#f3 fics

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? That old-as-time cliché where, at every wedding, there’s at least one groomsman who can’t take his eyes off a bridesmaid and ends up causing a little chaos, turning that one wedding night into either the best or worst of his life. And the day when those two lovebirds were finally tying the knot—the one so many had been looking forward to for months—wasn’t going to be an exception. The only ingredient missing to make the whole recipe lethal was the best man, who was, at that very moment, stepping into the room where the girls were getting ready, with a few stray hairpins on the chairs and dresses still wrapped in silk garment bags.

His suit was black, tailor-made, fitting his toned body in a way that would catch anyone’s eye, along with the way his large hands adjusted the buttons on his jacket—so prominent they almost made the expensive watch on his wrist look insignificant.

“Morning, ladies,” he greeted them with a sweet smile—the face of someone who knew he shouldn’t be there, but the confidence of someone with freshly fixed curls and a pair of green eyes that were definitely going to cause some damage over the weekend.

“Uh, wrong room, Norris. The boys’ mess is down the hall,” laughed one of the bridesmaids, who’d known the groom for over ten years—and therefore also the driver—who bumped fists with her with that stupidly charming grin he never seemed to take off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I need something, and rumor has it this is where the real magic happens.”

“If you’re about to say mascara—”

“Bobby pin. Mine broke. And apparently, I don’t know how to pin a boutonnière like an adult,” he said, showing the small white flower that should’ve been pinned to his lapel, opening his palm to reveal the broken pin that was now pretty much useless.

“Use a safety pin like the rest of the boys!” shouted the bride, breathing deeply in front of a mirror, a big coffee mug resting on her knees while her closest friends fixed her hair to keep that effortless look that would make the whole wedding feel special. Lando looked around, still standing with his feet slightly apart, broad shoulders squared, as if he were waiting for someone—someone who wasn’t among the dozen girls currently mid-makeup, getting ready to look their best.

“Do I look like I want a giant metal clamp ruining my suit?”

Then the big door behind him opened, and a figure entered—a figure he recognized without needing to turn, thanks to the way her hair fell softly over her shoulders, and the scent that reached him from a few steps away like a quiet warning: she was here. And he didn’t need to look for her anymore.

“Ah. There she is.”

Lando turned. His eyes scanned down her figure for just a breath—subtle, respectful, but not unnoticed. Then, that signature smirk curved on his lips.

“Were you looking for me?” she raised a brow, handing an extension cord to one of the other girls. Already in her dress, barefoot, she moved lightly before stopping right in front of the McLaren driver, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Got a spare? I feel like you’d have one. You’re the type that comes prepared,” he said, showing her the broken pin.

“What does that mean?” she smiled, eyeing the Englishman’s palm. Behind her, the other bridesmaids continued getting ready. The large French doors had been opened, letting in a breeze and the jasmine scent from the park where the ceremony would take place in just a few hours.

“Means you seem like the kind of person who has secret compartments in her dress or something.”

She pressed her lips together and, with a sigh, pulled two pins out from the neckline of her dress, his eyes never leaving hers as she placed them into his palm, hating that he’d been right—and that he was still standing there with that infuriating self-assurance. His beard was perfectly trimmed, his mullet styled so neatly it somehow harmonized with the sharpness of the suit, while the other girls paid him no attention, completely unbothered by his presence.

“I think it worked,” he joked, licking his lips slightly.

“Oh, did it?” she lifted her brows, finally meeting his eyes.

“Guess you’ll find out if I come back in ten minutes asking for hairspray.”

The bride stood up, playfully telling him to get lost, her hair half-done and a little messy, while the others sorted through makeup bags and connected a speaker to play some music.

“Thanks for saving my life,” he said, walking backwards, holding the little flower between his thumb and forefinger, the pins in his other hand.

“I didn’t.” She smirked, watching him turn away—his back hugged perfectly by the suit, curls peeking over his athletic neck.

Then the driver headed back to where the groomsmen were—guys lounging in their vests, glasses in hand, basking in the ease of knowing one of them was about to marry the girl he loved and spend his best days with her.

“You’ve been unusually quiet. That’s got to be a first,” Oliver, the groom, joked, placing his hands on Lando’s shoulders. Lando was looking out toward the park where the bridesmaids were now emerging to check last-minute details and get some air in little clusters before the guests came out to take their seats.

And he followed her with his eyes, hands in his pockets, that same smile still on his face. Her dress, caught in the light breeze of the Spanish day, swayed with her hair and revealed the shimmer of its fabric while she played with a daisy one of the other girls had picked for her, sleeves covering her soft, graceful arms.

“Ah. Blue dress. Right. Yeah, that’s dangerous,” the groom muttered, sipping from his glass.

“No, the dress is evil. It’s the kind of dress that ruins lives.”

Oliver laughed, knowing the girl well—how she was joking and carefree in the park, with that sweet and oblivious face that defined her. And he knew it had taken a lot for her to put on a dress like that and get all dolled up. Because every time he’d seen her, if not in jeans and a tee, her style was sweet and understated. The kind that easily went unnoticed by the kind of eyes that always stopped on the girls who were used to being looked at—the ones surrounding her.

“She looks amazing.”

“No, see—she looks like she doesn’t know she looks amazing. Which is, frankly, offensive. And deeply unfair.”

“You could just go tell her,” Oliver teased, knowing Lando well—how he was always the goofball who, when it really mattered, turned into the softest, kindest guy you could imagine. Enough to make you think he might have multiple personalities.

“I’m trying not to be weird. But she’s just... she’s got this thing, man. Like she’s not even trying.”

“That thing being ‘existing in a dress’?” he smirked. “You’re so done.”

“Fully cooked. Blue-dressed and blessed. Pray for me.” Lando took the glass from his friend, downed it in one go, and set it down with a clink, eyes never leaving her as she ran her fingers through another bridesmaid’s reddish hair—laughing softly at something and looking almost dreamlike.

Not long after, once all the guests had arrived and settled into the seats they'd picked during the rehearsal dinner, the bridesmaids stood on the right side of the altar and the groomsmen on the left, forming a soft backdrop for the groom’s smile as he waited.

She stood next to one of her friends, a small bouquet in hand—white, like the little flower Lando had pinned to his jacket. The sleeves of her dress were like a whisper, a soft sigh that hinted at how the dress hugged her waist. And she was focused on the couple, watching them exchange vows they had written not long ago—eyes glossy, voices trembling with emotion. But she felt him. The way he looked at her.

Standing across from her was the driver. His suit still crisp and perfect on his athletic frame, curls rebelliously charming, fingers laced in front of him. And like her, he failed to stay focused—because after just a few minutes, he kept glancing at her, catching her gaze too.

Every time one of them looked up during the vows, they found the other already looking, eyes charged with something unspoken—like a secret only they were in on. Sometimes, she looked down, flustered by his green eyes, his lightly tanned skin scattered with freckles, and that look that screamed “you’re really wearing that dress right now, huh?”

Even when they laughed quietly at the sweet promises, their eyes found each other again—almost guilty for flirting in the middle of something so sacred, yet drawn in by the thrill of it.

But Lando always had the last word. And she knew it, too—especially when she was swept away by the bride’s tears and didn’t notice how his gaze traveled from her jaw to her lips, to her collarbones, and then to the delicate sleeves that made her look so elegant, so ethereal.

They managed to avoid each other for a while. But as others danced and let the night slip away, the chair next to her was empty.

She’d clipped up some of her hair, baring a bit of her neck. Her heels were abandoned under one of the tables, and she sat barefoot like that morning, legs crossed, eyes watching the crowd with music in their veins—carefree and glowing.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure something out all weekend.”

“Mmm. Math’s not your strong suit?” she asked, without moving her gaze from the dance floor. She knew very well how he was sitting, with his knees apart and arms crossed, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows and a few curls even messier than usual. The jacket was forgotten somewhere, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Ouch. Uncalled for. I was top of my class in… uh…” he sighed. “Actually, never mind. Doesn’t matter. You distracted me.”

“That tends to happen when you talk to yourself.” The girl smiled, her cheeks slightly red, partly from the heat and partly from the fact that they were close again, while he tried not to notice how her smile had made her cheeks look even softer.

“So you do listen to me. Interesting.”

They weren’t looking at each other. Maybe they just wanted to stay in the corners of each other’s eyes.

“I hear a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I remember them.”

“Rude again. And here I thought we were making progress.” Lando laughed, his British accent clear in every word that slipped from his red lips, while the night got darker and the tiny lights illuminating them only made what made them them stand out more.

“Oh, are we?”

“I’d say so. You’re actually sitting next to me now. Yesterday you completely bailed on a group photo just because I stood too close.”

She took a sip from the glass of water she’d grabbed a while earlier, giggling.

“That wasn’t about you.”

“You literally said, ‘I’ll stand over here instead,’ and moved to the other side.” Lando smiled at one of his friends, who had climbed behind the DJ booth to liven up the evening after a few slow songs he was probably bored of.

“Maybe I like my left side better.” she pretended to be offended, finally looking him in the face and locking her eyes onto his ridiculously green ones.

“Liar.”

The driver slipped two fingers into the collar of his shirt, tearing off the bow tie in one quick motion and placing it next to her bouquet.

“You just like making me work for it.”

She said nothing, but he had noticed the way her breath hitched, like it had stopped working for a second.

“Do you think they know?”

The Brit’s gaze shifted to the bride and groom, while the music turned slow again, reflecting the deep feelings that couple had always had for each other.

“Know what?” she asked.

“That everyone’s rooting for them to be disgustingly happy forever?”

“I think they’re too into each other to notice.”

“Must be nice.”

Lando turned slightly, throwing his head back in his usual playful way, the sweetest smile on his young face.

“You getting sentimental on me?” the girl joked, adjusting the sleeves of her dress without looking away from the boy — so handsome it almost felt surreal.

“Bit hard not to when you’ve been sat next to a certain bridesmaid all night and she’s been pretending not to see you.”

“Maybe I’ve just got good peripheral vision.” she shrugged slightly.

“Or maybe you’ve been checking me out when I wasn’t looking.” he suggested.

“I’d never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Delusional.”

“Admit it. You like me a little.”

Lando took a sip from his glass, the rim resting on his lips, his trained neck moving each time he swallowed, and the way he rocked those rolled-up sleeves.

“‘Little’ is generous.” she joked again, looking down at her rings like they could hide her true feelings.

“Wow. You are mean to me.”

“Not mean. I just don’t flirt like you.”

“I don’t flirt. I sparkle.”

Then she laughed. Not holding it back or covering her mouth like she had all day — her shorter strands falling onto her forehead slightly tousled, and the grin on his face widening like he’d just won something.

“There it is. Been trying to get that laugh out of you since Thursday night.”

“Aw. You set goals?”

“Only when I really want something.”

He took the little flower he had pinned to his jacket that morning, and with two fingers, clipped it into her hairpin.

“You ever slow danced with someone just to see if it made your head go funny?”

“That a line?”

she asked, her voice a little lower, almost as if she hoped the music would cover it and the world would forget about them for a bit. Afraid Lando might disappear. Along with the blue dress and white petals. Along with the feeling of being beautiful and special.

“Not yet. That was just the setup.”

She raised her eyebrows, catching a few details about him she hadn’t had time to memorize during all those stolen glances while she’d been avoiding him.

“Come on. It’s not a real dance. It’s more like… standing. Swaying. Very lazy.” he offered her a hand, standing up in front of her, the other hand in his black trouser pocket.

“You’re really committing to this bit, huh?”

“Who said it’s a bit?”

She thought about it for a second longer, but then took his large hand like it was what she was meant to do. And they stepped onto the dance floor, with Lando holding her a little closer than necessary, his right hand low on her back but still respectful, recharged from the tiredness he’d felt before. With every one of his jokes, she laughed and hid herself less and less, with that simple, homely air of hers, and even if she’d never admit it out loud, she was enjoying it. It was making her feel special.

“You’re a lot of trouble, you know that?” he said with a huge smile, playing with one of the oversized sleeves of her dress.

“I could say the same about you.” she answered, like she hadn’t hesitated for a second, her breath catching ever so slightly.

And then the moment shifted again. Lando rested his chin on her shoulder, intoxicated by the scent that lingered on her skin after hours and hours, and his breath gently brushing her neck.

“Told you. Head’s going funny.” whispered the Brit, closing his eyes for a second.

She giggled, the warm tone of her laughter echoing through him, making him feel light — and, deep down, the best dancer in the world. She felt him so close it made her dizzy, but she didn’t want to let him win. Not yet, anyway.

“I think your head’s been funny the whole night, actually.”

He lifted his head, took a step back, and she looked him in the eyes with red cheeks and a face so young it made him feel good. There was a beautiful light in that boy’s eyes, and a grin so wide anyone miles away could’ve recognized it — not because he’d won, but because he loved being silly. With her.

“Not my fault, anyway.”

She shook her head, amused.

When most of the guests had already passed out in their rooms and the boldest ones were laughing at the bar, Lando was walking around the little lake in the park, jacket over his right shoulder.

“Seems like I can’t escape from you,” she said, sitting on a low wall nearby, knees pulled to her chest and hugged tight, heels by her side.

“I feel like I should be apologizing,” he said, leaning against a tree in front of her, knowing well that playing around wasn’t going to work anymore. Not when the humidity had curled her hair even more — soft and beautiful — and when she looked so tired she seemed half asleep.

“For what?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“For how badly I wanted you to keep dancing with me.”

She smiled, looking at him without fear anymore. Knowing the damage was done, and that he was so damn beautiful she wondered how he hadn’t stolen the whole guest list.

“I don’t even remember half the song. You were talking the whole time.”

“Was trying to distract you.” he smirked.

“You did.”

The tiny lights lit up both their eyes once again, while somewhere far away, the groom was probably busy finding the garter on his bride’s leg.

“You know you make it really hard to stop.”

Lando’s eyes traced her lips again, then her jawline and collarbone, down to her bare legs, where the dress hem stopped mid-calf, and her delicate face.

“Thinking about kissing you.”

He’d needed to say it out loud. To convince her he actually wanted to. Because he knew part of her — as she let her legs drop and leaned back against the wall — didn’t believe he really wanted to kiss her. She was disarmed. And a little in disbelief.

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Because you’d probably dodge it. Or punch me. Or — worse — laugh.”

That driver was nothing but trouble. With those messy curls, the perfect stubble, and the green eyes that completed the dream package he presented to the world. And that air of constant confidence. Which, instead of intimidating, was infectious.

“I wouldn’t laugh.”

She smiled, thinking he was still playing. But he set down the glass in his hand, followed by the jacket from the formal suit he’d worn to the ceremony, stepping closer.

“Would you dodge it?” he asked, voice low.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How long you’re gonna keep pretending you’re not dying to.”

That girl — so quiet, simple, and insecure — had figured out how to steal both his heart and his head, and maybe she didn’t even realize it. Just like she didn’t know how illegal she looked in that dress, and in the way she thought she could go unnoticed. He laughed, knowing she’d got him, running a hand through his hair and wetting his lips.

“I swear you’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it.”

He shook his head slightly, stepped up to her, and leaned on the wall with both hands, letting the bow tie fall to the ground so his arms were free. So he could hold her.

“Tell me to back off.”

But she didn’t. And she didn’t look away from his green eyes. Didn’t even think of doing it.

“Do it and see what happens.”

Rafa had his own way of standing out in the motorsport world, with that sweet and reserved air that, however, made room for a solid and unbeatable driver on track. And he had managed to make his name known even in his first weekend in Formula 3, alongside drivers with much more experience than him, asserting himself on a Melbourne that had been anything but forgiving, and making his white, red, and blue single-seater emerge from the puddles that turned the track into nothing more than a blurred memory. But then again, Brazilians had always made themselves heard, especially when the rain came. And he had never been any different.

He had a car that had left nothing but scraps for his rivals for years now, and his red helmet was the fleeting sight the others caught from behind his rear wheels—a reminder that talents like his were rare and that he had no time to slow down, as if his dream and his goal would simply stop and wait for him. Yet, he was also the kind of person who, after dominating without mercy, would go to the fans or the interviewers, laughing along with them, chatting like any other boy his age would, forgetting the ruthless leader he became between the corners and the scorching asphalt. It was almost as if there were two people inside him, seamlessly blending into the sweet and clean-cut face of a boy who was special—both as a person and as an athlete.

He had parked behind the number one marker, finishing an absurd and chaotic race due to the many mistakes of the other drivers, who had taken trips into the gravel or ended up in the wall, causing yellow flags that, in a way, had robbed him of the chance to truly shine—without the first place coming to him behind the safety car. He had gone a little long on the stop, as if the emotion had made him hit the brakes a second too late, nudging the number one sign with the nose of the Trident before taking his time, waiting for the other two drivers in the top three to park their single-seaters beside his. Then, he grabbed the steering wheel, detaching it to stand up and climb out of the cockpit, rising victorious with his arms in the air and his eyes visible through the open visor—his smile leaving little to the imagination.

—Rafa! Give us a one!— Every photographer shouted as his team and the academy he was part of celebrated him, ignoring the fact that the season was still long and focusing instead on how he had started on the right foot, showing exactly who had to be beaten.

And everything around him was a blurred bubble, almost muffled by the massive, menacing clouds watching from above. Everyone was humming, laughing, smiling at him, patting his shoulders and helmet for the first time in a race weekend he shared with the queens of motorsport. He could feel the entire race in his body—every lap in his hands and knees as he melted into every hug, a little awkwardly as always, unsure whether to shake hands, throw friendly fist bumps, or just let them decide how they wanted to celebrate.

—Come on, weigh time— a steward took him, leading him toward the podium scales for the post-race weigh-in, making him look around with that strange, confused air, as if he were searching for something amidst all the people in parc fermé. Or someone.

His brown eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for a pair of glasses so familiar that they always made him smile, and a smile that reminded him of the Brazilian sun, the very one he carried in his irises. She had to be there, somewhere. She had never missed a race since the day they had met.

Everyone was trying to talk to him while he did his best to satisfy all the photographers with different poses, and the men from the Ferrari Driver Academy were speaking to him, raising their voices to be heard above the chaos reigning in pit lane—from the preparations for the upcoming F2 feature race to the crowd gathering to watch the F3 podium. But all he saw was her standing a few steps back, leaving him his moment. Huddled under an umbrella with his lead mechanic.

—Let’s go, Rafael— the same steward took him, Theophile, and Noah, leading them toward the makeshift cool-down room on the back balcony of the podium, while the three walked up, huge smiles on their faces as they chatted about the race and the miserable conditions that had made it such a challenge.

He looks at her again, like maybe she’ll be gone if he doesn’t, but she’s already giving him the smallest nod, like go on, I’ll be here.

A few minutes later, after discussing the car with his teammate and confirming with the engineer who would be joining them on the podium, the Brazilian was leaning against the wall next to the Van Amersfoort Racing driver, adjusting the cap with the number one on it. A huge smile was still stretched across his face, unable to stay quiet as he laughed—almost like he needed it to burn off the adrenaline from his first-ever Formula 3 race.

—I thought you’d be happier about winning— a voice said, appearing in front of him before he could even register it.

—You can’t be in here— he blurts out, even though his grin is already giving him away.

It was the same one he always had when she was around—when she held his helmet while he signed autographs for fans or when he drove the team’s quad around the paddock, badly singing along to whatever song she had made him listen to during their lunch breaks under the tents.

—I won’t stay long— she smiled, hands full of cables and driver cards she should have been taking to the garage instead of sneaking up the podium stairs to reach him, while Noah and Theophile drank some water and waited for the signal to step outside and collect their trophies. —I just had to remind you how much you amaze me every time—

He got that usual expression, a little confused and unreadable, typical of someone young, sweet, and a little hard to pin down. But she knew him like the back of her hand, though it had taken her a while to pick up on the smallest details of the Brazilian.

She had barely stepped inside before he started yapping, his words coming out in rapid bursts, barely making sense but not caring if they did. He was always like this when she was around, because with her, there was no need to worry about keeping up the sweet and reserved good-boy image—he could be anything he felt like being, whether it was the unbeatable driver, the unshakable athlete, or the guy who couldn’t shut up even if he tried.

—and did you see the way I almost lost the car in turn 3? I swear, I felt it slipping and I just— he said, speaking quickly, knowing their time was limited. —My heart stopped. Like—actually stopped. I knew it was going to be okay, but it was thrilling—

And his passion was so pure. That all she could do was lean against the wall, listening to every tiny detail, without reminding him that after the podium, they had all the time in the world to talk about it over eggs and a glass of water in hospitality.

—You’re doing the thing again—

—What thing?—

—The thinking thing— she said, knowing how confident he was but also how he always demanded the absolute best from himself and his races, even though nothing could change the way he saw himself as an athlete.

—Well, yeah, my brain kinda works like that— he joked, adjusting his cap again.

—I mean, it isn’t the race you wanted, but it was the best debut you could have had in these conditions— she stopped for a second, fixing the collar of his fireproof suit, smoothing it just below his Adam’s apple. —And I’m proud, as always—

—I know— he smiled, that bright, sincere one that made his dimples stand out.

It’s ridiculous. They’re standing in the cool-down room, moments before he’s meant to step onto his first-ever F3 podium, laughing over nothing. But that’s how it always is with them. No matter where, no matter when—he just finds her. Always.

—I should go before someone finds me in here— she said, noticing the steward moving with that professional air, the accreditation device hanging from her neck, an earpiece in her ear as she approached them.

—Are you, uh… representing the winning team on the podium?— the steward asked, sounding bored, knowing only one team member could go up and celebrate with the top three.

—Oh, no, I’m actually leaving— she said apologetically, before stepping back.

—We’re two idiots, Rafa— she laughed, grabbing his shoulders and hugging him tightly, her face resting in the crook of his neck while he rubbed her back, right where the Trident logo stood proud, their hearts beating almost in sync, knowing this was only the beginning.

—I’m, like, really sweaty right now— he muttered, inhaling the garage scent in her hair, mixed with the same perfume she had always worn.

—Believe me, I know— she chuckled.

Rafa held her a little tighter, allowing himself to enjoy the moment, just this once. And he laughed into her hair, his entire body shaking with the weightlessness of it all. Then he stepped onto the podium, lifting the trophy high. Happy. A winner.