklace with a tiny, understated star pendant.

"Because you are the star today," Carlos said softly, his accent thick and sincere. "Not me. Not racing. Just you. Now, turn around so I can put it on you before my manager calls me and yells at me for abandoning my driver on the highway."

You laughed, turning around and sweeping your hair to the side. As the cool metal settled against your collarbone, you realized that despite the chaotic calendar, the delayed flights, and the absolute madness of his life... you wouldn't trade a single second of it.

-

ynuser

liked by carlossainz, reyesvdec, friend1 and others

ynuser From freezing our hands off building snowmen to ringing in the NYE with confetti in our hair ✨🎄🥂 The most perfect way to close out the year. 2017, we are so ready for you!

carlossainz55 My absolute favorite way to spend the winter off-season. Can we go back to sitting by the fireplace now?

user1 The picture of you two by the fireplace?! You look like a literal movie poster! 🎬🔥

user2 The contrast between the cozy snowy mornings and the New Year's Eve glam is everything. Your NYE look is stunning, Y/N!

user3 The way he brought you flowers at the end of the night 😭 The Spanish romance is alive and well!

user4 Okay but Carlos looking at her at the bar like she is the only person in the entire room… I am crying

friend1 Happy New Year Y/N!! So glad you finally get a proper break to just relax and celebrate!🥂

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, carlossainz55 and others

ynuser Recharging before the second half of the season. Much needed vitamin sea, beautiful sunsets, and absolutely zero talk about tire degradations (mostly)

carlossainz55 I only mentioned the tires twice…

ynuser @ carlossainz55 you literally drew the Spa track layout in the sand yesterday to explain a corner entry to me

user1 The heart hands picture at the end 🥺 You guys are the absolute cutest!

carlosonoros Please try to bring him back in one piece. We actually need him for Spa next week!

user2 The sunburn on his back in the fourth pic 😭 someone please get this millionaire athlete some SPF 50!

teamcarlos Seeing him finally get to relax and just be a normal 20-something guy with his gf makes my heart so happy ❤️ Enjoy the break, Y/N! liked by ynuser

friend1 The swimsuit?! The glow?! You are glowing, bestie! 🌴✨

-

carlossainz55

liked by renaultf1team, ynuser, maxverstappen1 and others

carlossainz55 A new chapter starts today 💛🖤

ynuser So incredibly proud of you and everything you’ve worked so hard for to get to this moment!!

user Okay but we need to talk about how good he looks in this kit??? 🔥

renaultf1team Welcome to the Renault family! 💛

user1 THE RENAULT ERA IS OFFICIALLY HERE! Y/N is going to look so good rocking the yellow paddock passes this season 😭

carlosonoros Finally, I don't have to look at those Toro Rosso energy drink cans everywhere

user2 Immediately putting together yellow and black outfit mood boards for you, Y/N 📝

-

The click of the hotel room door unlocking sounded louder than usual in the dead silence of the room.

It was Sunday evening after the British Grand Prix, and the air in your shared hotel room in Northamptonshire felt incredibly heavy. The race had been a disaster. Another DNF to add to the growing list of the 2018 season, this time thanks to a chaotic collision with Grosjean that sent Carlos' Renault spinning out into the gravel.

You looked up from the sofa as Carlos walked in. He didn't say a word. He just dropped his yellow and black Renault team backpack onto the floor with a heavy thud, ran a trembling hand through his curls, and let his head fall back against the closed door.

His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the deep exhaustion that came from fighting a car that refused to cooperate, week after week. The physical toll of the crash was nothing compared to the mental exhaustion etched into his features.

"Hey," you said softly, setting your book down and standing up.

He let out a shaky exhale, keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling. "Don't. Please, Y/N. If you tell me it's racing and that these things happen, I think I might actually lose my mind."

You stopped a few feet away from him, your heart aching at the sheer defeat in his voice. You knew better than to offer him empty platitudes right now. This wasn't just about one crash at Silverstone. This was about the entire season building up and crushing him. It was the engine failures, the missed points, the frantic midfield battles, and most of all, the suffocating pressure of his expiring contract. The paddock was already buzzing with rumors that Renault was looking elsewhere for 2019.

"I wasn't going to say that," you replied gently, closing the distance between you. You reached out, carefully sliding the heavy Renault jacket off his shoulders. He let you, his posture slumping as the rigid team gear fell away.

"I had the pace," Carlos whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He finally looked at you, and the sheer frustration in his dark eyes made your breath hitch. "I had the pace all weekend. And then—one mistake from someone else, and it's over. Another zero on the board. Another debrief where I have to sit there and apologize for a broken chassis that wasn't even my fault."

"I know," you murmured, tossing the jacket onto a nearby chair before wrapping your arms around his waist. You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to his erratic heartbeat. "I know, Carlos."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you impossibly close, burying his face in your hair. For a long time, neither of you moved. You just held him, acting as the anchor he desperately needed in a paddock that felt like it was shifting entirely beneath his feet.

"Cyril barely looked at me in the garage," Carlos admitted, his voice muffled against you. The vulnerability in his tone was rare; Carlos was usually the picture of stoic Spanish pride. "They are talking to other drivers, Y/N. I know they are. My contract is up, the car is a nightmare, and I'm not bringing in the results to make them keep me. If I lose this seat..."

He trailed off, unable to voice the terrifying reality of losing his place in Formula 1.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, bringing your hands up to cup his face. Your thumbs gently brushed over the harsh lines of tension in his jaw.

"Listen to me," you said, your voice firm and completely unwavering. "You are Carlos Sainz. You are not defined by one bad season, and you are certainly not defined by a car that can't make it to the finish line."

Carlos closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, but he shook his head slightly. "In this sport, you are only as good as your last race."

"No," you insisted, forcing him to open his eyes and look at you. "You are as good as your talent. And everyone in that paddock knows exactly how talented you are. If Renault can't see that, or if they decide to go in a different direction, then it's their loss. Another door will open. You belong on that grid, Carlos. You have fought too hard and sacrificed too much to let a bad streak make you doubt that."

He swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours. The tension in his shoulders slowly began to unravel, the absolute certainty in your voice cutting through the noise in his head.

"I don't know what I would do without you," he whispered, resting his forehead against yours. "I feel like I'm constantly drowning this year, and you are the only thing keeping my head above water."

"Then I'll keep holding you up," you promised softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "For as long as you need. We're going to get through this season. Together."

Carlos finally let out a long, shuddering breath, the ghost of his usual smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a proper, lingering kiss to your lips, pouring all his unspoken gratitude into it.

"Okay," he breathed out, pulling you tight against his chest again. "Together."

-

The McLaren motorhome was a completely different world.

After the suffocating tension and the icy politics of Renault the previous year, walking into the bright papaya-colored hospitality felt like stepping out into the sun. The team at Woking had welcomed Carlos—and by extension, you—with wide smiles, warm embraces, and an unwavering belief in his talent. Zak had made it clear: Carlos wasn't just a placeholder here. He was their project. Their future.

But the Formula 1 gods, it seemed, still wanted to test him.

The first three races of the 2019 season had been a masterclass in terrible luck. An engine fire on lap 9 in Australia. A puncture after a brilliant battle with Verstappen in Bahrain. A first-lap collision in China. On paper, it looked like a disaster.

You were waiting in his designated driver room at the Shanghai circuit, tracing the orange stitching on your new McLaren team jacket. The door swung open, and Carlos walked in, still wearing the bottom half of his race suit.

Last year, a race like this would have ended with him staring blankly at a wall, crushed under the weight of the yellow and black team's expectations. But today, as he took off his fireproof top, he didn't look broken. He looked fired up.

"I had the pace," he said, not with despair, but with a fierce, burning determination. He grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. "Before Kvyat hit me, the car felt amazing, Y/N. It was flying. If we hadn't collided, I was easily finishing best of the rest today."

You smiled, standing up from the small sofa to hand him a bottle of water. "I saw the telemetry before they brought you in. You were incredibly fast, Carlos."

"It's frustrating, the zero points," he admitted, taking a long drink. He sighed, pulling you in by the waist with his free hand and resting his forehead against yours. "But for the first time in a very long time... I know the car can do it. And I know the team has my back. Andrea Stella just pulled me aside and told me not to worry about the crash. They aren't blaming me. They just want to build a better front wing for Baku."

"That's because they actually value you here," you whispered, reaching up to gently untangle a curl that had plastered itself to his forehead. "They see what I see."

Carlos let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You look incredibly good in papaya, by the way. Much better than the yellow."

"I think so too," you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Are you ready to shower and get out of here? I think a certain rookie is driving his engineers crazy next door."

Right on cue, a loud, muffled crash echoed through the thin wall separating Carlos's room from his new teammate's, followed immediately by Lando's high-pitched giggling.

Carlos groaned, dropping his head back in pure exasperation. "I swear, being his teammate is like adopting a golden retriever puppy that has drank three Red Bulls. What did he break this time?"

"I'll go check," you laughed, pulling away from Carlos's grip. "You shower. I will make sure Lando hasn't accidentally set the motorhome on fire."

"Tell him if he broke my spare helmet visor again, I'm making him walk back to the hotel!" Carlos called out as you opened the door.

You stepped out into the hallway, shaking your head with a massive smile on your face. The points hadn't come yet, and the bad luck was still hovering, but the heavy, suffocating cloud of 2018 was officially gone. Carlos was smiling again. The fire was back in his eyes.

McLaren felt exactly like where you were both supposed to be.

-

carlossainz55

liked by ynuser, carlosonoros, lando and others

carlossainz55 P20 to P3! 🤯 First Mclaren podium!!! It wasn’t a normal podium ceremony, but getting to run up there and celebrate with the entire team after the race made it even more special. What a crazy, crazy day. Thank you to everyone at @ mclaren for giving me a car to fight with. VAMOS!!! 🌶️🏆🍾

ynuser Started from the absolute back and now we are here!!! 😭 I have never screamed so loud at a timing screen in my life. I AM SO INCREDIBLY PROUD OF YOU! ❤️🌶️

carlossainz55 @ ynuser Thank you for always believing in me, mi amor. Even when we were starting in P20 ❤️

lando I let you have this one mate. (just kidding you drove like an absolute madman, congrats old man!!! 🧡)

ynuser @ lando don't lie, you were literally jumping up and down in the garage with us Lando 🥺

mclaren A drive of absolute champions. Enjoy it, Carlos! 🧡🏆

carlosonoros Not a bad result for a guy who started the race in a different postal code. So proud of you, primo!

user1 Y/N IS IN SHAMBLES. WE ARE ALL IN SHAMBLES. HE FINALLY DID IT!!!!

user2 THE FIRST OF MANY!!! The fact that the whole team went up there to celebrate with him because he missed the official ceremony is making me cry 😭😭😭

user3 A moment for the history books! 🍾 Can’t wait to see Y/N’s camera roll from the afterparty tonight!

-

-

The rain at the Suzuka circuit was coming down in relentless, heavy sheets, officially red-flagging the afternoon practice session. For most of the paddock, a rain delay meant stress. For the McLaren motorhome, it meant an inevitable descent into absolute chaos.

You were curled up in the corner of Carlos’s driver room, a blanket over your legs, quietly typing away on your laptop. Carlos was sprawled out on the small sofa opposite you, his eyes closed, a cap pulled down over his face as he tried to take a quick nap before the track cleared.

It was peaceful. It was quiet.

Until the door violently banged open, bouncing off the wall with a loud thud.

Carlos jolted awake, ripping the cap off his face and cursing vividly in Spanish as he sat up.

Standing in the doorway, completely unfazed by the near heart attack he had just caused his teammate, was Lando Norris. He was wearing his orange McLaren race suit tied around his waist, aggressively eating from a bag of paprika chips that you were entirely sure he had stolen from your bag.

"Lando, por favor," Carlos groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall. "What is wrong with you? Do you not know how to knock?"

"I don't have time to knock," Lando declared, walking into the room and immediately dropping himself onto the tiny sliver of couch space next to Carlos's legs. "Max is being mean to me on FIFA and I need you to tell him to stop. Also, Jon took my phone charger. Do you have one?"

"No," Carlos said flatly, pointing a finger at the door. "Out. Go bother Jon. Go bother Zak. I was sleeping."

"Y/N!" Lando whined, immediately pivoting to look at you with wide, dramatically tragic eyes. "Tell Carlos he's being a bad teammate. Tell him to come play FIFA with me."

You slowly closed your laptop, letting out a long, long sigh. You looked at the twenty-year-old British driver, then down at the crinkling bag in his hand.

"Lando," you said calmly. "Are those the chips I specifically bought at the supermarket yesterday and hid in the bottom of my backpack?"

Lando froze, a chip halfway to his mouth. He looked at the bag, then back at you, completely innocent. "No?"

"He's lying," Carlos interjected immediately, throwing his teammate under the bus without a second thought. "He was digging through your bag while you were in the bathroom earlier. I saw him."

"Traitor!" Lando gasped, lightly shoving Carlos’s knee.

"You're a menace, Lando," you laughed, standing up to confiscate the chips from his hands. "No more sugar and carbs for you, you're already bouncing off the walls. Don't you have engineers to talk to?"

"The track is flooded," Lando complained, throwing his head back dramatically against the sofa cushions. "There's nothing to do. I'm bored. You guys are my only friends."

"We are not your friends, we are your babysitters," Carlos muttered, though the fondness in his voice completely ruined the insult. He reached over, ruffling Lando’s already messy curls. "Madre mía, it is like having a child. A very loud, very annoying child who steals my girlfriend's snacks."

"If I'm your child, that makes Y/N my mom," Lando grinned, completely entirely too pleased with himself. He looked up at you. "Mom, can I have my chips back?"

"Absolutely not," you said, crossing your arms, though you couldn't stop the smile from breaking across your face. You reached into your pocket and tossed him a spare phone charger instead. "But here. Go charge your phone, tell Max that Carlos is too scared to play him in FIFA, and let the poor man nap for ten more minutes."

"I am not scared of Max in FIFA!" Carlos argued indignantly, sitting up completely. "Give me the controller, I'll destroy both of you right now."

Lando immediately scrambled off the sofa, victorious. "Yes! Let's go, old man. Try to keep up."

As Lando darted out of the room, Carlos stood up, stretching his arms over his head with a heavy, defeated sigh. He walked over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"I am going to age ten years before this season is over," Carlos mumbled into your hair.

"You love him," you teased, leaning into his side.

"Do not ever tell him I said this," Carlos whispered, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "But yes. The kid is okay. Now come watch me absolutely humble him at video games."

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, carlossainz55 and others

ynuser Officially Dr. Y/N! 🩺🥺 It still doesn't feel real. Looking back at the years of endless flashcards, highlighting high-yield concepts until my eyes blurred, and late nights memorizing every single anatomical detail, physiological process, and clinical correlation… it was all worth it. I am so incredibly honored to officially begin my practice in Family Medicine. Here is to healing, listening, and treating the whole patient! ❤️

carlossainz55 The smartest, most dedicated person I know. Watching you work for this over the last few years has been the greatest privilege. I am so incredibly proud of you, Doctor ❤️🍾

mclaren Congratulations on this amazing achievement, Dr. Y/N! 🧡

user1 A DOCTOR!!! 😭 Y/N is out here saving lives and securing the bag. We love an independent, brilliant queen!

carlosonoros I'm keeping you on speed dial for every minor injury I get now. Congratulations, Y/N!

ynuser @ carlosonoros don't test me, caco, I will send you an invoice! 😂

user2 Carlos's comment is making me sob. The way they both support each other's demanding careers is just top-tier relationship goals 🥺

friend1 From the absolute trenches of clinical rotations to finally getting that title… congratulations!!

-

The silence in the McLaren driver room was deafening, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos of the Monza paddock outside.

It was 2020, and the Italian Grand Prix had just delivered one of the most unpredictable, heart-stopping races of the decade. Carlos had finished P2, a phenomenal result for McLaren. But as you stood by the door watching him, you knew exactly why the air in the room felt so heavy.

Four tenths of a second.

That was the only thing that had stood between Carlos and his first-ever Formula 1 race win. One more lap, maybe even just one more straight, and he would have passed Pierre Gasly.

Carlos was sitting on the edge of the small sofa, his race suit pulled down to his waist, elbows resting on his knees. He had his face buried in his hands, completely still. The P2 trophy was sitting on the small table next to him, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, but he hadn't even looked at it since he walked in.

"Carlos?" you murmured softly, closing the door behind you to shut out the noise of the mechanics packing up the garage.

He didn't look up, but he let out a long, ragged exhale. "One more lap, Y/N." His voice was muffled against his hands, thick with absolute heartbreak. "If I just had one more lap, I would have had him."

You walked over, kneeling on the floor in front of him so you were eye-level. You gently rested your hands on his knees, squeezing them reassuringly.

"Hey. Look at me," you said gently.

He slowly lowered his hands, and the sheer devastation in his dark eyes made your chest tighten. He looked completely drained, the physical toll of 53 relentless laps at the Temple of Speed catching up to him all at once.

"I gave it everything," he whispered, shaking his head. "Every single drop of energy I had, I left it out on the track. I was pushing the car beyond its limits. I could see Pierre getting bigger and bigger in the mirrors, I could feel the slipstream. Four tenths, Y/N. It’s nothing. It’s a blink of an eye. And I lost."

"You didn't lose," you corrected him firmly, your voice soft but unwavering. You moved your hands from his knees to cup his face, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. "Carlos, you finished second in a Formula 1 Grand Prix on pure pace. You didn't get lucky with a safety car, you didn't inherit it. You fought for it. You drove beautifully."

"But it’s not P1," he argued stubbornly, leaning into your touch even as his voice cracked. "You don't understand how much it hurts to be that close. To be able to literally reach out and touch it, and have the checkered flag wave before you can take it. I wanted this win so badly."

"I know you did," you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "And you have every right to be angry and frustrated right now. But please don't let that overshadow what you just did out there. You were brilliant, Carlos. The whole world just watched you hunt down the leader like an absolute machine. You showed everyone exactly why Ferrari signed you for next year."

At the mention of Ferrari, a tiny, bittersweet sigh escaped his lips. He finally moved his hands, wrapping them around your wrists and holding you close.

"It hurts," he repeated, though the edge of panic was slowly leaving his voice, replaced by heavy exhaustion.

"It hurts because you're a champion, and champions want to win," you smiled softly, leaning back just enough to catch his eyes again. "If you were perfectly happy with second place when a win was on the table, I'd be worried about you. But this? This hunger? It’s exactly why you will get that P1 one day. I promise you, Carlos. Your time is coming."

He stared at you for a long moment, the storm in his dark eyes slowly beginning to settle. The absolute certainty in your voice was the anchor he desperately needed. He reached over, pulling you up from the floor and onto his lap, burying his face in your neck.

"Thank you," he breathed out, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. "I don't know why you put up with me when I get like this."

"Because I love you," you whispered, running your fingers through his damp, messy curls. "And because I get front-row seats to the greatest driver on the grid. Now... are you going to go out there and celebrate with your team, or do I have to carry that heavy trophy for you?"

A low, rumbling laugh vibrated against your collarbone, and for the first time since the race ended, the tension finally melted from his shoulders.

"I can carry it," he mumbled, pulling back to give you a proper, lingering kiss. "But you're buying the pizza tonight."

-

carlossainz55

liked by ynuser, charles_leclerc, lando and others

carlossainz55 Very happy to announce that I will be driving for Scuderia Ferrari in 2021 and my future with the team. I have always dreamed of racing in red since I was a little boy, and today that dream becomes a reality.

ynuser I have watched you work so incredibly hard for this moment. You deserve every single bit of it. I am so unbelievably proud of you, mi amor! The red suits you perfectly ❤

carlossainz55 @ ynuser I couldn’t have done any of it without you in my corner ❤️

lando Who am I supposed to play FIFA with next year?! 🥺 (Very happy for you mate, you deserve it 🧡)

ynuser @ lando don't worry Lando, we will still adopt you on the weekends!

scuderiaferrari Benvenuto nella famiglia, Carlos! 🤝

mclaren Congratulations, Carlos! 🧡❤

carlosonoros The childhood dream is finally real. Let's make history! 🇪🇸

user1 Y/N IN FERRARI RED NEXT YEAR!!! We won so hard today ladies 🗣️🗣️

user2 THE CHILI IS GOING TO MARANELLO 🌶️🏎️ I am actually crying right now, he deserves this top seat so much!

user3 The paddock is not ready for Y/N's Ferrari-era paddock fits! So happy for them! ❤️✨

-

Maranello was beautiful, but it was not forgiving.

It was 1:00 AM in your newly rented Italian apartment, and the glow of the city lights cast long shadows across the living room floor. You were sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching Carlos meticulously fold his red Ferrari team polo, tracing the Prancing Horse crest with his thumb before setting it on the table.

Moving to Ferrari was the realization of a lifelong dream, but the reality of 2021 had hit like a freight train. At McLaren, Carlos was the experienced team leader in a warm, familial environment. Here, he was stepping into the most scrutinized seat in motorsport history, walking the same halls as Schumacher, Lauda, and Alonso. The Italian media was relentless, the Tifosi's expectations were suffocating, and the SF21 was proving incredibly difficult to tame.

Carlos finally sat down heavily next to you, burying his face in his hands. He smelled like the simulator—a sterile mix of sweat and hot electronics—where he had spent the last twelve hours trying to find a fraction of a second in his braking zones.

"I can't find the limit, Y/N," he whispered, his voice incredibly strained, the thick Spanish accent clipping his words. "With the McLaren, I knew exactly what the car would do before it did it. With this one... I brake the exact same way I did yesterday, and the rear just snaps."

"It's only been three races, Carlos," you murmured softly, shifting closer and placing a gentle hand on his back. You could feel the rigid knots of tension coiled all along his spine. "You're still adapting. It takes time."

"Time is a luxury Ferrari drivers do not have," he replied bitterly, finally dropping his hands. He leaned his head back against the sofa, his dark eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. "Did you read La Gazzetta today?"

"You know I don't read the papers. And you shouldn't either."

"They're saying Ferrari made a mistake," he continued, completely ignoring you, the words pouring out like poison he desperately needed to expel. "They are saying I'm too slow to keep up with Charles. That I'm just a number two driver meant to stay out of the way. I spend ten hours a day in the sim, I talk to the engineers until my throat bleeds, and I still can't match his qualifying pace."

He turned his head to look at you, and the sheer vulnerability in his expression made your chest physically ache. The boyish, confident grin that usually lived on his face had been entirely eclipsed by the crushing weight of the red suit.

"What if they're right?" he asked, the question barely louder than a breath. "What if the pressure is too much? What if I am not good enough for this team?"

"Stop," you said instantly. Your voice wasn't harsh, but it was laced with absolute steel. You shifted so you were fully facing him, taking both of his hands in yours and holding them tightly. "Do not let them do this to you. Do not let the media get into your head."

"Y/N—"

"No, listen to me," you interrupted, squeezing his hands. "You are not an imposter. You didn't win a lottery to get that seat. Mattia Binotto signed you because he looked at the entire grid and decided that you were the driver Ferrari needed to rebuild this team. You."

Carlos swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours, desperately wanting to believe the conviction in your voice.

"Charles has been driving that car for two years," you continued softly, moving one hand to cup his cheek. His skin was pale under his dark stubble, a testament to his exhaustion. "He knows the team, he knows the engine, he knows the philosophy. You are essentially trying to learn a new language while running a marathon, Carlos. You have to give yourself some grace."

He leaned into your palm, letting his eyes close for a second. A shaky breath escaped his lips, the walls of defensive pride slowly crumbling.

"The pressure here..." he whispered, his voice thick. "It's different. At Renault, it was stressful. But here? It feels like an entire country is holding its breath every time I leave the garage. If I lock up, I feel like I've committed a sin against Italy."

"You are carrying the weight of a myth," you agreed gently, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "But at the end of the day, it's just a steering wheel, four tires, and an engine. It's the same sport you've been racing in your entire life. Strip away the red paint, strip away the history, and just drive the car, Carlos."

He opened his eyes, the storm of anxiety finally starting to recede, replaced by the deep, profound gratitude he always held for you. He turned his head slightly to press a kiss to the inside of your palm, his shoulders dropping two inches as he let out a long, heavy exhale.

"You always know how to fix it," he mumbled, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping his arms securely around you.

"I just remind you of who you are," you smiled softly, resting your chin on his shoulder and rubbing his back. "You are Carlos Sainz. And you belong in a Ferrari. The Italian press will figure that out soon enough."

"Tomorrow," he promised softly into your hair, the familiar spark of stubborn determination finally creeping back into his voice. "I will go back to the simulator tomorrow. I will figure this car out."

"I know you will," you whispered. "But for tonight... you are going to sleep. No telemetry, no setup sheets. Just sleep."

Carlos let out a low, tired chuckle, tightening his grip on you. "Okay, jefa. Deal."

-

ynuser

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, friend1 and others

ynuser P1!!! 🏆🏁 THE FIRST WIN! 150 races of pure determination, heartbreak, resilience, and never ever giving up. I have watched you work yourself to the bone for this exact moment. You are a Formula 1 Grand Prix Winner, @ carlossainz55!!! 🌶️🇪🇸❤️ The smoothest operator of them all!

carlossainz55 We did it, mi amor. This one is for you ❤️🏆

scuderiaferrari Grande Carlos! A historic day for the team and the Sainz family!

friend1 THE HUG PICTURE 😭😭😭 I am sobbing. You can literally feel the emotion through the screen!

user1 HE FINALLY DID IT!!! And the way he ran straight to Y/N before anyone else… my heart cannot take this 🥺

user2 I remember Y/N posting about surviving the midfield battles in 2018… and now she's holding the P1 trophy with him in Ferrari red. We have come so far! 😭

lando YES MATE!!! Absolutely brilliant drive. So happy for you both!

user3 The engraved stone at Silverstone 🇬🇧 The history books will forever have his name. So incredibly proud!

-

The sun hadn’t even fully breached the horizon over Madrid, casting the kitchen in a soft, hazy blue light. The apartment was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic humming of the stand mixer and the soft patter of your bare feet against the hardwood floor.

It was 6:00 AM on a Tuesday.

You were standing at the marble kitchen island, wearing a pair of oversized sweatpants and a faded red Ferrari hoodie you had permanently stolen from Carlos’s closet. Your hair was tied up in a messy clip, and there was a very distinct smudge of flour across your left cheekbone.

Yesterday had been a nightmare at the clinic. Fourteen straight hours of back-to-back patients, deciphering complex blood panels, comforting a frightened family, and dealing with a massive backlog of charts. When the weight of your Family Medicine practice got too heavy, you didn't sleep. You baked.

The smell of freshly proofed sourdough and warm cinnamon was already filling the space, acting as a grounding anchor after the clinical sterility of the hospital.

A soft shuffle of footsteps down the hallway broke the quiet.

You didn't look up as Carlos leaned heavily against the kitchen doorframe. He was half-asleep, his dark curls sticking up in every possible direction, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants. He rubbed his eyes, blinking against the warm glow of the under-cabinet lights.

He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, watching you aggressively knead a second batch of dough on the counter. His dark eyes softened, a small, incredibly fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. In a world full of roaring engines, flashing cameras, and suffocating media pressure, this was his absolute favorite view. Not the podiums, not the packed grandstands. Just you, completely in your element, making a mess of their kitchen.

"You are going to feed an entire army, mi amor," Carlos's voice was rough and thick with sleep, the Spanish accent heavier in the early morning.

You finally stopped kneading, wiping the back of your wrist across your forehead. "I had a bad shift. Dr. Silva called out sick, so I had to cover half of her pediatric cases on top of my own geriatric patients. I think I ran entirely on three sips of cold coffee yesterday."

Carlos pushed off the doorframe, walking slowly across the kitchen. He stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the flour dusting your hoodie. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

"You should be sleeping, Doctor," he murmured, his chest vibrating against your back.

"I couldn't turn my brain off," you admitted, leaning your weight back against him with a heavy sigh. "Every time I closed my eyes, I was reviewing prescription dosages in my head. The dough helps. It's... tactile. It makes sense."

"I know," he said softly, swaying you both gently from side to side. "But you're home now. You left it all at the clinic."

He reached blindly to his right, turning off the stand mixer so the kitchen fell completely quiet again. Then, he gently turned you around in his arms. He reached up, his thumb brushing the smudge of flour off your cheek with agonizing tenderness.

"You work too hard," he whispered, looking down at you with a mixture of awe and worry.

"Look who's talking," you teased softly, resting your flour-free hands on his bare chest. "Weren't you the one who spent six hours analyzing tire degradation data on your iPad last night?"

Carlos let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling. "That's different. I just drive a car in circles. You actually save people's lives."

"Don't do that," you smiled, shaking your head. "Don't downplay what you do. We just have different finish lines, Carlos."

He looked at you for a long moment, the absolute devotion in his eyes making your breath hitch slightly, even after all these years. He leaned down, pressing a soft, slow kiss to your lips. It tasted like sleep and the promise of a quiet morning.

"I'm making the coffee," he announced when he pulled away, gently untangling himself from your arms. He walked over to the espresso machine, beginning the familiar, rhythmic process of grinding the beans. "And then, I am going to sit right here and watch you bake. And you are going to tell me absolutely nothing about the hospital, and I am going to tell you absolutely nothing about Maranello. Deal?"

You looked at him—messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes, making coffee in your shared kitchen—and felt the lingering stress of the clinic finally evaporate from your shoulders.

"Deal," you smiled, turning back to your dough.

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, carlossainz55, friend2 and others

ynuser 7 years ❤️ From the Toro Rosso rookie who sent his cousin to give me his number in Baku, to navigating the absolute madness of this life together. 7 years of team changes, time zones, delayed flights, and me stealing your clothes. I wouldn't trade a single second of it. Happy anniversary, @ carlossainz55

carlossainz55 Seven years and you still refuse to give me back that Renault hoodie. I love you more than anything, Y/N. Thank you for being my rock ❤️

carlosonoros I am still waiting for my official plaque as the founder of this relationship

ynuser @ carlosonoros I literally bought you dinner last week, caco!

friend1 The "I ❤️ Carlos Sainz" apron is sending me into orbit 😭😭 Where did you even get that?!

ynuser @ friend1 Lando got it custom-made for my birthday last year and Carlos forces me to wear it when we cook!

lando My favorite parents! Happy anniversary guys 🧡

user1 The Toro Rosso throwback photo vs the Ferrari picture 🥺 The glow-up is absolutely insane. You guys are the blueprint!

user2 The graduation throwback!!! 😭 He has literally been with him through every single era

-

The humidity in the Ferrari garage was absolutely suffocating, but for the last ten laps of the Singapore Grand Prix, you hadn’t even noticed you were sweating. In fact, you were barely breathing.

You were standing with your arms tightly crossed over your chest, positioned right behind Ricky, Carlos’s race engineer. Your eyes were glued to the glowing timing screens, the numbers blurring together as a sickening sense of dread built in your stomach.

Carlos was leading. He had driven a flawless race from pole position, managing his tires perfectly around the treacherous street circuit. But a late Virtual Safety Car had allowed the Mercedes duo of George and Lewis to pit for fresh, much faster medium tires. Now, they were hunting down the leaders at an absolutely terrifying pace.

Lando was in P2, acting as a buffer, but the Mercedes cars were eating up the gap by two seconds a lap. It was only a matter of time before they swallowed Lando whole and came straight for Carlos.

"Gap to Norris is 1.2," Ricky’s voice crackled over the radio, tense but professional.

You watched the GPS tracker on the screen. The yellow dot representing Lando was desperately trying to hold off the two silver dots right behind him.

And then, the red dot representing Carlos did something that made your heart stop completely.

The gap on the timing screen suddenly dropped. 0.9 seconds. 0.8 seconds.

"What is he doing?" you gasped, leaning over the console, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles were entirely white. "Ricky, he's losing pace. Is it the tires? Did he clip the wall?!"

Ricky didn't answer immediately. The engineers around you were staring at their telemetry data, a ripple of pure confusion washing through the garage.

"Carlos, gap to Norris is 0.8," Ricky relayed, a hint of urgency creeping into his tone.

"Yeah, it's on purpose," Carlos’s voice came back over the radio. In the absolute chaos and pressure of a Marina Bay street fight, his voice was chillingly calm. Icy. "I am giving him DRS."

The garage went dead silent for a fraction of a second before the realization hit you like a physical blow.

You covered your mouth with both hands, your eyes going wide. "Oh my god," you whispered.

He was intentionally slowing down. With fresh Mercedes tires breathing down his neck and his first win of the season on the line, Carlos was deliberately backing up to drag his former teammate into his DRS zone. He knew Lando didn't have the top speed to defend against Russell on his own. But if Lando had Carlos's DRS, he could hold them off. Carlos was using Lando as a human shield to secure his own victory.

"He is out of his mind," you laughed, the sound bordering on a hysterical sob. "He is an absolute madman."

Even Fred Vasseur, standing a few feet away, took his headset off for a moment, shaking his head in sheer disbelief at the tactical genius unfolding on the screens.

For the next five laps, it was a high-speed game of chess. Every single time Lando fell out of the one-second DRS window, Carlos would lift off the throttle just enough to pull him back in. It was a terrifying tightrope walk. One lock-up, one miscalculation of a fraction of a second, and he would lose the lead.

But he didn't. He executed it with surgical, brutal precision.

When George Russell clipped the wall on the final lap, sending his Mercedes into the barriers, the tension in the Ferrari garage snapped. The eruption of noise was deafening. Mechanics were jumping, screaming, and hugging each other. You practically threw yourself at Caco, burying your face in his shoulder as you sobbed out of pure, unadulterated relief.

"CARLOS SAINZ, YOU ARE A RACE WINNER!" Ricky screamed over the radio as Carlos crossed the finish line, securing the only non-Red Bull victory of the entire 2023 season.

"Smooth operatorrrr!" Carlos sang back, his voice finally breaking with the emotion and exhaustion of the grueling race.

Ten minutes later, you were standing by the parc fermé barriers as he pulled the SF-23 into the P1 spot. The physical toll of the Singapore heat was evident the moment he pulled himself out of the cockpit. He looked completely drained, his fireproofs soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

But when he saw you, his eyes lit up with that familiar, boyish fire.

You slipped under the velvet rope before security could stop you, running straight into his arms. He caught you, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, not caring about the cameras, the sweat, or the noise.

"You are a genius," you breathed into his ear, holding onto him as tightly as you could. "You are an absolute, terrifying genius, Carlos."

He let out a weak, exhausted laugh, leaning his heavy head against yours. "I told you I had it under control, jefa."

"Under control? You deliberately let them get within eight tenths of you!" you scolded playfully, finally pulling back to look at his face. "You took ten years off my life today, Sainz."

"But it worked," he grinned, that devastating, confident smile breaking through the exhaustion. He reached up, cupping your cheek with a slightly shaking, gloved hand. "It worked. We won."

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, friend3 and others

ynuser Lately 🏃🏻‍♀️🏺🥖 A little bit of everything that keeps me sane when I’m not studying or traveling! Survived my first half-marathon, made a vase that only leans slightly to the left, and perfected my sourdough recipe!! ✨

friend1 The pottery era is my favorite era. Can I claim that vase?!

ynuser @ friend1 it’s already yours! But you have to pretend it’s perfectly straight

carlossainz55 I can personally confirm the bread was gone in under ten minutes. So proud of you for the race, mi amor! ❤️

lando Next time you bake those chocolate chip cookies, please send them directly to my driver room, thank you

friend2 Doctor, marathon runner, baker… is there anything you can't do?!

ynuser @ friend2 endure Lando for more than 10 minutes 😪

user1 Carlos commenting about her bread 😭 we love a supportive boyfriend who appreciates carbs!

-

The winter break was supposed to be the quietest part of the year.

It was a chilly Thursday evening in early February. You had just finished a grueling ten-hour shift at the clinic, your brain completely fried from diagnosing back-to-back flu cases and adjusting hypertension medications. You were sitting in your car in the hospital parking lot, finally taking a second to look at your phone.

Your lock screen was an absolute disaster.

You had three missed calls from Caco, five messages from Lando consisting entirely of entirely capitalized question marks, and a barrage of F1 news alerts pushing through from Twitter and Instagram.

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Scuderia Ferrari in 2025.

Your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.

You didn't even read the articles. You threw your car into drive and practically flew back to your shared apartment in Madrid. You knew Carlos had been in contract negotiations with Ferrari for months, pushing for a multi-year extension. You knew there were delays. But this? A sudden, tectonic shift in the driver market right before the 2024 season even started?

When you unlocked the front door and dropped your keys on the console table, the apartment was completely dark, save for the ambient city light spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You found Carlos sitting in the living room. The television was off. He was just sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the dark screen of his phone sitting on the coffee table.

"Carlos," you breathed out, shrugging off your coat and dropping your bag onto a chair.

He didn't look up immediately. He just let out a long, heavy exhale that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for hours. "Fred called me," he said, his voice eerily quiet. "Before the press release went out. He called me to tell me himself."

You walked over, kneeling on the rug between his knees so you could look up at his face. His eyes were shadowed, carrying a mixture of profound exhaustion and a quiet, stinging hurt. You reached out, placing your hands gently over his. His skin was ice cold.

"I'm so sorry, mi amor," you whispered, your thumbs tracing the knuckles of his hands.

"It's Lewis," Carlos muttered, a humorless, dry chuckle escaping his lips as he finally met your eyes. "I mean... how do you even argue with that? It's a seven-time world champion. If it was anyone else, I think I would be tearing this apartment apart. But it's Lewis Hamilton."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt," you reminded him softly. "You have given everything to this team for the last three years. You pulled them out of the midfield. You gave them their only win last year in Singapore. You are allowed to be angry."

Carlos closed his eyes, his jaw clenching tight. "I feel like I failed, Y/N. I thought I had done enough to prove I belonged there long-term. I thought we were building something together. And now, I have to walk into Maranello next week, put on that red suit, and drive an entire season knowing I'm just keeping the seat warm for someone else."

The raw vulnerability in his voice shattered your heart. You knew exactly how much Ferrari meant to him. It wasn't just a contract; it was the realization of a childhood dream, a legacy he desperately wanted to leave his mark on.

You shifted your grip, moving your hands up to cup his face. His scruff was rough against your palms, but he immediately leaned his weight into your touch, seeking the grounding anchor he always found in you.

"Listen to me," you said, your voice adopting that steady, unshakeable tone you used when you needed a patient to look you in the eye and listen to the diagnosis. "You did not fail. You drove flawlessly. You outsmarted the entire grid in Marina Bay. You proved you are championship material. Ferrari making a corporate, historic move for Lewis does not erase a single ounce of your talent."

Carlos swallowed hard, keeping his eyes closed as he let your words wash over him.

"You still have 24 races left in that car," you continued, your voice fierce with conviction. "24 races to show every single team principal on the grid exactly what they are missing out on. You don't walk into the garage with your head down. You walk in there, you get in that car, and you make them regret letting you go. You make yourself the most valuable free agent in the history of this sport."

He finally opened his eyes. The defeat that had been clouding his dark irises was slowly, agonizingly, being pushed aside by a familiar spark of stubborn, fiery Spanish pride.

"Twenty-four races," he repeated softly, the words testing the air.

"Twenty-four races," you confirmed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "And I will be right there for every single one of them. We are going to make this your best season yet. Deal?"

Carlos let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the faint scent of hospital sanitizer and your familiar perfume.

"What would I do without you, Doctor?" he mumbled against your skin, his grip tightening.

"You'll never have to find out," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly. "Now, come on. Let's get off the floor. I'm ordering pizza, and we are turning your phone off for the rest of the night."

-

The sterile, overly air-conditioned hospital room in Jeddah was a jarring contrast to the blistering heat and deafening roar of the Corniche Circuit.

You were sitting in a stiff plastic chair pulled flush against the hospital bed, your eyes scanning the digital monitor above Carlos’s head. As a Family Medicine doctor, reading vitals was second nature. Heart rate steady. Oxygen saturation perfect. Blood pressure returning to normal. The laparoscopic appendectomy had been completely textbook, leaving him with three small incisions and a heavy dose of IV antibiotics.

Clinically, he was perfectly fine.

Emotionally, as his girlfriend of nearly nine years, the last twenty-four hours had taken a massive toll on you.

When he had first complained of a stomach ache on Wednesday, everyone assumed it was food poisoning. But on Thursday, after he dragged himself out of the SF-24 following FP2, pale and sweating through his fireproofs, you had laid him down on the sofa in his driver room. The moment your fingers pressed into his right lower quadrant—specifically McBurney’s point—he had recoiled in absolute agony. The severe rebound tenderness, combined with the low-grade fever, had given you the diagnosis before the hospital’s CT scan even confirmed it.

Acute appendicitis.

A quiet groan pulled you from your thoughts. Carlos shifted on the bed, his face twisting in discomfort as the lingering anesthesia began to wear off. His dark eyelashes fluttered before his eyes finally cracked open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights.

"Hey," you breathed out, immediately leaning forward and wrapping both of your hands gently around his left hand, being careful to avoid the IV line taped to the back of his palm.

Carlos blinked a few times, trying to focus on your face. He looked incredibly pale, his signature messy curls plastered to his forehead. He swallowed hard, his throat dry from the intubation tube.

"Water?" you asked softly.

He nodded weakly. You poured a small amount of water into a plastic cup, slipping a straw between his lips and letting him take a few slow, careful sips. When he pulled back, he let his head fall heavy against the pillow, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.

"Did they..." his voice was a raspy whisper, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "Is it out?"

"It's out," you confirmed, offering a small, relieved smile as your thumb brushed over his knuckles. "The surgery went perfectly. No rupture, no complications. You're going to be completely fine, Carlos."

He closed his eyes, relief washing over his exhausted features. But because he was Carlos Sainz, the relief only lasted for exactly three seconds before the racer in him woke up.

His eyes snapped open, a sudden panic setting in. "What day is it? What time is qualifying?"

"Carlos, stop," you said firmly, placing your free hand gently on his chest to keep him from trying to sit up. "Do not engage your core. It's Friday afternoon."

"I have to get back to the track," he mumbled, his brow furrowing as he tried to shift his weight, instantly hissing in pain as the movement pulled at his fresh incisions.

"You are not going anywhere near a race car," you ordered, your voice shifting effortlessly from a worried girlfriend into your strict, authoritative doctor tone. "You just had a major abdominal organ removed, Carlos. You have stitches through your muscle wall. If you try to pull 5Gs in a Formula 1 car right now, you will literally tear your own abdomen open."

He let his head drop back against the pillow, defeat washing over him in a devastating wave. The reality of missing the race—of sitting in a hospital bed while someone else drove his Ferrari—was hitting him harder than the physical pain.

"Who is in the car?" he asked quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Ollie Bearman," you answered gently. "Fred called him up from F2 this morning. He's taking care of it."

Carlos swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "I should be there. With the team. I was so fast in practice, Y/N. The car felt so good."

"I know," you whispered, your heart breaking for him. You stood up, leaning over the bed to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. His skin was finally cool, the fever having broken during the surgery. "And you will be back in that car before you know it. But right now, your only job is to rest. For once in your life, you are going to listen to medical advice."

Carlos turned his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. Even exhausted and drugged on painkillers, the sheer adoration in his gaze was entirely intact.

"Are you my doctor today, or my girlfriend?" he mumbled, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his dry lips.

"I'm both," you replied, running your fingers gently through his curls. "Which means you are in double the amount of trouble if you try to get out of this bed."

"Okay, Doctora," he whispered, his heavy eyelids already starting to droop as the medication pulled him back under. He shifted his hand weakly, lacing his fingers through yours and holding on as tightly as his current state allowed. "Thank you. For catching it. For staying."

"Always," you promised, kissing his knuckles. "Now go to sleep, Carlos. The track will be there when you wake up."

-

ynuser

liked by carlossainz55, friend1, lando and others

ynuser VIVA MÉXICO! 🇲🇽🏆 What a weekend, what a race, what a driver. From hospital beds to the top step in Mexico! You were absolutely untouchable out there today, @ carlossainz55!! so incredibly proud of you ❤️ (also, swipe to see a happy carlando reunion 🧡❤️)

carlossainz55 Gracias, mi amor. The absolute best support system in the world. Next time I'll let you lift the trophy, I promise it's heavier than it looks! ❤️

lando I'm just happy I finally made it into the aesthetic photo dump, to be honest (Congrats again, old man 🤝)

ynuser @ lando You earned your spot on the grid and on the feed today, Lando! P2! 🥈

scuderiaferrari Una vittoria fantastica! Thank you for the incredible support, Y/N!

friend1 The denim jacket look in the paddock?! Doctor Y/N serving absolute looks while her man dominates the track! 🗣️🔥

user1 From having his appendix removed to dominating Mexico City… his comeback this year needs to be studied in medical textbooks, Dr. Y/N!

ynuser @ user1 Trust me, I'm already writing the case study on his stubbornness! 😂

user2 THE PICTURE OF HIM WALKING PAST MCLAREN 😭😭 My Carlando heart is so full! The fact that they shared this podium is everything

teamcarlos The way she looks at him in the second slide 🥺 You can just see how proud she is of him. Nine years of this!

user3 The Mexican crowd chanting his name while Y/N watched from the garage… absolute cinema. Enjoy the celebrations tonight! 🥂✨

-

-

The crisp December wind biting at your cheeks did nothing to dull the absolute magic of the Fiorano Circuit.

It was December 17, 2024. The sky over Maranello was a pale, wintery blue, but the ground was a sea of vibrant, beating red. The Tifosi had lined the fences since dawn, their massive flags rippling in the breeze, chanting a name that had become woven into the fabric of their historic team over the last four years.

“Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”

You stood at the edge of the pit lane, your hands tucked into the pockets of your dark winter coat. Next to you, Charles Leclerc leaned against the barrier, dressed in his civilian clothes but wearing a Ferrari beanie, a bittersweet smile on his face. He hadn’t been required to be here today, but he had insisted. He wouldn't have missed his teammate's final goodbye for the world.

A few feet away, Fred Vasseur was talking to the mechanics, orchestrating a farewell that felt less like a corporate send-off and more like a family celebration.

Suddenly, the unmistakable, earth-shaking roar of a modern V6 hybrid engine shattered the morning air. The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer.

Out of the garage rolled the F1-75. It was the exact chassis Carlos had driven to his maiden Formula 1 victory at Silverstone in 2022. Seeing it on the track again made your chest tighten with a rush of pride. But he wasn't alone. Pulling out right alongside him, engine revving in a beautiful, echoing harmony, was his father.

Watching Carlos and Carlos Sr. drive side-by-side down the Fiorano straight was absolute cinema. Two generations of motorsport royalty, sharing the asphalt in the most legendary cars in the world. They matched each other's pace perfectly, the sun glinting off their visors as they took the corners in tandem.

"He looks good in it, doesn't he?" Charles murmured beside you, his breath pluming in the cold air.

"He always did," you smiled softly, watching the F1-75 brake into the hairpin. "It’s hard to believe it’s really over."

"He left his mark," Charles said warmly, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. "We won't forget him. Italy won't forget him."

When the high-speed exhibition finished, the V6 engines were cut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. But the tribute was far from over.

The mechanics wheeled out a pristine, open-cockpit 1950s Ferrari. It was a masterpiece of raw, vintage engineering, painted in that deep, classic Rosso Corsa.

Carlos climbed out of the F1-75, pulling off his helmet to reveal his messy curls. He was smiling so hard it looked like it hurt. He walked over to his dad, pulling him into a massive, back-slapping hug, before turning to the vintage machine waiting for him.

He didn't put his helmet back on. He just slipped into the leather driver's seat, gripped the wooden steering wheel, and fired up the thunderous, mechanical engine.

As Carlos began his slow lap of honor around Fiorano, he drove entirely with one hand. His other hand was raised high in the air, waving to the hundreds of Tifosi pressing against the chain-link fences. Fans were crying, lighting red flares that sent thick, scarlet smoke drifting across the track. He slowed down near the grandstands, shouting his thanks over the roar of the vintage engine, soaking in every single second of the love pouring down on him.

It was a goodbye fit for a king.

When he finally brought the classic car back to the pit lane, cutting the engine for the very last time as a Ferrari driver, the entire garage broke into a massive round of applause. Fred was the first to greet him, pulling him into a tight embrace, followed closely by Charles, who ruffled Carlos’s hair and whispered something that made them both laugh.

But as the crowd of mechanics and engineers slowly parted, Carlos’s dark eyes found yours.

He climbed out of the 50s Ferrari and walked straight toward you. The red race suit was smeared with a bit of grease, and his face was flushed from the cold and the adrenaline, but he looked completely at peace.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You held him tightly, resting your chin on his shoulder, the smell of exhaust, burning rubber, and his familiar cologne wrapping around you.

"We did it," he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "Four years, Y/N."

"You did beautifully," you murmured back, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. "You gave them everything you had. And they love you for it."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, that boyish, devastating grin lighting up his face despite the tears shining in his eyes. He reached up, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone.

"Are you ready for the next chapter, Doctor?" he asked softly.

You smiled, lacing your fingers with his as the Tifosi continued to sing his name in the background. "With you? Always. Let's go build a legacy at Williams."

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, carlosssainz55, carlosonoros and others

ynuser First day of school vibes! 🏫 Packed his breakfast, made sure we we're rocking our new blue shoes, and sent him off to grove with his ID badge securely glued to his hand. He even promised to make new friends and stay out of trouble 😐 so incredibly excited for this new chapter with @ williamsracing! Let’s go, @ carlossainz55! 💙

carlossainz55 You forgot to pack my favorite cookies, Doctor. But the new kit feels fast! Thank you for always taking care of me, mi amor ❤️

lando No way you actually made him hold a chalkboard 😭😭😭 I am crying laughing, this is elite parenting Y/N!

ynuser @ lando I had to document the milestone, Lando! He grew up so fast 🥺

williamsracing Welcome to your new classroom, Carlos! We promise to make sure he plays nice at recess, Y/N! 💙

alex_albon Don't worry Y/N, I'll show him where the lockers are and make sure he doesn't get lost around the factory 🤝 liked by ynuser

friend1 The "My Best Move: Smooth Operator" on the board is sending me into orbit. He is so deeply corny and we love him for it!!!

teamcarlos The ID badge selfie in the car is peak proud girlfriend energy. The blue era is officially underway! ✨ liked by ynuser

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, carlossainz55 and others

ynuser THE BLUE ERA IS officially cooking! 💙🏆 You drove like an absolute demon today, @ carlossainz55. The operator remains incredibly smooth! 🌶️✨ (swipe for a very sweaty paddock kiss and caco celebrating with sparkles, bc why not?)

carlossainz55 We did it, mi amor!!! This one feels so, so special. Thank you for always being my anchor ❤️🏆

williamsracing History made today. First of many together! Thank you for being part of the family, Y/N! 💙 liked by ynuser

carlosonoros Unbelievable drive! The kiss in slide 3… okay you guys are trying to make the paddock cry today 🥺

lando The blue suit actually doesn't look half bad on you, mate. Brilliant drive, well deserved!

user1 Dr. Y/N watching from the balcony in slide 1 is such an iconic shot. She looks like a proud supervisor making sure he follows medical clearance! 🩺👑

user2 From the heartbreak of last February to standing on the podium in blue… what a journey. Y/N has been there through it all! ❤️ COLLABORATOR ERAS!

-

The neon lights of the Lusail International Circuit were blinding, but your eyes were completely glued to the timing screens in the Williams garage.

It was the 2025 Qatar Grand Prix, and Carlos had driven an absolute masterclass. Despite taking a grid penalty and starting from seventh position, he had carved his way through the field with ruthless precision. By the closing stages, he was sitting firmly in P3, on track to secure his second podium with Williams.

But with exactly four laps to go, the radio crackled.

"Something is broken in the front," Carlos's voice was tight, the physical exertion of manhandling the FW47 bleeding into the microphone. "I've lost a lot of front grip."

You stopped breathing. As a doctor, you were used to high-pressure situations, but watching the man you loved race a malfunctioning car at 300 kilometers per hour was a completely different kind of stress.

You watched the telemetry data drop in real-time. Carlos was suddenly losing anywhere from half a second to a full second per lap.

"Copy that, Carlos," James' voice came over the channel, steadying the entire garage. "Norris is closing. You just need to hold him off."

Because of the sudden loss of pace, Norris had caught up and slipped right into Carlos's DRS zone for a terrifying final shootout. It was a complete role reversal of their Singapore days, but Carlos wasn't backing down. He defended every single corner, placing the wounded Williams exactly where Lando wanted to be, refusing to yield an inch of asphalt.

When Max crossed the line to win, followed by Oscar, the entire Williams garage held its breath.

And then, Carlos dragged his car across the finish line, keeping Lando behind him by mere tenths of a second to secure third place.

The garage exploded. Mechanics were screaming, hugging each other, and slamming the desks. You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, leaning heavily against the nearest counter as the pure adrenaline crashed out of your system.

When he finally pulled into parc fermé, he looked completely exhausted. The desert heat and the physical toll of fighting the broken car had drained him. But the moment he spotted you in the blue Williams team kit, that familiar, devastating grin broke across his face.

You slipped past the media pen, throwing your arms around his neck the second he was close enough.

"You are going to put me in cardiac arrest one of these days, Sainz," you breathed into his shoulder, holding him impossibly tight.

"Second podium in blue, Doctor," he laughed, the sound vibrating against you. "I told you we were building a legacy here."

-

-

ynuser

liked by reyesvdec, carlossainz55, friend1 and others

ynuser How the ski trip started: Me yelling at @ carlossainz55 for making us hike up a freezing mountain when we could have been perfectly happy inside drinking hot chocolate 😪 How it ended: …okay, I guess the view was actually worth it. WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!!! 💍

carlossainz55 I told you I had a good reason for the hike! I love you so much, future Mrs. Sainz ❤️💍

ynuser @ carlossainz55 you are very lucky I didn't push you off the ridge before you pulled the box out! I love you! ❤️

lando Can I be the ring bearer? Or the flower girl? Actually, I’m just assuming I am the Best Man. (Massive congrats guys, so happy for you!!! ❤)

ynuser @ lando you can be in charge of the wedding cake, Lando!

carlosonoros It only took a decade and risking frostbite to finally make it happen! So incredibly happy for you both 🥂

williamsracing Massive congratulations to you both from everyone at Grove! 💙💍

friend1 THE ROCK!!! 🗣️ THE KNEE IN THE SNOW!!! 🗣️ DR. Y/N IS OFFICIALLY TYING THE KNOT I AM IN SHAMBLES!!!

user1 I HAVE NEVER SCREAMED SO LOUD AT MY PHONE. We survived the midfield, we survived the Ferrari pressure, we survived an appendectomy, and now we are getting a wedding!!! 😭

user2 The photo of him on one knee in the middle of the mountains… absolute cinema. He is so romantic!

user3 A diamond almost as blinding as the snow! 🤩 We are going to need all the details of this proposal immediately! Congratulations! ✨

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter @aerangi @recklessyears @natqrvlvr @scenesofobx @sassypostpatrol @dutchlionforev @emmaxdelicate @ophirei @goldi-1-graysons-version @queen-of-disasterrrrr

The noise of the paddock was overwhelming at first, the mix of roaring engines, hurried footsteps, and fans clamoring for autographs sending your nerves on edge. You stuck to the quieter areas near Aston Martin’s hospitality, thankful for the shade and a little distance from the chaos. Pedro had promised that attending a race would be worth it, even if you weren’t so sure.

“Come on, y/n, one day won’t kill you,” he had said over the phone. “Besides, I’ve been asking you for years. You owe me.”

Now, as you leaned against a railing with a bottle of water, you weren’t sure if this had been a good idea. You hated attention, and even walking through the paddock felt like every eye was on you.

“Y/N,” Pedro called, his familiar voice cutting through your thoughts. He approached with a wide grin, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “You’re not regretting this already, are you?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Let’s just say it’s… different. I’m not used to all this chaos.”

Pedro chuckled, patting your shoulder. “It’s not so bad. You just need a distraction. Actually, I think Lance wanted to show you something.”

You turned, noticing Lance Stroll a short distance away, waving at you. “Yeah, he mentioned something earlier. I’ll go check it out.”

Pedro gave you an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Go, have fun. I’ll be around.”

(...)

Fernando Alonso had been leaning casually against the Aston Martin motorhome, chatting with an engineer about the car’s setup, when his attention was drawn to a figure walking alongside Lance. You moved with an air of quiet confidence, though it was clear you were trying to keep a low profile.

“Who’s that with Lance?” Fernando asked, his curiosity piqued.

Pedro, who had just rejoined the group, followed Fernando’s gaze and smirked. “That’s Y/N. A good friend of mine. I finally convinced her to come to a race.”

“Not much for the spotlight?” Fernando asked, his eyes still on you.

“She hates it,” Pedro confirmed. “But she’s a great person. Smart, funny… You’d like her.”

Fernando tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I might have to introduce myself.”

Pedro raised an eyebrow. “Just don’t scare her off, Nando.”

(...)

You were deep in conversation with Lance, who was explaining the intricacies of the car’s aerodynamics, when you felt a presence behind you. Turning, you found Fernando standing there, his signature smirk firmly in place.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice smooth and warm. “Mind if I join?”

Caught off guard, you blinked before nodding. “Uh, sure.”

“Fernando, this is Y/N,” Lance said, gesturing between the two of you. “She’s a friend of Pedro’s.”

Fernando extended his hand, and you shook it hesitantly. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” you replied, your voice steady despite the sudden flutter in your chest.

Pedro appeared at just the right moment, grinning like a proud matchmaker. “Ah, I see you’ve met already.”

Fernando shot him a knowing look. “You didn’t tell me your friend was so nice.”

Pedro shrugged, feigning innocence. “I figured you’d find out on your own.”

Lance, sensing the dynamic, excused himself with a quick wave. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

As the conversation continued, Fernando leaned against the railing beside you, his tone casual but his gaze sharp and focused. “So, Y/N, what do you think of the race weekend so far?”

“It’s… chaotic,” you admitted with a small laugh. “But it’s been interesting to see everything up close. I’m not used to this kind of environment.”

“You seem to be handling it well,” Fernando said, his voice dropping slightly. “Most people would be overwhelmed, but you seem calm.”

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. “I’m good at blending into the background.”

He tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “I don’t think you blend in as much as you think. You stand out in the best way.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you glanced down at your water bottle, fiddling with the cap. “Pedro didn’t warn me about you.”

Fernando chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Before the moment could grow too intense, Pedro clapped his hands, breaking the spell. “Alright, you two, let’s not forget there’s a free practice happening soon.”

Fernando straightened, his eyes lingering on you. “Maybe I’ll see you after the race?”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Maybe.”

As Fernando walked away, Pedro leaned in with a mischievous grin. “You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. Maybe Pedro had been right, maybe.

(...)

The roar of the engines still echoed faintly around the paddock as you leaned against the railing near Aston Martin’s hospitality. Practice had ended, and while the buzz of activity hadn’t entirely subsided, this quiet corner offered a welcome reprieve.

But now, as you sipped water and observed the comings and goings, you felt yourself relaxing—just a little. That is, until you spotted someone walking toward you with an unmistakable confidence.

You tried to feign nonchalance, focusing intently on your water bottle, but his smirk made it clear he wasn’t fooled.

“Hello again,” he greeted smoothly, stopping just a few steps away. “So, what did you think of practice?”

You gave him a polite smile, though there was a playful glint in your eyes. “It was fine. Although…”

His eyebrow arched, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Although what?”

“Well,” you said, your tone light as you shrugged. “I think I enjoyed it more when Vettel was still on track.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised, but then amusement overtook his features. “Ah, Vettel,” he repeated, placing a hand on his chest as if deeply wounded. “An impressive driver, of course. But… me? Not even a little credit?”

You bit back a grin, enjoying the game. “Let’s just say… you’re fine. For a second choice.”

“Second choice,” he echoed, his voice dripping with mock offense as he took a small step closer. “That’s harsh, Y/N.”

“I’m just being honest,” you replied, lifting your chin in defiance, though the way his gaze lingered on you made your pulse race.

He chuckled, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Pedro didn’t warn me you were this dangerous. He made it sound like you’d be shy and quiet.”

“I can be,” you said, feigning innocence. “When I want to be.”

“I see,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. His voice dropped to a teasing murmur. “But I think I prefer this version of you. Keeps things interesting.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you refused to let him have the upper hand. “And you? Always chasing after challenges?”

“Always,” he said, his tone steady and sure, his eyes locked on yours. “And I think I’ll enjoy chasing this one.”

Before you could come up with a reply, Pedro’s voice interrupted the moment.

“Ah, I see you two found each other again,” he said, approaching with a knowing grin.

Fernando straightened, though his gaze didn’t waver from you. “We’re getting to know each other better,” he said casually, though the undertone of mischief was unmistakable.

Pedro smirked, looking at you. “Well, Y/N, looks like you’re adjusting to the paddock life just fine.”

You rolled your eyes, still feeling the warmth in your cheeks. “Something like that.”

Fernando flashed you one last smile. “I’ll see you after qualifying?”

“Maybe,” you replied, a hint of teasing in your tone.

As he walked away, Pedro nudged you with a grin. “What did I tell you? A little fresh air never hurts.”

You shot him a pointed look. “This is all your fault.”

After qualifying, you found yourself back in the same spot, enjoying the last bit of quiet before the chaos of race day. You were mid-thought when Fernando appeared again, his helmet tucked under one arm and an unreadable expression on his face.

“Back here again,” he said, stopping in front of you. “Do you always avoid the fun part of the paddock?”

“I don’t like too much attention,” you admitted with a shrug.

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, setting his helmet down on the railing. “You know, for someone who says that, you’ve managed to catch quite a lot of mine.”

The boldness of his statement left you momentarily speechless, and he smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“How was qualifying?” you asked, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere.

He grinned. “Good. Could have been better if I had my biggest fan cheering for me, though.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Biggest fan? Weren’t you listening earlier? Vettel’s my favorite.”

“And yet, here you are, talking to me,” he countered, leaning slightly closer. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Too late,” he quipped, his smirk softening into something almost sincere. “But if you’re serious about Vettel, maybe I need to step up my game.”

Before you could answer, he straightened and glanced over his shoulder toward the motorhome. “Dinner,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Dinner,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument but still laced with charm. “Let me make up for being your second choice.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Who said I was going to let you?”

He leaned in just slightly, his gaze locking with yours. “Because you’re curious, and so am I.”

There was a confidence in his voice that made it impossible to say no. Against your better judgment, you smiled. “Alright. But only if you promise not to try too hard.”

His laugh was low and warm. “No promises, Y/N. No promises.”

y/n.user

liked by: lance_stroll, fernandoalo_oficial and 903 others.

y/n.user: I'll admit it, Pedro was right.

view all 245 comments

fernandoalo_oficial: Am I your favourite now?

y/n.user: fernandoalo_oficial and you are...?

lance_stroll: I am her favourite, old man

y/n.user: second favourite, but yeah

fernandoalo_oficial: WHAT ABOUT ME?

y/n.user: you were dropped to the top 5

fernandoalo_oficial: not even top 3?

y/n.user: after that paella and that Lewis's performance? hell no

user1: who is she?

user2: isn’t she a Pedro's friend?

user3: Lance and Fernando's interactions????

Comments on this post have been limited

Once again, during the weekend, you find yourself inside the paddock. The rain seems relentless. Thankfully, a rain jacket was all you needed over the outfit you had chosen for race day.

Over the past few days, George had decided it would be fun to reveal your identity to the drivers. Well, to all of them except Lando. Being his nosy self, Lando hadn’t stopped messaging you every detail about George and his friend "Veronica." The irony of the situation made you smile as you waited for the storm to hit once he finally figured it out.

“Hi,” a familiar voice said next to you, and when you turned, Lando was watching you with a shy smile.

“Lando! How are you? Nervous about the race?”

“No.” He paused for a considerably long moment before speaking again. “Well, maybe a little. I don’t like rain on the track.”

“It hinders a lot of things,” you replied, your tone empathetic.

“Yeah.” The silence between you stretched until he finally asked what he had approached you for. “Have you been friends with George for a long time?”

“No, just about two months, but we’ve gotten really close.”

You reached the pit lane area, where you were supposed to part ways, but Lando didn’t seem satisfied with your answer.

“Do you like him?” he asked suddenly, looking at you curiously.

“George!? No, of course not. I’m far more likely to fall in love with Carmen,” you joked, making Lando let out a small nervous laugh. “George and I are just friends.”

Lando’s attention drifted for a moment to someone behind you. He waved at them in the distance, and for a moment, you took the chance to observe him. He was undeniably attractive, something you’d noticed from the very first photo you’d seen of him. But before your thoughts could wander too far, a pat on your back brought you back to reality.

“There you are!” George appeared with Oscar, both wearing mischievous smiles as they joined the conversation.

“Lando thinks I’m in love with you,” you told George, unable to hide a playful grin.

“As flattering as that might be, I’ll pass,” he replied with an exaggerated expression of indifference.

“Hey!” You playfully hit him on the chest, pretending to be offended. “Do I look that bad?”

“I don’t know if you’re what I imagined,” George admitted with a teasing tone.

“You definitely look different from the version we had in our heads,” Oscar added, glancing at Lando.

Lando, visibly confused, furrowed his brow.

“Am I missing something?”

“Everything, apparently. I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet,” you said, enjoying his baffled expression.

“Figured out what?” he asked, looking at everyone as if searching for answers.

George burst into laughter before speaking.

“That you’re an idiot.”

“Mate, at this point, it’s way too obvious,” Oscar pointed out, barely holding back his laughter.

“But I don’t understand. What’s going on?” Lando seemed genuinely lost, which only made everyone laugh even harder.

The confusion on Lando’s face was priceless, and George seemed determined to drag the moment out as long as possible. Before you could say anything, Oscar jumped in.

“Lando, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed. We literally talked about this last night,” he said, feigning disbelief.

“Talked about what?” Lando asked, growing increasingly puzzled.

Before anyone could answer, Max appeared, always ready to seize an opportunity to tease Lando.

“What’s going on here?” Max asked, looking at the four of you with interest.

“Lando just realized he’s the last to find out something important,” George explained, barely containing his laughter.

“About what?” Max insisted, crossing his arms while giving Oscar a knowing look.

“Well, I think he should figure it out for himself, don’t you?” Oscar said, winking at you.

Max regarded Lando with a mischievous smile.

“Is this another one of those things you always find out about late? Like the dinner in Monaco?”

“Hey! That wasn’t my fault. Nobody told me,” Lando replied defensively.

“And we’re not telling you this time either,” George interjected, savoring every moment.

Carlos and Charles approached just then, intrigued by the commotion. Carlos quickly picked up on the dynamic and decided to join in.

“What’s happening here? Are we teasing Lando again?” he asked with a grin, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“It’s not teasing; it’s more like educating him,” George replied with mock seriousness.

“Educating me on what?” Lando looked at everyone, now completely frustrated.

Charles, who had been quietly observing, leaned toward Max and asked in a low voice, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Have they told him yet?”

“Not yet,” Max said, barely holding back his laughter.

“Told me what?” Lando practically shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“It’s just…” Carlos began, clearly making it up as he went along, “it’s hard to explain without offending you. It’s… personal.”

“Personal?” Lando repeated, looking more confused than ever.

“Well, it’s more of an open secret,” Charles added, pretending to be thoughtful. “Though I think everyone already knows.”

“Except you, of course,” Oscar concluded, delivering the final blow.

Lando stepped back, looking at everyone as if trying to solve an impossible puzzle. Then he turned to you, seeking some sign that this was all a huge joke.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, his blue eyes full of uncertainty.

“Maybe,” you replied, struggling not to burst into laughter.

“But you’re the only sane person here. Please, tell me,” he implored, his tone almost melting your resolve… almost.

Before you could answer, Max intervened again, lightly tapping him on the head.

“Come on, Lando. Do you really not see it? It’s right in front of you.”

Lando ran his hands through his hair, messing it up even more. It seemed his frustration was reaching a boiling point.

“But I don’t see anything! Just tell me already!”

“You’re making this too fun to ruin it,” Carlos teased, while Charles nodded enthusiastically.

“Besides, I don’t think you’re ready for the truth,” George added, feigning concern.

Lando let out an exasperated sigh, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head.

“This is ridiculous. If you’re not going to tell me, I’m leaving. I have more important things to do.”

“More important than this?” Carlos asked, feigning disbelief. “Lando, this could be the most important thing that happens to you this weekend.”

“Or even this year,” Max added with a sly smile.

“Oh, definitely this year,” Charles confirmed, as if seriously considering the idea.

Lando rolled his eyes and stepped back, trying to distance himself from the circle you had all formed around him, but George stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t go just yet. We’re not done.”

“What do you mean, you’re not done?” Lando asked, clearly losing patience.

Oscar chimed in with his most serious tone, which only made everything more absurd.

“Lando, you have to trust us. This is big.”

“How big?” Lando raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“So big that, if you find out, your life might change forever,” Carlos said, managing to keep a straight face while George and Max bit their lips to keep from laughing.

“Oh, come on!” Lando exclaimed, letting out an incredulous laugh. “This is too much.”

“All you have to do is think, Lando,” Charles said, crossing his arms like a teacher giving an important lesson. “The clues are all there. The looks. The conversations.”

“What clues? What looks?” Lando’s voice teetered on the edge of panic as he scanned each of you. “Nothing makes sense!”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” George muttered with an exaggerated gesture of reflection.

Max decided to add more fuel to the fire.

“You know what I think? I think Lando’s scared of facing the truth.”

“I’m not scared!” Lando protested immediately.

“Then prove it,” Max challenged, crossing his arms with a smug smile.

Lando frowned, clearly determined not to back down.

“Fine. Go ahead. Tell me whatever it is you’re hiding.”

“Oh, we can’t just tell you,” Carlos replied, shaking his head as if it were an obvious fact. “We need to be sure you really want to know.”

“I already told you I want to know!”

Oscar sighed, shaking his head with mock disappointment.

“I still don’t see him that convinced. Do you?”

“Definitely not,” Max answered.

“Maybe he needs one last clue,” George suggested, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

All four of them turned to you at the same time.

“What do you think?” Charles asked, clearly holding back laughter.

You took a moment to enjoy Lando’s desperate expression before speaking.

“I think he might need something more obvious. Something impossible to ignore.”

“Like what?” Lando asked, his tone a mix of skepticism and resignation.

Max stepped closer to him, looking him directly in the eyes.

“Lando, the answer is right in front of you.”

Lando blinked, clearly processing the words. His gaze moved between each of you before finally landing on you.

“Right in front of me?”

“Exactly,” George confirmed, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Lando squinted at you, as if trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle.

“Wait a second…” he said slowly and cautiously. “What does she have to do with this?”

“Finally!” Carlos exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air like he was celebrating a monumental achievement.

“I knew you weren’t as slow as we thought,” Max added, patting him on the shoulder.

“But I don’t understand! What does this mean?” Lando asked, looking at you nervously.

Before you could say anything, George delivered the final blow.

“Don’t worry, mate. Everything will become clear… someday.”

The roaring laughter that followed was almost deafening. Lando, frustrated but resigned, crossed his arms and muttered something unintelligible while the others began to disperse, leaving him with more questions than answers.

Just when it seemed like everything was over, you decided to add one last touch of chaos.

“Maybe I should ask for Franco’s number myself,” you said loudly enough for him to hear, “you know, to add him to the group since you’re all clearly bad at it.”

Lando spun around so quickly that he lost his footing on a nearby puddle. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion: his arms flailed wildly as he tried to regain his balance, but it was no use. With a loud splash, he landed on the ground, soaked and spraying water everywhere.

For a moment, there was silence as everyone processed what had just happened. Then George, Max, and Carlos burst into laughter again.

“Oh my God, Lando! Are you okay?” George asked, although he was laughing too hard to sound genuinely concerned.

“That was incredible!” Carlos teased, clutching his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “You looked like a penguin… a wet penguin.”

“A confused penguin, too,” Max added, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

But Lando wasn’t paying attention to them. Something in your tone and words seemed to have hit him harder than the puddle. Still sitting on the ground, he turned his head slowly to look at you, his eyes narrowing as the pieces began to fall into place.

“Wait a second…” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

The others were still laughing, but you could see Lando watching you with a new intensity, as if a light bulb had just flickered on in his mind.

“Franco…” he repeated, almost testing the word, his expression shifting rapidly from confusion to realization. Then, his jaw dropped slightly, and he whispered, almost breathless, “No… it can’t be.”

“Lando, mate, you all right down there?” Charles asked, leaning down to offer him a hand, though clearly unaware of the change in Lando’s demeanor.

But Lando didn’t respond. His eyes were still fixed on you, and then, as if struck by a bolt of clarity, his mouth opened slightly.

“It’s you,” he said, his voice soft but clear.

The laughter from the others came to a screeching halt as they all turned to look at him.

“What?” George asked, feigning innocence.

“What are you talking about, Lando?” Carlos added, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s her,” Lando repeated, pointing at you with a shaky hand. “You’re Y/N.”

The group erupted again, this time in a mixture of laughter and cheers.

“Finally, he gets it!” Max shouted, leaning on Carlos for support as he laughed uncontrollably.

“Honestly, we thought it would take all day!” George added, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

You couldn’t help but smile as you stepped toward Lando, who was still sitting on the wet ground, looking at you like you’d just pulled off the biggest prank in history.

“Hi, Lando,” you said, your tone playful yet kind.

He blinked a few times, clearly processing everything.

“No… but… how?” he stammered, his voice rising slightly with each word.

“How did you not realize earlier?” Oscar interjected, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “That’s the real question.”

Carlos crouched down in front of Lando and gave him a light smack on the head.

“Mate, you were so busy telling us about her that you never thought you might already be talking to her.”

“But…” Lando looked at everyone, his expression shifting between disbelief and embarrassment. “You all knew?”

“Obviously,” Max said, flashing a triumphant grin.

“This is a nightmare,” Lando muttered, collapsing back onto the ground and covering his face with his hands. The group burst out laughing again as Lando groaned dramatically.

[...]

The race had finished, and the paddock was starting to calm down. The garage lights shone brightly as the teams worked frantically, but the atmosphere was no longer as chaotic as before. You were with George and Oscar, laughing at some casual comment about the race, when you saw Lando approaching from the other side of the paddock.

His steps were quick, but his expression looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. George was the first to notice, and with a knowing smile, he gave you a light nudge before stepping aside with Oscar, leaving you alone.

"This is going to be interesting," George murmured before disappearing.

Lando reached you, stopping just a metre away, hands in his pockets, with a look that clearly showed nervousness.

"Hey..." he said, scratching the back of his neck while glancing down at the floor.

"Hey, Lando," you replied, crossing your arms with an amused smile. "How was the race?"

"Good, good..." he answered, though his tone suggested he was thinking about anything but the race. Then he sighed and looked at you, but only for a second before glancing away again. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you."

"Me?" you asked, enjoying his obvious discomfort.

"Yeah... well... it's just..." Lando stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I wanted to apologise."

"Apologise? Why?" you asked, although you already knew the answer.

"For... you know... making a fool of myself," he said quickly, his face turning red. "For slipping, for not realising who you were, for... basically everything I did today."

"Oh, you don't have to apologise," you said, smiling reassuringly. "It was pretty funny, actually."

"Exactly. Funny for you, for George, for Max, for Carlos, for the whole damn paddock," he said, covering his face with his hands for a moment before letting them drop. "But not for me."

Your soft laugh made him look at you again, though this time he seemed even more nervous.

"Come on, Lando, it wasn't that bad."

"It wasn't that bad?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow while pointing at you. "I slipped in a puddle, made a fool of myself in front of everyone, and then found out I had been talking to you for months without realising who you were."

"Well, seen from that angle..." you said, making an amused face.

"Exactly," he replied, letting out a nervous laugh. Then, he scratched the back of his neck again, clearly searching for the right words. "But... beyond all that, I just wanted to say I'm glad it's you."

Your smile softened at that, and Lando seemed to gain some confidence when he noticed your reaction.

"I mean... I thought you were great when we talked over messages, but now that I’ve met you in person... well..." his face turned red again, and he stopped, looking anywhere but at you. "I think I’m getting myself into trouble again."

"Trouble?" you asked, tilting your head with curiosity.

"Yeah, because I’m probably saying weird stuff," he said quickly, laughing nervously while running a hand through his hair. "I’m a mess, aren’t I?"

"Maybe a little," you admitted, laughing softly. "But it's not a bad thing."

Lando finally dared to look at you directly, and for a moment, the nervousness on his face was replaced with a sincere smile.

"Thanks... for not making this even more embarrassing than it already is."

"Well, that would be cruel, don't you think?" you replied, shrugging with a smile.

"I’m not so sure. George and Max would’ve done it without a second thought," he said, causing both of you to laugh a little. After a moment of silence, he added in a quieter voice, "But seriously, thanks for being you."

The warmth in his words made your smile widen, and as Lando continued to look at you shyly, you felt that maybe this day had been memorable for both of you, but for very different reasons.

Lando ran a hand through his hair nervously, seeming to gather the courage to say the next part.

"So..." he started, looking down at the ground before glancing back at you. "I was thinking that, since all of this has been a disaster and I want to make it up to you for being an idiot today... maybe we could go out sometime."

His tone was unsure, but the shy smile he gave you made his offer seem sincere. For a moment, you considered how to respond, because although the situation was sweet and Lando seemed adorable, you knew your answer had to be honest.

"Lando..." you started, giving him a soft smile so he wouldn’t feel rejected too harshly. "You’re incredibly sweet, but..."

His face subtly changed, though he tried to keep his composure.

"But...?"

"But I have a partner waiting for me at home," you said, with a clear but kind tone. "And, although it’s been fun meeting you in person, and although today has been a day I’ll never forget, I can’t accept your invitation."

Lando blinked a couple of times, processing your words. Then, he put a hand to the back of his neck and let out a nervous laugh.

"Oh... right, right. That makes sense. Wait, when you said it was more likely that you’d like Carmen, did that mean...?"

"Yes," you admitted. "I hope I didn’t make this more awkward." you added quickly, wanting to make sure he didn’t feel bad.

"No, no," he hurriedly responded, raising his hands. "It’s totally understandable. I... well, I guess I was just too caught up in my head with all of this."

"Lando, seriously," you said, placing a light hand on his arm. "You’re an amazing guy, and I’m sure you’ll find someone who’s perfect for you. Just... don’t let George drag you into too many jokes."

That made him chuckle lightly.

"Yeah, I think I should stop listening to him. It’s not good for my self-esteem."

You both laughed, and the tension that had been in the air seemed to dissipate.

"So... are we still friends?" he asked, tilting his head with a slight smile.

"Of course," you replied without hesitation. "Though I can’t promise I won’t join in on the jokes sometimes."

Lando let out a laugh and nodded, regaining his usual energy.

"Well, as long as you don’t throw me into a puddle again, I think I can live with that."

"Deal," you said, extending your hand to seal the agreement.

Lando took it, and although things hadn’t gone as he’d expected, his smile in the end was genuine.

"Thanks for being honest," he murmured before saying goodbye, making it clear that even though his day hadn’t been perfect, he could still laugh at himself.

And as you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but smile.

"I think you should ask Franco for his number next time on your own!"

"And miss the chance to talk to you? No way."

Liked by user1, user2 and 413,751 others

F1Gossip Oscar Piastri seen with influencer and model Y/n L/n 👀

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user1 uh oh another influencer

user2 why are people so quick to hating.... she seems chill

->user3 because she's dating a driver 🤷‍♀️ ->user4 people hate to hate

user5 why do they always go for influencers???

user6 she's so beautiful... im sick 💔

user7 wow a influencer and model lets all pretend to be shocked

user8 just checked her insta and her fit's are going to eat

->user9 a wag not doing business casual? i cheered ->user10 she might change to be like all the other wags :/

user11 now how long has this been going on..???

user12 she looks nothing like the other wag's why are people being insane

user13 wait her vibe seems... good?

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♬ Ariana Grande ‧ Moonlight

Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 1,238,362 others

yourusername my moonlight

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oscarpiastri miss you

->yourusername im literally in the other room.... ->oscarpiastri so far ->yourusername so DRAMATIC omw ->user1 yeah im already obsessed

user2 this serve

user3 wearing alaïa s/s 1992.. oh mother

user4 oh she's a romantic too

user5 why'd you crop him out...?

->user6 like girl we know who it is ->yourusername he was drooling, didn't want to mess with the vibes ->user7 GIRL!?!?!??? ->user8 he's just like me fr

user9 So cute omg

user10 funny and hot, it's too much

user11 her saying "omw" after calling him dramatic is killing me

user12 actually so beautiful im in awe

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Liked by yourusername, alex_albon and 2,836,761 others

oscarpiastri Night to remember!

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user1 god y/n looks so good FUCKKKKK

yourusername third picture... somethings purring and it's not the car engine

->oscarpiastri expecting a text from PR very soon... ->user2 Y/N ?!?!?@??? ->user3 GIRL keep it in your pants ->user4 "purring" is crazy girl

user5 ain't nobody looking at that horse when y/n's right there

user6 bro tried to put the pictures in order but couldn't resist putting the pic with y/n first he's so ☠

->oscarpiastri alright 😭 ->user7 he didn't deny it

user8 the fit is eating waittt

user9 please be a good car please be a good car please be a good car

user10 it is kind of distracting how good y/n looks

user11 she's not lying the 3rd picture is hot

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡ -------------------------- ⟡˚౨ৎ⋆

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♬ Ariana Grande ‧ Hands On Me

Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 2,941,635 others

yourusername special night in roberto cavalli <3

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user1 jaw on the floor

oscarpiastri listening to the lyrics btw

->yourusername now I'M going to get a text from PR.... ->user2 her acting like she doesn't like it ->yourusername 🤫 user2

user3 the hair the makeup the dress INSANE

user4 this song girl.... HORNYYYY

user5 you're always going to look good that's for sure

bellahadid this dress on you.... speechless

->yourusername ily <3

user6 Omg I think this is my fav look yet

user7 the miami air is so good to you two

user8 can oscar fight...? answer QUICKLY

user9 ugh song choice so tea

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Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 3,215,742 others

yourusername winning in life

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user1 Yessssssssss

oscarpiastri my gorgeous girl 😍

->oscarpiastri you are everything I need and more my love ->yourusername love love love you <3 ->user2 i love love 😭 ->user3 oh yall in love in love ->user4 yall are so cute omg get married 😭💕

user5 Miss princess looking glam as ever

user6 you’re so major

user7 who did you sacrifice to aphrodite....

user8 Modern day princess 😍

quenblackwell wow Liked by yourinstagram !

user9 a bondage dress loves to see you coming 😍

->yourusername exactlyyyy

user10 The servification on all the slide

user11 Wow the universe loves u ur literally always glowing

user12 Loveee this look😍

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You stall for days.

That’s the part that eats you alive the most — not the nausea, not the exhaustion, not even the way your jeans stopped buttoning two weeks ago. It’s the stalling. The way every time you look at Max, the words I’m pregnant rise to your throat and then dissolve like sugar in hot tea.

You love him. God, you love him. But loving him doesn’t erase the fear that maybe he isn’t ready. Maybe he never pictured himself as a dad. Maybe you’ll say the words and watch something in his eyes shutter.

So you wait.

You wait through media day, through team dinners, through quiet nights in the hotel where he curls around you and murmurs “I love you, liefje” into your shoulder. You wait until race day — the worst possible day — because you keep telling yourself tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll be brave.

---

RACE DAY — CHAOS BREWING

The paddock is buzzing, louder than usual, cameras flashing like lightning. You walk beside Max, one hand in his, the other pressed subtly to your stomach. He’s focused, calm, already in that pre-race tunnel vision.

“Everything okay?” he asks, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You smile too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. He always lets things go when you’re not ready to talk. It’s one of the reasons you love him.

You think you’re safe. You think you can get through the day, tell him tonight, in private, where no one can see his reaction.

But the universe has other plans.

---

THE LEAK

It starts as a whisper. A murmur. A ripple.

You don’t notice it at first — too busy trying not to throw up in the hospitality suite — but then you catch a pair of mechanics glancing at you. Then two journalists. Then a photographer who looks at your stomach before looking at your face.

Your blood runs cold.

Max is mid-interview when it happens. You hear it before he does.

“—and congratulations to Max and his girlfriend on the pregnancy—”

Your heart stops.

Max freezes.

The interviewer freezes.

The entire paddock seems to freeze.

And then Max turns. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes find yours across the room, blue and sharp and confused and something else — something protective and fierce and mine.

He doesn’t excuse himself. He doesn’t finish the interview. He just walks straight to you, jaw tight, shoulders squared, the crowd parting instinctively.

“Liefje,” he says quietly, “is it true?”

Your throat closes. “Max, I—I wanted to tell you, I just didn’t know if—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands come up to cradle your face, gentle but unyielding.

“You’re pregnant?”

You nod, tears burning.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at you. And then his whole expression breaks open — shock, awe, joy, terror, love — all of it at once.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “We’re having a baby.”

You try to speak, but he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’s shielding you from the world.

And then the cameras start clicking.

Max turns instantly, body shifting, one arm still around you while the other lifts in a warning gesture.

“Back up,” he snaps. “Give her space.”

It’s not angry — it’s protective. Instinctive. A lion guarding what’s his.

He tucks you into his side, glaring at anyone who steps too close. “She doesn’t need this right now. Move.”

The crowd actually listens.

---

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

He gets you into his driver room, shuts the door, and then he’s kneeling in front of you, hands on your thighs, breathing hard like he just finished a race.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, voice soft now.

“I was scared,” you whisper. “I didn’t know if you wanted—”

“Stop.” He shakes his head, eyes shining. “I want you. And if you’re pregnant, then I want this baby too. I want everything with you.”

Your breath catches.

He presses his forehead to your stomach, hands sliding around your hips. “My baby,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Our baby.”

You run your fingers through his hair, finally letting yourself cry.

“I’m sorry it came out like this,” you whisper.

He looks up at you, eyes blazing with certainty. “I don’t care how it came out. I care about you. I care about the baby. And I’m not letting anyone stress you today.”

He stands, cupping your face again. “You stay with me. All day. I don’t want you out there alone with the media.”

“Max, you have a race—”

“I don’t care.” He kisses your forehead. “You come first.”

You laugh wetly. “You can’t skip the race.”

He sighs, dramatic. “Fine. But you stay in the garage. With security. And no one gets near you unless I say so.”

You raise a brow. “Possessive much?”

“Absolutely.” He kisses you, slow and reverent. “You’re carrying my child. They can deal with it.”

---

PRE-RACE

He walks you to the garage with his hand on your lower back, glaring at anyone who looks too curious. Engineers whisper. Cameras follow. Fans scream.

Max ignores all of it.

He keeps checking on you — “Are you okay?” “Do you need water?” “Sit down, liefje” — until his race engineer physically drags him to the car.

Before he gets in, he cups your cheek again.

“When this race is over,” he says softly, “we’re going home. And you’re telling me everything. Every fear. Every thought. Every moment you felt alone.”

You nod.

“And I’m going to fix it,” he promises. “Because you’re not doing this alone. Not for one second.”

You swallow hard. “I love you.”

His smile is pure sunshine. “I love you more.”

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.

For one awful second you could only stare at him waiting for something else, a flicker of regret, a sign that he'd spoken out of frustration rather than meaning it, but nothing came. His expression remained unreadable, already turning back towards the monitors as though the conversation was over.

You blinked twice and gave a small nod, because pretending to agree felt safer than letting him see how deeply he had cut you. Then you walked past the engineering desk without speaking, keeping your shoulders straight and your gaze fixed ahead until you were safely out of sight, where no one could see the tremble in your chin or the tears gathering behind your eyes.

You didn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

You avoided him for the rest of the weekend.

During team meetings you took the seat furthest from his. In briefings every answer you gave was clipped, addressed to your engineers never to him. You didn’t look his way once even before FP3 when you caught him watching you through the reflection in the garage mirror as you pulled your balaclava over your head. You saw the way his gaze lingered almost as though he wanted to say something, but you turned away before he could.

Then qualifying came and everything got worse.

You locked up into Turn 12, the front tyres protesting as the car skidded just wide enough to cost you two tenths through the final sector. Two tenths that might have been enough to save you. Instead your name dropped to sixteenth as the clock ran out, leaving you stranded in the garage and eliminated in Q1.

By the time you had climbed out of the car the headlines were already writing themselves.

RED BULL’S LATEST RISK FAILS TO DELIVER.

MAX’S NEW TEAMMATE CRUMBLES UNDER PRESSURE.

It didn’t seem to matter that you weren’t actually his teammate, not yet at least. You were still only a junior driver, loaned out for unknown period of time during Isack’s injury, a slight test for the future so you could find your feet without the full weight of Red Bull pressing down on your shoulders. The media had already decided what you were supposed to become though and every mistake was treated as proof that you would never be ready for it.

Max’s comment had only lit the match.

Now the entire paddock seemed determined to watch you burn.

Over the next couple of weeks you began to notice a change in Max, it was easy enough to dismiss at first. He no longer offered unsolicited advice over the radio or hovered beside your engineers while they picked apart your laps. Instead he kept his distance, watching from across the garage whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You did notice but you just simply refused to acknowledge it.

In the hospitality tent you kept your headphones on and your head lowered over a sheet of telemetry, pretending to study the same sector analysis you had been staring at for nearly twenty minutes. The numbers had blurred together long ago, but concentrating on them was easier than looking around and risking another encounter with him.

The chair beside you scraped against the floor and your shoulders tightened before you could stop them. Max sat down without asking, close enough that the edge of his knee nearly brushed yours beneath the table. For a moment, he said nothing, then a Red Bull energy bar slid across the page, covering the corner of the graph you had been pretending to read.

“Eat something.”

You pulled one side of your headphones away from your ear and stared at the bar. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

His answer came quickly, but there was none of the coldness or impatience you remembered from the last race. Only a quiet certainty that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine. You moved the energy bar aside and returned your attention to the data sheet. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, settling between you like wet concrete. Around you the hospitality suite carried on as normal cutlery clinking against plates, team members laughing near the coffee machine, someone discussing something as mundane as the weather two tables away, but the space between you felt strangely separate from all of it.

Max leaned back in his chair and released a breath, it wasn’t the irritated sigh you had grown used to hearing from him, he sounded tired, defeated, almost. When you finally glanced at him guilt sat heavily in the slope of his shoulders. His elbows rested against his knees, hands clasped loosely together as he stared down at the floor.

“I saw the headlines,” he said at last.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.

“And I know I made them worse.”

You looked away before he could see the flicker of hurt cross your face. “Forget it.”

Before he could reply you pushed your chair back and stood, Max reached for your wrist, calling your name as though he could stop you, but you pulled away without looking at him and walked out.

Max stopped keeping his distance after that.

At the next debrief he walked into the crowded conference room passed several empty chairs and took the seat directly beside you. You told yourself it was nothing, but when he did the same thing at the following session and again the day after that it became impossible to dismiss as coincidence.

Each time he arrived he would set his tablet down beside your notes and settle into the chair as though sitting anywhere else had never crossed his mind. While engineers filled the room and sector times glowed across the screens, Max remained at your side, listening more closely when your laps were discussed and quietly following every piece of feedback you were given.

He never tried to force a conversation, he simply listened, occasionally leaning closer to point out something on your screen or quietly asking one of your engineers to bring up a different lap comparison.

Then he began appearing in your garage after his own sessions. He would arrive with the sleeves of his team shirt pushed up to his elbows and an sheet of telemetery tucked beneath one arm, walking straight past the cameras and curious mechanics. Sometimes he had barely climbed out of his own car before he was asking for your telemetry.

It was strange, watching him study your laps with the same fierce concentration he usually reserved for his own. He replayed your onboard footage, compared steering traces and questioned your engineers until every small inconsistency had been pulled apart.

One evening, long after most of the paddock had begun to empty he stood beside you at the engineering desk, scrolling through a comparison between your fastest lap and the one that had been abandoned after a lock-up.

“This isn’t a braking issue,” he muttered.

You glanced away from the screen. “That’s what they keep telling me though.”

“They’re wrong.”

His tone was so blunt that one of your engineers looked up from the opposite end of the desk. Max either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He enlarged the tyre data and tapped the front-left trace with his finger.

“It isn’t coming up to temperature quickly enough. Look here.” He dragged the laps side by side. “You’re turning in expecting the grip to be there, but it isn’t. Then you’re compensating by braking later on the next lap which makes the lock-up worse.”

You studied the graph, following the lines he'd highlighted. Once he pointed it out, the pattern seemed obvious.

“You’re chasing grip that the car isn’t giving you,” he continued. “You could drive the corner perfectly and still lose time.”

You looked at him instead of the screen.

Max noticed after a moment, his hand still hovering over the tablet. “What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

The question came out more quietly than you intended.

His expression closed slightly, and he turned his attention back to the data. “Because someone needs to.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited, unwilling to let him escape behind another graph or technical explanation.

Finally, Max lowered the tablet onto the desk. “Because I should have said something useful that day.”

You said nothing.

“I knew you were struggling with the car,” he continued. “I knew the balance was wrong, and I knew you were already blaming yourself for all of it.” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as though looking at you would make the admission harder. “I could have helped and instead I made you feel like you didn’t belong here.”

The familiar ache returned beneath your ribs.

“And now you think fixing my setup will make up for it?”

“No.” His answer was immediate. For the first time since you arrived he met your gaze fully.

“But it’s something I can do.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you still wanted to be angry. Anger was usually easier. It created distance between you, kept his words sharp enough in your memory that you wouldn’t risk trusting him again.

But Max was making it difficult to hold on to, especially when he kept showing up. Every evening, once the media duties ended and the garage began to quiet, you would find him waiting near your engineering station. Sometimes he had two coffees balanced in one hand. Sometimes he had already loaded your onboard footage before you arrived. He never asked whether you wanted his help anymore, but he never acted as though you owed him anything for it either.

On Friday evening, you returned from a meeting to find him leaning against the desk, your more recent data already open in front of him.

He glanced up as you approached.

“Come on,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Get your notes. We’re going over Turn 4 again.”

You folded your arms. “We went over Turn 4 yesterday.”

“And you’re still losing a tenth on entry.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as you noticed it. He picked up the laptop and started walking towards the back of the garage, clearly expecting you to follow.

For a moment, you remained where you were. Then you reached for your notebook and went after him.

It wasn’t until a media scrum a few races later that you understood just how much things between you had changed.

You stood behind the taped barrier beneath the harsh paddock lights, waiting for your turn while three different press officers attempted to keep the restless crowd of reporters moving. Your helmet bag hung from one shoulder, and you had already arranged the usual answers neatly in your head: the car was improving, the team was working hard, and you were taking everything one session at a time. Each response was measured, harmless and carefully constructed to give the journalists nothing they could twist into another headline.

A few feet away Max was halfway through his own interview when one of the reporters asked him about you.

“What do you make of her recent improvement? She seems to have found something over the last few races.”

You lowered your gaze, preparing yourself for the usual vague endorsement. Something about promising pace or needing more time. The sort of harmless answer drivers gave when they didn’t want to say anything at all.

Instead, Max tilted his head and squinted at the reporter as though the question had irritated him.

“She’s quick,” he said. “People forget how steep the learning curve is at this level. She’s had to learn a new car, a new team and tracks she’s never raced on before within a few weeks with everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. Give her time.”

Your grip tightened around the strap of your bag.

The reporter glanced down at his notes, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “It was a fairly rough start, though. You must have had doubts after the opening rounds.”

Max’s expression changed immediately.

“You ever driven a car at three hundred and twenty kilometres an hour while half the world watches your onboard and waits for you to get something wrong?”

The reporter’s smile faltered. “Well obviously not, but—”

“No?” Max interrupted, his voice still measured even as his eyes narrowed. “Standing here criticising her is easy. You’re very comfortable judging something you’ve never had the ability to do yourself.”

A murmur moved through the press pack, cameras shifted towards him, microphones lifting higher as everyone sensed the possibility of a headline. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t soften it with a laugh or look towards the press officer for rescue he simply handed back the microphone and stepped away from the barrier. He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, but he never looked at you.

You remained frozen in place, staring after him while the reporters around you whispered to one another and your press officer called your name for the second time.

For weeks Max had been helping you quietly, behind closed doors and dimmed garage screens where no one else could see, this was different, there had been a hundred cameras pointed at him, and he had defended you anyway, you wondered briefly whether guilt was still the only reason he kept showing up for you.

You found him alone at the back of the Red Bull motorhome after the race. The celebrations had already begun downstairs, your engineers opening bottles and passing around plastic cups because eighth place ordinarily meant very little, but today it meant everything. Your first Formula One points. A small mark beside your name on the championship table that proved, at least for one weekend, that you belonged there.

Max had disappeared shortly after the podium ceremony.

You found him slumped into the corner of one of the black leather sofas, still wearing his team kit, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His phone was in his hand, but he didn’t appear to be reading anything. His thumb moved aimlessly over the screen, his expression distant in a way that made you think he'd come there precisely because he didn’t want to be found.

He looked up when you entered.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him. “Your first points.”

You stopped a few feet from the sofa. “Thanks.”

Max studied you for a moment. “You don’t look very happy about it.”

“It’s not really enough still.” You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, reluctant to let yourself feel proud of a result that had fallen short of what you wanted.

“You scored your first points,” Max continued. “That should be celebrated. It isn’t easy and you shouldn’t act like eighth means nothing just because you wanted the podium.”

“I wasn’t planning on celebrating eighth.”

“No?” The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping I might finally get a smile out of you.”

Your eyes met his, and the warmth in them caught you off guard. “You’re not that charming.”

“I didn’t say I was.” His gaze dipped briefly down before returning to your eyes. “But you’re still trying not to smile.”

You looked away before he could see that he was right.

“You drove well,” he added, the teasing fading. “You stayed out of trouble, managed the tyres and took every chance when it came.”

The praise should have felt good, but it left a strange pressure beneath your ribs because you could still remember when his opinion had been the one you cared about most, before his words had hollowed you out and taught you not to look for his approval.

You nodded, unsure what else to offer him. “The changes helped.”

Max understood what you meant, the hours spent studying telemetry, the late evenings dissecting corners and the coffees left beside your laptop before early briefings.

His mouth tightened faintly. “They helped,” he agreed. “But you still had to drive the car.”

You could hear the muffled celebration below you, bursts of laughter rising through the floor whenever the doors opened. You considered leaving. You'd already started to turn when Max placed his phone face down on the cushion beside him.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near your feet. There was tension in the movement, as though the words had been sitting inside him for weeks and he still hadn’t worked out how to say them.

“I meant what I said that day,” he began.

Your entire body went still.

“Not like that,” he corrected quickly. “Not in the way it sounded.”

A humourless laugh escaped you. “Is there another way to interpret ‘maybe this isn’t the place for you’?”

He looked up then.

There was no anger in his expression and none of the defensiveness you'd expected. He looked exhausted in the way someone looked when they'd been carrying the same regret for too long and had finally realised there was no painless way to put it down.

“No,” he admitted. “There isn’t.”

You folded your arms over your chest, more to protect yourself than anything else.

“I was frustrated,” he continued. “With the car, with the team, with myself. Everything had gone wrong that day and then you walked into the garage looking so…” His voice faltered, and he glanced away. “You looked completely crushed.”

The memory returned with painful clarity, the heat beneath your race suit and the silence from the engineers. Max’s voice following you through the garage.

“And so you decided to make it worse?”

“I knew that feeling,” he said. “I knew exactly what was going through your head because I’ve been there. I know what it feels like when everyone is watching, when one bad session becomes proof that you’re not good enough and when every person around you has an opinion about whether you deserve to be here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had begun to pale.

“I knew how much you were already blaming yourself and instead of helping you I gave you another reason to.”

You looked down because holding his gaze had become too difficult.

“I told myself I was trying to warn you,” he continued. “That maybe you needed to understand how brutal this place could be before it swallowed you but that isn’t what I did. It isn’t how it came out.”

“Why?” you whispered.

Max inhaled slowly.

“Because I was scared for you.”

You looked at him again.

His gaze remained fixed on his hands. “I know what this place does to people. I know what it did to me when I was your age, everyone tells you that pressure makes you stronger, but sometimes it just makes you believe you’re only worth something when you’re winning.”

His jaw tightened, the words becoming more difficult with every sentence.

“I could see you starting to disappear into it, every mistake or headline, every time someone questioned you—like it proved something. I wanted to tell you that it didn’t. I wanted to say that you’re allowed to struggle and that one bad session doesn’t mean you don’t belong here, you’re allowed to question whether you want to be here and that doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

A broken breath left him.

“But I didn’t know how to say that… in fact I said the exact opposite.”

The tears came before you could stop them, stinging at the corners of your eyes. You blinked quickly, but one escaped anyway, slipping down your cheek before you could turn away. His expression crumpled so briefly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him. He swallowed hard, eyes shining as he looked down at the floor again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice shook now, stripped of every trace of the certainty he carried in front of cameras. “I know saying it doesn’t undo anything. I know helping with the car doesn’t make it better, but I am so fucking sorry for making you feel like that.”

You stood there for a long moment. Part of you had imagined this apology countless times. In some versions, you shouted at him. In others, you told him exactly what his words had done to you and walked away before he had the chance to answer, but now that the moment had arrived, anger wasn’t the strongest thing you felt.

It was relief. Relief that he understood. That he hadn’t forgotten it the moment the words left his mouth, that every evening he had spent beside you had meant something more than obligation.

You crossed the room before you could overthink it and lowered yourself onto the sofa beside him. Max watched you carefully, almost warily, as though he didn’t trust himself to hope.

You shifted closer and gently rested your head against his shoulder.

For several seconds, Max didn’t move. Then his body softened beside yours, and he released a long, unsteady breath as though he'd been holding it since that first Friday afternoon.

His head tipped carefully against yours.

You never said the words I forgive you, but when Max’s hand settled beside yours on the sofa, his little finger brushing tentatively against your own you didn’t pull away.

By the time the paddock reached Austria Max had become woven so thoroughly into your routine that neither of you seemed capable of remembering when it had happened.

He was there during the quiet hours before briefings, leaning against the counter in hospitality while you waited for your drink, and again late in the evening when the garages began to empty and the conversations around you softened into the tired murmur of engineers preparing for the following day. What had begun as Max helping you understand an unpredictable car had become something far less structured. Some evenings you still spent hours studying telemetry and comparing onboard footage and on others the laptop remained open and almost entirely forgotten while he told you stories about his early years in the sport or tried to convince you that his terrible movie recommendations were somehow your fault for listening to him.

Whenever you climbed out of the car after a session your eyes would drift instinctively towards his garage. At dinner you saved the seat beside you before you had consciously decided to do it. When something went well Max had somehow become the first person you wanted to tell, even when he had already been watching the entire thing unfold.

The team had started to notice and the reporters had certainly noticed, but neither of you acknowledged it.

After qualifying seventh in Austria you found Max near the back of the garage, studying the final timing screen. He'd claimed pole by less than a tenth and should have been preparing for the media pen, but his attention shifted towards you the moment you approached.

You stopped beside him and folded your arms, allowing a deliberately smug smile to form.

“You’re welcome.”

Max glanced towards the screen and then back at you. “For what?”

“Pole.”

His eyebrows lifted. “My pole?”

“You were losing time through Turn 6 yesterday. I told you the wind was pushing the rear around on entry.”

“You said it felt like it ‘might be windy tomorrow’.”

“And then you went faster.”

A smile spread slowly across his face. “So now you are taking credit for my qualifying?”

“Only the successful parts.”

“What about the rest of the lap?”

“That was acceptable too.”

Max laughed, a warm sound that caught the attention of one of the nearby mechanics. A few months earlier you would never have spoken to him like this, you would have analysed every word before saying it and waited anxiously for some indication that he approved. Now you simply enjoyed the way his eyes brightened whenever you surprised him.

“Well,” he said, turning his body fully towards you, “thank you for securing my pole position.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And congrats on seventh.”

Your smile softened. “Thank you.”

There was no joking qualification attached to it. Max did not point out where you had lost time or suggest that you might have placed higher with a cleaner final sector. He had never treated your progress like something he'd created, even after all the hours he'd spent helping you, when you did well the achievement remained entirely yours.

“You looked confident out there,” he said.

“I felt better.”

“I could tell.”

Something in his tone made warmth rise beneath your skin. “Were you watching?”

“I’d finished my lap.” Max’s gaze travelled over your face, amusement softening into something more intent. “You make it very difficult not to watch you.”

Your press officer called your name from the entrance to the garage before you could decide how to answer. You glanced towards her and then back at him, reluctant to let the moment end.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moved immediately.

“Try not to lose the lead tomorrow. I would hate for all my coaching to be wasted.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You should, I have a reputation to protect now.”

Max shook his head, still smiling as you turned away and you could feel his eyes following you until you disappeared into the corridor.

The race unfolded more perfectly than anything you'd allowed yourself to imagine.

You gained a place before the first corner and emerged from the opening lap in sixth, the car balanced beneath you in a way it rarely had been at the beginning of the season. Max led several seconds ahead, but for once you weren't thinking about him or the expectations attached to being part of the same programme. Your focus narrowed to the car in front, the gap on your steering wheel and the calm instructions coming through your radio.

During the first stint you remained close enough to fifth to force the driver ahead into using more of his tyres than he wanted. Your engineer suggested extending the stint, trusting that you could maintain the pace while the others began to struggle.

It worked. You emerged from the pits later with clear air and tyres fresh enough to attack. By the time the strategy settled you were running fifth with fourth place less than three seconds ahead.

There had been a point earlier in the season when fifth would have felt too valuable to risk, you would have protected the result, terrified that wanting more might cost you everything. That instinct still whispered at the edge of your concentration, but it no longer controlled you.

With eight laps remaining you began closing the gap. The car ahead defended into Turn 3, forcing you to abandon the first attempt, but you stayed close through the middle sector. On the following lap, you positioned the car more carefully through the final two corners and pulled alongside before the braking zone.

For a fraction of a second your front-left threatened to lock.

You kept your foot in and trusted the car to hold.

The two of you swept through the corner together, but you had the inside line for the next turn. By the time you accelerated fourth place was yours.

Your engineer’s voice erupted through the radio.

“That’s P4! Great move. Absolutely fantastic.”

A breathless laugh escaped you inside your helmet. “That was close.”

You crossed the line three laps later in fourth, with Max taking the victory several seconds ahead.

The result registered slowly as you completed the cooldown lap. It wasn’t a podium, although you could almost touch one now, only three drivers had finished ahead of you and for the first time that knowledge felt exciting rather than cruel. You hadn't inherited the position through retirements or luck. You had raced for it and taken it.

When you returned to parc fermé your team were waiting against the barriers. Hands reached towards you as you climbed from the car, mechanics cheering loudly enough to be heard over the engines still arriving behind you.

You'd barely removed your helmet when someone caught you around the waist.

A startled laugh left you as your feet lifted briefly from the ground. You knew who it was before Max could set you down, his arms still loose around you and a victorious grin covering his face.

“Fourth,” he said.

“First,” you replied, looking up at him. “I suppose you managed without too much trouble.”

“I had excellent coaching.”

His hands remained at your waist and yours had settled instinctively against his shoulders. Around you cameras clicked continuously, but Max appeared entirely unconcerned by the attention.

“That overtake was brilliant” he said.

“Wha-How?”

“Because I was watching.”

“You were leading.”

“I had a gap.”

“You used it to watch my race?”

Max’s eyes moved over your face, his voice lowering despite the noise surrounding you. “I told you. You make it difficult not to.”

In the garage you had been able to blame the electricity between you on adrenaline from qualifying. Here, with his hands still resting against your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you there was nowhere for either of you to hide.

A member of the podium crew called for Max, he glanced reluctantly towards the stage and then back at you.

“You need to go,” you told him.

“Stay for the podium.”

“I usually do.”

“Stay where I can see you.”

Your heart stumbled, you tried to cover it with a smile. “Planning to dedicate the win to your coach?”

“Maybe.”

Max gave your waist one final squeeze before stepping away. The absence of him felt immediate although his gaze remained on you until someone placed a cap in his hands and steered him towards the podium.

When Max lifted the trophy he found you beneath the stage almost instantly. Champagne had dampened his hair and darkened the shoulders of his race suit, but his attention settled on you with such certainty that several photographers turned to follow his line of sight.

You raised your eyebrows and mouthed, You’re welcome.

Even from a distance you saw him laugh.

It was much later before the two of you managed to escape the celebrations.

The paddock had begun to quiet when you found Max on the terrace behind the motorhome, he'd changed into a clean team shirt although his hair was still damp from the champagne. His trophy sat on the table beside two bottles of beer, catching the last of the evening sunlight.

“You abandoned your own party,” you said as you stepped outside.

Max turned towards you. “I was waiting for someone.”

“Your coach?”

“She’s becoming very demanding.”

You walked towards him and accepted the bottle he offered. “Success changes people.”

“So does finishing fourth apparently.”

You leaned beside him against the railing. “I was delightful before.”

“You barely spoke to me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I did.”

The ease with which he accepted it removed any sting from the exchange, he looked out over the paddock for a moment, his shoulder resting against yours before turning his bottle slowly between his hands.

“You should be proud of today.”

“I am.”

Max glanced sideways at you, checking for any sign that you were only saying it for his benefit.

You smiled. “I really am.”

His expression warmed. “Good.”

“I wanted the podium.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t leave feeling like fourth was a failure.” You looked down at the bottle in your hands. “That’s new.”

“You’ll get one soon.”

The certainty in his voice made you laugh. “You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

“What happens when I do?”

Max’s gaze shifted towards you. “When you do what?”

“Get a podium.”

He considered the question with exaggerated seriousness. “You stand on the stage. They give you a trophy. Usually there’s champagne.”

You turned until your hip rested against the railing, facing him properly. “I meant what happens afterwards.”

Understanding flickered across his face.

“Are you asking me to plan your celebration?”

“I’m asking whether you intend to be there.”

Max’s smile became more private replacing the teasing expression he'd worn moments earlier. “I intend to be there for all of them.”

The answer caught you off guard.

“All of them?” you repeated.

“Your first podium. Your first win.” His eyes remained on yours. “Whatever comes after that.”

The future opened quietly between you, carried in words that could still have been about racing if either of you needed them to be.

“You’re planning quite far ahead,” you murmured.

“I spend a lot of time looking at data. I can recognise a trend.”

“And what trend is that?”

“You keep getting closer.”

“To the podium?”

Max stepped nearer, leaving only a narrow space between you. “That too.”

Warmth climbed into your cheeks, but you resisted the instinct to look away. The confidence you had found in the car seemed to follow you here allowing you to hold his gaze and enjoy the rare moment in which Max appeared to be the less certain one.

“So,” you said, stepping slightly closer, “when I get my podium how exactly are we celebrating?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re still pretending you don’t know what I want.”

Your pulse quickened, but you managed to keep your expression composed. “Perhaps you should explain it to me.”

Max laughed under his breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“This was much easier when you were nervous around me.”

“You hated it when I was nervous around you.”

His expression sobered. “I do like this version better.”

Months earlier his opinion had shattered something in you. Now he looked at you as though your growing confidence was not merely something he'd witnessed, but something he treasured.

“You helped.”

“You did the difficult part.”

He moved closer until his shoulder brushed yours and lowered his voice.

“Get the podium.”

“And then?”

“Then you won’t have to ask whether I’ll be there.”

You smiled. “Still avoiding the question about the celebration.”

“I already told you. It depends.”

“On whether I know what you want?”

“Yes.”

You tilted your face towards his, leaving so little distance that you felt his breath catch. “I think I’m beginning to work it out.”

For one suspended moment you thought he might kiss you.

Instead Max reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing lightly along your cheek. The restraint in the gesture made it feel more intimate than rushing forward would have done.

“You drove beautifully today,” he said.

There was no joke to hide behind now, you let the praise settle without dismissing it.

“Thank you.”

His hand lingered against your cheek before falling slowly.

When you eventually returned inside Max placed his palm against the small of your back and guided you through the doorway. Several team members looked up, one of them smiled knowingly before returning to his conversation.

The podium felt close now.

Whatever waited after it felt closer too.