#f1 angst

"she always packs my suitcase – or at least double-checks it," lando says to the camera, arms around your waist as he mindlessly moves with you as you continue to fold one of lando's hoodies and place it in the packing cube. "i would literally be lost without her, probably would only bring one pair of underwear if she didn't double check," he adds, kissing your shoulder.

"you say that like it hasn't happened before," you tease quietly, the camera able to pick up your voice thanks to lando's own mic clipped to his shirt. "remember – spa last year? i had to go buy you a pack of underwear cause you only packed one."

"shhhhh~ don't expose me like that," he says, grabbing your hips and making you jump slightly with a small yelp. lando can't help but grin as you turn to give him an annoyed pout over your shoulder.

"don't be too mean to me or i'll make sure you only have one pair of socks this weekend," you tease. lando's grin doesn't disappear as he hugs you from behind, his head resting on your back.

clip #2 – lando forgets his pass

you are sitting in the passenger seat of the car, lando and his parents sitting in the back while jon drives. the camera catches lando leaning forward slightly to massage your shoulders the best he could.

when they get to the front of the line, you reach into your purse to take your pass out as you hand it to jon. lando's parents also hand him their passes so security can look at them. that's when you notice lando didn't give jon his pass.

"baby, do you have my pass?" he's asking you, giving your shoulder a nice squeeze. the camera catches your confused look as you turn to look at your boyfriend, and you notice that his mother also has a confused look on her face.

"what are you talking about lan? i don't have your pass."

"you don't? i thought you grabbed it."

"i thought you grabbed it, lando!"

that's when it settled in that lando didn't have pass. jon turned to look at the guard who was waiting.

"he doesn't have his pass," he tells the man, but the security guard can only shake his head.

"can't let him in without one."

"but he's a driver, his face is plastered all over the place," jon says and its during this exchange that you turn to look back at lando with a deadpan expression. he can only give you a boyish grin as he reaches for your hand to kiss it. completely avoiding looking at his mother's face.

jon and the guard continue to go back and forth; that's when you speak up, "it's okay, jon, we'll make lando get out, so we can continue. he can find his own way in."

"y/n!" you turn to look at your boyfriend with a serious expression.

"i'm serious, lan, get out and start walking. actions have consequences, even forgetful ones."

eventually, the guard lets you all in, but you don't fail to give your british lover one more deadpan look. still not able to believe the fact he forgot his pass.

clip #3 – hiding in lando's hoodie

the camera shakes a little inside the private jet, but easily captures lando stretched out in his seat. reclined back and eyes closed, but that's not all.

you were also spread out with him in the same seat. upper body completely hidden underneath lando's hoodie and one of his arms are draped protectively over you. a blanket thrown over the two of you as you both are clearly asleep.

when a sudden hit of turbulence rocks the jet slightly, the camera catches lando's face twitching as he mumbles something in his sleep. however, the turbulence seemed to have woken you up. your upper body moving slightly underneath lando's hoodie before you are suddenly appearing.

your hair is messy a little bit, ponytail half-falling out of its hold. you look around slightly, eyes locking onto the camera before you're shyly turning away to hide yourself back into lando. your movement seemed to have woken lando as he's looking at you with sleep-filled eyes.

"what's wrong?" he's asking softly, hand tracing up and down your back.

"i got hot," you murmur out as you lay back down, face hiding in his neck.

"i told you, you were going to get hot, but you insisted," he says, kissing the top of your head. you let out a groan in response which makes him smile. "go back to sleep baby, we still got a few hours before we land."

"already on it."

clip #4 – y/n's panic attack is caught on camera

your stuttered cry fills the air and it's obvious you're out of breath and upset. the camera tries to get a view of you as lando is quickly moving you through the back of hospitality.

lando's shoulders are tense, frown on his face as he opens a door before guiding you inside. the camera catches as he gently sits you down in a chair. "it's okay, baby, i'm here. breathe, y/n, i need you to breathe."

your eyes are frantic, glassy and your face flushed with tears. breath stuttering as you are clearly having trouble trying to stop. you focus mainly on lando, but then you make eye contact with the camera behind him and it's like you start panicking all over again.

lando is seen looking over his shoulder and immediately straightens up when he sees the camera. in one, two large steps he's in the camera's face. "get the fuck out right now," he hisses and the camera jerks as lando is shoving the camera away. "get fucking out. let her have a fucking moment of peace," he adds once again shoving the camera before slamming the door in the crew's face.

the netflix crew doesn't leave, still recording the door that separates them from you and lando, but the audio can still be caught.

"it's okay," lando says, voice a complete 180 from what it just was. "do you feel that, princess, my chest going in... and out... i need you to breathe with me." it can only be assumed that lando is trying to help you calm down. "i'm here for you, not going anywhere, y/n. i love you."

clip #5 – lando describes y/n

"who is y/n?" the producer asks while lando is sitting in front of them in the small interview room the show puts them in.

lando makes a face like he's thinking before quickly answering, "y/n is my partner. she comes to races with me, she helps me pack, makes me laugh, cuddles with me, she’s there with me through it all. i couldn't imagine my life without her."

it then cuts to show a clip of you and lando right before a quali. him standing in his race suit with you right in front of him. his race suit is only half-zipped and you smile at him softly as you fix. zipping it up the rest of the way before velcroing the collar.

"there," you say, running a hand over his chest as he grins at you. his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him.

"thank you, baby," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of you mouth.

"good luck, lan," you tell him before you're reaching up to kiss his cheek.

it then cuts back to lando sitting in the seat, a fond smile on his face as he thinks about you. "she's my calm, always there before i get in the car and waiting for me with that pretty smile when i get out. y/n is my rock, truly, i would be a little lost without her."

clip #6 – landoyn in a hot tub 👀

you let out a small laugh as you feel lando press his lips to your bare shoulder. the heat from the hot tub creating a fine layer of condensation on your skin, and lando having you pressed flushed against him in his lap surely doesn't help. the camera catches his lips trailing from your shoulder and up your neck. slowly, like he's savoring the moment between you both.

"are you nervous for this next race?" you ask softly, knowing that if you didn't get him talking the netflix crew was going to have quite the footage in their hands. the type of footage that would, of course, give lando's pr team a full on nightmare.

lando lets out a small hum against your skin, "a little bit, but singapore is always a monster."

"i know..." you agree softly, remembering how exhausted he always is after that specific race. exhausted and dehydrated amongst other things. "you can do it though," you add, turning your head slightly to look him.

"i'll get a podium, for sure."

"oh? you think so?" you tease with a smile. lando lets out a dry laugh as he reaches behind him to grab the wine glass. taking a sip from it before he's handing it off to you and you are also sipping from it. "i think you can do it, baby," you finally add when you hand the glass back to him.

the camera focuses on how lando smiles at you as you turn to sit sideways in his lap. water sloshes around the two of you as lando's hand comes up to rest at the back of your neck, gently massaging it as his other hand rests under the water on your thigh.

"kiss?" he asks quietly – so quiet the audio almost doesn't pick it up. you can't help the smile that paints your lips as you nod before leaning in to kiss him. your hand traveling from his chest to his jaw as you kiss each other slowly.

the camera pans out before cutting to the next scene entirely.

clip #7 – y/n running to lando after a win

'lando has proven to be a force to be reckoned with. someone who clearly needs to be watched when on the track, you can't underestimate him anymore."

the camera was capturing lando already getting out of the car, parking in front of the first place spot. the crowd around him is loud – everyone cheering and screaming for lando as he poses before jumping down and running towards his team that are waiting for him behind the barrier.

when he gets done celebrating with them, lando tears his helmet off. balaclava coming off to reveal his sweat drenched head, curls messy and sticking to his forehead as his eyes are searching for something– someone.

"lando!" he immediately turns and the camera gets a clear view of you running towards him. he drops his stuff, arms open wide just in time for him to catch you. your lips immediately pressing to his, as he holds you close to him. he spins you both once, twice as your hands cup his jaw to keep him from pulling away.

everyone around you both is still cheering loudly, your legs wrapping around his waist as you hug him.

"that was for, y/n," he's heard saying over the roar of everything around you. "this win was for you," he tells you as you rest your forehead against his, tears running down your face as you kiss him again.

Requested: Yes/ Anon

Word count: 7140

Author’s note: Hey loves, this one got super emotional! I hope you all enjoy this angst to comfort story. Let me know what you think xx

Masterlist

The dinner dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, each plate gleaming under the soft, warm lights of your Monaco apartment kitchen. The apartment was quiet, a rare and peaceful silence that usually only happened when Lando was away at a race weekend or out with friends. Tonight, it was the latter. He had gone out to meet up with a few of the guys, leaving you with a free evening to potter around, tidy up the space you shared, and enjoy a quiet meal by yourself. You loved this place. It was high up, looking out over the harbor, and every corner of it was slowly filling up with memories of the life you were building together.

You walked into the living room, picking up a stray throw blanket from the back of the sofa, folding it into a neat rectangle, and smoothing down the fabric. On the coffee table lay a stack of wedding planning magazines, their covers glossy and filled with photos of dresses, floral arrangements, and venue ideas. Just looking at them brought a sudden, warm flutter to your chest. You reached down and touched the delicate band resting on your left ring finger, tracing the smooth metal with your thumb. You were engaged, and every single time you thought about it, a silly, helpless smile found its way onto your face. You genuinely could not wait to be his wife officially. It felt like the most natural, exciting next step in a life that already felt so bright and full of love.

The sound of the key turning in the front door lock pulled you out of your thoughts. You set the magazine down and stood up, watching as the door swung open and Lando stepped inside. He tossed his keys into the small tray on the entrance table, kicking off his sneakers with a soft sigh of relief. As soon as he looked up and saw you standing near the couch, his face brightened into that familiar, lopsided grin that had captured your heart years ago.

He walked straight toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close for a quick, affectionate kiss on the lips. He smelled like the cool night air and a hint of cologne.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said softly, leaning his forehead against yours for a second before letting go and stepping back. “How was your evening? Did you manage to relax a bit?”

“It was good,” you said with a smile, following him as he walked toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water from the fridge. “I finished eating a little while ago, cleaned up the kitchen, and spent way too much time looking at flower arrangements for the reception. I think I have about fifty different options pinned now. How was your night with the guys?”

Lando poured himself some water, taking a slow sip before leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Yeah, it was fine, you know, just catching up with everyone. We just had some food, talked about the upcoming races, usual stuff.”

You smiled, resting your hands on the back of one of the bar stools. “Sounds nice. Did everyone send their love?”

“Yeah, of course,” Lando replied. He set his glass down on the counter, but instead of walking over to join you on the couch like he usually did, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers, and his eyes met yours, holding a strange, hesitant expression that made your stomach do a tiny, unexpected flip.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping slightly in pitch. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

The shift in his tone was immediate, and a small knot of tension instantly formed in the pit of your stomach. You looked at him closely, trying to read his expression. He did not look angry, but he looked cautious, almost nervous, which was a look you rarely saw on him when he was talking to you.

“Okay,” you said slowly, your voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. “What is it? Is everything alright?”

Lando took a step closer to you, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, a nervous habit he had when he was trying to figure out how to phrase something delicate. “Yeah, yeah, everything is fine. Don't look so worried. It's just, well, something came up while I was out with the guys tonight, and it just got me thinking a bit.”

You stood there, waiting, your heart beginning to beat just a little faster against your ribs. You tried to stay calm, telling yourself it was probably just something about his schedule, or a new PR requirement, or maybe something related to the wedding budget.

“What came up?” you asked gently, wanting to encourage him to just spit it out.

Lando cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the floor for a fraction of a second before looking back up at you. “Well, we were all talking, you know, just about the future, marriage, and all the stuff that comes with it. And a couple of the guys were mentioning prenups, and how they think it's just a smart, standard thing to have in place before getting married. And, I don't know, it just got me thinking that maybe we should talk about getting one, too.”

The words seemed to hang in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. For a second, you were entirely certain you had misheard him. The quiet in the apartment suddenly felt deafening.

“A prenup?” you repeated, the word feeling completely foreign on your tongue.

“Yeah,” Lando said, moving his hands around as he spoke, trying to sound casual, as if he were discussing what to order for breakfast tomorrow. “Just, you know, a legal agreement, just to have things sorted out legally before we actually sign everything. It just seems like what people do nowadays, especially with everything going on.”

You stood frozen beside the kitchen island, feeling as though the ground beneath your feet had suddenly given way. Stunned did not even begin to describe the sensation washing over you. A cold, hollow feeling opened up in your chest, spreading rapidly to your fingertips.

“Where is this coming from, Lando?” you asked, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We have been planning our wedding for months. We have talked about our future a million times. You have never, not once, brought this up before.”

Lando took another half step toward you, his hands held out in a placating gesture. “I know, I know we haven't. Like I said, it was just because the guys were bringing it up tonight. They were sharing their opinions and stories, and it just made me think that maybe it's just a sensible, practical thing to consider. It's not a big deal, you know? Just a precaution.”

“A precaution?” you whispered. The word stung like a sharp slapped slap to the face. You stared at him, searching his blue eyes for any sign of the man who had knelt down and asked you to spend the rest of his life with him, the man who had promised you that you were his partner in every sense of the word.

He knew how you felt about things like this. You had discussed marriages in general long before you were even engaged, watching friends or public figures go through painful splits. You had always told him that, to you, marriage was a complete, unconditional commitment. It was two people stepping into a shared life, trusting each other entirely, burning the bridges behind them because they were fully dedicated to making it work. A prenuptial agreement, in your eyes, felt like planning for the end before you had even truly begun. It felt like putting a safety net under a leap of faith because you did not trust the other person to catch you, or because you did not trust the foundation you were building together. He knew all of this. You had shared your deepest, most vulnerable thoughts on love and commitment with him, and he had nodded, held your hand, and agreed with you.

And yet, here he was, bringing it up now, just because a few of his friends had filled his head with talk about protecting assets and playing it safe.

“You know how I feel about prenups, Lando,” you said, your throat tightening so much it hurt to speak. “You know exactly what I think about them. We have talked about this before.”

Lando sighed, looking a bit flustered. “I know what you said in the past, but I thought maybe if we actually looked at it practically, you would see it differently. It's just about being smart with finances. Everyone does it.”

“Everyone does it?” you echoed, disbelief creeping into your tone. “So because some guys at a table told you it's what people do, you come home and ask me to sign a paper that says you need to protect yourself from me?”

“That's not what I'm saying,” Lando said quickly, taking another step forward, but you instinctively took a small step back, putting distance between you. He noticed, and his expression flickered with a mix of frustration and worry. “It's not about protecting myself from you, it's just about protecting what's there. It's just business, really.”

“It's just business?” The words tasted bitter in your mouth. “This is our marriage, Lando. This isn't a racing contract. This isn't a sponsorship deal. It's us. It's our life together.”

A horrible, sinking feeling settled deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating. The realization began to bloom in your mind, sharp and painful. You knew there was an obvious financial gap between the two of you. Lando was a successful Formula One driver, earning millions, living a life of immense wealth and luxury. You, on the other hand, worked hard for what you had. You had a part-time online job that you loved, and you earned a decent income through brand deals on your TikTok account where you had built a small, modest following. You were proud of your independence. You paid for your own things, you contributed to the household as much as you possibly could, and you never, ever asked him for expensive gifts or money. You loved him for who he was, the quiet, goofy, caring boy behind the racing helmet, not for his bank account.

But right now, looking at his guarded expression, a terrifying thought hit you. Does he think I'm doing this for his money? Does he secretly view me as a threat to his wealth?

“Do you think I'm with you for your money?” you asked, the words barely more than a whisper, but they seemed to cut through the quiet room like a knife.

Lando blinked, clearly startled by the question. “What? No, of course I don't think that. Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then why ask for a prenup?” you demanded, a lump forming in your throat that made it almost impossible to breathe. “If you truly, completely trust me, if you know in your heart that I am here because I love you and only you, why do you need a legal document to protect your money from me? Why are you sitting here, asking me to sign something, just because your friends told you to?”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, visibly struggling to find the right words. “It's just standard procedure for someone in my position. It doesn't mean I don't trust you, it just means we are being realistic about the world. Things happen, people change, and it's just better to have things clear from the start. Why are you getting so defensive about it if it doesn't matter?”

His words felt like a physical blow to your chest. The blood rushed to your ears, a loud ringing sound filling your head. He thought you were being defensive. He thought this was about the money itself, rather than the complete erosion of trust you were feeling right at this moment. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you, so intense that you had to reach out and steady yourself against the edge of the kitchen table. You genuinely felt like you were going to throw up.

All the excitement you had felt just twenty minutes ago, looking at wedding magazines and dreaming about walking down the aisle to become his wife, crumbled into sharp, painful pieces. You looked at the man you loved more than anything in this world, and for the first time since you met him, he felt like a complete stranger.

“I need to get out of here,” you murmured, your stomach churning violently.

“What?” Lando asked, looking confused. “Where are you going? We are just having a conversation, we don't need to dramatic about it.”

“A conversation?” you asked, your voice trembling as the first hot tear spilled over your eyelashes and tracked a wet path down your cheek. You quickly brushed it away with the back of your hand, but another immediately followed. You looked him straight in the eyes, needing to know, needing to hear the absolute truth before you lost your mind completely. “Lando, look at me. Look at me and answer me honestly. Do you really, truly want a prenup?”

Lando opened his mouth to answer immediately, but then he stopped. He hesitated. For one awful, agonizing second, his eyes shifted away from yours, his jaw tightening as he weighed his response.

That brief, terrible moment of hesitation was all the answer you needed. It broke whatever small piece of hope you were still holding onto.

A fresh wave of tears burst from your eyes, blurring your vision. You couldn't breathe in this room anymore. The air felt too thick, the space too tight, the silence far too heavy. You didn't say another word. You turned around, grabbed your smartphone off the island counter, and walked toward the front door as fast as your trembling legs could carry you.

“Wait, stop, where are you going?” Lando called out, his voice laced with a sudden edge of panic as he heard the front door unlatch. “Don't just walk out, talk to me!”

You didn't look back. You pulled open the heavy front door, stepped out into the carpeted hallway of the apartment building, and let the door swing shut behind you. You rushed down the corridor toward the elevators, pressing the button repeatedly with a shaking thumb. You couldn't wait for the elevator, though. The thought of standing there in the open hallway, waiting for him to step out and confront you, made your heart race wildly. You turned to the heavy emergency door, pushed it open, and began hurried steps down the concrete stairwell, your breath coming in ragged, painful hitches.

When you finally reached the ground floor, you pushed through the main entrance doors of the building and stepped out into the night air of Monaco. The cool breeze hit your face, chilling the wet tear tracks on your skin, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest. You had no destination in mind, no plan, no jacket to protect you from the slight chill in the air. You just needed to walk. You needed to put as much distance between yourself and that apartment as you possibly could.

You walked along the sidewalks, your head down, your arms wrapped tightly around your middle as if trying to hold yourself together. The streetlights stretched out ahead of you, casting long, pale shadows on the clean pavement. Cars passed by occasionally, their headlights sweeping over you, but you barely noticed them. Everything felt surreal, like a terrible nightmare you were desperately trying to wake up from. How had your evening gone from happily planning a wedding to feeling completely broken and unwanted by the person you trusted most in the world?

After walking for what felt like an eternity, your feet began to ache, and your breath grew shallow from crying continuous, quiet tears. You found yourself near a quieter stretch of the waterfront, away from the loud, glittering nightlife of the main harbor. There was a small, secluded park area overlooking the water, illuminated only by a couple of soft street lamps. You spotted an empty wooden bench facing the sea and collapsed onto it, burying your face in your hands as a fresh sob wracked your body.

The cool night air bit at your bare arms, but you hardly felt it. All you could feel was the crushing weight in your chest. You sat there for a long time, watching the dark water lap against the stone harbor walls, listening to the distant, rhythmic hum of the city. You felt so completely alone.

With shaking hands, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. The screen lit up, showing a string of missed calls and frantic text messages from Lando, but you swiped them away, unable to bring yourself to look at his name on the screen right now. Instead, you scrolled through your contacts until you found Pietra's name. Pietra was one of your closest friends in the paddock, someone who had always been a steady, loving, and fiercely supportive presence in your life.

You typed out a quick, trembling message: *are you awake? can you talk please?*

Not even three seconds passed before your phone began to vibrate in your hand. Pietra was calling you back. You took a deep, shaky breath, pressed the green button, and raised the phone to your ear.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Pietra's voice came through the speaker, immediately filled with concern. She knew you well enough to know that you wouldn't text her at this hour asking to talk unless something was seriously wrong. “I just saw your message. Are you okay? Where are you?”

Hearing her gentle, familiar voice was the final straw that broke down your remaining defenses. A loud, wet sob escaped your throat before you could stop it, and you squeezed your eyes shut, tears streaming freely down your cheeks once again.

“Pietra,” you managed to choke out, your voice thick and cracked with emotion. “I... I don't know what to do.”

“Hey, hey, slow down, breathe,” Pietra said softly, her voice calm and soothing despite the obvious worry in her tone. “Take a deep breath for me. Tell me what happened. Are you safe?”

“Yeah, I'm safe, I'm just... I'm sitting on a bench near the water,” you hiccuped, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve. “I left the apartment. I couldn't stay there.”

“Did you and Lando have a fight?” she asked gently.

“He... he asked me for a prenup, Pietra,” you sobbed out, the words painful to even speak aloud. “He came home tonight, after being out with some guys, and he just... he asked me if we could get a prenup. Out of nowhere.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by a soft, sharp intake of breath from Pietra. “He did what?”

“He said he was talking to his friends and they said it was standard, and that we should have one,” you explained, the tears flowing steadily now as you poured your heart out to her. “And I asked him why, and he said it was just practical, like business. But he knows how I feel about this. He knows I think marriage is about total trust. He knows I don't care about his money. I work, I pay for my own things, I have my own little income from my online job and my TikTok, I never ask him for anything. But tonight... tonight it felt like he thinks I'm just waiting to take half of his stuff if things go wrong.”

“Oh, honey,” Pietra murmured, her heart clearly breaking for you. “I am so, so sorry. That is awful.”

“I asked him to look me in the eye and tell me if he really wanted one,” you continued, your voice breaking completely as you replayed that terrible moment in your head. “And he hesitated, Pietra. He didn't even say no. He hesitated. It felt like he doesn't trust me at all. It made me feel so sick to my stomach. I gave him back my entire heart, I'm planning to give him my whole life, and he's sitting there calculating how to keep his money safe from me. I just took my phone and ran out. I couldn't look at him.”

You sat there on the bench, crying openly into the phone, spilling out every thought, every insecurity, every drop of pain that had been building up in your chest since Lando had uttered that single, terrible word. Pietra stayed on the line, listening patiently, offering words of comfort, validating your feelings, and reminding you that you had every right to feel hurt and betrayed by his sudden shift in attitude.

What neither you nor Pietra knew in that moment was that Pietra was not alone in her apartment when your call came through.

Max was sitting on the couch nearby, a half-empty glass of water in his hand, having just finished watching a race review. When Pietra had answered the phone, she had put it on speaker for a brief second to grab her headphones, but as soon as she heard your broken, tearful voice echoing through the small speaker, she had turned it off speaker, but not before Max caught the distress in your voice. As Pietra spoke to you, her tone grew more protective and stern, and Max could easily piece together bits and pieces of the conversation from Pietra's side. He heard words like prenup, money, crying, left the apartment, and hesitation.

Max frowned, setting his glass down on the table with a firm thud. His jaw tightened as he watched his girlfriend comfort you on the phone. Max had known Lando for years. He liked Lando, considered him a good friend and a fantastic driver, but he also knew that Lando could sometimes be incredibly foolish, easily influenced by the wrong conversations, and dense when it came to reading emotional situations.

As soon as Pietra hung up the call with you, promising to keep her phone right next to her in case you needed anything, Max stood up from the sofa.

“Is she okay?” Max asked, his voice low and serious.

“No, she isn't,” Pietra said, shaking her head, anger flaring in her eyes. “Lando came home tonight and asked her for a prenuptial agreement because some idiot friends of his planted the idea in his head. She's wandering around Monaco alone right now, completely heartbroken.”

Max let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose. He grabbed his phone off the table immediately, scrolling through his contacts until he found Lando's name, and pressed call.

In another part of Monaco, Lando was driving his car through the streets, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He was frantically checking every sidewalk, every square, every familiar spot he could think of, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had tried calling you a dozen times, each call going straight to voicemail. He was terrified. The look of absolute, crushed hurt on your face before you had walked out was burned into his mind, haunting him with every second that passed. He felt a sudden, terrible pit of regret opening up in his stomach. Why had he brought it up? Why had he let those stupid conversations at the table get into his head?

When his phone screen lit up on the dashboard display showing Max's name, Lando quickly hit the answer button, desperate for any news.

“Max?” Lando said frantically, his voice strained. “Max, have you seen her? Do you know where she is? She walked out of the apartment and she won't answer my calls.”

Max did not mince his words. His voice came through the car speakers like ice, stern, direct, and completely unforgiving.

“Lando,” Max said sharply, skipping any greeting entirely. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lando winced at the tone. “Max, please, I'm looking for her right now, I don't know where she went—”

“I know you don't know where she is,” Max cut in, his voice cold and commanding. “Because she is sitting somewhere on a bench crying her eyes out because of you. What is wrong with you, mate? A prenup? Are you completely out of your mind?”

“I... it was just a conversation!” Lando tried to defend himself, his voice sounding small and desperate. “Some of the guys were talking about it tonight, and I just thought it was something standard people do! I didn't mean to hurt her, I was just asking!”

“You were just asking?” Max scoffed, sounding thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. “Lando, use your brain for once. You have a girl who loves you for who you are, who works hard, who has been planning your wedding and standing by your side through everything, and you come home and treat her like she's some random person trying to take your money? Because some idiots at a bar told you to?”

Lando bit his lip, the guilt washing over him in a devastating wave. Hearing it laid out so plainly by Max made him realize just how stupid, how utterly insensitive he had been.

“I didn't think... I didn't realize how it would sound to her,” Lando choked out, pulling his car up to a red light, his forehead resting against the top of the steering wheel for a brief second. “I feel like an idiot, Max. I really do. I just want to fix it. Do you know where she is?”

“Pietra just talked to her,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, though the authority remained. “She is somewhere near the water, down by the quiet park near the lower harbor. You need to go find her right now, Lando. Stop being an idiot, drop your stupid ego, and fix this before you completely destroy the best thing that ever happened to you. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, his voice trembling with genuine fear of losing you. “Yeah, I understand. Thanks, Max.”

Max hung up without another word. Lando slammed his foot on the accelerator as soon as the light turned green, turning the car toward the lower harbor area. His mind was racing, memories of your time together flashing through his head, every laugh, every shared quiet moment, every time you had supported him through a tough race weekend. You had never asked him for a single cent. You had always been fiercely proud of earning your own money through your online work and social media, always insisting on paying for small things, always choosing to love him for the boy who played video games and laughed at silly jokes, not the wealthy Formula One driver. How could he have been so stupidly blind to let outside voices make him doubt the purest thing in his life?

He parked his car illegally near the entrance of the small seaside park, not caring about a parking ticket or who saw him. He threw the door open and started running down the paved path, his eyes scanning every bench, every shadow along the waterfront.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting on that wooden bench, curled up slightly against the cold, your phone clutched tightly in your hands, your shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs. The sight of you sitting there, small and broken in the dim streetlight, hit Lando like a physical blow to the chest. He stopped in his tracks for a fraction of a second, his own throat tightening, before he started walking quickly toward you.

The sound of his footsteps on the gravel path echoed in the quiet air. You heard someone approaching and looked up, wiping a tear from your wet face. When your eyes landed on Lando, standing a few feet away with a panicked, heartbroken look on his face, your expression instantly hardened, a wall of pain and self-defense slamming down between you.

“Go away, Lando,” you said, your voice raw, raspy, and cold. “I don't want to talk to you right now.”

Lando didn't listen. He took three quick steps forward, desperate to close the distance between you. “Please, just listen to me for a second, please—”

“No!” you said, standing up from the bench so fast that he stopped in his tracks. You took a step back, putting space between yourself and him, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and deep, agonizing sorrow. “I told you, I don't want to talk to you! You made it very clear how you feel tonight. You made it completely clear what you think of me!”

“That's not true!” Lando pleaded, reaching out a hand toward you, though he didn't dare step closer for fear of driving you further away. “Please, you have to let me explain. I was stupid, I was so incredibly stupid, but please don't look at me like that.”

“How am I supposed to look at you?” you cried out, fresh tears spilling over your lashes, reflecting the soft glow of the streetlamps. “You come home and ask me to sign a paper to protect your precious money from me! After everything we've built, after all the plans we've made! You listened to some guys at a restaurant and decided that I wasn't trustworthy enough to be your wife without a legal safety net!”

“I don't think that!” Lando yelled softly, his own voice cracking, desperation bleeding through every word. “I swear to you, I don't think that! I know how hard you work, I know you don't care about my money, I know all of that! I just... I let people get into my head, they were talking about how standard it is, and I just thoughtlessly threw it out there without thinking about how it would hurt you. It was the dumbest mistake I've ever made.”

You looked at him, shaking your head slowly, the pain in your heart too vast to be smoothed over by a quick apology. “You hesitated, Lando,” you whispered, the memory of that single second in the kitchen cutting into you all over again. “When I asked you if you truly wanted one, you hesitated. You looked away. That hurt more than anything else. Because in that split second, you were actually considering it. You were actually thinking that I might be someone you need to protect yourself from.”

Lando looked like he had been slapped. The color drained from his face, and his eyes filled with tears as he realized just how deep the wound he had inflicted was. He took a slow, careful step forward, his hands raised in surrender, his expression completely broken.

“I froze because I saw how upset you were,” Lando begged, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. “I panicked because I realized I had just ruined everything, and my brain just shut down. I don't want a prenup. I swear to God on my life, I don't want one. I don't care about any of that stuff. All I care about is you. Please, you have to believe me.”

You stared at him, feeling so exhausted, so emotionally drained that you could barely stand. The cold wind swept across the harbor, making you shiver violently. You looked down at your hand, at the bright, sparkling diamond sitting on your finger, the ring that was supposed to represent forever, complete trust, and unconditional love. Right now, it just felt heavy, like a cruel reminder of how fragile things really were.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached your right hand over to your left ring finger. You felt Lando freeze, his entire body going rigid as he watched your movement.

You slowly pulled the engagement ring off your finger.

“If you really don't trust me,” you said, your voice trembling so hard it was barely audible, holding the ring out in your open palm toward him, “if you truly believe in your heart that we need legal protections against each other before we can even make a promise to love each other, then you can have your ring back. Because I don't want to enter a marriage where I have to prove my innocence every single day.”

The moment the ring left your finger, absolute panic seized Lando. The sight of the ring lying in your palm, divorced from your finger, broke through whatever remaining barrier he had. A choked sob escaped his throat, and he closed the distance between you in a fraction of a second, ignoring your previous warnings to stay back.

He didn't grab the ring. Instead, he grabbed both of your hands, folding his larger, warm fingers firmly over yours, forcing your hand closed around the ring, holding it tightly between your combined hands. He dropped to his knees right there on the cold, hard pavement in front of the bench, looking up at you with eyes that were red, wide, and brimming with overflowing tears.

“No, no, no,” Lando cried out, his voice completely wrecked as he squeezed your hands against his chest. “Please, don't do this. Do not take it off. Please, put it back on. I'm begging you.”

You looked down at him kneeling on the floor, his head resting against your folded hands, his shoulders shaking violently as he wept open, unreserved tears. You had never seen him like this, completely undone, completely stripped of any pride, racing status, or defense.

“Lando, get up,” you whispered, trying to pull your hands back, but he held on with everything he had, refusing to let you go.

“No, I'm not getting up until you understand,” Lando sobbed, looking up at you, tears trailing down his cheeks, his eyes filled with pure terror at the thought of losing you. “I am so, so sorry. I was a complete, utter idiot. I swear to you, I don't want a prenup. I never wanted one. I don't care about the money, I don't care about protecting assets, I don't care about any of that useless stuff. The only thing in my life that has any real value is you. You are my home. You are my whole life.”

He pressed your hand, still holding the ring, against his cheek, leaning into your touch, crying softly into your skin.

“I was stupid,” he continued, his voice thick with tears. “I let a bunch of guys talk about their own bitter, cynical views on marriage, and I brought that poison into our home. I should have told them to shut up. I should have told them that what we have is different, that we trust each other completely. I failed you tonight. I hurt you so badly, and I will hate myself forever for making you feel like you weren't trusted or loved.”

He took a shaky breath, looking up into your eyes, his blue eyes raw and completely honest. “I trust you with my life. I trust you with my heart. I want to share everything I have with you, every single bit of it, without any conditions, without any stupid papers, without anything holding us back. You are my partner. You earned your own way, you always have, and you have loved me for me when no one else was watching. If you walk away from me tonight, my life means nothing. Please, don't give the ring back. Please give me a chance to fix this.”

You stood there, looking down at him kneeling at your feet in the cold night, listening to every broken, desperate word coming from his heart. The intense, suffocating pain in your chest began to yield, slowly melting under the weight of his absolute, undeniable sincerity. You could see the raw terror in his eyes, the deep regret radiating from every part of him. He wasn't lying. He had made a foolish, incredibly insensitive mistake, swayed by bad advice and thoughtless conversation, but he did not view you as a gold digger. He did not want to protect himself from you. He was just a boy who had messed up terribly and was now terrified of losing the love of his life.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, a mix of lingering sorrow and immense relief. You slowly dropped to your knees on the pavement in front of him, bringing yourself down to his level.

Lando immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly into his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He held onto you so hard it was almost difficult to breathe, as if he were afraid that if he loosened his grip even a little bit, you would vanish into the night air. You felt his body trembling against yours, felt the warmth of his wet tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt.

Slowly, gently, you brought your arms up and wrapped them around his back, resting your hands against his spine. You felt him let out a long, ragged breath the moment you hugged him back, his hold on you tightening even more.

“You hurt me so much, Lando,” you whispered into his shoulder, tears still quietly slipping from your eyes, though the sharpness of the pain was finally beginning to dull.

“I know,” he sobbed softly, resting his forehead against yours, his hands coming up to gently frame your face, his thumb softly wiping away the tear trails on your cheeks. “I know, and I am so, so sorry. I promise you, on everything I am, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I will never, ever let anyone make me doubt us again. I will never hurt you like this again.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the utter devotion and deep regret shining through the unshed tears. The knot in your stomach finally unraveling completely. You opened your right hand, revealing the silver band resting in your palm.

Lando looked down at the ring, his hands trembling as he gently picked it up. He looked up at you, his eyes asking for permission, silent and humble.

You offered him your left hand.

Lando let out a small, breathless laugh through his tears, a sound of pure, overwhelming relief. He carefully slipped the ring back onto your left ring finger, pushing it all the way down to the base where it belonged. As soon as it was back in its place, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a long, lingering, reverent kiss right onto the sparkling stone, and then onto your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice steadying now, full of conviction. “I love you more than anything in this world. You are going to be my wife, completely and fully, with no strings attached, no legal papers between us, just you and me.”

“I love you too, you idiot,” you murmured, a tiny, watery smile finally breaking through your exhausted face.

Lando leaned in, closing the small distance between your faces, and pulled you into a deep, gentle, incredibly tender kiss. It wasn't rushed or panicked anymore. It was slow, full of love, promises, and forgiveness, tasting faintly of salt from your combined tears. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing slowly syncing up with yours in the quiet night.

“Come on,” Lando said softly after a moment, standing up and pulling you gently to your feet with him. He wrapped an arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you side-by-side against his warm body to protect you from the cold breeze. “Let's go home. You're freezing.”

You nodded, resting your head against his side as you walked together back toward his parked car. The walk was quiet, but it was a comfortable, healing silence this time. The heavy, dark cloud that had hovered over you all evening had finally dissipated, leaving behind a cleared air and a renewed, even stronger foundation between you.

When you got back into the car, Lando turned on the heater immediately, blasting warm air into the cabin to help you warm up. Before pulling out into the street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the screen, then looked over at you with a small, sheepish expression.

“I should probably text Max,” Lando confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He called me while I was driving around looking for you. He practically yelled my ear off for being an idiot.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising even yourself after such an emotionally draining night. “Pietra called him, didn't she?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, cracking a small, genuine smile. “Max was ready to come over here and throw me into the harbor himself. He told me to stop being a fool and fix this before I ruined my entire life.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back against the leather seat, feeling a warm sense of gratitude for your friends. “Max is a very smart man.”

Lando chuckled softly, sending a quick text to Max to let him know that everything was okay and that he was bringing you back home. He set the phone down, put the car in drive, and began the short journey back to your apartment building.

When you finally walked back through the front door of your home, the apartment felt warm, welcoming, and familiar again. The wedding magazines were still sitting on the coffee table where you had left them hours ago. Lando walked over, picked them up, and set them gently back down, looking over at you with a soft, loving gaze.

“Tomorrow,” Lando said, walking up to you and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close against him. “We are going to sit down together, and we are going to look at every single one of those flower arrangements. And whatever you pick, that's what we are having. No arguments.”

You smiled, resting your hands against his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Deal.”

He kissed the top of your head, resting his chin on your hair as he held you close. The pain of the evening was behind you, left out in the cold streets of Monaco, replaced by the deep, unshakable knowledge that whatever challenges lay ahead, you were entering your marriage together as true equals, bound by complete trust, unconditional love, and a promise that no outside noise could ever tear apart.

Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.

Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.

“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”

And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”

“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.

Still, habits die hard.

Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.

Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.

Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.

You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”

He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”

And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.

You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”

Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.

When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.

By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.

When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”

“You let me.”

You snorted. “I was texting!”

“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”

“You literally won the world championship—”

“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”

The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”

But it wasn’t over.

Oh no.

As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”

“NO.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”

“MAX—”

“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.

You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.

You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.

You blinked up at him, lips twitching.

He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.

Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.

“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.

You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”

You did.

He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.

You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.

“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”

Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.

His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.

“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.

You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”

“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”

You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”

Max lit up again.

“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”

“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”

“Schatje, they call me Mad Max for a reason.”

Before they found out y/n is pregnant, it was like trying to raise him from the dead if y/n wants Oscar's attention. But something about her being pregnant has made his sleep much easier to disturb.

So when he hears y/n get up he stirs but doesn't move figuring that she just needs the bathroom and he learned the hard way that she might be awake but that doesn't mean she wants fussed over or even conversation.

But when he hears her beginning to sniffle and hiccups as she pats around the kitchen. So he gets out of bed and moves through to the kitchen.

"Baby? What's wrong?" He asks trying to hide his tiredness since y/n always feels guilty for waking him up.

"I'm so hungry." Y/n sniffles making him frown a little.

"Ok, ok. You don't need to cry. We can make you something to eat. What do you want?" Oscar smiles making her seem to only cry harder.

"Steak-I want steak, but I'm not allowed to have it the temperature I want it." Y/n cries now just surrendering to her emotions. "And-And I know it's stupid to cry over it but I can't help it."

Oscar doesn't even care that she thinks her crying seems silly. His main concern is getting her steak. It's 2 in the morning and they don't have steak in the apartment. In fact they have everything else he could possibly have stocked up on and yet he didn't think of steak.

"Give me a second, I'm just gonna pull on some clothes and I'll find a store and get you some steak ok? I'm gonna fix this."

"Oscar, it's 2 in the morning you can't go out-"

"You want steak at 2 in the morning. I'm giving you steak at...maybe half past 2 in the morning." Oscar declares as he walks back into the bedroom.

Y/n is still shedding tears feeling completely stupid but the need for a steak is actually distressing and it genuinely takes an emotional toll on her.

"Alright, baby. I'll be as quick as I can...if there's anything you want to snack on just to...see if it subsides the hunger till I'm back." Oscar states kissing her quickly and managing to wipe her cheeks free of the tears as best he can.

Y/n nods mumbling an "I love you" before she watches him head out. Part of her wants to go with him but if it takes longer than expected it's better for her not to be there crying beside him.

Oscar does end up going to Carrefour Market and thanks the universe for having steak. Probably not the best quality but it will do and he's already gotta be creative in how to make it taste good with it needing to be well done.

Y/n is still sniffling her way around the apartment when he gets back but he's back and he's got the steak.

"Ok-are you cooking?"

"I wanted some potatoes too." Y/n mumbles earning a soft smile. "I'm going to be obese by the end of this pregnancy."

"That's not true. The midwife said you hadn't gained enough weight last time you were there, so this is good. I'll finish off the cooking, you just sit ok?"

Y/n settles down and sighs softly as she watches him and smiles sadly while she watches him.

"I'm sorry." Y/n mumbles as Oscar puts the steak in the pan.

"Don't be sorry. I'm never sorry when I'm hungry." Oscar dismisses but y/n is clearly exhausted and hungry which are two things that are going to trigger emotions.

Oscar finishes up the steak with some garlic butter and places it on a plate before adding the potato wedges and sliding it across to y/n with a knife and fork.

"Want anything to drink?"

"Ummm...I should probably just stick to water." Y/n sighs earning a small nod as he moves to get her the water and she actually starts eating like a woman who has been starved. "Oscar...this might be the best thing I've ever eaten."

"I feel like that could be the cravings talking but I'm going to take that as a win." Oscar smiles as he sits down and just watches her.

Y/n keeps eating till she's done having a fleeting thought of offering Oscar some but honestly Oscar is unlikely to be hungry and y/n really just didn't want to share it in all truth.

"That was so good."

"Satisfied the craving?"

"Yes. One million percent." Y/n confirms before leaning over and kissing him. "Sorry, that was gross. Garlic kiss."

"I love your kisses. Garlic or not."

"Gonna have to brush my teeth again...I didn't think this through." Y/n grimaces since toothpaste has proven to be a new hurdle but it has to be done especially if she's going to have full meals in the middle of the night.

"Clean up can wait till morning." Oscar states then scooping y/n up like she's nothing. "Teeth then back to bed."

And that's exactly what happens, he stands with her as she gags her way through brushing her teeth and to both their relief she doesn't throw up the meal. Then they head to bed and y/n seems to pass out, completely satisfied while Oscar makes sure she's got her pillows in all the right places to keep her sleeping on her side before he manages to hug her with his hand resting on the small bump and admittedly he can't stop the smile on his face.

Other guys might be frustrated or annoyed, but he knows he's got responsibility for her pregnancy and he's not enduring the physical changes that she is. The least he can do is help her through these moment and support her.

Especially since he's not always there with her. But he'll do anything to take care of her when he's there and try to find ways to take care of her when he's not there. Which now he knows she craves full meals in the middle of the night, that's a new concern he has to handle when he's not there to drive out and get the food.

That's something to find solutions to in the morning.

If Lando asked for the moon, Y/N would have learned how to fly.

That was the embarrassing truth of her life.

Not that she loved him. That had become almost ordinary to her, folded into the rhythm of race weekends and late nights and the humiliating little lift in her chest every time he said her name.

No, the embarrassing part was that he knew.

Maybe not every detail of it. Maybe not the nights she lay awake replaying things he hadn’t meant. Maybe not the fact that half her life had started arranging itself around his moods without her permission.

But he knew enough.

Enough to know she would stay.

Enough to know she would fix it.

Enough to know that if he smiled first and asked second, she would say yes before the question had even finished leaving his mouth.

He liked that.

That was the part Y/N hated herself for understanding.

He liked being wanted. Liked being taken care of. Liked the certainty of her, the way she was always there, always soft for him, always ready to make his life easier.

He liked the devotion.

He just didn’t care about the girl attached to it.

“Y/N.”

She looked up too fast.

Lando was leaning against the office doorway, cap in one hand, team quarter zip half undone, still sun-warm from outside. Pretty in the kind of thoughtless way that should have made a person less dangerous and somehow only made him worse.

He smiled the second he saw she was looking.

“There you are.”

Her pulse kicked.

“What do you need?”

His grin widened.

“See? That’s why you’re my favourite.”

Across the room, Mia didn’t even bother hiding her expression.

Y/N looked back down at her laptop. “You say that to get things.”

“Yeah,” Lando said easily, crossing the room. “And it works.”

He dropped into the chair beside her desk and pushed his phone into her hand.

Two schedule blocks. One sponsor appearance. One media stop. Same time.

Y/N closed her eyes for a second. “You said yes to both.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Probably.”

“Lando.”

“Definitely.”

She started fixing it while he watched her do it, perfectly relaxed now that the problem belonged to someone else.

After a second, he said, quieter, “I knew you’d sort it.”

That voice.

That exact voice.

Warm enough to feel personal. Light enough to deny later.

Y/N kept her eyes on the screen. “You always know I’ll sort it.”

“Because you always do.”

He said it like praise.

It wasn’t.

It was ownership.

She handed the phone back a minute later.

“There. You’ll have to leave the sponsor thing early.”

He looked at it, relieved. “You’re actually unreal.”

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

And smiled in that lazy, devastating way that made it feel like he had chosen her out of every person in the room.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Before she could stop herself, she smiled back.

That seemed to satisfy him.

Of course it did.

He reached out, brushed two fingers over her shoulder, and stood.

“Love you.”

Y/N froze.

Mia looked up immediately.

Lando had already made it halfway to the door.

He glanced back when he felt the silence.

“What?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “What did you just say?”

His mouth curved.

“Relax.” He gave her a look like she was being sensitive on purpose. “You know what I mean.”

And then he left.

Mia waited exactly two seconds.

“He’s evil.”

Y/N let out a thin laugh.

“No,” she said, still staring at the doorway. “That would require effort.”

⁜

He led her on in ways that were hard to explain to people who hadn’t seen it.

Because it was never enough to be undeniable.

That was what made it so effective.

If he had kissed her once and regretted it, she could have hated him.

If he had told her outright that he liked the attention, she could have left.

If he had been careless enough to say I know you love me and I don’t care, at least there would have been honesty in the cruelty.

Instead, he gave her moments.

Little ones.

He would find her in crowded rooms and stand too close.

He would text her past midnight with you awake? and then, after she answered immediately like an idiot, follow it with need a favour x.

He would say things like I only trust you with this and you get me better than anyone here and stay with me for a sec in a tone soft enough to make her forget she was still technically at work.

He never promised.

He never had to.

Hope did all the labor for him.

One night after a sponsor dinner in Abu Dhabi, Y/N was outside by transport trying to reorganize cars when Lando came down the hotel steps with a brunette tucked under his arm.

He saw her and smiled.

“You’re still here.”

It was almost impressive, how he could make that sound intimate when all it really meant was good, the thing I need is where I left it.

“I work here,” Y/N said.

“Right.” He stepped toward her, lowering his voice as if this were something private. “Can you cover for me if anyone asks?”

Her eyes flicked to the brunette waiting by the car.

Then back to him.

“Cover what?”

He gave her that look. The one that said don’t make this difficult while still smiling.

“Just say I left early. Sponsor exhaustion. Whatever sounds official.”

Y/N stared at him.

For one awful second, he looked almost amused.

Then he softened, just a little.

“Please?”

There it was.

The tilt in his voice. The sweetness. The quiet confidence that she’d fold.

Because she always did.

Y/N swallowed. “Fine.”

His smile turned pleased.

“Knew I could count on you.”

Then he turned and walked back to the brunette without another thought, leaving Y/N standing there under the lights with her phone in her hand and her dignity somewhere under his tires.

That night, she lay in bed replaying knew I could count on you until she wanted to scream.

Not because it was kind.

Because it wasn’t.

Because it was certainty.

Because he knew exactly what she was and kept using her for it.

⁜

She asked him out on a Wednesday night.

Later, when everything had already gone wrong, Y/N would keep coming back to that moment and wondering if that had been the last clear warning she ignored.

The office behind hospitality was nearly empty. Most people had gone. The overhead lights were too bright, the air-conditioning too cold, the whole room suspended in that late-night stillness where everything felt more honest than it should.

Lando was sitting across from her desk in a hoodie, elbows on his knees, watching her rebuild the next day’s schedule because he’d changed his mind about three separate things and expected the universe to rearrange itself accordingly.

He looked tired.

Tired Lando was dangerous.

Softer. Slower. More likely to say things that felt true.

“You always take care of me,” he said.

Y/N kept typing because looking at him felt unsafe. “Someone has to.”

He smiled.

“No, but you do.”

She glanced up.

Big mistake.

He was already watching her with that unreadable softness he slipped into sometimes, the one that made her feel chosen and stupid in equal measure.

He tipped his head.

“You like taking care of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

And because she was tired too, because she was so tired of living inside things he could deny, Y/N heard herself say, “What if I do?”

He blinked.

Then smiled a little, like he thought she was being bold in a way that amused him.

“Then I’m very lucky.”

Her heart started racing.

There should have been a fire alarm inside her for moments like this. Some mechanism that said: he is doing it again. He is giving you just enough to keep you standing still.

Instead, there was only that awful bright hope.

She set her laptop aside before she could lose her nerve.

“Do you want to go out with me sometime?”

He frowned slightly.

“Out where?”

Her mouth went dry.

“On a date,” she said, because if she didn’t say it plainly now, she never would.

At that exact second, his phone lit up.

He looked down instantly. Swore under his breath. Grabbed it off the desk.

“Yeah, yeah, one sec...”

He scanned whatever message had come in, half-listening, already leaving her.

Then, distracted, he nodded and said, “Yeah, sure.”

Y/N stared at him.

“Really?”

“Mmhm.”

He was already typing.

She should have heard it then. The vagueness. The inattention. The fact that his yes had not landed on her at all.

She didn’t.

Or maybe she did and hope just drowned it.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Text me,” he said, still looking at the phone. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”

And somehow she still went home glowing.

That was the pathetic part.

That a half-heard yes from a man who wasn’t even looking at her still felt like being chosen.

⁜

He didn’t show up.

Of course he didn’t.

Y/N sat alone at a restaurant in Monaco for forty-six minutes, checking her phone like each time might produce a different result.

Nothing.

No text.

No call.

No apology.

At minute fifteen, she told herself he was late.

At minute twenty-eight, she told herself something urgent had come up.

At minute thirty-four, she started to understand.

At minute forty-six, she knew.

He had never heard her properly.

Or worse : he had heard enough to answer and cared too little to remember.

The waitress came over with that careful smile people wore when they knew they were witnessing something embarrassing and wanted to pretend they weren’t.

“Would you like another minute?”

Y/N swallowed. “No. Just the bill.”

Her phone buzzed when she was halfway back to the hotel.

It was him.

For one stupid second, her whole body lit up.

Then she opened it.

need you to move tomorrow’s sponsor breakfast

She stopped walking.

That was it.

No sorry. No where are you? No I forgot.

Just need.

Y/N typed back before she could talk herself out of it.

you didn’t come

The reply took less than a minute.

to what?

She stared at the screen so long it dimmed.

That hurt more than anything else could have.

Not because he said no.

Because he didn’t even know what he had failed to show up for.

She typed nothing.

Another message came in.

seriously can you move the breakfast?

Then:

please

Then:

you know i wouldn’t ask if i had another option

Y/N laughed out loud on the sidewalk, the sound sharp enough to make a couple passing by glance at her.

There it was again.

The lie they both participated in.

As if she were the last option.

As if he didn’t come to her first because he knew exactly what she’d do.

She replied:

can’t. it’s mandatory.

He didn’t answer after that.

The next morning, he missed the sponsor breakfast anyway.

By afternoon, leadership knew.

By two o’clock, HR knew.

By two-ten, Y/N learned exactly what he had told them.

⁜

The conference room was too cold.

That was all Y/N could think at first, sitting across from the woman from HR and two senior staff members while they arranged papers in front of themselves and wore expressions that already had the decision built into them.

This wasn’t a follow-up.

This was a dismissal with good posture.

“There have been concerns,” the HR woman began, “about judgment and professionalism where Driver Norris is concerned.”

Y/N frowned. “What?”

The senior PR lead folded his hands. “Yesterday evening and this morning created a situation that we can’t ignore.”

Her stomach dropped.

“The sponsor breakfast?”

“In part.”

The HR woman looked down at her notes.

“We were informed that there may have been confusion caused by you regarding his evening plans, and that this may have contributed to him failing to attend his mandatory breakfast commitment.”

Y/N went still.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

Literally still.

She stopped breathing for a second.

Then said, carefully, “I’m sorry. Confusion caused by me?”

The PR lead glanced away.

No one answered immediately.

That was answer enough.

Y/N’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. “What exactly did he say?”

The HR woman’s expression stayed neutral.

“That he believed there had been a misunderstanding created by you around a personal outing, and that his schedule may not have been communicated to him clearly enough afterward.”

The room went white at the edges.

There it was.

Not just that he’d missed the breakfast.

Not just that he’d forgotten her.

He had let them pin it on her.

Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because he’d been annoyed. Maybe because he hadn’t even thought through what it would do.

That almost made it worse.

Y/N laughed once.

The sound came out awful.

The HR woman softened slightly. “I understand this is upsetting.”

“No,” Y/N said, before she could stop herself. “You don’t.”

All three of them looked at her.

And because some final piece of her had already cracked open, the truth slipped out.

“He didn’t even know it was a date.”

Silence.

Immediate and complete.

Y/N shut her eyes.

Too late.

When she opened them again, the HR woman had gone very still.

“I see.”

No, Y/N thought. No, you really don’t.

The PR lead cleared his throat. “This only confirms the blurred boundaries we’ve been concerned about.”

Blurred boundaries.

What a clean phrase for something that had ruined her so thoroughly.

By the time they said terminate your contract effective immediately, she was no longer really hearing them.

Badge revoked. Apartment linked to role. Access removed. Pack your desk.

She nodded because her body knew how to perform compliance even while the rest of her was in freefall.

At one point, the HR woman said gently, “Why would you put yourself in this position for him?”

Y/N looked at her.

There were a hundred true answers.

Because he asked. Because he knew. Because he kept asking. Because I loved him and he liked that more than he liked me.

Instead she just said, “I made a mistake.”

It was the smallest lie she had told about him.

⁜

She went to find him immediately.

Not because she thought he would fix it.

Not because she thought he would even be sorry in the right way.

Because she needed him to hear it from her.

Needed him to know that this one, at least, had landed somewhere real.

He was near hospitality, half-dressed for the next obligation, phone in hand, talking to someone from media while two sponsor reps hovered nearby.

He looked up when she said his name.

“Oh...hey.”

Hey.

Y/N almost smiled at that. The ordinariness of it. The complete mismatch between his tone and the fact that her life had just been taken apart because of him.

“I need to talk to you.”

He glanced at the people around him. “Can this wait? I’m about to...”

“No.”

That got his attention, briefly.

He stepped half away from the group, enough to suggest privacy without actually giving it.

“What happened?”

Y/N stared at him.

Then said it plainly.

“I got fired.”

His brows drew together.

“For what?”

She actually laughed.

There it was again. The confusion. The pure, undisturbed confusion of a man who had moved through his day never once imagining that another person’s world might have collapsed under the weight of his convenience.

“For you,” she said.

That made him frown. “What?”

“I got fired because you missed the sponsor breakfast. Because HR thinks I mishandled your schedule. Because apparently you told them I confused you about your evening plans.”

His expression changed.

Not enough.

Just enough to say he understood this might become inconvenient.

“Y/N, I didn’t...”

His phone buzzed.

He looked down.

Actually looked down.

At his phone.

While she was standing there trying not to come apart.

Something inside her went very quiet.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “One sec.”

He typed a reply.

One sec.

That was the line her mind would come back to later. The thing that would hurt in all the empty places long after the rest of it blurred.

Not the firing itself.

Not the date.

Not even the blame.

One sec.

As if devastation could hold.

As if she still existed in his life as something that would wait until he was finished with the important stuff.

Y/N let him finish.

Then, when he looked up again and said, “What were you saying?” with the faint impatience of someone trying to catch up to a conversation he’d half-missed, she just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the charm. At the carelessness. At the almost-boyish confusion that had gotten him forgiven by too many people for too long. At the man who knew she would bleed for him and still found ways to ask for more.

“I said,” she told him quietly, “I got fired.”

He stared.

Then glanced over her shoulder because someone from media had just called his name.

He was already leaving again.

Even now.

Even here.

Y/N felt the last of her hope die so cleanly she almost mistook it for relief.

“That’s insane,” he said absently. “I’ll talk to someone.”

“No, you won’t.”

He frowned, distracted. “Why are you doing this now?”

That almost made her laugh.

Doing this now.

As if heartbreak had scheduling etiquette.

“Because you blamed me.”

“I didn’t blame you.”

“You let them.”

“That’s not...”

“Lando,” the media guy called again, closer now. “Now.”

He turned his head, annoyed.

Then looked back at Y/N.

And in that pause, that tiny split second where he clearly wanted this conversation to be over because he had somewhere else to be, she finally saw him as he was.

Not torn.

Not secretly in love.

Not scared of what she meant.

Just inconvenienced.

By her feelings. By her firing. By the timing of a mess he hadn’t meant to make and didn’t especially want to clean up.

He had always known she’d risk it all for him.

He’d just never thought that might become his problem.

Y/N stepped back.

He said her name, but only because she was moving away.

She smiled then.

Small. Sharp. Done.

“You should go,” she said. “You’ve got media.”

Something flickered across his face.

Guilt, maybe. Or annoyance. Or just the discomfort of being seen too clearly for the first time.

“Y/N...”

But she was already walking.

And the awful, perfect thing was that he let her.

Of course he did.

Because he always thought there would be time later.

⁜

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charles_leclerc : ❤️❤️❤️ ma femme. always so proud of you.

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↳ yourusername : talk about overdramatic omg 🙄 you act like you aren't all over my ig

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username005 : her and charles r my reason for believing in love

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You learn, very early on, how to exist in still photographs. How to angle your chin just enough that the light kisses your cheekbone. How to lean into Charles’s shoulder like it’s muscle memory and not a decision. How to smile softly instead of wide, because wide smiles are for people who are trying too hard.

With Charles, you never try. Vogue calls it effortless. The internet calls it soulmates. Ferrari’s PR team calls it gold.

The cover comes out on a Thursday. Black and white. You’re seated, long legs folded beneath you, silk slipping off one shoulder. Charles stands behind you, hands resting on the back of the chair like he belongs there—like he always has. The headline is something vague and romantic. Love at full speed. Something about balance. Something about fate.

Kimi texts you before it even hits your own phone.

why do you look like that

be normal please

also charles looks like he’s in love with you (gross)

You laugh out loud, curled into the corner of the couch in Charles’s Monaco apartment, feet tucked under his thigh. He’s scrolling through the comments already, thumb moving absently while his other hand rests on your knee.

“What?” he asks, smiling without looking.

“My brother is being annoying,” you say fondly.

“He adores me,” Charles replies easily.

“He tolerates you,” you correct, leaning in to kiss his jaw.

He turns his head just enough that your lips catch the corner of his mouth instead, and he laughs—soft, breathy, entirely unguarded. The sound still does something to you, even after all this time. Still makes your chest ache in that good, dangerous way.

At the track, you are untouchable.

You walk the paddock hand in hand, his fingers threaded through yours like a habit he doesn’t think about anymore. Ferrari red everywhere—your jacket with his number stitched into the sleeve, his hand warm at the small of your back when people stop you to talk. Cameras follow, always. You pretend not to notice.

Kimi trails behind you like a shadow, sunglasses too big for his face, trying very hard to look unbothered while absolutely basking in it. Sometimes Charles drapes an arm around his shoulders too, pulling him in like family, and Kimi pretends not to like it while leaning closer anyway.

With Kimi, comes the rookies. Naturally.

You take them out after the race—no team polos, no cameras, just a quiet restaurant tucked away from the marina. Charles orders for the table like he always does, knows everyone’s preferences by heart. You sit beside him, thigh pressed to his, his knee nudging yours whenever he laughs.

Isack argues with the waiter about wine pairings he doesn’t understand. Ollie steals bread off everyone’s plates and grins like he’s gotten away with something. Gabriel listens more than he talks, eyes bright, taking everything in.

“They are so spoiled,” Charles murmurs to you at one point, watching you reach across the table to fix Kimi’s collar without thinking.

“They’re kids,” you say. “Someone has to.”

He looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The night is easy. Loud. Warm. Wine stained and golden. Charles kisses your temple when you stand, pulls your chair out without being asked, keeps his hand on your lower back like a promise.

When you get home, he doesn’t rush you. You change into his hoodie—one of many that have become yours—and curl into his side on the couch while he watches race replays he’s already seen a dozen times. He presses a kiss to your hair, breathes you in.

“This,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “This is everything.”

You believe him. You believe him because there has never been a reason not to.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

f1gossipgirls

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f1gossipgirls : charles caught cheating AGAIN? rumors are spreading after charles leclerc was seen with a mystery girl a few weeks ago that was most definitely not his fiancée, yn antonelli. the two have been together for over 3 years and just recently got engaged in the last year. however, with charles' track record, we wouldn't be shocked if this is true. 👀 stay tuned!

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The rumors start small. A blind item. A tweet. A comment buried three replies deep under a photo of you smiling in the paddock. Someone suggests something careless, something ugly. You don’t see it at first—your fans are ruthless, protective, fast.

By the time it reaches you, Charles already knows.

“They’re nothing,” he says immediately, phone in his hand, expression calm. Too calm, you might realize later. “People talk.”

You nod. Of course they do. They always have.

“Look at me,” he says, turning your chin gently until you meet his eyes. “You know me.”

“I do,” you say, without hesitation.

He smiles then, relieved, kisses you slow and sure like he’s sealing something. You melt into it because you want to. Because loving him has always felt like stepping into warm water.

Over the next few days, the noise grows louder.

Paparazzi shots you don’t recognize. Anonymous accounts claiming things they can’t prove. Your name trending next to his in ways that feel wrong.

Charles never falters.

He calls you between meetings. Sends you photos of his espresso like he always does. Texts you goodnight even when he’s exhausted. When you ask—carefully, quietly—he answers without defensiveness.

“One time,” he says gently, shaking his head. “I didn’t even speak to her. They’re lying.”

You want to believe him so badly it almost hurts.

So you do.

You hold onto the way he reaches for you in his sleep. The way he still kisses your knuckles absentmindedly. The way he talks about the future like it’s a given—tours, albums, houses you joke about buying someday.

When he leaves for the Ferrari event, he kisses you longer than usual in the doorway.

“Don’t let the internet get in your head,” he says softly.

“I won’t,” you promise.

You mean it.

Three days later, someone knocks on the door.

It’s late afternoon. The light in the apartment is soft, diffused, catching on the edges of everything Charles owns—and everything you thought you shared.

She’s younger than you expect. Nervous. Hands clasped tight like she’s holding herself together.

“Is Charles here?” she asks.

“No,” you reply easily. Calmly. “He’s away.”

Her face falls. Just a fraction.

“Oh,” she says. Then, after a beat, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Something inside you tilts.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t cry. You don’t ask the question you already know the answer to.

Instead, you step aside.

“Come in,” you say.

You sit across from her at the kitchen island, legs crossed, posture perfect. She tells you her name—Valentina. She tells you she’s been trying to reach him. That she didn’t know about you at first. That she wouldn’t have come if she had another choice.

When she says the word pregnant, your stomach drops so hard you think you might be sick.

You don’t let it show.

You ask questions like you’re conducting an interview. Dates. Timelines. Certainty. You nod. You listen. You don’t interrupt.

When she finishes, you take a breath.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say calmly. “He’ll be back next week.”

She looks at you like she expects anger. Tears. Something loud.

You give her none of it.

“Come back then,” you add. “We’ll talk together.”

She nods, stunned.

When the door closes behind her, you stand very still in the quiet apartment. Your world hasn’t shattered yet. It’s just… shifted. And somewhere deep inside, something you loved without question has started to crack.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You become very good at pretending. It’s not hard, at first. You’ve been performing your whole life—on stages, in interviews, in love. You know how to keep your voice even, how to laugh at the right moments, how to answer I miss you with I miss you too and mean it just enough to survive.

You call him like you always do.

You text him updates you don’t need to share—what you ate, a lyric you scribbled down, a photo of the view from the balcony at sunset. You see him like a picture of yourself in public, engagement ring catching the light.

You don’t take it off. You tell yourself it’s strategy. Control. You tell yourself it’s so he won’t suspect a thing. But sometimes, when you catch the diamond in the mirror, you swear it burns.

To keep from unraveling, you work.

You lock yourself in the studio and pour everything you’re not allowed to feel into sound. You don’t write about him—not directly. Not yet. You write around the ache, around the rage, around the nausea that still hits you out of nowhere. You layer vocals until your throat hurts. You stay busy so you don’t have to think about the way your life split open the moment a stranger said pregnant in your kitchen.

When Charles tells you he’s flying home on Friday, you say, “I can’t wait.”

And you almost mean it—because at least then this waiting will end.

Valentina arrives right on time. She looks smaller in your living room than she did at the door days ago. Nervous again. You thank her for coming, offer her water, gesture for her to sit. The two of you wait together, side by side on the couch, an almost unbearable quiet filling the space between you.

When the door opens, Charles is already smiling.

He drops his bag, steps toward you out of habit, leaning in for the kiss he’s greeted you with a thousand times—

And stops. He sees her first. Then he sees you. Then he sees the ring. It’s on the coffee table. Placed there carefully. Intentionally. A small, glittering thing that once meant everything.

“—what is this?” he asks, voice thin.

You don’t stand. You don’t rush. You don’t soften your expression.

“Sit down,” you say.

He doesn’t want to. You can see it all over him—the panic, the denial, the instinct to charm his way out. But he does it anyway. Because something in your voice tells him this isn’t a conversation he gets to control.

You ask questions calmly. Methodically.

When did it happen? How long did you know her? How many times?

You look at Valentina when you speak to her. You look at Charles when you need confirmation. You don’t accuse. You don’t insult. You take notes in your head like you’re preparing a statement. When he finally says it—quiet, rushed, desperate—

“It was one time.”

You laugh. It slips out of you before you can stop it. A short, disbelieving sound. Almost amused. That laugh will follow him for the rest of his life.

“One time,” you repeat, shaking your head slightly. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He reaches for you then, finally losing his composure.

“Please,” he says. “I made a mistake.”

You stand.

“Get out,” you say, flatly.

“What?” he breathes.

“This conversation is over,” you tell them both. “You,”—you nod at Valentina—“thank you for telling me. He’ll contact you.”

Then you look at him.

“You,” you say quietly, “need to leave.”

“This is my apartment,” he says weakly.

You smile. Not kindly.

“Not tonight.”

You walk away before he can stop you. Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You shut the door and lock it, your hands shaking for the first time all day.

The moment you slide down against it, the sound rips out of you.

He’s at the door immediately.

“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Let me explain. I can fix this.”

You scream for him to leave. You scream until your throat burns, until your chest hurts, until he finally goes quiet.

When the apartment is empty, you lose control.

You throw things. Pillows, books, clothes. You rip hangers from the closet and sob into the mess. You collapse onto the bed and cry until your body aches, until your face is wet and unrecognizable, until the room feels too big to breathe in.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Kimi. Something stupid. A joke. A picture of his dinner. Oblivious.

Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the phone. You scroll. You hit your mother’s name. She answers on the second ring. You don’t say hello. You just break.

The words pour out of you between gasps—rumors, lies, the door, the pregnancy, the ring on the table. You don’t filter. You don’t protect anyone. You tell her everything.

She talks you down with the steadiness only a mother has. Tells you to breathe. Tells you this isn’t your fault. Tells you to come home.

“I can’t,” you say hoarsely. “I just— I need space.”

She pauses, then agrees. Asks you to promise to check in. To not disappear completely.

You promise.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You pack. You write. You drink too much. You do things you know you shouldn’t. You leave behind anything that feels like him. You move quietly, like you’re already a ghost.

Before the sun comes up, you’re gone. You go somewhere very few people know about. Somewhere safe. Somewhere empty.

Your phone lights up constantly. You don’t answer. Except for Kimi.

When he finally calls, you pick up. He hears it immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You swallow.

“Nothing,” you lie gently. “Just… a rough spot.”

He doesn’t push. He trusts you. Always has.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

After the call ends, you open your laptop. You finish the song. The one you’ve been circling for days. And for the first time since everything shattered, you are able to hear the truth.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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yourusername : once you see my black mascara, run from you into my mama's hands, you selfish man.

black mascara out everywhere. more to come. xx

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˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Isack sees it first. He’s scrolling through his phone half asleep, feet kicked up on a chair in the hotel dining room, when your name pops up on Instagram. No warning. No countdown. Just a still frame— red, mascara already smudged beneath your eyes, mouth parted like you’ve just finished crying.

black mascara out everywhere. more to come. xx

He sits up straighter.

“Kimi,” he says slowly. “Your sister dropped.”

Kimi looks up from his coffee. “Dropped what?”

They listen together.

All of them do—Isack, Ollie, Gabriel—crowded around a phone that suddenly feels too small to hold what’s coming out of it. The first verse plays, your voice low and cracked in a way Kimi has never heard before.

Once you see my black mascara Run from you into my mama’s hands—

Kimi’s jaw tightens.

By the time the chorus hits, no one is pretending this is just another breakup song. This isn’t clever. This isn’t vague. This is a confession dressed up in couture and bloodied eyeliner.

You selfish man. You’d understand.

Kimi feels sick.

The visuals start circulating next—screenshots, clips, people dissecting every line. You in black designer, bags under your eyes unapologetic. You alone. You breaking.

He tries to call you immediately. No answer. He texts. Nothing. Then the photos start appearing.

Paris, first. You stumbling out of a club at three in the morning, sunglasses on despite the darkness, mascara streaked, dress clinging to you like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. London. Laughing too loud. Head thrown back. Someone’s hand at your waist that isn’t familiar. Monaco. Red heels in the early morning light. Your hair wild. Your eyes empty.

You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once—moving so fast no one can catch you.

The internet calls it iconic. Kimi calls it terrifying. Seeing the one person who had always been strong for him, cracking at the seams in front of the entire world.

At the track, he doesn’t look at Charles. Not once.

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t yell. He simply… removes him from his world. Walks past him like he’s invisible. Laughs with the rest of the drivers, answers questions, does his job—and never acknowledges the man who used to feel like family.

Charles hears the song alone.

He listens in his car, parked somewhere quiet, hands frozen on the steering wheel. Every lyric lands like a blow.

You made your bed. Lied your lies. And fucked my mind up.

He turns it off halfway through, chest tight, regret blooming so violently it almost knocks the air out of him. He didn’t know it could feel like this—to hear himself reflected back in your pain.

He tries to call you. You don’t answer.

Days later, Kimi finally gets through. Your voice is hoarse when you pick up, like you haven’t slept in weeks.

“Hey,” you say, too casually.

“Hey,” he replies, swallowing hard. “You okay?”

You pause. Just long enough that he knows the answer.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t call you out. Instead, he says softly, “You don’t have to come this weekend. If it’s too much.”

“No,” you say immediately. Too quickly. “Nothing will keep me from supporting you.”

When you show up to the paddock, the air shifts.

You’re dressed in black from head to toe. Tailored. Sharp. Sunglasses oversized, hiding whatever’s left of your eyes. You walk like you’re made of glass and steel all at once.

Kimi feels relief and heartbreak in equal measure. The rookies notice too.

Isack snaps when a journalist asks about Charles, his voice cold. “Ask him,” he says. “Not her.”

Charles tries to catch your eye. Tries to speak to you. Tries to apologize again and again in the quiet spaces between chaos.

You don’t look at him. Not once.

You catch Kelly’s eye across the paddock. She doesn’t approach. She doesn’t intrude. She just watches you carefully, like someone who knows what it looks like when a woman is drowning in plain sight.

That night, you sit on the bed in Kimi’s hotel room like you always have.

He watches you work—headphones on, laptop balanced on your knees, fingers moving like muscle memory. He listens to demos you’ve never played for anyone else. Dark. Heavy. Honest.

Finally, he asks, “What actually happened?”

You stop. Take a breath. And then you tell him. Not the PR version. Not the softened version. The truth. The constant lies. The girl. The pregnancy. Your diamond ring left on the table.

Kimi doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rage. He just listens, eyes shiny, hands clenched tight in the sheets beside you.

When you finish, he pulls you into him like he did when you were kids. Like he still needs you to be his big sister—but right now, you need him more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve known.”

“You couldn’t,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to.”

He stays with you until you fall asleep sitting upright, your head on his shoulder.

The weeks after blur together. You’re a headline. A wreck. A spectacle. Heartbroken popstar spirals. Iconic post breakup era. She’s never looked better. Inside, you’re hollow.

At the event, the lights are too bright. The music too loud. You’re drunk, high, gone in the way only people who don’t want to feel anymore can be.

Kelly sees you immediately. Not as a wag. Not as gossip. As a woman who’s been here before.

She doesn’t judge you. Not once. She doesn’t ask questions. She just takes your arm gently, steers you out, gets you home.

She tucks you into a guest bed like you’re something precious. Fragile. You don’t remember any of it. But for the first time in weeks, you sleep.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You wake up slowly. Not with a headache. Not with panic. Just… awareness. The room is unfamiliar but calm—neutral colors, clean lines, the faint smell of coffee and something citrusy. Sunlight filters in through sheer curtains, landing gently across the bed like it’s afraid to touch you too hard.

You sit up, disoriented. For a moment, you can’t remember how you got here. Then the door opens. It’s Max.

He freezes when he sees you awake, clearly unsure if this is the right moment—or if there ever is one. He’s dressed casually, hair still damp, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not surprised. Not judgmental. Just there.

Your throat tightens.

“Kelly’s out for a bit,” he adds quickly, like he doesn’t want you to think you’ve been abandoned. “She… wanted you to sleep.”

You nod. Your body feels heavy, like gravity has been turned up.

“I can make coffee,” he offers. “Or tea. Or—uh—toast?”

The way he lists options like he’s afraid to choose wrong nearly breaks you.

“Coffee’s fine,” you murmur.

He nods and disappears without another word.

He doesn’t try to fill the silence. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask if you remember. He just sets a mug down near you, adds a small plate with fruit and toast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You sip. It grounds you.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “And… thank Kelly. For me.”

He hesitates as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for your shoes.

As you head toward the door, he clears his throat.

“Hey.”

You turn.

“Just—” He pauses, searching for words. “Keep yourself safe, yeah?”

You swallow.

“And if you need somewhere to crash,” he adds, gentle but firm, “this place is always open.”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

Outside, Monaco feels too sharp. Too awake. You walk until your chest stops tightening, until you reach the building Kimi and Ollie share. Before you can knock, the door opens.

They’re already there. Neither of them say anything.

Ollie steps aside immediately. Kimi just pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You don’t speak. You just collapse onto the couch, curling in on yourself.

They follow.

Ollie stretches out on one side, solid and warm. Kimi settles on the other, instinctively pulling you closer. He reaches for the remote and puts on the show you used to watch together when you were kids—the one you all quote, the one that makes no sense now but still feels safe.

They don’t force jokes. They don’t ask questions. They just exist with you.

For a while, it almost works. Then there’s a knock. Sharp. Insistent.

Kimi and Ollie exchange a look. Kimi stands.

“I’ll get it,” he says, already knowing.

When he opens the door, Charles is standing there.

He looks wrecked. Hollow-eyed. Unshaven. Like someone who hasn’t slept and doesn’t deserve to.

The moment his gaze flicks past Kimi and lands on you, something in Kimi snaps.

“No,” Kimi says, stepping fully into the doorway. “Absolutely not.”

“I just want to talk,” Charles says quietly. “Please.”

Ollie moves without thinking, positioning himself between you and the door.

Kimi doesn’t hold back. His words are sharp, furious, protective in a way only a younger brother can be when he’s done pretending to be polite.

You sit up slowly.

“It’s fine,” you say hoarsely. “I’ll talk to him.”

Kimi turns, eyes wide. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you say gently. “But I will.”

He studies your face, searching for cracks. Then he steps aside—barely.

In the hallway, Charles talks. He explains. He apologizes. He says words he should have said weeks ago. None of it helps. Every sentence just makes the ache worse.

“Please,” he says at the end. “I love you.”

You look at him for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “You need to leave.”

His face crumples. You don’t stay to watch.

Back inside, you collapse again, tears finally spilling over. Kimi sits on the floor in front of you, gripping your hands. Ollie wraps an arm around your shoulder and your head falls onto his.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. They fall asleep around you. You wait until the room is dark and quiet. Then you slip out.

The nearest club is loud and bright and wrong in every way—but it’s open.

You lose yourself in the crowd. In strangers. In noise. You don’t notice Max at first. He notices you immediately.

Sees the way you’re swaying. The unfamiliar faces around you. The little bag exchanged between hands. That’s enough. He’s beside you before you can protest.

“We’re going home,” he says, not unkindly.

You try to argue. You really do. But you’re too tired. Kelly is waiting when you arrive. The moment you see her, you break.

You cry and scream and sob into her shoulder like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks. Max stays close, steady, grounding.

Kelly takes you to the bathroom. Gently washes your face. Helps you change. She tucks you into her bed like it’s where you belong. When Max joins you, and Kelly curls in on the other side, you finally let go. They stay until your breathing evens out. Until you sleep.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You wake up slowly, blinking at the ceiling, disoriented again. For half a second you don’t know where you are, don’t know whose bed this is, don’t know why your chest feels tight in that awful, anticipatory way—like your body remembers before your mind does.

And then it all floods back. Being too gone to stand on your own. Max’s hand steady at your elbow. Kelly’s voice in your ear, calm and unafraid. Crying so hard your throat burned. Being held without questions. Without disappointment.

You inhale sharply and push yourself up on your elbows, panic flaring. You look left.

Max is asleep, turned slightly toward you, arm bent above his head, face bare and unguarded in a way the world never sees. No armor. No edges. Just a man sleeping.

You look right. Kelly, curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, one hand resting near yours like it had been placed there intentionally. Like she’d meant to stay close even in sleep.

Shame crashes over you all at once.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, already scrambling upright. “I’m so sorry—”

Kelly stirs immediately, eyes opening as if she’d been waiting for it. “Hey,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “No, no. Stop.”

You’re already halfway into an apology spiral, words tumbling over each other. “I shouldn’t have—last night was so inappropriate, I was a mess, I don’t even remember half of it, I—”

Max groans softly and rolls onto his side, blinking awake. He takes one look at your face—panicked, glassy, already bracing for rejection—and sits up.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Breathe.”

Kelly reaches up and brushes your hair back from your face, slow and deliberate, grounding. “You don’t need to apologize for surviving,” she says quietly. “Not here.”

Your throat tightens. “I dragged you into it. I was drunk and high and—”

“And heartbroken,” Max adds, not unkindly. “And not okay. That’s allowed.”

Kelly shifts closer, thumb tracing a soothing line along your cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, soft but firm. “Max found you. You are safe. That’s all that mattered to us.”

Your shoulders slump as the fight drains out of you, replaced by something fragile and raw. Tears well again, but this time they don’t feel desperate. They feel… relieved.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper.

Max nods. “Then don’t be alone while you figure out how not to be.”

Something settles then. Something quiet and warm.

From that moment on, things change.

You stay.

One night turns into two. Two into a few. Your suitcase gets unpacked in the guest room without ceremony, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No one makes a big deal out of it. No one asks for promises. They just… keep you.

You stop going out. The clubs fade into the background, their neon pull losing its grip. Instead, you wake up early with Kelly, drink coffee at the kitchen counter while she scrolls through recipes. You sit on the balcony with Max in the evenings, watching the light change over the water, not talking much at all.

You start writing again.

At first it’s ugly. Angry. Notes app paragraphs that read like open wounds. Lyrics scribbled and crossed out and rewritten until your hand cramps. You pour everything you swallowed into it—betrayal, grief, rage, disbelief. The humiliation. The love that didn’t disappear just because it was destroyed.

Eventually, it sharpens. You book studio time.

The breakup EP takes shape piece by piece, song by song, each one carving something out of you and leaving space behind. It hurts, but it hurts in a way that feels purposeful. Controlled.

One afternoon, the studio door creaks open and familiar voices fill the space.

“Well, this place smells expensive,” Ollie announces.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, turning to see Kimi, Ollie, and Isack crowded into the doorway like they’ve been dared to enter a haunted house.

“We were checking on you,” Isack says, suspiciously defensive for someone grinning that wide. “Professionally.”

“You are incapable of being subtle,” you tell them.

Kimi shrugs. “You love us.”

You do. You play them a bit of Flip a Switch. Just a snippet. Not even the full chorus.

Isack’s jaw drops. Ollie lets out a low “oh my god.” Kimi just stares at you, eyes dark and proud and a little furious on your behalf.

“That’s insane,” Ollie says. “Like… criminal.”

“You’re going to end careers,” Isack adds, delighted.

Kimi pulls you into a one armed hug. “You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hear it.”

When you get back to Max and Kelly’s that night, they’re exactly where you left them.

Kelly at the stove, hair tied up, music playing softly. Max on the couch, legs stretched out, watching old race reruns with the volume low.

They both look up when you walk in.

Kelly smiles first. Real, unguarded. “Hey.”

Max’s eyes scan you quickly—posture, expression, energy—and something eases in his shoulders. “You look good,” he says simply.

Healthier. Calmer. Less hollow.

Dinner is quiet. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t beg to be filled. Plates clink. Someone reaches for the salt. Kelly talks about a recipe she wants to try next week. Max comments on a corner he still thinks he could’ve taken better in 2019.

Afterward, you help Kelly clean up. Water runs. Dishes stack. Conversation drifts easily, from nothing to everything and back again.

She presses a kiss to your temple before sending you off to rest. “Go sit,” she says. “You’ve done enough today.”

You curl up on the couch beside Max. The TV hums softly. You don’t really watch it. You just exist.

You feel his eyes on you and glance over.

He’s already smiling.

Not sharp. Not guarded. Just… fond.

He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. No rush. No pressure.

Kelly joins you a moment later, tucking herself against your other side, flipping on a movie and draping a blanket over all three of you like it’s second nature.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

yourusername (several weeks later)

liked by kellypiquet, franciscagomes, maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, isackhadjar and 9,100,000 others.

yourusername : baby, i bounce back.

my ep, escapism, is now yours. enjoy the beautiful sounds of my heartbreak and finding myself again.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

f1gossipgirls

liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, lando and 2,450,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : so...yn antonelli just released her ep and ended charles leclerc's career. just within four songs. HELP. many people are speculating that the "best friend" mentioned in flip a switch is none other than max verstappen, after the two have been seen together recently and he was spotted in one of her instagram posts.

—

user has limited comments on this post.

username007 : all the rookies in the likes PLEASE

username110 : if she is with max and kelly I WILL LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. how is someone this iconic???

username500 : the wag line- HELP.

username050 : "tell him im dead if he callin" your honor i love her.

username714 : the speech at the beg of flip a switch is my new life motto

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

A few weeks later, the world feels quieter in a different way. Not numb—never that—but steadier. Your breakup EP is out now, living its own life without you. The reception is overwhelming in the strangest, gentlest way. People hear themselves in it. They thank you for putting words to things they couldn’t say. You read messages late at night with Kelly’s legs draped over yours on the couch, Max half listening from the kitchen, pretending not to hover while still hovering.

Healing doesn’t come in waves anymore. It comes in inches. This morning, it comes in the form of tiny footsteps and a door flying open.

“GOOD MORNING!”

You barely have time to lift your head before Penelope barrels into the guest room and launches herself onto the bed, giggling wildly. Seven years old and made entirely of joy and chaos, she curls into your side like she’s been doing it her whole life.

“Hi,” you laugh, voice still sleepy. “Someone’s energetic.”

She nods furiously. “Do you wanna play Barbies with me?”

There isn’t even a second of hesitation. “Obviously.”

She cheers and drags you out of bed by the hand, pulling you down the hallway to her room. Barbie chaos ensues—tiny shoes everywhere, outfits strewn across the floor, dramatic voices and even more dramatic storylines.

Kelly peeks in a little while later, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. “Breakfast is ready.”

Penelope gasps like this is the best news she’s ever heard and sprints out toward the kitchen. You stay behind, kneeling to gather up the mess, lining dolls back up neatly.

Kelly watches you for a moment before stepping inside. “You’re really good with her,” she says gently.

You shrug, smiling to yourself. “I have a little sister. Comes naturally, I guess.”

She hums, crosses the room, and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your temple. “I’m proud of you,” she says quietly. “For getting through all of it. You look… lighter. Healthier. And you’re so beautiful.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way.

Breakfast is warm and noisy and normal. Penelope talks a mile a minute. Max listens with exaggerated seriousness, asking questions like her answers are the most important things in the world. You catch Kelly watching the two of you with something soft in her eyes.

Later, Penelope leaves with her father, and the apartment settles into a slower rhythm.

Max leans back in his chair. “Dinner tonight,” he says casually. “Somewhere nice.”

Kelly nods. “I’m in.”

He slides his card across the counter toward you. “You two go get ready. Salon, shopping. Make a day of it.”

You hesitate immediately. “You don’t have to— I don’t want to intrude on your date night.”

Kelly shakes her head before you can finish, stepping closer and kissing your cheek. “You’re not intruding. You’re invited.”

The day is light and easy. Hair, nails, laughter. Shopping turns into trying things on just to be silly. In one boutique, you freeze mid rack when you see a familiar face.

“Pascale?”

She turns, eyes lighting up instantly. “Oh, mon ange.”

She pulls you into a hug without hesitation. “You look so much better,” she says softly. “I’m so happy to see you like this.”

You swallow. “It’s good to see you.”

Her expression shifts—gentle but honest. “I’m so sorry for what he did,” she says. “I will always support you. Always.”

The hug lingers. When Kelly returns, Pascale squeezes your hands once more before leaving, smiling warmly at both of you.

Back at the apartment, Max watches from the couch as the two of you get ready. Kelly zips you into your dress, hands warm and steady. You stare at your reflection—really look at yourself—for the first time in a long while.

Kelly meets your eyes in the mirror. “Stunning,” she murmurs, then leaves a kiss—and a lipstick mark—on your neck.

The car ride is quiet in that comfortable, anticipatory way. Monaco at night glows outside the windows—golden streetlights, the harbor shimmering like it’s holding secrets. Max drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on Kelly’s knee. She keeps her fingers laced with his for a moment before reaching back to squeeze your hand instead.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I am.”

And you mean it.

When the car stops, you realize immediately that the restaurant is… empty. No valet bustle, no voices drifting through open doors. Just warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Max kills the engine. “I rented it out,” he says simply, like it’s no big deal.

You blink. “Max.”

He shrugs, a little bashful despite himself. “Didn’t want any noise. Or people watching.”

Kelly smiles at him fondly. “You always do this,” she murmurs.

Inside, the space feels intimate rather than grand. Candles flicker on every table, soft music hums in the background, and the windows look out over the water. It feels like a pocket of time carved out just for the three of you.

The waiter greets you quietly, already aware this is a slow night by design.

You sit between them. Kelly’s hand finds your thigh almost immediately—not possessive, just grounding. Her thumb traces small circles, absentminded, affectionate.

Conversation starts easy. Food. Music. A story Max tells about a race rerun he watched earlier that afternoon, animated in the way he only gets when he forgets to guard himself. You laugh more than you have in weeks. Real laughter. The kind that surprises you halfway through.

At one point, Kelly leans closer to murmur something in your ear about dessert, her breath warm against your skin, and you shiver—not from nerves, but from awareness.

She notices. Smiles.

Dinner stretches. Plates are cleared. Wine glasses refilled.

Eventually, Kelly grows quiet.

She squeezes your thigh a little more firmly. “There’s something I want to say,” she begins gently. “And you don’t have to respond. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

Max turns slightly toward you, attentive but calm.

Kelly continues, voice steady. “I’ve always found you stunning. That’s not new. But what is new… is how deeply I’ve come to care about you. Watching you survive something that could’ve broken you—” Her voice softens. “It changed something for me.”

You swallow, throat tight.

Max nods slowly. “Same for me,” he says. “I didn’t expect it. Didn’t plan it. But you feel… right. Safe. And I know you’ve had enough people make promises they couldn’t keep.” He pauses. “We’re not asking for anything. We just want you to know you’re wanted. And protected. However you need.”

You stare at the table for a moment, then lift your gaze to them.

“I’ve never felt more safe than I do with you,” you admit quietly. “From the very beginning.”

Kelly’s eyes soften immediately. She lifts your chin with two fingers—not forcing, just asking—and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried. Tender. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.

Max waits until you look at him. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s memorizing you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod.

His kiss is just as careful. Just as warm.

The rest of the night is soft and sweet—shared desserts, quiet laughter, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined. Kelly leans against you. Max rests his hand at the small of your back. No one rushes. No one asks for more than you’re ready to give.

When you finally leave, the world feels gentler. You don’t feel like you’re rebuilding alone.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

several weeks later...

You’re healthier now. Not in a fragile, tentative way—but in a way that feels earned. Your laugh comes easier. Your shoulders sit lower. Your anger no longer drives the car; it just rides quietly in the backseat, acknowledged but no longer steering.

You’re still sharp. Still powerful. Still you. And you’re happier than you ever thought you’d be—with Max and Kelly.

The three of you are a unit now. Not loud about it, not performative. Just… obvious. Easy hands. Shared looks. The way Max automatically reaches for your coffee order when he’s already up. The way Kelly tucks herself into your side without thinking, fingers lacing with yours like it’s muscle memory.

Kimi noticed first. He’d been suspicious—deeply so. He grilled Max like he was prepping for a cross examination, asked Kelly questions with the intensity of someone who loved you fiercely and wasn’t afraid to show it. Ollie, Gabriel and Isack followed suit, circling like overprotective satellites.

But what sold Kimi wasn’t words. It was watching Max step in front of you when things got overwhelming. Watching Kelly read your body language better than anyone else in the room. Watching them protect your quiet the way others had once taken it for granted.

He adores them now. Because they don’t just love you—they keep you safe.

You’re not “over” what happened. You don’t pretend it didn’t carve something into you. But it no longer defines you. It doesn’t shrink you. It doesn’t own your reflection when you catch yourself in mirrors.

You arrive at the race weekend calm. Grounded. You’re in Mercedes gear for Kimi, black and silver clean against your skin—but you’re walking hand in hand with Kelly, Max on your other side. It feels right. It feels real.

Charles sees you from across the paddock. And it’s like the air leaves his lungs.

He doesn’t hear the engines. Doesn’t hear the voices. All he sees is you—healthy, radiant, whole in a way he hasn’t seen since before everything shattered. And then he sees them. Your fingers intertwined with Kelly’s. Max leaning in to murmur something that makes you smile.

Then he sees Kimi with Max—easy, familiar, close. It hits him twice as hard.

Max wins the race. The moment the car stops, he’s already looking for you. He crosses the barriers, still breathless, helmet off, eyes bright—and kisses you first. Then Kelly. Quick, joyful, unashamed. The cameras catch it, but neither of you care.

On the podium, Max and Kimi stand together. Champagne sprays. The crowd roars.

You’re with family now—your family. Kelly at your side. Penelope clutching your hand. Kimi bouncing on his heels. Your little sister Maggie, all limbs and excitement, chattering nonstop.

Max finds you again after, lifts Maggie effortlessly onto his shoulders like it’s second nature. She squeals with laughter. Kelly squeezes your hand. Kimi and Max talk animatedly beside you, completely at ease.

And that’s when you see Charles again.

You slip away quietly.

He nearly jumps when you speak—like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

“You look…,” he starts, then stops. “You look happy.”

“I am,” you say simply.

There’s no anger left in your voice. No accusation. Just truth.

“I wanted to tell you,” you continue, “to forgive yourself. And live the future we thought we were building. I want you to be happy.”

His eyes shine. He nods, unable to speak. You press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Familiar. Final. And you walk away. Back to where you belong.

He watches Max kiss your temple. Watches Kelly lean into you. Watches Maggie laugh from Max’s shoulders. Watches Kimi throw an arm around both of them.

And it finally hits him. He didn’t lose you to revenge. He lost you to love. And you don’t look back.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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yourusername : i lied...i'm a wag again

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"it's just one tiktok," you plead, clasping your hands together. "one. i'll never ask again."

"that's what you said last time and i looked like an idiot for three million people."

"okay, but that one was cute. besides, you didn't look like an idiot," you argue. "you looked cute.""

he narrows his eyes at you, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. you've almost got him.

"but this one's different. you literally just have to stand there." you concede, peeking at him from under your arm.

he finally looks at you, those stupidly pretty brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "stand there?"

"stand there."

"that's it?"

"that's it."

oscar studies you for a long moment. you give him your best innocent smile, the one that usually gets you what you want.

"fine. but if this ends up on the internet and people make fun of me—"

"they won't!" you're already scrambling up, grabbing your phone from the coffee table. "they're going to think you're adorable. because you are. now come here."

he follows you to the space near the window where the lighting's good, looking. you position him carefully, adjusting his shoulders.

"just stand normal," you instruct, propping your phone up on the bookshelf and angling it to catch both of you in frame. "like you would stand."

"this is how i stand."

you laugh, reaching up to smooth his shirt even though it doesn't need smoothing, just wanting an excuse to touch him. "relax, osc. i promise this one's easy."

he doesn't look convinced, but he does relax slightly, his hands settling loosely at his sides. you start the timer on your phone and rush into position next to him.

"okay so just—don't move," you say quickly.

"wasn't planning on it."

the timer beeps. you're recording.

you turn to face him, and oscar glances at you with those eyes, confused and suspicious and fond all at once. god, he's so pretty it's actually unfair. the afternoon light catches in his hair.

you reach for his right arm, lifting it up above his head.

oscar's confusion intensifies. his eyebrows furrow. "what are you—"

you stretch up and kiss him.

for a second, he freezes. his lips are soft and surprised against yours, his raised arm stiff. you can practically hear his brain short-circuiting, trying to figure out what the hell is happening, why you're kissing him mid-tiktok, what the point of any of this is—

and then something shifts.

his brain must catch up, must decide fuck it, because suddenly he's kissing you back. properly. his free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his raised arm drops to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

you make a small surprised sound against his mouth because this was supposed to be a quick kiss for the camera but oscar's kissing you like he's forgotten the camera exists entirely. his fingers spread against your lower back, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

your phone is definitely still recording.

you're definitely not thinking about it.

oscar's really good at this, at making your knees weak and your thoughts fuzzy. his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, and you grab onto his shirt for balance because standing seems suddenly complicated.

"oscar," you mumble against his lips.

"mm?" he doesn't pull away, just kisses the corner of your mouth.

"the tiktok."

"what about it?"

"we're still recording."

he pauses, and you feel him smile. "your fault for kissing me."

"it was supposed to be a quick kiss!"

"should've specified that." he pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown. his lips are pink and slightly swollen. "this was the trend? kissing me?"

"lifting your arm up and then kissing you to see if you'd melt into it," you correct.

"and? did i pass?"