#dinawrites

On the screen, Oscar screams—a raw, uncharacteristically loud release of tension that sends shivers down your spine.

You don't wait for the team to organize. You’re running toward Parc Fermé before the car even comes to a full halt.

The atmosphere is electric. Fireworks are exploding over the Yas Marina Circuit, painting the night sky in gold and red, but your eyes are locked on the papaya car. Oscar climbs out, standing on the halo, punching the air. He looks like a titan. He looks unstoppable.

But then he hops down, and the first thing he does—before acknowledging the mechanics, before weighing in, before removing his helmet—is scan the crowd. His head whips left and right, frantic.

He’s looking for you.

You push past a camera operator, slipping through the gap in the barriers. "Oscar!"

He freezes. Even with the helmet on, you can feel his gaze lock onto you. He rips the helmet off, his hair a mess of sweat, his face flushed with the purest joy you have ever seen.

You run. He doesn’t wait. He steps forward, meeting you halfway, and the collision is desperate.

He doesn't just hug you; he scoops you up. One arm around your waist, the other supporting your legs, he lifts you completely off the asphalt.

"We did it!" he yells, his voice hoarse, burying his face in your neck. He spins you around—once, twice—right there on the track. Your feet dangle in the air, and for a moment, the world is just a blur of floodlights and papaya.

"You did it," you sob, clinging to his race suit, not caring about the sweat or the smell of burnt rubber. "You're the champion, Os."

He sets you down but keeps his forehead pressed against yours, oblivious to the cameras circling you like sharks.

"We did it, love," he corrects you, his breathing heavy, his hands trembling slightly against your back. "We."

The next few hours are a blur of champagne, interviews, and flashing lights. But there is a pattern to the chaos.

Oscar is pulled away to weigh in. Five minutes later, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Oscar is dragged off to the podium. As soon as the anthem ends and the champagne is sprayed, he’s looking down at the crowd, pointing right at you.

Oscar is ushered into the team photo. He refuses to take it until you are standing right next to him, his arm draped possessively over your shoulder.

Throughout the garage celebrations, the team starts making bets on how long he can stay away from you. The answer is never more than five minutes. He slips away from billionaire sponsors and team principals just to find you in the corner, holding your face in his hands, kissing you like he needs to recharge his battery.

"I have to go do the media pen," he whispers against your lips, smelling of sticky rosewater and victory. "Wait for me?"

"Always," you smile, wiping a smudge of champagne off his cheek.

You stand off to the side, watching the press conference on a monitor. Oscar is sitting in the center seat, the World Drivers' Championship trophy gleaming in front of him. He looks exhausted but radiant.

"Oscar," a journalist from Sky Sports asks, "you stayed incredibly calm all season, but tonight we saw a lot of emotion. What kept you grounded during those final, stressful laps?"

Oscar doesn't hesitate. A soft, genuine smile breaks across his face—the kind usually reserved only for you.

"My girlfriend, Y/N," he says into the microphone. A collective aww ripples through the room. "She’s been my rock. Honestly, she’s my lucky charm. I don't think I could have kept my head straight without her in the garage."

You press a hand to your heart, feeling fresh tears prick your eyes as the press swoons over the answer.

It’s 3:00 AM when you finally get back to the hotel room. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a heavy, happy exhaustion. Oscar places the heavy trophy on the dresser and immediately turns to you.

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

"I meant it, you know," he says softly, walking over to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you into the quiet of the room. "I wouldn't be standing here, holding that trophy, without you."

You reach up, running your fingers through his hair. "You did the driving, Mr. World Champion."

"And you gave me a reason to drive fast so I could get back to you," he mumbles, leaning down to kiss you deeply. "Best night of my life."

You smile into the kiss, having no idea that in a few weeks, your lives are going to get even crazier.

The high of the championship hasn’t worn off, but the adrenaline has. Now, it’s just the lazy, golden haze of the off-season. You are currently in Australia, staying at his family’s place, supposedly to "relax."

But this morning, relaxation is the last thing on your mind.

You wake up feeling... off. Not sick, exactly, just strange. A weird flutter in your stomach, a sensitivity to the smell of Oscar’s coffee brewing downstairs that makes you dizzy. You slip out of bed while Oscar is still downstairs and take the test you bought yesterday "just in case."

You leave it on the bathroom sink, too nervous to look, and go back to bed, pulling the duvet over your head.

Five minutes later, Oscar walks into the bedroom. He’s holding two mugs of coffee, wearing nothing but sweatpants, looking every bit the relaxed champion. He heads into the en-suite to brush his teeth.

You hear the water run. Then the water stops abruptly.

Silence.

A very long, very heavy silence.

Then, a clatter, like he dropped his toothbrush.

"BABE."

It’s not his usual calm, race-engineer voice. It’s high-pitched.

He bursts out of the bathroom, holding the little plastic stick like it’s a live grenade. His eyes are wide, his face pale but flushing pink at the cheeks.

"THERE’S TWO LINES."

You sit up, heart hammering against your ribs. "Is it... is it faint? Or dark?"

"It’s... it’s very red, Y/N! It’s two lines!" He stammers, rushing over to the side of the bed. He looks at the test, then at you, then back at the test. "That means... that means we..."

"We're having a baby," you whisper.

Oscar freezes. The panic in his eyes melts instantly, replaced by a glassy, overwhelming emotion. He drops the test on the nightstand and practically collapses onto the bed next to you.

"A baby," he repeats, his voice cracking.

He pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. You can feel him shaking. When he pulls back, there are tears in his eyes—the second time you’ve seen him cry in two weeks.

"We made a tiny human," he laughs, a wet, joyful sound. "I’m going to be a dad."

"A World Champion dad," you smile, wiping a tear from his cheek.

"I don't care about the trophy anymore," he says immediately, looking at you with intense seriousness. "This beats the trophy."

For the rest of the morning, Oscar is glued to you.

Weirdly, he’s already acting like you’re six months along. He keeps his hand flat against your stomach, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt, even though your belly is completely flat.

"Oscar, it’s the size of a poppy seed," you laugh, trying to get up to make breakfast.

"Careful," he says, gently pushing you back down. "I’ll make the toast. You and the... poppy seed... need to rest."

Later that night, you find him on the couch with his phone, brows furrowed in deep concentration—the same face he makes when analyzing telemetry data.

"What are you looking up?" you ask, peering over his shoulder.

He jumps slightly, angling the screen toward you. The Google search bar reads: when can baby hear my voice??

"It says 18 weeks," he says, sounding disappointed. "That’s so far away."

He looks at your stomach again, then leans down, putting his mouth right against your belly button.

"Hello?" he whispers. "This is your dad. I drive fast cars. Please be nice to your mum."

You giggle, running a hand through his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

"I’m prepared," he corrects, looking up at you with a grin that could light up the entire Melbourne grid. "I think we’re going to be good at this."

Little does he know, he's going to need a lot more than preparation. He’s asking the baby to be nice, not realizing there are three of them in there.

The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the ultrasound monitor. The gel on your stomach is freezing, but your hand is sweating because Oscar is holding it so tight he might actually break your fingers.

He’s staring at the screen with the same intensity he uses for Turn 1 at Monaco.

The doctor moves the wand around, humming softly. Then, she stops. She frowns, leans closer to the screen, and adjusts the contrast. She moves the wand again, pressing a little harder.

The silence in the room stretches for ten seconds.

Oscar’s grip tightens painfully. "Is... is everything okay?" rarely does his voice sound this small. "Is there a heartbeat?"

The doctor turns to you both, her expression unreadable for a split second before softening into a professional smile.

"Oh, yes. There are heartbeats." She pauses. "Actually, that was why I was checking again. I wanted to be sure."

She points to the grainy blobs on the screen.

"Well... both are healthy."

Oscar blinks, his brain buffering. "Both?"

"And the third one too," she continues cheerfully, moving the cursor to a smaller shadow behind the first two. "Congratulations... they’re triplets."

SILENCE.

Absolute, vacuum-sealed silence.

You stare at the screen, your mouth falling open, trying to comprehend the math. Three. Three humans.

Oscar, however, has simply ceased to function. He literally stops breathing. His chest doesn’t move for a full five seconds. He is staring at the doctor as if she just told him he has to drive a tricycle in the next Grand Prix.

"Three?" you manage to squeak out.

Oscar’s eyes are wide, unblinking. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back to the screen. His face has gone a shade of pale that usually indicates food poisoning.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling a breath he’d been holding since the doctor frowned. He runs a hand down his face, dragging the skin.

"We celebrated too hard..."

He whispers it. It’s a low, horrified realization spoken into the quiet room.

"Oscar!" you burst out laughing, the shock breaking into hysteria.

The doctor starts chuckling, wiping the gel off your belly. "It happens more often than you think with natural conception, but yes, it’s quite a surprise."

Oscar isn't laughing yet. He’s looking at his hands. "Three seats," he mutters to himself. "We need a car with three back seats. Do they make baby racing suits in bulk?"

Then, he looks at you, seeing you laughing with tears in your eyes. The terror finally cracks, and a bewildered grin spreads across his face. He starts to laugh too—a nervous, slightly manic chuckle that grows into a full laugh.

"Triplets," he shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, though he looks like he might faint. "I’m going to need a bigger trophy cabinet. And a lot more coffee."

The Formula 1 season is well underway, but something—or rather, someone—is missing.

You haven’t been seen at a Grand Prix in four months. You haven't been in the background of McLaren’s "Unboxed" videos. You haven't even been spotted at the airport.

Naturally, F1 Twitter has lost its collective mind.

The internet has turned into a digital crime board connected by red string.

@.piastrifan3 Guys, Oscar looked at his phone during the post-race cool down room and didn’t smile ONCE. They definitely broke up. Love is dead. I’m burning my merch.

@.user45 Hear me out: She was seen wearing red 6 months ago. She’s currently in Maranello training to be a strategist for Ferrari. She’s a double agent. Wake up sheeple.

@.user12 McLaren is hiding something. Is she the new stig? Is she driving the spare car? WHERE IS SHE ZAK BROWN?

@.f1fan5 Y'all are blind. She’s pregnant. Look at Oscar’s interviews. He has that 'I’m terrified and tired' dad energy already. 100% confirmed.

While the internet debates if you are a spy for Ferrari, the reality is much less glamorous and much stickier.

It is 3:00 AM in your Monaco apartment.

You are sitting up in bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, balancing a tub of Ben & Jerry’s on your massive bump. The triplets are currently having a kick-boxing tournament against your ribs.

Oscar is sitting next to you, the blue light of his iPad illuminating his focused, frowning face. He is wearing his reading glasses, looking extremely serious.

"Babe," he says, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?" you mumble around a mouthful of cookie dough.

"Do we really need three cribs?"

You stop chewing. "Oscar. There are three babies."

"I know, but..." He turns the iPad toward you. "Look at the logistics. Three cribs take up 4.5 square meters. If we stack them... no, we can't stack them. But what if we get one mega crib?"

He taps the search bar. You can see his search history.

Oscar’s Google History:

triple stroller aerodynamics

how to hold 3 babies with 2 arms

noise cancelling headphones for infants

can triplets share one crib?? pls help

"They can't share one crib, Os," you sigh, patting his arm. "They will kick each other in the face. Like they are doing to me right now."

He sighs, defeated, and rubs his face. "Right. Strategy error. I'll go back to the drawing board."

He closes the tab on the "Mega Crib" and looks at your ice cream.

"Can I have a bite?"

"Get your own," you growl playfully, pulling the tub closer. "I'm eating for four. You're just stressed."

"I am stressed," he mumbles, resting his head on your shoulder. "The internet thinks we broke up. I saw a TikTok analyzing my eyebrows to prove I'm heartbroken."

"Let them talk," you grin, resting your spoon on the lid. "Just wait until they see the surprise."

It is a quiet Tuesday morning. There is no race this week. The F1 world is bored, still debating why you haven't been seen since testing.

Then, at exactly 10:00 AM, a notification pops up on millions of phones.

@.oscarpiastri just shared a post.

There is no warning. No "expecting" announcement. No gender reveal cake. Just the drop.

Monaco. A black and white, slightly grainy photo taken in your living room. It’s unpolished and raw.

You are sitting on the couch, hair in a messy bun, looking exhausted but blissfully happy, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a white blanket against your chest. Oscar is sitting on the floor next to your legs. He looks like he has been hit by a truck (in a good way). He has bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and—crucially—he is awkwardly holding two more bundles, one in the crook of each arm.

The expression on both your faces says: "We love them more than life itself, but we have slept 40 minutes in the last three days."

Caption: "Welcome to the world, our little podium. 🧡👶👶👶 P1, P2, and P3 arrived safely. (Send coffee.)"

The post stays up for 30 seconds before the comment section crashes. When it finally loads, it is pure chaos.

@.mclaren Getting three tiny fireproof suits ready immediately. We're going to need a bigger garage. 🧡🧡🧡

@.lando Bro… chill.

@.carlossainz55 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Ayo? Congratulations mate!

@.f1fan45 TRIPLETS??? WTF. I thought she was just hiding a bad haircut??

@.piastriszn "Bro didn't just celebrate. He CELEBRATED." The math is mathing. 9 months after Abu Dhabi exactly... Oscar you absolute legend.

@.danielricciardo Three?? Mate, you don’t do things by halves do you? Congrats!

@.lewishamilton Amazing news. Congratulations to you both.

@.gridgossip Oscar Piastri single-handedly repopulating the grid. By 2045 the entire podium will just be Piastris.

@.user99 Everyone was worried they broke up and meanwhile Oscar was fighting for his life changing three diapers at once 😭😭😭

Oscar tosses his phone onto the couch, ignoring the buzzing that sounds like a swarm of angry bees.

"Well," he yawns, leaning his head back against your knee. "Cat's out of the bag."

"The internet is going to clown you for the rest of your life," you whisper, careful not to wake the baby in your arms (Baby P1).

"Let them clown," Oscar smirks, looking down at the two sleeping babies in his arms. "I won the championship, and I got three trophies nine months later. I'd say that's a pretty good season."

"Go to sleep, Oscar."

"Can't," he whispers back. "P2 just grabbed my finger. I’m trapped forever."

For the first time in seventy-two hours, the apartment is silent. No crying, no bottle warmers beeping, no lullaby machines playing white noise at full volume. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing.

You tiptoe out of the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea, and stop in the doorway of the living room. The sight before you makes your heart squeeze so hard it actually aches.

Oscar is sprawled out on the big gray sectional. One arm is thrown over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun, his mouth slightly open in deep, exhaustion-fueled sleep.

Curled up right in the center of his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, is the third triplet. Oscar’s other hand is resting protectively over the baby’s tiny back, a reflex he doesn't even drop when he's unconscious.

You shift your gaze to the large playpen-bassinet combo set up near the window.

The other two are fast asleep, their heads turned toward each other. And there, in the space between them, their tiny fingers are interlaced. Holding hands.

You lean your head against the doorframe, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Your hair is a mess. You have a stain on your shoulder that is definitely spit-up. You haven't watched a race or checked the news in weeks. Your life is a blur of diapers, formula, and deciphering which cry means "hungry" and which cry means "I just want to scream."

But looking at them—your "Team Five"—you wouldn't trade a single second of the madness.

Oscar stirs. He doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts slightly, sensing your presence in the room. He pats the baby on his chest gently.

"Is everyone alive?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

"Everyone is sleeping," you whisper back, smiling. "Go back to sleep, champ."

He hums, a satisfied sound, and settles deeper into the cushions. "Best off-season ever," he slurs, before drifting back off.

You take a sip of your tea, watching the sunlight dance over the three tiny faces that look so much like him.

He was right. He won the trophy in Abu Dhabi, the gold, the glory, the history books. But this? This messy, exhausting, loud, overwhelming life in your living room?

This is the best podium of your life.

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The paddock always felt like a place you weren’t meant to enjoy. It was too loud, too fast, and filled with too many people acting like a car going in circles was the pinnacle of human achievement.

You adjusted your sunglasses, leaning closer to your manager as the humidity began to mess with your blowout.

“Be honest—if I ‘accidentally’ get lost and end up back at the hotel, how bad would it be?”

“Catastrophic,” she replied, her eyes glued to her phone. “You’re headlining the post-race concert tonight. Try to look like you’re having the time of your life.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching a camera crew scurry past. A collective hush fell over the nearby crowd, followed by a wave of frantic whispers. It was the kind of energy usually reserved for a surprise drop or a red carpet entrance.

“That’s him,” your manager muttered, finally looking up.

You followed her gaze, uninterested. “Which one? There are fifty guys in matching polos.”

“The World Champion. Max Verstappen.”

He didn’t look like what you expected. There was no dramatic entrance, no ego-flaring energy. He was just… quiet. Hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable, walking with a focused stride that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

You shrugged, turning back toward the hospitality suite. “The Dutch guy?”

Max heard it. The words were tossed over your shoulder like a piece of confetti—light, colorful, and entirely dismissive.

He slowed his pace, just for a fraction of a second, catching a glimpse of you walking away. You didn’t look back. There was no double-take, no flash of recognition, and absolutely zero interest.

It was a refreshing, if slightly jarring, change of pace.

Later, a PR representative insisted on a formal introduction. It was the "famous singer meets famous driver" photo-op that everyone but the two of you seemed to want.

You offered a polite, practiced smile, your hand feeling small and warm in his when you shook it.

“Hi,” you said, your voice airy and calm. “I think I’m supposed to know exactly who you are. My apologies.”

Max blinked, his blue eyes searching yours for a hint of sarcasm. He didn’t find any. “That would usually help the conversation, yeah.”

You tilted your head, studying the sharp lines of his face like he was a puzzle you weren’t quite sure was worth solving. “They said you’re the best at this?”

A beat of silence passed. Max gave a small, almost shy shrug. “...Sometimes.”

You nodded, accepting that as if it were a perfectly mundane answer. Your eyes drifted toward the garage behind him, where millions of dollars of machinery sat in pieces. “They all look the same, honestly. Does it matter which one you pick?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh before he could catch himself. It wasn't his usual media-trained chuckle; it was genuine. “It matters a little bit, yes.”

You didn’t ask for a picture. You didn’t linger to talk about his stats. You didn’t even try to keep the conversation going once the silence grew thin.

“Well, good luck, I guess,” you added, already stepping back and checking your watch. “Drive safe, or whatever.”

Max watched you leave. Again.

“She just dismissed you,” Lando said, appearing at his side with a grin that was far too wide. “Completely blew you off.”

“I noticed.”

“Called you ‘the Dutch guy’ earlier, too. I heard her.”

Max exhaled, but it wasn't the sigh of someone who was annoyed. His gaze stayed fixed on the spot where you’d disappeared into the crowd. “I’m not thinking about it,” Max said, preempting the comment.

“You definitely are.”

Max didn't answer.

But later that night—when your voice carried over the circuit, clear and effortless, amplified by a thousand speakers—Max stopped mid-sentence in the middle of a technical debrief. He looked up at the monitors, watching you command a stage of thousands with the same casual indifference you'd shown him.

And for the first time all weekend, he wasn't thinking about his lap times. He was paying attention.

-

ynuser

liked by friend1, friend2, f1 and others

ynuser sang, danced, almost passed out from the heat… and apparently met “the dutch guy” 🏁 idk what’s going on but it was fun

friend1 NOT “THE DUTCH GUY” 💀

friend2 girl that’s literally THE max verstappen

user1 THE LAST PIC???? HELLO????

user2 excuse me why is max in her photo dump 😭

user3 max smiling like that??? oh this is serious (it’s been 5 minutes)

user4 new crossover just dropped???

charles_leclerc nice performance 👍

user1 CHARLES WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user5 she said “the dutch guy” like he’s a random man at starbucks 😭

user6 coming back to this when they’re dating btw

ynuser guys relax he was nice 😭

- weeks after

replies:

a - username ain’t no way 😭

b - username HE DOESN’T GO OUT LIKE THIS???

c - username why does he look… soft

d - username that’s literally him I’m sick

-

tiktok

clip: you in your bathroom, phone propped up on the counter. Lipsyncing a love song, you turn to grab something and—in the mirror—there’s a figure behind you. Sitting on the counter, cap low. Scrolling his phone like he doesn’t even realize he’s in frame.

comments:

user1 UM???? PAUSE??? BACKGROUND???

user2 WHO IS THAT MAN

user3 GIRL IS THAT THE DUTCH GUY

user4 he’s just… there. like a side quest character 😭

user5 this is the most accidental hard launch ever

-

-

The studio was stifling.

It was a chaotic mix of expensive equipment, half-empty energy drinks, and a vibrating energy that usually made you feel alive. Today, though, the air felt heavy. You were in the middle of a playback, leaning over a mixing board with Julian, the artist you were collaborating with.

He said something—a dumb joke about a missed note—and you erupted into a laugh, your hand instinctively resting on his forearm for balance. It was the "industry" version of you: warm, accessible, effortlessly charming.

“Okay, okay—run it back from the second verse,” Julian said, grinning back at you.

You nodded, sweeping your hair over your shoulder as you stepped toward the vocal booth. But your eyes drifted to the corner of the room.

Max hadn’t moved in an hour.

He was leaning against the soundproof foam wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his Red Bull cap pulled low. He was a silent spectator, watching the scene with the same terrifying focus he usually reserved for a telemetry screen.

You caught his eye and flashed him a quick, bright grin.

He didn't smile back. He just gave a singular, slow nod—the kind that meant he’d seen exactly what he needed to see.

“Five-minute break?” the producer called out.

You pulled your headphones off, the silence of the booth ringing in your ears. You walked straight toward Max, trying to shake off the sudden chill.

“Hey,” you said, stepping into his space. “You’ve been so quiet. What do you think of the track?”

Max shrugged, his eyes finally lifting from the floor to your face. “It’s good. Very catchy.”

“‘Catchy’?” you teased, poking his arm. “I just spent three hours bleeding my soul into that mic and you give me ‘catchy’?”

“It’s your world,” he said simply, his voice flat. “You know if it’s good. You don't need me to tell you.”

You squinted at him, the playful mood dying. “You’re being weird, Max.”

“I’m not.”

He pushed off the wall, bypassing you to grab his water bottle. He didn't look back.

It was nearly 1:00 AM by the time the elevator dinged on your floor. The silence of the hotel hallway felt like a relief after the roar of the studio.

You kicked your heels off the moment you crossed the threshold of the suite, tossing your bag onto the sofa. “Julian is actually a genius,” you said, still trying to bridge the gap between you. “The way he writes melodies on the fly… it’s actually insane. I think this might be a Top 10 hit.”

“You laugh like that with everyone?” The question was so soft you almost missed it.

You froze, your jacket halfway off your shoulders. You turned slowly. Max was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of the city casting sharp shadows across his face. He looked like he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

“…What?”

“When you’re working,” he clarified, his jaw tight. “Is that just… the standard? The touching, the laughing at things that aren't funny. Is that how it works?”

You stared at him, the realization hitting you like a physical weight. You walked closer, stopping just a few feet away.

“Are you jealous, Max?” you asked. You didn't mean it as a taunt; you were genuinely floored.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re the World Champion,” you whispered, taking another step. “You’re the most confident person I’ve ever met. You really think I’m looking at anyone else in a room you’re standing in?”

He exhaled a harsh, jagged breath, his eyes finally snapping to yours.

“It’s different, seeing it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. “I spend my life in a car where everything is logic and data. Then I watch you… and you’re so easy with people. You give them so much of yourself.”

He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist and pulling you into his space. His grip wasn't tight, but it was possessive.

“I know it’s work,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I have to like watching them think they have a chance.”

You didn't answer with words. You just reached up, cupping his face, feeling the tension in his neck finally start to break.

Max didn't do "subtle" often, but when he did, it burned.

-

ynuser

liked by user1, lanadelrey, charles_leclerc and others

ynuser lost my voice, lost my mind, found my favorite place again 🤍 thank you for screaming with me

friend1 YOU ATE SO HARD???

friend2 i have no hearing left btw thanks

user1 THE LAST SLIDE HELLO???? WHO IS THAT 🫦

user2 she looks so happy lately 🥹

user3 WAIT IS THAT MAX VERSTAPPEN BACKSTAGE OR AM I DELUSIONAL

lando good show 👍

user1 LANDO WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user4 THE DRIVERS IN HER COMMENTS????

ynuser idk who you’re talking about 😭

-

“We’re not serious.”

Max says it like he’s reading a data sheet. Like if he labels the situation, he can keep it from spiraling out of control. It’s a boundary. It’s a safety net.

You always nod like it doesn't matter, your expression as practiced as a red-carpet pose. “Totally. Just casual.”

But "casual" doesn't usually involve sneaking through service elevators at 3:00 AM. It doesn't involve the quiet, heavy click of a hotel deadbolt and the immediate relief of being in a room where nobody is holding a camera.

When you open the door, he’s always there—no announcement, no fanfare. Just Max, leaning against the doorframe with that half-hidden smirk.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he responds, his voice low and raspy from a day of radio comms.

No labels. No questions. Just the way his hands find your waist like they’ve memorized the coordinates. Casual doesn’t feel like the glow of a phone screen in the middle of the night.

[2:07 AM] Max: you’re still awake?

You’re staring at the ceiling of a penthouse in London, the city lights bleeding through the curtains. You smile into your pillow, the heat of the text hitting you harder than it should.

You: jet lag is ruining my life. why are you up?

There’s a pause. The "typing..." bubble appears, disappears, and then comes back.

Max: you have rehearsal at 10. go to sleep.

Your chest feels warm, a frantic little flutter that you try to ignore. You know for a fact he didn't have your tour itinerary—at least, he wasn't supposed to.

You: yes, dad.

Max: shut up. sleep.

You laugh softly, burying your face in the duvet so your stylist in the next room doesn’t hear you.

“Just casual,” he repeats a few days later, almost like a mantra he needs to hear out loud.

You’re in his kitchen in Monaco, barefoot and swallowed whole by one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies. You’re humming a melody that hasn't been released yet, opening his fridge with the casual entitlement of someone who knows exactly where the orange juice is kept.

“Yeah,” you echo, glancing at him over your shoulder. “No strings.”

But "casual" doesn't memorize your flight numbers. It doesn't know exactly what time your soundcheck starts in a different time zone. It doesn't result in a vibration in your pocket five minutes before you go on stage.

Max: good luck tonight.

Max: you’ll be great.

Max: text me after.

Casual doesn’t stay on the phone while you fall asleep.

There are nights when the tour is too much, when the noise of the fans and the pressure of the label feel like they’re crushing you. You’ll call him, and he won’t say much—he isn’t a man of many words—but he’ll stay.

He’ll stay on the line while you breathe, his own steady, rhythmic breathing acting as an anchor. He’ll wait until your voice trails off, until you’ve finally drifted away.

“You did good today,” he’ll whisper into the silence, thinking you’re too far gone to hear him.

One night, you’re sitting on his kitchen counter, your legs brushing his thighs as he leans in to grab a glass. You don't move. He doesn't either.

“You’re actually terrible at 'casual,' Max,” you say, your voice daring him to look at you.

He pauses, his hand hovering near the cupboard. He doesn't look away. “…I’m not.”

“You text me before every single show. You know my schedule better than my assistant does.”

“That’s just being efficient,” he counters, though his voice has lost its edge. “I like knowing where you are.”

“You remember things I don’t even remember telling you,” you press, stepping off the counter so you’re standing directly in his space. “The name of my first guitar. How I like my coffee when I’m tired. That’s not 'casual' behavior.”

“Max.” He looks at you then. Really looks. The World Champion, the man who can navigate a turn at 200 mph without blinking, suddenly looks like he’s hit a wall he didn't see coming.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with everything neither of you is supposed to feel.

“Just casual,” he repeats, but his voice is a ghost of itself. His hand lingers on your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of his own hoodie.

He doesn't pull away. And for once, you don't let him.

-

lando

liked by ynuser, alex_albon, user and others

lando weekend 👍

10 minutes later… POST DELETED

-

user - username WHY WAS SHE ON HIS LAP LIKE THAT????

user - username I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LANDO NORRIS

user - username NOT EVEN HARD LAUNCH THIS IS FULL ON CONFIRMATION 😭

user - username HE DELETED IT BUT WE WERE QUICKER

-

TIKTOK - EDITS MADE BY FANS

user this won’t last

user she’s too young for him idc

user He’s gonna get bored 🙂

user this is such a rebound situation

user She’s literally an influencer. What is he doing?

user They don’t even match ❗❗❗

user opposites attract but this is too much

user I give it 3 months.

user He’s never been with someone like her…

-

user ACTUALLY REALLY SWEET??? OH

user charles confirming before max does 😭

-

-

ynspam

monaco16 has started following you.

saintalex has started following you.

lilythegolfist has started following you.

12 more users has started following you.

-

ynspam

liked by fastlion, monaco16, saintalex and others

ynspam he said this song isn’t good btw

friend1 HE’S WRONG

friend2 DUMP HIM

saintalex THIS IS GOLD 😭

lilythegolfist he looks so domestic???

-

The apartment in Monaco was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Max was pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his jaw tight, while Y/N sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her phone face down on the coffee table as if it were a live grenade.

"I’m just saying, Y/N, you don't have to engage with it," Max said, his voice clipped and frustratingly calm. "Why do you even read the comments? It’s just noise. If you stop posting the behind-the-scenes stuff, the vultures have nothing to pick at."

Y/N let out a sharp, dry laugh, looking up at him. "It’s not 'just noise,' Max. It’s my career. I’m a singer, not a driver who can just put a helmet on and disappear into a cockpit. My brand is my connection to people. If I go silent, I’m 'aloof.' If I speak up, I’m 'dramatic.'"

"Then let the PR team handle it," he countered, stopping his pacing to look down at her. "You’re making yourself miserable over people who don't know you. I’ve been through this for a decade. You ignore the bullshit, you do the work, and you move on. It’s simple."

"It’s simple for you," she snapped, standing up to meet his gaze. The height difference usually felt comforting, but right now, it felt like a wall she couldn't climb over. "You’re the world champion. You’re older, you’re established, and you’re a man in a sport where being 'aggressive' or 'cold' is a compliment. I’m twenty-one. To the world, I’m a girl who got lucky with a catchy hook, and they are waiting—begging—for me to mess up so they can call me a child."

Max stepped closer, his expression softening into that protective look that usually made her feel safe, but today, it felt like a cage. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped back.

"I’m trying to protect you, Y/N. I don’t want to see you crying over a Twitter thread at 2:00 AM. I’ve seen how this world chews people up. I’m just telling you how to survive it."

"You’re telling me how to be quiet," she corrected, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and exhaustion. "You treat me like I’m some fragile thing that needs to be shielded, Max. Every time I try to vent, you give me a lecture. You talk to me like I’m a rookie who doesn't know the tracks, but this isn’t your world. It’s mine."

Max crossed his arms, his blue eyes hardening again. "I’ve had cameras in my face since I was seventeen. I know what it’s like to be the villain in the headlines. Don’t act like I don't understand the pressure."

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—the man who had lived a whole lifetime of fame before she’d even graduated high school. The gap between them had never felt wider than it did in that moment.

"You understand your pressure," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the room. "But you don't get what it’s like to be me online. You’ve never had your entire worth as a human being debated because of the shirt you wore or the way you breathed in a ten-second clip. You don’t get what it’s like to be a young woman in this industry, Max. You don't get the vitriol, and you definitely don't get how much it hurts when even you look at me like I’m just a kid who doesn't know any better."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked at her—really saw the frustration and the genuine hurt in her eyes—and for the first time in a long time, the man who always had a calculated answer was left in total silence.

-

user - username she’s so pretty but she looks like she’s playing dress up in her kids clothes… idk

user - username the age gap is really starting to show. she looks like a fan he picked up at a concert.

user - username Kelly had that elegance. Y/N is just… a pop star. It’s a massive downgrade in maturity if you ask me. ☕️

user - username Max went from a woman to a girl who still uses TikTok filters. I give it six months.

user - username @ user RT. Max needs someone who understands the pressure of the sport, not someone who’s spiraling over her own album charts every week.

-

-

maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser, charles_leclerc, alexandraleclerc and others

maxverstappen1 My favorite person ❤️

user Still think Kelly was a better fit for the champion lifestyle…

maxverstappen1 @ user Then go follow her. I’m happy with my life, you should try finding one of your own. 👍

-

ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe, friend1 and others

ynuser ocean air, salty hair 🌊

maxverstappen1 Nice 👍

ynuser @ maxverstappen1 max i am literally your girlfriend, "nice 👍" is for a podium finish, not this. this is why we don't let you comment.

user Not the thumbs up 😭 he is such a dad i’m crying

-

-

The air in the Monaco penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive hotel candles and the lingering metallic tang of Max’s race gear, discarded near the door. Suitcases were open like jagged teeth across the floor—hers, packed for the Asian leg of her world tour; his, barely zipped for the triple-header in the Americas.

Y/N was sitting on the floor, her head resting against the side of the bed, staring at a stack of polaroids they’d taken in Ibiza. She looked small, swallowed by one of Max’s oversized Red Bull hoodies.

"I can’t even look at my phone without seeing a side-by-side of us and his 'past life,'" she whispered, her voice sounding thin and frayed. "And tomorrow I’m in Tokyo, and you’re in Austin, and then Mexico... Max, I’m drowning. I feel like I’m dragging you down into this circus with me."

Max stopped mid-motion, his hand hovering over his watch charger. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You think you’re dragging me down? Y/N, I’ve lived in a circus since I was four years old. I don't care about the noise."

"I do!" she stood up, the movement sudden and sharp. "I care because it’s hurting my music. I care because every time I post a song about being happy, people find a way to make it about your history. Maybe..." she swallowed hard, the word catching in her throat like a shard of glass. "Maybe we should just... take a break. Just until the season is over. Until my tour wraps. Just so we can breathe."

The silence that followed was deafening. Max didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just looked at her with a terrifyingly calm intensity that made her heart stutter.

"A break," he repeated, the words sounding foreign and bitter.

"Just to take the pressure off," she tried to explain, her eyes filling with tears. "So the media stops hunting us. So I can focus on my fans and you can focus on the championship without having to defend me every five minutes."

Max took three slow steps toward her, stopping only when he was inches away. He didn't reach for her. He stayed perfectly still, a statue of cold, hard resolve.

"I’m going to say this once," Max said, his voice dropping into that low, guttural register he used when he was absolutely serious on the radio. "I spent a year alone after Kelly. I spent a year doing exactly what everyone told me to do—focusing on the car, staying quiet, living for the points. It was the most boring, empty year of my life."

He stepped even closer, forcing her to look up.

"I already did the 'break' thing once, Y/N. I’ve seen what my life looks like without the person I actually want to come home to. I’m not doing it again."

"Max—"

"No," he cut her off, his hand finally coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear with a firm, almost desperate pressure. "If you’re tired, we’ll buy you a private jet so you can sleep between shows. If the media is loud, I’ll hire more security to keep them away from your door. But I am not letting you go because some losers on the internet can't move on from my past. You are my present. You are my future. And if you think I’m letting you walk out that door because things got 'difficult,' then you really don't know me at all."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath hitching just slightly. "Don't ask me for a break again. I don't do breaks. I win, or I crash. And I’m not planning on crashing this."

The tension from the night before hadn't fully vanished, but it had shifted from a sharp, jagged edge to a low, steady hum of mutual understanding. The suitcases were still there, a reminder of the thousands of miles about to come between them, but the "break" was officially off the table.

The drive to the private terminal was silent, but not heavy. Max’s hand was anchored on Y/N’s thigh, his thumb tracing small circles over the fabric of her jeans. It was his way of tethering her to him before the world tried to pull them apart again.

"You're going to kill it in Tokyo," Max said, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "And I don't want to hear about you checking the charts at 3:00 AM. You do the show, you go to sleep. I’ll be awake in Austin if you need to call."

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder. "And you? No 'nice thump up' comments while I'm gone? I need real support, Max. At least a heart emoji."

Max let out a short, huffed laugh. "I think I’ve established my position on the internet for the week. I’m sticking to the 'defender' role for a while. It’s more effective."

Three days later, the media was still buzzing about the "breakup scare" rumors and the deleted comments on Max’s Instagram. During the Thursday press conference, a journalist couldn't help himself.

"Max, there’s been a lot of talk about the 'distractions' in your personal life lately, especially with the crossover between the F1 world and the music industry. Does the intense media scrutiny around your relationship affect your focus on the championship?"

Max didn't even lean into the mic. He just stared the reporter down with that famously blunt "Verstappen" gaze.

"The only 'distraction' is having to answer questions about my private life instead of the car," Max said coolly. "My girlfriend is currently selling out stadiums in Japan. She’s the hardest working person I know. If anything, her 'circus' makes mine look like a playground. She doesn't distract me; she makes me want to be better. Next question."

-

-

user - username Y/N just performed a new song in Tokyo and the lyrics are: "You tell me I’m young like it’s a crime / But you’re the one running out of time / To keep up with me." OH SHE’S TALKING TO THE WORLD CHAMPION. THE AGE GAP TENSION IS CORE TO THE DISCOGRAPHY 🎤🔥

user - username the way they fought, almost broke up, and then Max decided to become her #1 PR manager is the character development I needed

user - username "I don't do breaks" - Max Verstappen, 2026. He really said 'If we're going down, we're going down together.' I'm crying.

-

user - username “My boy’s a winner, he loves the game / My lips reflect off his gold chain” OH SHE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO HIDE IT ANYMORE. Max literally wears that gold chain every single race day. 😭

user - username “Losing all my innocence in the back seat” AND SHE’S 21/22??? Max Verstappen what have you done to our girl 💀💀

user - username The way Makies is probably having a heart attack over the “fog up the windows in the parking lot” line right now.

user - username Not her writing a whole anthem about a Red Bull driver and mentioning Diet Pepsi… the brand conflict is hilarious.

-

ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1, llilymhe, alexandraleclerc and others

ynuser untouched, xo. 🍒

maxverstappen1 I told you Red Bull tastes better. But the song is good. 👍

ynuser @ maxverstappen1 max please… i am trying to have a "pop star" moment and you’re doing brand deals in my comments. 🙄

charles_leclerc Nice song! But I think the "back seat" part might be a bit difficult in a race car, no? 😂

maxverstappen1 @ charles_leclerc Focus on your own car, Charles.

-

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

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"Why is this here?" Lando asked, leaning over the desk.

The staffer, distracted by a spreadsheet, didn't look up. "Oh, that? Just more fan mail, Lando. We’ll process it for the archives. Don't worry yourself with the bulk stuff; we only bring you the high-priority sponsorships or official requests."

Lando’s brow furrowed. "Don't worry myself? These are people, Sarah. My fans aren't 'bulk stuff.'"

"Lando, there are hundreds of letters—"

"And someone spent their time and money to send this massive thing directly to me," he countered, his voice rising just enough to turn heads. Before she could protest, he snatched the package off the desk like it was a first-place trophy. "From now on, every single letter, drawing, or messy envelope comes to me. I’m the one they’re writing to, not the 'archives.'"

Back in his apartment, the silence of the evening felt a bit heavy until he dumped the contents of the envelope onto his coffee table. A literal mountain of notebook paper, construction paper, and glitter spilled out.

Right on top was a neatly typed letter on school letterhead: Sunshine Elementary – Miami, FL.

Dear Mr. Norris,

My name is Y/N, and I am a 3rd-grade teacher in Miami. My class has been working hard on their formal writing and persuasive communication skills this term, and when we discussed the idea of pen pals, they were adamant that they wanted to write to "the fastest man in the world."

I should confess: I’ve introduced them to Formula 1 as a way to make math more engaging. We use your season points for our morning warm-up word problems (you’ve helped them master subtraction!), and we watch the race highlights every Monday morning to get us energized for the week.

When you won the World Championship, I think the entire wing of the school heard us. The principal actually had to come by to make sure everyone was okay because the cheering was so loud. You’re a hero in Classroom 3B. I hope these letters find you well.

Best, Ms. Y/N

Lando leaned back, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He could picture it—a room full of eight-year-olds doing "Norris Math" and screaming at a whiteboard. It felt more real than any trophy he’d ever held.

He started digging through the kids' letters. They were hilarious and heart-wrenching in equal measure.

“Do you eat pizza before you drive? My mom says I can’t because I’ll get a tummy ache.” “Why is your car orange? Orange is the color of carrots and I hate carrots but I like your car.”

Then, he reached a piece of yellow legal paper written in careful, shaky print.

Dear Mr. Lando,

My name is Leo and I am in the 3rd grade. I live with my Grandma and Grandpa because my mom is in heaven. They are retired, which means they are very tired and old. Career Day is coming up at school and every kid brings an adult to talk about their job. I don't have anyone to bring because Grandpa can’t stand up for long. Can you please come to my school? If you come, you would make all the other classes look super lame. My friend Toby’s dad is a dentist but that is boring. You drive the orange car and go VROOM and you win! No one else has a job as cool as yours.

I drew a picture of your car on the back of this paper. Please come? I will share my fruit snacks with you.

Your friend, Leo.

Lando felt a lump form in his throat. He looked at the calendar on his phone. Career Day fell right during the spring break in the F1 calendar. He was supposed to be golfing in Dubai.

He put the golf clubs out of his mind instantly.

Lando scrambled to the school’s website, his fingers flying across his phone screen as he navigated the staff directory. There she was. Ms. Y/N — Grade 3. He clicked her email icon, a determined spark in his eyes. He didn't want to alert his management yet—they'd try to turn it into a high-production PR "activation" with cameras, scripts, and a fleet of security. He wanted this to be real. He wanted it to be for Leo.

He opened his secondary email app—the one he used for Twitch, Discord, and ordering obscure sim-racing parts.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

Subject: Career Day - Classroom 3B

Hi Ms. Y/N,

I received the letters from your class today and they were brilliant. I’m actually going to be in Miami during the week of Career Day and I would love to come and present for Leo. Please let me know the details and where I need to sign up.

Thanks, Lando

Across the Atlantic, in the mid-afternoon heat of Miami, Y/N sat at her desk during recess, squinting at her laptop. She’d just received a notification from an address that sounded like a prank.

“Muppet driver four?” she whispered to herself, hovering her mouse over the 'Delete' key. She gets plenty of spam, but the subject line was too specific to ignore. She opened it, her brow furrowing as she read.

"Lando?" she muttered. She checked her class roster. She didn't have a student with a dad or uncle named Lando. Maybe it was a cousin? Or a family friend of Leo’s grandparents? Whoever it was, they seemed sincere about helping Leo, and that was all that mattered to her.

She typed back a quick, professional response, assuming this was just a well-meaning local gamer with a very strange handle.

From: Y/N Subject: RE: Career Day - Classroom 3B

Hi Lando,

Thank you so much for reaching out! It is incredibly kind of you to volunteer for Leo. He’s a wonderful boy, and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have a "stand-in" big brother for the day. I’ve attached the official visitor sign-up link below.

Just a heads up: 3rd graders can be a bit high-energy, especially with guests, so make sure to bring your "patience hat!"

Also, for the school's security records and the guest roster, could you please provide your full name and your current profession?

Warmly, Ms. Y/N

Back at his apartment, Lando’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He swiped it open, expecting a "OH MY GOD" or at least a "Mr. Norris?"

Instead, he stared at the words "stand-in big brother" and "patience hat."

His jaw dropped slightly. He looked at his reflection in the darkened TV screen—the face that was currently on billboards from Monaco to Singapore. The face of the reigning Formula 1 World Champion.

"A stand-in?" he said to the empty room, a mix of disbelief and genuine amusement bubbling up in his chest. She had no idea. She thought he was just some random guy named Lando with a Muppet-themed email address who probably worked in an office or a shop.

He looked at the question about his "profession." He could have typed it right then, but the devilish side of him took over. He wanted to see her face when he actually walked into that gym.

He clicked the sign-up link and filled in the bare minimum.

Full Name: Lando Norris Profession: Driver

He hit send with a triumphant smirk.

"Just a driver, Ms. Y/N," he chuckled, leaning back into his sofa. "I hope your 'patience hat' is ready for the chaos I’m bringing to Miami."

-

The day before Career Day was usually a whirlwind of nervous energy and "desk-cleaning" (which mostly involved shoving crumbs into backpacks), but the atmosphere in Classroom 3B shifted the moment the school’s front office buzzed the intercom.

"Ms. Y/N? We have two... extremely large deliveries for you. We’re sending the custodian up with a dolly."

When the crates arrived, they were wrapped in heavy-duty shipping plastic with McLaren Racing — Woking, UK printed in small, discreet lettering on the customs forms. Y/N didn't even register the "Woking" part; she was too busy trying to keep twenty-two eight-year-olds from toppling over the boxes.

Y/N sliced through the tape of the first box. Inside weren't just generic flyers or posters. There were twenty-two individual, thick cream envelopes, each with a child's name written in surprisingly neat handwriting.

"Okay, okay! Everyone to the reading rug!" Y/N called out, her own heart racing. "If I call your name, come grab your mail."

As the kids tore into the envelopes, the room exploded into a symphony of high-pitched gasps and frantic whispering.

"He said carrots are gross for him too!" one boy yelled, waving a letter where Lando had hand-drawn a tiny "X" over a stick-figure carrot.

"Look! A real picture!" A girl held up a glossy driver card, signed in silver ink that caught the fluorescent classroom lights.

"He called me 'Mate'!" another shouted, trying out a very bad British accent.

The joy was unadulterated. It was the kind of pure, crystalline happiness only a third-grader can project—the feeling that someone "important" in the big, wide world had actually stopped to listen to them.

In the corner of the rug, Leo sat silently. He held his envelope like it was made of thin glass. When he finally pulled out the card, he didn't scream like the others. He just stared at it.

"Leo?" Y/N knelt beside him. "What did he say?"

Leo looked up, his eyes wide and shiny. "He said... he said he’s been practicing his 'cool walk' so he doesn't embarrass me tomorrow. And he sent me this." He pulled out a small, woven fabric wristband—Lando's own "Quadrant" merch—and slid it onto his tiny wrist. "He’s really coming, Ms. Y/N. The muppet driver is actually coming."

Y/N felt a lump in her throat. She still had no idea who this "Lando" person was in the grand scheme of things, but she decided right then that if he was a professional truck driver or a pizza delivery guy, he was officially the greatest human being on the planet for making Leo look that proud.

Then, there was the second box.

It was even larger than the first, heavy and solid. Taped to the top was a bright, neon-orange sign that looked like it had been scrawled in a hurry:

STOP!

MS. Y/N: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE CAREER DAY PRESENTATIONS IN THE GYM. NO PEEKING. I MEAN IT.

- L.

"What's in the big box, Ms. Y/N? Is it a car? Did he send a car?!"

"I don't think a car fits in a cardboard box, Toby," Y/N laughed, though she was dying of curiosity herself. She pushed the mystery crate against her back wall, the bright orange sign acting as a silent promise.

As she watched her students tuck their signed cards into their folders like sacred relics, Y/N felt a surge of protective warmth. Tomorrow was going to be special. She just hoped this "Lando" guy was ready for the absolute riot that was about to break out when he walked through those gym doors.

She checked her email one last time. Still no last name other than "Norris," and his profession was still just "Driver."

Probably a local delivery driver, she thought, smiling. I'll have to make sure the school gives him a really nice 'Thank You' mug.

Lando had stood on the podium at Silverstone with a hundred thousand people screaming his name, but standing behind a dusty velvet curtain in a humid Miami elementary school gym? His palms were actually sweating. He adjusted the collar of his team polo, checking his reflection in a trophy case filled with plastic bowling awards.

“You’ve got this,” he muttered to himself. “They’re eight. They’re literally three feet tall. It’s fine.”

He could hear the principal’s voice booming over a slightly feedback-heavy microphone. “And our final guest for today… he traveled all the way from England to be here for Leo in Classroom 3B. He told us his profession is simply ‘a driver’...”

Lando stepped out from behind the curtain.

For a split second, there was a stunned, vacuum-like silence. He was wearing the full papaya-and-black kit, the sponsor logos sharp against the dull gym floor.

Then, it happened. It wasn't a cheer; it was a sonic boom.

Twenty-two children in the third row erupted. They didn't just clap—they leaped onto their chairs, screaming, "LANDO! LANDO! LANDO!" at the top of their lungs. The rest of the 3rd grade, catching the fever, joined in.

Y/N, who had been leaning down to tie a student's shoe, snapped upright. Her jaw didn't just drop; she actually stepped back, her eyes darting from the man on stage to the "muppet.driver4" email thread in her head. The "delivery driver" was the reigning World Champion. The man who lived on her classroom's Monday morning highlights reel was currently waving at Leo.

The noise level was reaching "structural damage" territory. The principal looked helpless. Lando looked slightly terrified.

Y/N stepped into the center aisle. She didn't scream. She didn't use the mic. She just raised two fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that cut through the air like a siren, followed by a rhythmic series of three claps.

Clap. Clap-clap.

Like a well-oiled machine, twenty-two kids snapped into a seated position and echoed the claps back. Clap. Clap-clap. Silence fell over the gym instantly, save for one stray kid whispering, "It's really him."

Lando stared at her, his hand frozen in mid-wave. He watched the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her expression shifting from "stunned woman" to "commanding officer" in three seconds flat.

Oh, Lando thought, his heart doing a weird little flip that had nothing to do with G-forces. I am in so much trouble.

Once the formal assembly was over, Lando followed the "Papaya Class" back to their room. He was immediately faced with his greatest challenge yet: the furniture.

"Mr. Lando! Sit by me!" Leo cried, pointing to the desk next to his.

Lando, who was nearly six feet of lanky athlete, proceeded to fold himself into a tiny plastic chair designed for an eight-year-old. His knees were practically hitting his chin.

"Comfortable?" Y/N asked, leaning against her desk with an amused smirk. She was still processing the fact that a multi-millionaire was currently trapped in her classroom, but her teacher-brain was starting to take over.

"Top tier," Lando wheezed, giving her a thumbs-up. "Aerodynamic."

"Okay, class," Y/N said. "Since Mr. Norris is here, we have ten minutes for questions. Remember: polite and one at a time."

The hands shot up like a forest.

"Are you rich?" Toby asked immediately. "Like, can you buy a million Robux?" Lando chuckled. "I... uh, I do okay. I could probably manage the Robux."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" a girl in the front row asked, squinting at him suspiciously. Lando’s eyes instinctively flickered to Y/N, who was suddenly very interested in her lesson planner. "No. No girlfriend. Too busy driving in circles, I guess."

"Can I touch your hair?" Before Lando could answer, three kids were already standing up. Within seconds, Lando was being swarmed. He leaned down, laughing, as six small hands patted his curls. "It’s soft! Like a poodle!" someone yelled.

"Wait!" Lando said, checking his watch as the lunch bell neared. "I realized I didn't ask what the cafeteria is serving today."

"Square pizza and lukewarm corn," Y/N replied dryly.

Lando made a face of pure horror. "Absolutely not. Not on my watch." He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen. "How many are we? Twenty-two kids, you, the principal, the janitor who brought the boxes..."

"Lando, you don't have to—"

"I'm ordering," he insisted. He didn't really know how much children ate, so he just started scrolling.

Forty minutes later, the school office called up, sounding panicked. "Ms. Y/N? There are four delivery drivers here with... is this right? Fifty large pizzas, twelve dozen wings, and three crates of lemonade?"

Lando looked up from where he was showing Leo how to play a racing game on his phone. "Is that not enough? I can get more. I didn't know if they liked pepperoni or pineapple, so I just got both of everything."

Y/N looked at the mountain of food arriving and then at the McLaren driver who was currently letting a student use his $50,000 custom watch as a "stopwatch."

"Lando," she sighed, though she couldn't stop the smile from spreading. "You’re going to give them a sugar crash that will last until the next Grand Prix."

"Worth it," he said, catching her eye and holding the gaze. "I'm the 'stand-in big brother,' remember? It’s my job to cause problems."

The week between Career Day and the Miami Grand Prix was a blur of logistics, permission slips, and what Lando technically called "strategic planning meetings"—which were actually just very poorly disguised dates.

For the sake of the thirty-two third-graders (and the school board), they kept it strictly professional in the group chat. But in the quiet moments after the school bell rang, things were a lot less formal.

A tucked-away taco shack on the edge of Wynwood.

Lando had shown up in a nondescript black hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, looking more like a nervous teenager than a world champion. Y/N was still wearing her "Teacher Mode" cardigan, her hair a mess from a day of explaining long division.

"I still can't believe you're the 'Muppet Driver,'" she teased, dipping a chip into salsa. "You realize I almost deleted your email? I thought you were a bot trying to sell me crypto."

Lando laughed, a genuine, throat-clearing sound. "I was so offended. I kept looking at my phone like, Does she not see the blue checkmark? But honestly? It was the best thing that happened all month. No PR, no sponsors. Just... Lando."

He didn't mention that he’d spent twenty minutes in his hotel room choosing which hoodie made him look "casually cool" but not "trying too hard." When their hands brushed over the basket of chips, the electricity was enough to power the Miami grid.

A private corner of a high-end Italian restaurant (Lando’s pick).

They were supposed to be discussing the bus schedule for the field trip. Instead, the permission slips sat forgotten on the white tablecloth, stained with droplets of expensive red wine.

"So, is it always like this?" Y/N asked, leaning in. "The noise, the cameras, the people expecting you to be... perfect?"

"Most of the time," Lando admitted, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "It’s why I liked your classroom so much. The kids don't care about my points lead. They just want to know if I like carrots. It’s grounding. You’re grounding."

The way he said it made Y/N’s heart do a literal lap of the circuit. He wasn't looking at her like a fan or a teacher; he was looking at her like she was the only person in Miami who actually saw him. They stayed until the restaurant closed, talking about everything from his childhood in Bristol to her dream of opening a literacy center.

A late-night walk on a quiet stretch of Key Biscayne.

The Grand Prix was forty-eight hours away. The city was vibrating with F1 fever, but out by the water, it was just the sound of the waves.

"Tomorrow's the big reveal for the kids," Y/N whispered, her jacket draped over her shoulders—Lando’s jacket, which smelled faintly of expensive cologne and adrenaline. "They have no idea about... this."

"About us?" Lando stopped walking, turning to face her. The moonlight caught the curls he’d let her students mess with just days prior. "Is there an 'us' to hide, Ms. Y/N?"

The air between them felt heavy, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded a lights-out start. Y/N reached up, adjusting his cap. "I think if twenty-two eight-year-olds find out their teacher is dating their hero, the school might actually implode from the excitement."

"Let it implode," Lando murmured.

He didn't kiss her—not yet. He just took her hand, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles. It was a promise. A "see you at the finish line" kind of gesture.

As Y/N stood at the entrance of the Miami Paddock, herding twenty-two tiny humans in identical orange hats and "Team Norris" backpacks, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Muppet driver: Look at the camera during the pre-race interview. I’m wearing the bracelet Leo gave me. That’s for the class. The wink? That’s for you.

Y/N looked up to see Lando stepping off the driver parade truck. He spotted the "Papaya Class" and beamed, waving frantically. The kids went feral, screaming his name until their faces turned as orange as their shirts.

Lando caught Y/N's eye through the crowd. He didn't say a word, but he touched the woven friendship bracelet on his wrist and gave a quick, unmistakable wink.

"Ms. Y/N! Ms. Y/N!" Leo tugged on her hand, jumping up and down. "He did it! He wore my bracelet! He's the best driver in the whole world!"

"Yeah, Leo," Y/N said, her face heating up as she watched Lando disappear into the McLaren garage. "He really is."

The F1 Paddock is usually a shark tank of billionaire sponsors, frantic engineers, and celebrities trying to look like they know what a DRS wing is. It is not, historically, a place for "the buddy system."

Until today.

Lando didn't just walk into the Paddock; he led an invasion. He was at the front of a literal single-file line, holding a small orange flag he’d found in the garage. Behind him were twenty-two third-graders, each wearing a custom "Classroom 3B x LN4" shirt, a neon-orange cap pulled low, and a backpack that looked slightly too big for their frames.

"Okay, everyone! Eyes on me!" Lando called out, walking backward while checking for oncoming golf carts. "We are entering the 'Fast Zone.' If you see a car, what do we do?"

"FREEZE!" twenty-two voices screamed in unison, echoing off the hospitality units.

"Good. Leo, hands out of your pockets. Toby, stop trying to eat the lanyard," Lando directed with the focus of a man who was usually managing tire deg, not sugar rushes.

Y/N brought up the rear, acting as the "caboose." She was trying—and failing—to look professional, but watching the reigning world champion count heads like a nervous mother duck was doing irreparable damage to her composure.

As they passed the McLaren motorhome, Oscar stepped out, holding a green juice and looking like he’d just woken up from a very calm nap. He stopped dead, watching the orange blur of children march past.

"Uh, Lando?" Oscar asked, his voice deadpan as ever. "Is this a new weight-saving strategy for the car? Hiring smaller mechanics?"

Lando didn't even break stride. "Not now, Osc. I’m on Line Leader duty. We’re heading to the garage for the 'How a Turbocharger Works' seminar. It’s high-stakes."

Oscar blinked, watching a small girl at the back of the line wave at him. "Do they... do they know how a turbocharger works?"

"They will by lunch," Lando called back over his shoulder.

Further down the line, near the Red Bull hospitality, Max was leaning against a railing, talking to his engineers. He went silent as the parade approached. He watched Lando stop the line to help a kid tie his shoe, the British driver kneeling on the hot asphalt without a second thought.

"Lando," Max shouted, a grin spreading across his face. "Is this your new security detail? They look a bit short. I think I could take them."

Lando looked up, shielding his eyes from the Miami sun. "They’re my consultants, Max! They told me your car looks like a 'giant blue crayon.' Their words, not mine."

Max laughed, shaking his head. "They have good taste. Are you coming to the briefing?"

"Can't," Lando said, standing up and giving the signal for the line to move again. "I’ve got twenty-two juice boxes to hand out and then we’re doing a walking tour of the pit lane. I’m busy, Max. Real work."

Max watched them go, leaning over to his engineer. "I give him twenty minutes before he loses his mind."

As they reached the garage doors, the kids were ushered inside by a group of amused McLaren mechanics. Lando lagged behind for a second, catching his breath next to Y/N.

"You're actually really good at this," she said, leaning in so the kids wouldn't hear. "The 'Line Leader' look suits you. Very authoritative."

Lando wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his eyes bright. "It’s harder than qualifying, I’m not joking. If I lose one of them, my career is over. Zak would never let me live it down."

He looked at her, his expression softening as he ignored the chaos of the Paddock around them. "Thanks for doing this, Y/N. Seriously. Seeing them here... it makes the race feel like it actually matters."

"Mr. Lando!" Leo’s voice chirped from inside the garage. "Toby touched the tire and his hand turned black!"

Lando groaned, but he was smiling. "Duty calls."

He gave Y/N a quick, lingering look—the kind that said I can’t wait for dinner when it’s just us—before diving back into the sea of orange hats.

The Miami sun was brutal, but the kids didn't care. They were a solid block of screaming papaya-orange in the grandstands right at the exit of Turn 11. Y/N felt like she’d aged ten years in the last fifty laps, her hands white-knuckled on the railing as she kept a mental count of all twenty-two heads every thirty seconds.

The roar of the engines was a physical force, but even through the thunder of the grid, the kids' voices were piercing.

"HE'S COMING! HE'S COMING!" Leo shrieked, jumping so high Y/N had to grab the back of his custom jersey.

Lando was P1, but Max was a shark in his mirrors, less than half a second behind. As Lando flew past their section for the final time, the "Papaya Class" erupted. They weren't just cheering; they were trying to physically push him toward the finish line with the sheer volume of their lung capacity.

Lando, inside the cockpit, shifted his eyes for a split second toward that specific flash of orange in the stands. He was exhausted, his neck muscles screaming, but he thought of the letters, the "patience hat," and the way Y/N looked at him during their secret dinner two nights ago.

"Lando Norris wins the Miami Grand Prix!" the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers.

The kids were practically vibrating as they watched Lando park the car at the #1 board. He hopped out, did his signature jump, and immediately looked toward the section where the school was seated. He gave a double-fist pump directly at them.

After the champagne had been sprayed (and the kids had cheered at the "adult juice" flying everywhere), Lando stood on the track for his post-race interview. He was drenched in sweat, his hair a chaotic mess of curls, clutching the trophy like it was a heavy 3rd-grade textbook.

"Lando, a massive win here in Miami," the interviewer began, the crowd roaring. "You had a lot of pressure from Max in those closing laps. What kept you focused?"

Lando took the mic, panting, a massive grin splitting his face. He didn't look at the main camera first; he looked toward the bleachers.

"Honestly? I had some very tough consultants watching me today," Lando laughed, wiping his forehead. "I’ve got twenty-two students from Classroom 3B and their teacher, Ms. Y/N, up in the stands. They’ve been using my race points to learn math all year, so I figured if I didn't win today, I’d be failing 3rd grade. This one is for the 'Muppet Driver' fan club. Thanks for the luck, guys!"

In the stands, the reaction was pure bedlam.

"HE SAID OUR NAME!" Toby screamed, hugging a random stranger next to him.

"WE'RE FAMOUS!" another girl yelled, waving her hat frantically at the jumbotron.

Y/N stood in the middle of the chaos, her heart doing something much faster than a pit stop. She looked down at her phone, which had buzzed in her pocket the second the interview ended.

Muppet driver: Did I make the other classes look lame enough? See you at the bus in 20 mins. I want a gold star for that one.

"Ms. Y/N!" Leo tugged on her hand, his eyes wide with wonder. "He’s the best driver ever, right?"

Y/N looked at the man on the big screen—the world champion who had just told the entire world that a group of 3rd graders was his motivation. "Yeah, Leo," she whispered, a tear finally escaping. "The absolute best."

The Miami Grand Prix had come and gone, leaving a trail of glitter, orange confetti, and twenty-two lifelong Formula 1 fans in its wake. But as the F1 circus moved on to Imola, Monaco, and Montreal, the connection didn't fade.

The "Monday Morning Highlights" had officially been rebranded. Now, it was time for The Lando Dispatch.

"Okay, class! If you want to see the video, I need everyone in their 'learning positions' in five... four... three..."

The chaotic scramble of 3rd graders hitting their chairs was a testament to Lando’s star power. Y/N stood at the front of the room, her hand hovering over the SmartBoard remote. She looked a little tired—the time difference for the European leg meant she’d stayed up until 2:00 AM on a FaceTime call with a certain driver—but she had a secret smile on her face that she couldn't quite shake.

"Is it from Japan?" Leo asked, leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. "Did he see a robot?"

"Let's find out," Y/N said, clicking Play.

The screen flickered to life. The video was clearly shot on an iPhone, the stabilization a bit shaky as Lando walked through a rainy paddock in Suzuka. He was wearing a bright yellow bucket hat and a thick team jacket.

"Oi, Classroom 3B! Checking in from Japan," Lando’s face filled the screen, grinning. He looked exhausted but his eyes were bright. "I’m currently hiding in the back of the hospitality suite because my trainer wants me to eat broccoli, and we all know how we feel about that, right Toby?"

The classroom erupted in giggles. Toby felt like a celebrity.

"So, update for the week: The track here is shaped like a figure-eight, which is basically a giant math problem. Ms. Y/N, I hope you're making them calculate my average speed through Sector 1, because I’m struggling with it myself."

Lando turned the camera around to show the mechanics working frantically on the car. "Look at the floor of the car. See those tiny holes? That’s for aerodynamics. It’s basically science, but faster."

The video slowed down as Lando walked toward a quieter area. His tone shifted slightly—it was still for the kids, but his eyes seemed to be searching for someone behind the lens.

"I heard you guys did great on your spelling tests. I’m proud of you. And I heard you’ve been looking after Ms. Y/N for me. Make sure she’s drinking her coffee and not getting too stressed about the end-of-year play, okay?"

He paused, a familiar, boyish smirk playing on his lips. "I sent a special package to the main office for you guys. It might involve some Japanese snacks that definitely have too much sugar. Don't tell the principal."

Then, just before the video ended, he adjusted his hat and leaned closer to the mic. "And Ms. Y/N? I found that book you were looking for at the airport. I’ve got it in my bag. See you soon. Bye, guys! Go McLaren!"

The SmartBoard went black, and for a second, there was total silence. Then, absolute mayhem.

"HE BOUGHT HER A BOOK!" "WE’RE GETTING CANDY!" "MS. Y/N, ARE YOU BLUSHING? YOUR FACE IS AS RED AS A FERRARI!"

Y/N quickly turned away to "organize" some papers on her desk, her heart thumping against her ribs. "It’s just... it’s hot in here, class. The AC must be acting up again."

"No it's not," Leo whispered, passing her desk to get a tissue. He looked at her with a knowing, 3rd-grade wisdom. "He likes you more than he likes the robot cars, Ms. Y/N. I can tell because he didn't even mention the turbocharger today."

Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing. She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text.

Y/N: The Ferrari comment from Toby really hit home. You're a menace. Thank you for the video—they’re currently vibrating with excitement for the snacks.

A second later, her phone buzzed.

Muppet driver: Only a menace for you 😉 Give them the sugar, let them go wild, and then call me when you’re off the clock. I miss my favorite teacher.

-

The end of the school year at Sunshine Elementary always smelled like floor wax, tropical humidity, and the impending chaos of summer break. But for Classroom 3B, the air in the auditorium was thick with something else: a bittersweet anxiety.

They were "graduating" from the third grade, which meant leaving the teacher who had brought a world champion into their lives and leaving the only classroom that felt like a second home.

The principal stood at the podium, adjusting her glasses. "To conclude our Moving Up ceremony, we have a very special guest. He’s become a bit of a fixture here at Sunshine Elementary—though usually, he’s just here to drop off excessive amounts of pizza. Please welcome, Mr. Lando Norris."

The room didn't just applaud; it shook. Lando stepped out, looking significantly more "put together" than his last visit. He was in a sharp blazer over a white tee, though he still had that signature boyish grin that made him look like he’d just won a race he wasn't supposed to.

He stood at the mic, looking down at the front row where twenty-two kids sat in their best clothes.

"I’m not great at speeches," Lando started, his voice echoing. "I usually just talk to engineers about tire pressure. But this class taught me something important this year. I thought I was coming here to help a kid named Leo and maybe show off a little. But you guys ended up helping me. You reminded me that no matter how fast life moves, you have to stop and write a letter once in a while. You have to care about the people around you."

He looked directly at Y/N, who was sitting off to the side, her eyes already shimmering.

"You guys have a world-class teacher," Lando said softly. "She’s the one who makes the real overtakes every day. So, as you move to the fourth grade, remember what she taught you: focus, kindness, and—apparently—how to subtract my pit stop times."

As the applause died down, it was time for the final certificates. Y/N walked to the podium, her hands trembling slightly as she held her final stack of folders.

"Before we hand these out," Y/N said, her voice catching, "I have a small announcement. Usually, this is where I say goodbye and tell you I’ll see you in the hallways next year. But... I spoke with the principal and the district board last month."

The kids went silent. Leo gripped the edge of his seat.

"I realized I’m not quite ready to let this team go," Y/N smiled, a tear finally falling. "So, next year, Classroom 4B will have a familiar face. I’m moving up with you. I’m looping."

For a heartbeat, the kids just stared. Then, it was Miami all over again. A sea of eight-year-olds (soon-to-be nine-year-olds) surged forward, ignoring all decorum, and tackled Y/N in a massive group hug.

"WE'RE STILL WITH MS. Y/N!" Toby roared, muffled by her cardigan.

In the middle of the celebratory chaos of cake and punch afterward, Lando found Y/N by the refreshments table. The parents were busy taking photos, and the kids were currently preoccupied with a "Who can eat the most icing" contest.

Lando leaned in close, his shoulder brushing hers. "You did it. One more year of chaos. You’re a glutton for punishment, aren't you?"

"I just couldn't imagine a year without them," she whispered, looking at him. "Or the vlogs."

Lando reached down, his hand finding hers behind the safety of a tablecloth. He squeezed it tight. "Good. Because I already cleared my schedule for next year's Career Day. I’ve got to defend my title as the 'coolest adult.'"

"Ms. Y/N! Ms. Y/N!" Leo ran up, stopping short when he saw how close they were standing. He looked at Lando, then at Y/N, then back at Lando. He squinted suspiciously. "Are you guys going to get married now?"

Lando choked on his lemonade. Y/N turned a shade of pink that rivaled the school’s hibiscus bushes.

"Leo!" Y/N gasped. "Go... go find your grandmother!"

Leo didn't move. He just grinned, a missing front tooth making him look especially mischievous. "It’s okay if you do. Then Mr. Lando can be our permanent dad. I’ll tell the class."

As Leo sprinted away to spread the newest rumor, Lando looked at Y/N and laughed, a bright, helpless sound. "Well," he said, pulling her just a little bit closer as the sun set over the Miami schoolyard. "I guess I better start looking at rings. I don't want to disappoint my consultants."

Y/N laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Just make sure it's not orange, Lando."

"No promises," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

-

The Miami sun was dipping below the skyline, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and purple that felt poetic. It was the color of home, the color of that first massive delivery box, the color of their beginning.

Classroom 3B wasn't just a class anymore. They were fifth graders now, older, taller, and more articulate, but they were still his kids. And they were all here, lining the walkway of a stunning estate terrace overlooking Biscayne Bay.

All twenty-two students stood in a single-file line, a "buddy system" one last time for this special occasion. Lando had insisted. They were dressed to the nines: the boys in matching navy blue dress slacks, crisp white shirts, and perfect papaya-orange bowties; the girls in matching pale peach dresses with delicate lace accents.

Toby, now slightly taller but still mischievous, was acting as an unofficial usher.

And right at the front, holding a small velvet box like it was the most precious cargo in the world, was Leo. He’d outgrown the Quadrant wristband, but he was wearing Lando’s actual championship watch for the day—a loan that made him feel like he was ten feet tall.

Y/N walked down the aisle, the sound of the ocean a quiet soundtrack. She looked breathtaking in a simple, elegant lace dress, her hair flowing in the soft evening breeze. When she reached Lando, he didn't even try to hide the tears. He took her hands, his hands still the ones Leo and the others had swarmed with curiosity just a few years ago.

"I promise," Lando murmured, "that I will always answer your 'muppet.driver' emails. And I promise that even if I'm on the other side of the world, I'll always be your 'patience hat' when you need it. You made math fun for twenty-two kids, and you made life a race worth running for me."

Later, at the reception, the party was in full swing. The kids were currently trying to organize a game of "freeze" on the dance floor, ignoring all requests to stay seated.

Lando stood up, champagne flute in hand. He tapped the mic, silencing the room. He looked around at the guests, at the McLaren team, at Y/N, and finally, at the group of fifth graders who were currently watching him with rapt attention.

"Hello, I’m Lando. Or, as Classroom 5B might tell you, I’m 'Muppet Driver Four.'"

The kids giggled. Leo nodded seriously.

"I have a confession to make," Lando started, his voice a little shaky. "I didn't come to Sunshine Elementary because I was a good person. I didn't come because I was a world champion with a soft heart."

He looked directly at Leo.

"I came because Leo wrote me a letter that said, and I quote, 'I want you to make the other classes look lame. Because none of their adults have a job as cool as yours.' I’ll be honest, I was a twenty-something champion, and I had a bit of an ego problem. I thought, 'Absolutely, I’m a professional racing driver, I can easily outshine a CPA from the neighboring class.' It was a competition. I came to win."

The room chuckled, but Lando’s face softened.

"I thought I was giving Leo a favor. I thought I was lending him an adult relative for a day. But I was so wrong. I came for Career Day, but I ended up finding my family. You twenty-two kids taught me that a win isn't just about points on a board. It’s about the noise when you walk into a room. It’s about being there for someone when they don't have anyone else. It’s about realizing that I didn't just meet a teacher that week. I met my wife. And she happened to come with twenty-two built-in siblings for my future children."

Lando choked up, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He raised his glass.

"To my amazing wife, the looping line leader of my heart. And to Classroom 3B, 4B, and now 5B. To family. To never racing alone. Cheers."

"CHEERS, MR. LANDO!" twenty-two voices screamed in unison, raising their juice boxes.

As the music swelled and the party really began, Lando took a moment to orchestrate one last group photo. There was Lando and Y/N, world champion and teacher, surrounded by the single-file line of matching papaya outfits. They weren't just the 'Muppet Driver' fan club anymore. They were the original, chaotic crew that had built a family, one letter at a time.

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

"Leo! Stay where I can see—"

You looked up just in time to see your child skidding to a halt in front of a park bench. Sitting there was a young man in a plain black hoodie, looking intently at a laptop. Before you could intervene, Leo had already climbed onto the edge of the bench, thrusting a very sticky, very plastic Triceratops toward the stranger's face.

"He has three horns," Leo announced loudly. "And he eats bushes. Do you eat bushes?"

Your heart sank. You dropped the diaper bag and jogged over, already preparing your 'tired mom' apology. "Leo, honey, come here. Don't bug the man, he’s working."

The man didn't flinch. He didn't look up with that "please get this child away from me" expression you were so used to seeing from people in their early twenties. Instead, he slowly closed his laptop and tilted his head, looking at the dinosaur with genuine, quiet focus.

He didn't tower over the kid. He shifted his weight, dropping down from the bench to crouch on the grass so he was exactly at Leo’s height.

"I don't eat bushes," the man said, his voice surprisingly steady and calm. He had a slight Australian accent that smoothed out the edges of his words. "But he looks like he’s a very efficient eater. Does he have a name?"

Leo beamed. "His name is Carrot."

You finally reached them, breathless and slightly flushed. "I am so sorry," you sighed, reaching for Leo’s hand. "Sorry, he bothers everyone."

The man looked up at you then. He had clear, observant eyes and a demeanor that felt like the human equivalent of a still lake. There was no rush in his movements, no forced politeness.

"He’s not bothering me," he said simply.

He turned back to Leo, who was now explaining that Carrot also liked to hide in the sandbox. The man stayed in that crouch, nodding along, giving your child his undivided attention as if a plastic dinosaur was the most important thing he’d seen all day.

"I'm Oscar," he added, looking back at you with a small, unassuming nod.

"Y/N," you managed, finally catching your breath. "And that’s Leo. We’re usually a bit less... invasive."

"It’s alright," Oscar said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It’s a nice change of pace."

He didn't try to strike up a long conversation or ask for your number. He just stayed there for a few more minutes, treating your child like a person rather than a nuisance, before quietly picking up his laptop and heading toward the exit with a polite wave.

You watched him go, noting the way he walked—unhurried, grounded. In your world of constant noise and chaotic schedules, his calm felt like a foreign language you suddenly wanted to learn.

-

Tuesday mornings were always the worst. It was the "forgotten library book and a missing shoe" kind of morning. By the time you made it to the local coffee shop after dropping Leo off at daycare, you felt like you’d already run a marathon.

You were juggling a heavy work bag and a lukewarm latte when you saw a familiar pair of sneakers under a corner table.

Oscar.

He was dressed in a plain grey sweatshirt today, his eyes fixed on a notebook. When he looked up and saw you, he didn't look annoyed by your disheveled appearance. He just gave that same, steady nod.

"Tough morning?" he asked. His voice was a low, grounding hum against the hiss of the espresso machine.

"I think I’ve aged three years since 7:00 AM," you sighed, sliding into the chair opposite him. "I'm Y/N, by the way. I realized I never properly introduced myself between the dinosaur crisis and the daycare run."

"Oscar," he repeated, though you already knew. "And don't worry about the aging. I think it suits the 'chaos manager' aesthetic you’ve got going on."

You laughed, a genuine one that cut through your stress. Over the next few weeks, these "accidental" meetings became a rhythm. You talked about the weather, the best places to get sourdough, and the ridiculous plotlines of the cartoons Leo watched.

You had no idea who he was. To you, Oscar was just a guy who traveled a lot for a "corporate job" and seemed to appreciate the silence of the suburbs. He never corrected you. In a world where everyone wanted something from him, he seemed to find a strange sanctuary in the fact that you just wanted to know if he’d tried the blueberry muffins yet.

One Saturday, you ran into him at the park again. Leo was having a full-blown meltdown because a wheel had snapped off his favorite plastic ambulance.

"It's broken forever!" Leo wailed, his face turning a bright shade of red.

"Let me see," Oscar said. He didn't hover; he just held out a hand.

Leo handed over the toy, sniffling. You watched Oscar’s hands—they were steady, his fingers moving with a precision that seemed almost clinical. He took a small multi-tool from his pocket, adjusted a tiny plastic pin, and clicked the wheel back into place with a satisfying snap.

He didn't just hand it back. He spent a moment spinning the wheel to make sure it was perfectly aligned.

"There," Oscar said, handing it to Leo. "Aerodynamically sound. Ready for the next emergency."

Leo’s eyes went wide. "You fixed it!"

Oscar didn't offer a flashy grin. He just gave Leo a small, high-five. "Good as new."

As you watched them, a warm, quiet realization settled in your chest. "He’s... good with them," you thought. He didn't treat Leo like a child to be managed, but like a person to be helped.

It was more than just being "nice." It was a patient, quiet kind of care that you weren't used to seeing.

It happened on a Thursday, the kind of day where the sun was finally peaking through the clouds and the local café was humming with the sound of laptop keys and milk steamers.

You were sitting across from Oscar, nursing a cold brew while Leo was busy "driving" his repaired ambulance across the wooden table, making loud siren noises that Oscar didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, Oscar was occasionally moving his sugar packet out of the way so the ambulance could "pass through the intersection."

"You have a lot of patience for someone who travels for 'consulting,'" you remarked, leaning back. "Most people would have moved to the quiet zone by now."

Oscar shrugged, his gaze steady. "I’m used to loud noises. This is actually quite peaceful."

That’s when the bell above the door chimed, and a group of teenagers walked in. One of them, wearing a bright orange cap, froze mid-step. He nudged his friend, whispering loudly, "No way. Is that... is that actually him?"

They approached the table tentatively. You assumed they were lost or looking for a spare chair.

"Excuse me," the kid in the orange hat stammered, his face turning a shade of red that matched his shirt. "Are you... are you Oscar Piastri? From McLaren?"

Oscar went still for a fraction of a second—a tiny hitch in his calm—before he looked up and gave a polite, slightly awkward nod. "Yeah. Hi."

"Oh my god! We’re huge fans! That overtake in the last sector was insane, man! Can we get a photo? Please?"

Oscar stood up, his height more apparent now, and spent a few minutes posing for photos and signing the back of a receipt. He was incredibly gracious, but you noticed he kept glancing back at you, almost like he was checking if the bubble had burst.

Once the teenagers scrambled away, buzzing with excitement, you stared at him. Leo was still making siren noises, blissfully unaware, but you were stuck on the name.

"Piastri?" you repeated, the syllables feeling foreign. "And what’s a... Mc-Laren? Is that a law firm?"

Oscar sat back down, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked more flustered by your question than he had by the fans.

"It’s a team," he said softly.

"A team for what?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Wait, what do you actually do?"

He looked down at his coffee, then back at you, his expression unreadable but slightly sheepish. “I drive.”

You blinked. You thought about his constant travel, the precision with the toy ambulance, and the "consulting" you’d imagined.

“Like… Uber?” you asked, dead serious.

A beat of silence followed. Then, the corners of Oscar’s mouth twitching, he let out a short, dry laugh—the most emotion you’d seen from him yet.

“Not exactly,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's a bit faster than an Uber. And the car is a lot more expensive."

"Oh," you said, feeling the weight of the realization. "So you're... famous?"

Oscar looked at Leo, who had now transitioned to crashed-car noises. "Only to people who like cars. To everyone else, I'm just the guy who fixes ambulances."

The "reveal" didn't change as much as you thought it would. You did a quick Google search that night—eyes widening at the speed of the cars and the sheer number of zeroes in his contract—but when you saw him the next day, he was still just Oscar. He was still wearing a plain hoodie, and he still looked slightly concerned that he’d forgotten to tell you he drove for a living.

Dates became intentional. They weren't glamorous red-carpet events; they were walks in the park while Leo napped in the stroller, or quiet dinners at your place after the "chaos-monster" had finally crashed for the night.

What struck you most was his boundary-setting. Oscar didn't try to be a "dad." He didn't try to buy Leo’s affection with expensive toys. He just... existed alongside your life.

Every time he invited you somewhere, or even just asked to come over, it was always preceded by a question.

"Is this okay?"

"Does Leo have a routine we need to stick to?"

"Do you need to leave early? I don't mind."

He was as precise with your boundaries as he was with a racing line.

You were supposed to go to a quiet Italian place—your first "real" date without a toddler present. But at 4:00 PM, Leo’s forehead felt like a stovetop, and by 5:00 PM, he was crying into your shoulder with a nasty ear infection.

You messaged Oscar, feeling a familiar weight of guilt.

“Hey, I’m so sorry. Leo is sick. Fever and earache. I have to cancel tonight. I’ll understand if you’re busy next time you’re in town.”

You expected a "No worries, get well soon!" and then silence for two weeks while he flew to Singapore or Japan. That’s how it usually went with guys who had "important" jobs.

Instead, an hour later, your doorbell rang softly—a controlled, two-tap knock.

You opened it, hair in a messy bun, wearing a shirt with a suspicious orange stain. Oscar was standing there holding two heavy paper bags.

"I'm not coming in," he said immediately, sensing your 'mom-mode' defensiveness. "I don't want to wake him or crowd the house. But the pharmacy said these drops are the best for kids, and I figured you probably hadn't had time to think about dinner."

He held out the bags. One had children's ibuprofen and a new, soft stuffed koala. The other smelled like high-end Thai takeout.

"Oscar, you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," he interrupted gently. He stayed on the porch, hands in his pockets. He didn't ask for a 'pity invite' inside. He just stood there in the porch light, looking at you with that same calm, steady gaze. "I'll be in town for three more days. If he’s feeling better, maybe we can just do coffee on the porch? If not... I’ll see you when I’m back from the next one."

He stayed for five minutes, just listening to you vent about the pediatrician's office, before waving and walking to his car. He stayed close, but he never invaded.

-

When Oscar invited you to the "home race," you pictured something like a local track meet—maybe a few bleachers and some loud engines. You packed extra snacks, a tablet for Leo, and wore your favorite comfortable jeans.

Then the car service picked you up. Then came the VIP credentials. Then came the Paddock.

It was a sensory assault. The air smelled of expensive rubber and high-octane fuel. People in crisp team uniforms hurried past with purpose, and every five feet, someone was holding a camera or a microphone. The noise wasn't just loud; it was a physical vibration that you felt in your teeth.

"Is there a parade?" you shouted over the whine of an impact wrench.

Oscar, already in his fireproof undershirt with his racing suit tied around his waist, appeared through a sea of mechanics. He looked different here—sharper, more focused, like a blade being unsheathed. But the moment he saw you looking overwhelmed, he bypassed a PR person trying to hand him a schedule and walked straight to you.

"It’s a bit much, isn't it?" he said, his voice miraculously calm despite the chaos.

"This is… a lot, Oscar," you admitted, clutching Leo’s hand. "I think I’m dressed for a car wash and I’ve accidentally walked into a space launch."

He reached out, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. "Yeah. You can stay with me." He looked down at Leo, who was currently staring at a McLaren car with his mouth hanging open. Oscar pulled a pair of heavy, team-branded noise-canceling headphones from a hook and fit them over Leo's ears.

"Cool?" Oscar asked.

Leo gave a frantic, excited thumbs-up. He looked like a tiny, fascinated astronaut.

For the next hour, Oscar kept you in his "bubble." He introduced you to his engineers as "his friend, Y/N," and made sure you had a seat in the back of the garage where you could see the monitors without being trampled.

As he climbed into the cockpit of the car—a machine that looked less like a vehicle and more like a weapon—he looked back one last time. He didn't give a "cool" driver wave to the cameras. He just gave you that small, private nod you’d come to recognize from the coffee shop.

You still didn't understand the rules. You didn't know what a "flying lap" was or why everyone was staring at a screen of purple and green sectors. But as the car screamed out of the garage, you realized one thing: The quiet man who fixed the toy ambulance lived in a world of thunder.

The race wasn't just a sporting event; it was a physical manifestation of everything you didn't understand about Oscar’s world.

From the back of the garage, you watched the monitors. The telemetry data looked like a heart monitor for a giant, and Oscar’s name—PIASTRI—was a constant, steady presence moving up the digital leaderboard. The mechanics around you were a blur of focused energy, their eyes glued to the same screens.

Then, it happened. A "bold move," according to the commentator in your headset. You saw the orange car dive into a corner that looked too narrow for a bicycle, let alone a car going 180 mph.

"Is he... is he supposed to do that?" you asked a nearby engineer.

The engineer didn't even look up, his grin wide. "That’s Oscar. He doesn't panic. He just executes."

You watched the onboard camera—the world was a shaky, high-speed blur, but Oscar’s hands on the wheel were disturbingly still. He wasn't fighting the car; he was part of it. The realization hit you like a physical weight: the man who sat on your floor and fixed a plastic ambulance was one of the most skilled human beings on the planet. He wasn't just nice. He was extraordinary.

When the race ended and the checkered flag waved, the garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, and the rhythmic chanting of his name. He had finished on the podium—a massive achievement.

You expected him to be swept away. You saw the cameras swarming the pit lane, the flashbulbs, the celebrities lined up to shake his hand. You prepared yourself to be a footnote in his big night, already gathering Leo’s things to head to the car.

But then, the side door of the garage pushed open.

Oscar walked in, smelling of sweat and Nomex, his hair flattened by his balaclava. He was carrying his helmet in one hand. PR people were trailing him, holding clipboards and microphones, talking about "media pens" and "podium ceremonies."

Oscar ignored them.

His eyes scanned the crowded room, skipping over the sponsors and the team leads, until they landed on you and Leo. He walked straight past a reporter who was literally mid-sentence, stopping only when he reached your side.

"You're still here," he said, his voice a bit raspy from the heat. He looked exhausted, but the intensity in his eyes had softened back into that familiar, quiet warmth.

"We wouldn't have missed it," you said, still a little starstruck. "Oscar, that was... I don't even have words for what that was."

He gave a small, tired shrug, his gaze dropping to Leo, who was currently trying to "drive" a spare tire with his hands. "It was alright. A bit hot out there."

He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the trophies. He just wanted to know if you were okay with the noise. In that moment, the "McLaren talent" vanished, and the man who stayed on your porch with Thai food was the only one left.

In the weeks following the race, Oscar became a permanent fixture in your shared vocabulary. It wasn't just that he was around; it was that he had become a constant in Leo’s world.

The questions started small:

"Will Oscar be at the park?"

"Does Oscar like broccoli?" (Oscar’s deadpan answer: "Not particularly, but I eat it for the aero.")

"Can Oscar see my drawing of the fast car?"

Oscar was remarkably patient. He never forced the bond. He didn't come in with "cool guy" energy trying to buy Leo’s love. He just showed up. He listened. He treated Leo’s 4-year-old problems—like a lost Lego piece or a stubborn shoelace—with the same analytical seriousness he gave his telemetry data.

One Sunday evening, after a long afternoon of "racing" in the backyard, Leo had finally reached his limit. He was sprawled across the sofa, fast asleep, his head resting on a cushion and his hand still clutching a small, orange die-cast car.

Oscar was sitting on the other end of the sofa, a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. He was just looking at Leo. There was a look of profound, quiet gentleness on his face—a look he usually reserved for the moments right before he put on a helmet.

He caught your eye and tilted his head toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He didn't speak; he didn't want to break the silence. He just gave you a questioning look, a silent request for permission.

You nodded.

Oscar stood up, his movements fluid and careful. He slid one arm under Leo’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him with a practiced ease that made your heart skip. Leo didn't even wake up; he just sighed and tucked his face into the crook of Oscar's neck.

As Oscar carried him down the hall, you stayed on the sofa, the weight of the moment hitting you. This wasn't just a "casual thing" anymore. This wasn't a guy you were seeing between races. This was a man becoming a part of the foundation of your lives.

And that realization was as terrifying as it was beautiful.

-

The house was finally quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant city traffic. You and Oscar were sitting on the back porch, a single light casting long shadows across the wooden deck. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat of the race tracks he usually occupied.

You watched him for a moment. He looked so normal here—hoodie sleeves pushed up, nursing a glass of water, his expression unreadable. But that was the problem. He wasn't normal.

"Oscar?"

He looked over, his gaze centering on you with that unnerving focus. "Yeah?"

"I’m scared," you said, the words tumbling out before you could overthink them. "This... us. It doesn’t make sense. Your life is private jets, world championships, and people screaming your name. My life is parent-teacher conferences, finding matching socks, and worrying about whether or not I remembered to buy milk."

You looked down at your hands. "You have a whole world I don’t belong to. And my life is... it's complicated. It's not just me. It's Leo. I can't just pick up and fly to Monaco on a whim."

The silence stretched. You expected him to give a "we'll make it work" speech or perhaps realize you were right and start backing away. Instead, Oscar just leaned back in his chair, looking out at your small, overgrown backyard.

"I like your life," he said simply.

You blinked. "What?"

"The 'world championships' part is just what I do for work," he continued, his voice steady. "It’s loud, it’s fast, and everyone wants something from me. But here? With you and Leo? It’s real. I don’t want to 'integrate' you into my world. I don’t want to change your routine or make you an F1 expert."

He turned his head to look at you, his eyes soft. "I just want to be a part of yours."

He didn't offer a grand solution or a map of the future. He just offered himself—the man who liked sourdough, fixed toy ambulances, and didn't mind a juice stain on his sleeve. For the first time, the "different worlds" didn't feel like a barrier; they felt like a balance.

You realized then that Oscar wasn't looking for a "grid girl" or someone to cheer in the paddock every weekend. He was looking for a home. And somehow, in the middle of your chaotic, toy-strewn life, he had found it.

A year had passed, and your life was still a beautiful, loud, and disorganized masterpiece. You still hadn’t mastered the art of the 15-minute school run without losing at least one shoe, and your kitchen counter was still a graveyard of half-finished drawings and stray crumbs.

And you still didn’t understand Formula 1.

You’d tried. You really had. You’d watched the documentaries, you’d listened to the podcasts, and you’d even tried to read a book on aerodynamics that Oscar had "accidentally" left on the coffee table. But to you, it was still just loud cars going in very fast circles. You knew he drove for McLaren, you knew orange was his color, and you knew that when the little light on his steering wheel turned green, he was supposed to go faster. Beyond that? It was all static.

But you learned about him.

You learned that he liked his toast slightly burnt. You learned that he went completely silent when he was processing a bad day, and that the best way to bring him back was to ask for help with a "catastrophic" LEGO emergency. You learned that for a man who lived his life at 200 mph, his favorite speed was the slow crawl of a Sunday morning.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind where the light filters through the curtains in long, golden dusty streaks. The TV was on, muted, showing a replay of a race from a different time zone.

Leo was wedged firmly between you and Oscar on the sofa, his small legs draped over Oscar’s lap. One of Oscar’s hands was resting on Leo’s hair, absentmindedly smoothing it down, while the other was linked with yours.

On the screen, a digital version of Oscar was battling for a position in a cloud of spray and sparks. It looked dangerous. It looked impossible. It looked like a completely different universe than the one you were currently sitting in.

You looked at the screen, then at the man beside you. He was wearing an old t-shirt, his feet were bare, and he looked more relaxed than you had ever seen him.

"Is he winning?" you asked, nodding toward his digital counterpart on the screen.

Oscar didn't look at the TV. He looked at Leo, who was snoring softly, and then he looked at you—the woman who didn't care about his lap times, only his heart. A small, genuine smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he never gave the cameras.

He squeezed your hand, pulling you just a little bit closer.

"Yeah," Oscar whispered. "I think I am."

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

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Alpine

Franco Colapinto

He laughs so loud the whole street hears him.

When you push his chest and tell him you’re "taken," he puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Oh, really? Is he as fast as me?"

He ends up showing you his Instagram profile just to prove it’s him.

Pierre Gasly

He finds it incredibly chic and romantic. He smirks, leaning in to whisper, "And is this boyfriend of yours as handsome as I am?"

When you say, "He's way hotter, he's French!" he actually melts.

He’ll carry you to the car while humming a victory tune.

Aston Martin

Fernando Alonso

He gets a very smug, proud look on his face. He crosses his arms and lets you "reject" him for a minute just to hear you brag about him.

"He's a legend, okay? Go away!"

He finally pulls out his driver's ID. "I know he is, es mi cara. That’s why I’m taking you home."

Lance Stroll

He gets a little flustered and looks around to see if anyone is watching. "Y/N, it's Lance. It's me."

When you tell him your boyfriend is much richer and "has a cool green car," he hides a smile behind his hand.

He’s very gentle as he finally convinces you to get in the car.

Audi

Gabriel Bortoleto

He thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He’ll keep a respectful distance while talking to you.

"I promise I'm not a stranger, Y/N. Look at my phone background, it's us!"

Once you realize it's him, he gives you the biggest "I'm so proud of you" hug.

Nico Hülkenberg

He keeps his dry sense of humor. When you tell him to back off because you have a boyfriend, he just nods solemnly.

"He’s a lucky man. Does he know you’re this feisty after three margaritas?"

He’ll eventually lure you into the car with the promise of snacks.

Cadillac

Sergio Pérez

He is the ultimate "Papa" protector, but this makes him grin.

When you tell him you're a "loyal woman," he kisses your forehead—which you try to wipe off.

"I know you are, mi amor. That’s why I love you. Now, let’s go see this 'boyfriend' of yours at home."

Valtteri Bottas

He totally plays along. He starts "competing" with the version of himself in your head.

"Is he better at cycling than me? Does he have a better mustache?"

By the time you get home, he’s convinced you that he’s a "close friend" of your boyfriend sent to rescue you.

Ferrari

Charles Leclerc

His heart literally skips a beat. He’s so touched that you’re protecting your relationship while wasted.

He’ll look at you with such "heart-eyes" it’s embarrassing. "You're so sweet, mon ange. But I promise, I am the one you’re looking for."

He’ll show you a picture of you two kissing to finally win you over.

Lewis Hamilton

He’s very smooth about it. He doesn't get offended; he finds it admirable.

"I respect the loyalty, truly. But if I told you your boyfriend sent me personally to pick you up because he loves you so much, would you believe me?"

It works like a charm.

Haas

Esteban Ocon

He takes it very seriously at first, worried you’re actually scared.

Once he realizes you just don't recognize him, he gets a soft, shy smile.

"I’m glad you’re being careful, Y/N. But it’s just Esteban. I’ve got your favorite hoodie in the car."

Ollie Bearman

He turns bright red.

He’s trying to be the "protective adult," but you’re telling him he’s "too young to be your boyfriend" because your boyfriend is a "famous Ferrari—wait, Haas—driver!"

He ends up laughing through his embarrassment, feeling incredibly loved.

McLaren

Lando Norris

He is 100% recording this for his private story. He’s cackling as you tell him to "get lost, creep."

He’ll keep poking you. "Oh, is he a racing driver? Is he better than me? I bet he’s shorter than me."

He’ll play the video back to you the next morning as "punishment."

Oscar Piastri

The most deadpan reaction in history.

He just stands there with his arms crossed while you rant about your boyfriend.

"Understood. He sounds like a great guy. I happen to be him. Can we go now? It’s cold." He is secretly very, very smug about your loyalty.

Mercedes

George Russell

He tries to use his "Professional Negotiator" voice.

"Now, Y/N, let’s look at the facts. I have your house keys, and I’m wearing the sweater you bought me for Christmas."

When you tell him he's "too posh" to be your boyfriend, he actually pouts for a second before finding it hilarious.

Kimi Antonelli

He gets a bit panicked. "Y/N! No! It's Kimi! Don't push me!"

He’s relieved no one is filming, but he’s so happy that you’re shouting about how much you love him to total strangers.

He’ll talk about it for weeks.

Racing Bulls

Arvid Lindblad

He’s trying so hard to be mature, but you’re making it difficult by calling him a "handsome stranger."

He’ll try to show you his ID. "See? Same name! Arvid! Like your boyfriend!"

He’s incredibly relieved when you finally recognize him and burst into "I missed you" tears.

Liam Lawson

He gets a cheeky smirk. He likes the "sassy" drunk version of you.

He’ll lean against the car and wait for you to finish your speech about your "cool Kiwi boyfriend."

"He sounds like a real catch. Lucky for you, I’m his ride home."

Red Bull

Isack Hadjar

He loves the fire in you. When you tell him to "back off," he grins.

"That's my girl. Don't let anyone touch you."

He’ll eventually pick you up and throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring your protests that "the driver is gonna kill you!"

Max Verstappen

Very straightforward. No games.

"Y/N, stop. It's Max. We're going home. We have to wake up early."

When you tell him your boyfriend "wins everything," he stops and smiles. "Yes, I do. Now get in the car."

Williams

Alex Albon

He’s the most patient soul. He’ll just wait for you to finish your "I have a boyfriend" rant with a fond smile.

"Are you done? Because your boyfriend really wants to get you some chicken nuggets and put you to bed."

The mention of nuggets usually breaks your resolve.

Carlos Sainz

He uses all his charm to "re-woo" you. He’ll play along and pretend to be a stranger trying to win a date.

"Well, if this boyfriend is so great, why isn't he here? Oh wait—I am here."

He finds your loyalty incredibly attractive and will tease you about it for years.

Additional Drivers

Daniel Ricciard

The funniest reaction. He’ll start cheering for your boyfriend with you.

"Yeah! He's the best! He's got a great smile, right?!"

He’ll keep the "secret identity" thing going all the way to the front door, just to see how long you’ll defend "Daniel" to Daniel.

Jenson Button

He is such a gentleman about it.

He’ll speak in the softest, most reassuring voice.

"I would never want to come between you and your boyfriend, Y/N. But since he asked me to take care of you tonight, may I offer you a ride?"

Sebastian Vettel

He finds it deeply moving. He’ll get a little misty-eyed at your loyalty.

He’ll gently take your hand and show you the ring or bracelet you always wear.

"I know, liebling. I know. I’m the lucky man who gets to take you home."

Yuki Tsunoda

He gets loud (but in a funny way).

"I AM THE BOYFRIEND! LOOK AT MY FACE! IT IS YUKI!"

He’s frustrated that you don’t recognize him, but he’s secretly so happy that you’re literally fighting people off to stay loyal to him.

© 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

❤ tag list charles: @rebelwrites @ilovereadingsm08

🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak @aturnof-thepage

💛 tag list daniel: @fraaaaankiiiiieee

Red Bull

Max Verstappen

You walk out wearing his suit, zipped halfway like you own the place.

Max freezes. Actually freezes. “...Take it off.”

You: “Why?”

Max: “Because I can’t think straight when you look like that.”

GP walks past, sees you, immediately U-turns: “Nope. I’m not dealing with this.”

Max spends the rest of the day staring at you like you’re the championship trophy.

Yuki Tsunoda

He screams. Literally.

“NO WAY— NO WAY YOU LOOK BETTER IN IT THAN ME.”

He circles you like a confused, angry chihuahua.

Then softens instantly: “Okay but like… you’re kinda cute.”

Takes 200 photos. Sends them to everyone. Posts one. Doesn’t regret it.

Ferrari

Charles Leclerc

You step out wearing his Ferrari red and Charles straight-up drops his phone.

“Mon dieu… you are trying to kill me.”

He walks up, fixes the collar even though it’s perfectly fine.

“You… you know this is my weakness, right?”

He blushes the whole day and refuses to look you directly in the eye.

Lewis Hamilton

He gasps—dramatic, hand-to-his-chest, full fashion moment.

“Okayyy, you better WORK.”

He makes you spin like you’re on a runway.

“Honestly, you wear it better than half the grid.”

Then takes a selfie with you and sets it as his lockscreen.

McLaren

Lando Norris

He chokes on his own spit.

“DUDE—WHAT—WHY—HOW—”

You: “English, Lando.”

“I CAN’T, HAVE YOU SEEN YOURSELF?”

He won’t stop giggling like an idiot.

Later he whispers, “I’m never washing that suit again.”

Oscar Piastri

He blinks at you like his brain hit a blue screen.

“…That’s mine.”

You: “Yep.”

“…And you’re wearing it.”

You: “Mhm.”

Oscar: deep breath “I need a minute.”

He’s blushing so hard he hides behind his hands.

Racing Bulls

Liam Lawson

He stares. Silently.

Then turns away like a Victorian man seeing an ankle.

“Okay, yeah, that’s actually illegal.”

You: “Illegal?”

“You heard me. ILLEGAL.”

Every time he looks at you he physically crumbles.

Isack Hadjar

“STOP. STOP. STOP. I CAN’T HANDLE THIS.”

He fanboys. Genuinely fanboys over you.

“You’re literally the hottest person alive right now.”

He posts a pic and captions it: “my driver 💙🔥”

Mercedes

George Russell

Drops his water bottle. Doesn’t pick it up.

“Darling… please don’t do that unless you’re prepared for consequences.”

Toto walks by, sees you, and just sighs: “George, keep it professional.”

George: “I’m trying. I’m failing.”

Kimi Antonelli

He blushes IMMEDIATELY. Like tomato-red.

“You look… wow. Um. Wow.”

He can’t stop staring at the zipper and immediately looks away when you notice.

He whispers in Italian because he’s too flustered to speak English.

Aston Martin

Fernando Alonso

He smirks so hard it should be illegal.

“You wear it better than half the drivers.”

Walks around you like he’s inspecting a car he wants to buy.

“Dangerous. Very dangerous.”

Teases you for the rest of the week.

Lance Stroll

He sees you and just shuts down.

Like… buffering.

“You’re— that’s— wow.”

Eventually manages: “You look kinda badass, actually.”

Then takes a selfie with you and smiles at it for hours.

Williams

Alex Albon

Baby boy is too soft for this.

Face red, hands covering his mouth.

“You look s-so good, babe— I don’t know what to do.”

You hug him and he melts like butter.

Carlos Sainz

“MOTHER OF—”

He fans himself dramatically.

“Cariño… estás jugando con fuego.” (you're playing with fire.)

He pulls you close by the waist and whispers,

“I think you should wear it more often.”

Haas

Esteban Ocon

He gasps like someone slapped him.

“You absolutely cannot walk around like that.”

You: “Why not?”

“Because I will start a fight. With everyone. For looking at you.”

Ollie Bearman

He trips.

On air.

“Omg— you look incredible.”

He’s so flustered he forgets how tall he is and keeps bumping into things.

Alpine

Pierre Gasly

He whistles. Loud.

“Baby… BABY… no. Stop. Actually don’t stop.”

He immediately starts planning a thirst trap photoshoot.

“You’re wearing this again later, oui?”

Franco Colapinto

Full sunshine reaction.

Big smile, pink cheeks, bouncing in place.

“You look AMAZING!”

He makes you do a little spin so he can hype you up properly.

Kick Sauber

Nico Hülkenberg

He gives a dad nod.

“…Nice.”

But internally? Screaming.

He takes a picture “for memories” and absolutely stares at it later.

Gabriel Bortoleto

He literally sprints to you.

“No WAY you look that good in my suit.”

He hugs you and refuses to let go.

Tells everyone you’re “his lucky charm.”

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Max wiped sweat from his forehead, his eyes glazing over as he thought about the hydraulic motion-actuators and the custom-molded carbon seat he had ordered.

"Yeah, honestly, it’s been a long time coming," Max started, nodding seriously. "We’ve been talking about expanding for a while. It’s a big commitment, you know? It’s going to take up a lot of space in the house, but we’re both very excited."

The interviewer’s eyebrows shot up. "Expanding? That sounds... permanent."

"It is," Max replied, completely deadpan. "I mean, Y/N was a bit hesitant at first because of the noise and the lack of sleep it’s going to cause, but she’s fully on board now. We’ve cleared out the guest room—the 'nursery' area, I guess you could call it—to make sure everything is ready for the arrival."

The reporter looked like they had just found a golden ticket. "And when is the... 'due date'?"

Max calculated the shipping time from the factory in Germany. "In about three months? We’re just waiting for the delivery. It’s quite delicate, so it has to be handled carefully. But yeah, by the time we get to the end of the season, our lives will look very different. There will be a lot of late nights, but it’s a dream come true for me."

He ended the interview with a blunt, "Okay, thanks," and walked off to find a bottle of water, leaving the media pen in a stunned, frantic silence.

Within four minutes, the internet had reached terminal velocity.

f1updates BREAKING: Max Verstappen confirms he and Y/N are expecting! "Delivery in three months!" #F1 #BabyVerstappen

The Paddock Telegraph A "Nursery" in Monaco? Max talks "late nights" and "life-changing" news.

Reddit /r/Formula1 Max confirms Y/N is pregnant. Will she finish the season?

Meanwhile, at the Alpine Motorhome...

You were sitting in your cooling vest, staring at your telemetry data, completely unaware that your phone was currently receiving 400+ notifications per minute. You were just wondering why your Team Principal was suddenly looking at you with a mixture of terror and immense confusion.

You stepped out of the motorhome, helmet bag in hand, ready for the post-quali debrief. Usually, you could walk to the garage with maybe two or three autograph requests. Today, it was like the Red Sea had closed in on you.

"Y/N! How are you feeling? Any morning sickness today?" a reporter yelled, shoving a camera in your face.

You stopped, squinting. "Morning sickness? It’s 5 PM. And I feel fine, unless you count the slight headache I have from this conversation."

"Is it true you're retiring at the end of the season to focus on the 'delivery'?" another voice chirped.

You let out a short, confused laugh. "Retiring? I just qualified P5. I’m not delivering anything except a points finish tomorrow. What are you people talking about?"

Before you could escape, you ran into Lando and Daniel. Ricciardo was grinning like a Cheshire cat, while Lando looked genuinely panicked.

"Congrats, mate," Daniel beamed, giving you a vigorous pat on the shoulder. "I’m available for godfather duties. I’ll teach the kid how to do a shoey before it can walk."

"Daniel, stop," Lando hissed, looking at you with wide eyes. "Y/N, are you okay? Should you even be standing up? Do you need a chair? Max said it's 'growing fast' and I didn't know if that meant, like... the baby or the pressure?"

You dropped your helmet bag. "What baby, Lando?"

Daniel’s grin faltered. "The one Max told the world about ten minutes ago? The 'new addition' that's arriving in three months? The one you cleared out the guest room for?"

Your PR manager, Sarah, appeared out of thin air, looking like she’d aged ten years. She didn't say a word; she just handed you her iPad.

On the screen was the clip of Max. You watched, frozen, as your boyfriend—the three-time World Champion—solemnly told a reporter that you were "very patient with the noise" and that you were "preparing the nursery."

"He’s talking about the sim-rig," you whispered, the realization hitting you like a 5G impact. "The 'nursery' is the guest room where the sim-hub is going. The 'delivery' is the freight shipment from Fanatec. And the 'morning sickness'..."

You closed your eyes. "I threw up on Tuesday because I ate a bad shrimp. And I told him 'my stomach feels weird this morning.'"

You marched into the Red Bull garage, ignoring the mechanics who were suddenly whispering and looking at your midsection. Max was sitting on a tire stack, looking at his phone, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

"Max Emilian Verstappen," you said, your voice low and dangerous.

He looked up, a bright smile on his face. "Oh, hey! Did you see? The motion-rig company tweeted us! They said they’re 'honored to be part of the family' now. People are being so nice today."

"Max," you grabbed his phone and turned it off. "People think I am pregnant. They think we are having a human child in November."

Max blinked, his head tilting like a confused golden retriever. "What? Why would they think that? I told them about the project."

"You called the guest room a nursery," you hissed. "You said the addition was growing—"

"Well, the budget for it is growing!" Max interrupted defensively. "The carbon fiber alone—"

"—And you told them I had morning sickness!"

Max went quiet. His eyes darted to the side as he mentally replayed the interview. "Oh. I see. Because of the shrimp. Right. That... that does sound a bit different when you put it like that."

Outside the garage, a group of fans started a "Mini-Max" chant. Max winced. "So... I should probably do another interview, shouldn't I?"

Max is many things—a world-class driver, a ruthless competitor, and a blunt speaker. But as a PR strategist? He is a walking natural disaster.

Under the intense, panicked glare of your PR manager, Sarah, and the Red Bull communications team, Max was shoved back into the media pen to "fix" the situation.

Max stood in front of the same group of reporters, looking slightly annoyed that he had to explain something he thought was perfectly logical.

"Look, there was a bit of a misunderstanding," Max began, leaning into the mic. "I heard people think Y/N is having a baby. That’s not true. I was talking about the new 'setup' we’ve been waiting for."

The reporters scribbled furiously. "So there’s no baby, Max?"

"No, no," Max shook his head. "I mean, it’s shaped like a human, sort of. It’s got a very stiff chassis, and we had to get the seat custom-molded to fit her body perfectly, you know? Because if the fit isn't tight, she’ll feel too much vibration when it really starts kicking."

The pen went silent. A journalist from a tabloid tentatively raised her hand. "Max... you’re talking about the... the seat? Of the baby carriage?"

"No! Of the rig!" Max groaned, getting frustrated. "The mounting points are very specific. It’s got these long, metal legs and a lot of wires coming out of the back. It’s actually quite heavy—took three guys just to get the base into the room."

You were watching this from a monitor in the back of the garage, your head buried in your hands. Carlos was standing next to you, clutching his stomach from laughing so hard.

"He just said it took three guys to get the base in, Y/N," Carlos wheezed. "He’s making it so much worse. He’s talking about 'vibrations' and 'mounting points.' Stop him. Please."

On the screen, Max was still going. "And the feedback! That’s the best part. It’s very sensitive to touch. If you just tap it, it reacts immediately. Y/N was worried it would be too loud at night, but I told her we can just put some padding down so the neighbors don't hear the screaming—you know, from the gears."

"THE GEARS, MAX. SAY THE WORD GEARS!" you screamed at the monitor.

Before Max could describe the "lubrication required for the joints," you sprinted out of the garage and physically grabbed the microphone from his hand. Max looked at you, genuinely confused. "What? I’m explaining the specs!"

You turned to the cameras, forced a smile that looked more like a grimace, and spoke with the clarity of a woman whose career depended on it.

"Everyone. Listen to me very carefully," you said, your voice projected for the back row. "I am not pregnant. There is no baby. Max has bought a high-end, professional grade sim-racing simulator. It is made of steel and carbon fiber. It does not have a heartbeat. It does not require a diaper. It requires a power outlet."

You looked at Max, who was nodding in agreement. "Yeah, exactly. That’s what I said. The power delivery is incredible."

"Max, stop talking," you whispered through gritted teeth.

You turned back to the press. "The 'morning sickness' was a bad shrimp from the airport. The 'nursery' is a gaming room. We are going to go now before my boyfriend accidentally announces we’re colonizing Mars."

As you dragged Max away by his team kit, he was still muttering. "I don't get why they got confused. I told them it was a project. Who names a baby 'Project P1' anyway?"

"You would, Max," you sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked toward the hospitality unit. "You absolutely would."

That night, the internet was flooded with memes of a baby wearing a Red Bull helmet with a literal power cord tail. The hashtag changed from #BabyVerstappen to #SimBaby.

The "Sim-Baby" incident became the most legendary PR disaster in the history of the sport. While the fans were busy making memes, the F1 grid was having a field day in the comments sections.

INSTAGRAM

maxverstappen3

[Image: Max sitting in the finished, ultra-expensive, neon-lit sim-racing rig. He’s wearing a headset and giving a thumbs up. The caption is written with his usual bluntness.]

maxverstappen3 The new addition is finally installed. 1:1 scale, carbon fiber seat, and zero crying at night. Can’t wait to put some hours in. Sorry for the confusion, @.yn_racing is not having a human, she is just helping me with the telemetry 🏎️💻

yn_racing I am also helping you by not throwing you off the balcony. IT’S A COMPUTER, PEOPLE. A COMPUTER.

maxverstappen3 @.yn_racing But it’s a very fast computer.

danielricciardo So... do I return the tiny leather race suit I bought? Or does the computer have arms? Asking for a friend.

lando I’ve already named him ‘Sim-on.’ Get it? Sim-on? Because it’s a sim? Anyway, congrats on the motherboard, Max.

charles_leclerc I actually felt bad and sent a bouquet of "Congratulations" flowers to your motorhome. Please give them to the rig. I hope it enjoys the scent of lilies.

lewishamilton Glad to hear everything is... technically sound. 😂 Enjoy the "nursery," Max.

georgerussell63 I had a PowerPoint ready on "The Aerodynamics of Strollers." I feel like my afternoon has been wasted.

fernandoalo_oficial Is the rig a rookie? If so, I will probably defend against it for 15 laps until it gets frustrated. Welcome to the family, Project P1.

TWITTER

#SimBaby - 1.2M Posts #PoorYN - 850K Posts #MaxLogistics - 400K Posts

f1_gossip_girl Max Verstappen is the only man on earth who can describe a gaming chair in a way that makes 20 international news outlets believe a royal-level pregnancy announcement is happening. Give Y/N a medal and a vacation. #F1 #ZandvoortGP

The following morning, you arrived at the track to find a small, gift-wrapped box on your desk. Inside was a single, high-quality AA battery with a sticky note from Max:

"For the baby's remote. (This is a joke. Please don't kill me. See you at the briefing. — Max"

You smiled despite yourself. It was going to be a very long season.

The "nursery" was glowing with the soft, neon hum of the most expensive sim-rig in Europe. It was 11 PM in Monaco, and the stakes had never been higher.

The upcoming weekend was Monza—the temple of speed and, more importantly, the site of the "Apology Press Conference" where one of you had to sit in front of the global media and explain, once again, that there was no human infant on the way.

"I’m not doing it, Max," you said, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorframe. "You started this. You told them the addition was 'growing.' You go fix it."

Max didn't even look up from the three curved monitors. He was busy calibrating the brake pressure on his load-cell pedals. "I already tried to fix it. I told them about the mounting points. They’re the ones who made it weird."

"You said it 'reacted to touch,' Max!"

"It does!" Max finally turned, a competitive glint in his eye. "Okay, look. One race. Five laps at Spa. The loser does the Monza press conference alone. The winner gets to stay in the motorhome and play FIFA."

You grabbed your racing gloves. "Get out of the seat. You’re going down."

Max stepped aside, but not without a smirk. "I’ve spent forty hours on this rig in the last three days, Y/N. You’re basically racing against a professional."

"I am a professional, Max. Move."

You settled into the carbon fiber seat—the one Max had described as "fitting your body perfectly" to the horrified press—and gripped the direct-drive wheel. The feedback was brutal.

Lap 1: You took the hill flat-out, the motion platform jolting your spine as you hit the kerbs. Max was standing behind you, acting like a frantic race engineer. "Watch the entry speed! You're losing three-tenths! Why are you lifting? Don't lift!"

"Max, if you don't shut up, I'm crashing into the wall on purpose just so I can tell the press you pushed me," you hissed, nailing the exit of Les Combes.

Lap 3: You were currently beating Max’s best ghost-lap time by a tenth of a second. Max realized his Monza fate was looming. He leaned down, whispering right into your ear. "You know, the media asked if we’ve picked out a name yet. I told them we like 'Fanatec' for a boy."

You snorted, nearly losing the back end at Stavelot. "You didn't."

"I might have," he teased. "Unless you win. Then you can tell them the real name."

Lap 5: You were flying. The "Sim-Baby" was performing beautifully. You flew through Blanchimont, heading into the final chicane. If you nailed this, Max would be the one sweating under the Italian sun while reporters asked him about baby monitors.

Suddenly, Max reached over and lightly poked your side.

"Max! Illegal move!" you yelled, twitching the wheel. The car clipped the inner bollard, spinning the virtual Red Bull into a graceful 360-degree rotation. You crossed the finish line backward, three seconds slower than his record.

The screen flashed: POSITION: P2. LOSER.

Max threw his hands up in a victory cheer. "Yes! Haha! Simply lovely. Honestly, the pace was there, but the mental strength? Very weak, Y/N."

You slumped back in the "custom-molded" seat, glaring at him. "That was a foul. I’m calling the FIA. I’m calling your dad."

"No stewards in the living room," Max grinned, leaning down to give you a quick, triumphant kiss on the forehead. "Have fun in Monza. I’ll prepare a list of things for you to say. Maybe mention that the 'baby' prefers 100% force feedback?"

"I hate you," you muttered, though you were already reaching for the 'Restart' button. "Best out of three?"

"Now you're talking," Max said, already grabbing his own headset.

The following Thursday, you sat on the stage in Monza, staring into a sea of cameras.

Reporter: "Y/N, can we get an update on the... situation at home?"

You took a long, deep breath, remembering the bet. "The 'addition' is doing well. It’s currently living in the guest room, it consumes a massive amount of electricity, and Max spends more time with it than he does with me. Any questions about the aero-package for this weekend?"Somewhere in the back of the room, Max was leaning against a wall, wearing sunglasses and holding up a sign that simply read: PROUD DAD.

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