#grid fic

maxverstappen1 : 🤨🤨

liked by ynschumacher

↳ maxverstappen1 : yn mn schumacher i am not playing answer the PHONE

liked by ynschumacher

↳ ynschumacher : fine.

liked by maxverstappen1

sebastianvettel : Proud of you. Always.

liked by ynschumacher

↳ ynschumacher : i love you so so so much 😭

liked by sebastianvettel

lewishamilton : Incredible talent. Let's go racing, kid. ❤️

liked by ynschumacher

↳ ynschumacher : i got big shoes to fill:') thx lew 🤍

liked by lewishamilton

kimi.antonelli : want to be like you when i grow up

liked by ynschumacher and georgerussell63

↳ ynschumacher : mio kimumu

liked by kimi.antonelli and georgerussell63

↳ username009 : pls the season hasn't even started yet and the rookies r attached

username77 : she finally left that man GOD BLESS

liked by yourbff

↳ yourbff : never been more proud

liked by ynschumacher

↳ mickschumacher : we need to celebrate ASAP

liked by yourbff and ynschumacher

↳ username77 : im crying...they really all hated him too

↳ isackhadjar : i just want to talk to him...please

liked by ynschumacher

↳ olliebearman : i need an address

liked by ynschumacher

gina_schumacher : endlessly proud of you 🤍

liked by ynschumacher

carmenmmundt : stunning 🤩

liked by ynschumacher

username001 : she looks sm like both of her parents omg 😻

liked by ynschumacher

georgerussell63 : that man is not safe from the wrath of maría

liked by ynschumacher and kimi.antonelli

↳ ynschumacher : who tf is maría ???

↳ kimi.antonelli : the etsy witch george and i hired like five minutes ago

liked by georgerussell63 and ynschumacher

username0101 : ooo break up right before the season starts 😬 hope for the sake of the team this doesn't mess her up

↳ ynschumacher : would you say this if i was male?:)

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli, isackhadjar, mickschumacher, carmenmmundt, lewishamilton, maxverstappen1 and susie_wolff

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

A few days ago, Monaco still smelled like salt and money and unfinished conversations.

You remember it too clearly. The apartment was immaculate in the way places get when no one actually lives in them anymore. Your helmet sat by the door, gloves still tucked inside like you might leave again at any moment. He had been pacing, running a hand through his hair, frustration sharpening his voice with every step.

“You’re never here,” he said, like it was an accusation instead of a fact he had always known. “You’re always working. Or with your family. Or at the factory. Or flying off to another country.”

You didn’t raise your voice. You rarely did.

“This is my career,” you said evenly. “You knew that.”

“I knew you drove,” he snapped. “I didn’t know I’d always come second.”

That was when something inside you tightened.

“I don’t ask you to come second,” you replied. “You’re choosing to stand behind me.”

He scoffed, bitter and cruel. “You hide behind that name of yours. Behind your dad's shadow.”

Your breath left you all at once. He should not have said it. He knew better.

“You do not get to speak about him,” you said quietly.

“Well, maybe if you spent less time chasing his ghost and more time being a girlfriend—”

The sound of your hand hitting the counter cut him off.

“I said you don’t get to talk about him,” you repeated, voice shaking now. “You don’t get to talk about my family, my career, any of it.”

He rolled his eyes, and in that moment, you saw it clearly. The resentment. The insecurity. The way he had always hated that your world was bigger than him.

“You’re married to racing,” he said. “There’s no room for anyone else.”

You picked up your bag.

“Then I’m done trying to make room,” you replied.

You didn’t dare to cry until the plane lifted off.

Texas is much quieter. It always has been. Quiet in a way that you could not quite explain.

Not empty — just wide. Honest. The sky stretches forever, the land steady beneath your boots in a way Monaco never is. Your ranch smells like sun warmed earth and leather and home.

You don’t even unpack before calling Gina. She answers on the first ring.

“I’m home,” you say, and your voice breaks.

“I’m coming,” she replies, already moving.

She’s there in minutes, hair pulled back, boots kicked off at the door as if she’s always lived here. She doesn’t ask questions. She just wraps her arms around you, and suddenly you’re sobbing into her shoulder like you’re seventeen again.

“He said something awful,” you choke out. “About Dad. About everything.”

Gina’s jaw tightens, but her hands stay gentle, rubbing slow circles into your back.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I know.”

You cry until your chest aches, until the season feels too heavy and the expectations too loud and the media too cruel already. Seeing the female Schumacher take Lewis Hamilton's place at Mercedes sure had a way of riling the media.

“They’re already tearing me apart,” you whisper. “They haven’t even let me start with this team yet.”

Gina pulls back just enough to look at you. “You are not fragile,” she says firmly. “You are allowed to feel, and you are allowed to rest. But you are not weak.”

The door opens without warning. Mick. He always knows when something is wrong. He freezes when he sees you curled into Gina, eyes red, face blotchy.

“Oh,” he says softly.

You look up at him, and somehow that makes it worse.

“I didn’t know you were home,” he says, already crossing the room.

“You felt it,” Gina mutters.

He sits beside you, pulling you into his chest, pressing his forehead to yours. “You okay?”

You shake your head.

He sighs, long and familiar. “Did he say something stupid?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Mick huffs. “I hate him.”

You laugh weakly. “Everyone hates him.”

“Good,” Mick says. “As they should.”

He talks to you like he always does — grounding you, reminding you that you’re still you. Not a headline. Not a legacy. Just his twin. The girl who stole his fries and beat him in go karts.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

Max.

You answer, bracing yourself.

“What did he do,” Max says without preamble.

“Hello to you too.”

“I saw the post,” he replies flatly. “Explain. Now.”

You smile despite yourself. “We broke up.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Good.”

“Max—”

“What’s his address,” he interrupts. “The rookies want it.”

You laugh, startled. “The rookies?”

“Yes. All of them,” he says dryly. “They are very upset.”

“I’m not giving you his address.”

“Tsk,” Max clicks his tongue. “Unfortunate.”

“You are not letting five children commit crimes on behalf of me.”

“I said nothing about crimes,” he replies. “Just… conversations.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says simply. “But I will accept it for now.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Max pauses. “You’re still you, yeah?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says softly. “Call me later.”

You hang up and exhale.

Gina grins. “He’s so...Max.”

As the sun dips lower, Gina claps her hands. “Come on. Horses.”

The three of you ride out into the open land, dust rising, laughter breaking through the heaviness. Mick races you like you’re kids again. Gina yells at both of you. For a while, you forget.

That night, curled up on the couch, Mick hands Gina the remote.

“We’re watching Sex and the City,” she declares.

Mick groans. “Absolutely not.”

“You lost,” you say sweetly. “Also, you love Samantha.”

He sighs dramatically and sits anyway. You lean back between them, warmth on both sides, the TV glowing. For the first time in weeks, you sleep without dreaming of the bad press, the car or him.

The season might be right around the corner but nothing matters when you’re home.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

You always go to him before you leave. No matter how busy the season gets. No matter how far away the first race is. No matter how tight the schedule becomes once the world starts moving again.

The room is still when you enter, sunlight filtered softly through pale curtains. Machines hum low and constant, a sound you’ve known long enough that it no longer frightens you. It’s just part of the rhythm now. Part of him.

Your helmet rests in your lap as you sit beside the bed, fingers tracing the familiar curves of it absentmindedly. This year’s design is new — silver and white for Mercedes — but there’s a small detail on the side, easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. His signature remains etched into the side of your helmet.

“Hi, Papa,” you say softly.

His eyes are open today. Not focused, not quite — but open. You’ve learned to treasure the days when you can see them.

“I’m leaving soon,” you tell him, voice gentle, careful not to rush the words. “Australia first. New season.”

You smile faintly. “New team.”

There’s so much you don’t say out loud. About Lewis leaving. About the weight of the seat you’ve taken. About how the headlines already cut sharper this year, like they’re daring you to fail. You talk anyway.

You tell him about your break up. About Mick and Gina always taking care of you- even if they knew all along. You tell him you’re okay, even if you don’t fully believe it yet.

His eyes move. Just slightly. Tracking you.

Your breath catches, and you still, afraid to break the moment. His fingers curl — barely, almost imperceptibly — tightening around yours.

“There you are,” you whisper, tears burning suddenly. “I knew you were listening.”

They fall quietly, soaking into the sleeve of your sweater as you lean forward. You press a kiss to his knuckles, reverent and aching all at once.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise him. “I’ll be brave.”

You stand slowly, resting your forehead against his hand one last time.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Mama meets you in the hallway. She doesn’t say anything — she just pulls you into her arms, strong and familiar. When you step back, she cups your face.

“He’s proud,” she says softly. “Always.”

You nod, even as your chest tightens.

Then the world shifts. Australia is bright and loud and fast.

Qualifying day arrives with the crackle of energy that only the paddock can bring — engines snarling in the distance, cameras flashing, voices overlapping in too many languages at once.

Max walks in beside you like he always does.

Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Close enough that you don’t have to look to know he’s there.

The media presses in immediately. Questions sharp. Smiles thin.

“How does it feel replacing Lewis Hamilton?” “Do you think you can live up to the legacy of your father?” “Do you feel extra pressure as the first woman in Formula One?”

Max’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer for you. He never does. But he watches. Every word. Every tone. Every implication.

You keep your answers calm, precise. Professional. He stays until the last camera lowers, then steers you gently toward the Mercedes garage with a hand at your back.

Sebastian is waiting. He opens his arms before you even reach him, and you step into the hug without hesitation. It smells like home and trust.

“You look ready,” he says, squeezing your shoulder.

“I feel ready,” you reply.

He smiles — proud, steady. “That’s all that matters.”

Before you can settle fully, familiar nervous energy approaches. The rookies. They hover for half a second before committing, eyes wide, voices quieter than usual.

“Uh,” Ollie starts. “We were wondering if you had… like… advice?”

You grin. “Come sit.”

They do. All of them. Clustered around you like you’re something fragile and powerful all at once.

You talk them through it — breathing, focus, trusting the car, trusting themselves. You don’t lecture. You don’t posture. You listen. They hang on every word.

When you’re called for qualifying, they wish you luck like it’s a ritual.

You climb into the car. Helmet on.

The first lap is perfect. Clean. Aggressive. Controlled.

When the board flashes P1, the garage explodes. George pulls in beside you — P2 — grinning wide. Max slots into P3, already nodding like he expected nothing less.

Toto looks like he might levitate. The rookies pile on you the moment you step out of the car, arms everywhere, laughter loud and unfiltered. For once, the noise doesn’t overwhelm you.

Later that night, the paddock finally quiet, you sit beside Max, phone in your hands. You record the voice memo slowly.

“Hi, Mama,” you say softly. “Today went well. Really well.”

Your voice wavers. “Please play this for Papa. Tell him I carried him with me.”

You swallow. “Pole position.”

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Max doesn’t say anything. He just stays. Like he always has.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

The paddock is different when you’re little. You don’t remember the fuel or the heat or the pressure. You remember color. Noise. Laughter. The way the ground felt uneven beneath your tiny shoes.

You’re five years old, legs dangling uselessly as your father carries you on one hip. Max is six and perched on his other side, arms looped securely around Michael’s neck like he belongs there.

You do. Both of you do.

Max is talking a mile a minute, words tumbling over each other about cars and speed and how one day he’s going to be faster than everyone else. You nod along enthusiastically, interrupting him to say you’ll be even faster, actually, because you’re very good at corners.

Michael chuckles, deep and warm, adjusting his grip so neither of you slips.

“You two,” he says fondly, shaking his head. “All about racing already.”

Max grins, unabashed. “We’re going to race here one day.”

“Yes,” you agree solemnly. “Together.”

Michael looks at the two of you — eyes bright, heart full — and smiles in a way that feels like sunlight.

“I can’t wait for the day,” he says gently, “that I get to watch both of you race.”

You don’t know it then, but that sentence will live inside you forever.

The present sucks you back in. Race day morning in Australia hums softly — engines distant, radios crackling faintly through the walls. You sit beside Max in comfortable silence, both of you half dressed in race suits, focused and calm.

No words are needed. You’ve done this together for so long that it feels natural, like breathing.

Max adjusts his gloves, glancing over at you briefly. “You slept?”

“Enough,” you reply.

He nods. “Good.”

That’s it. That’s the check-in.

Lewis finds you just before you head out.

He smiles when he sees you, familiar and kind. “You ready?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He steps closer, voice lowering. “Ignore the noise. You’ve earned this. That seat, this moment — all of it.”

Your chest tightens. “Thank you.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “Go win.”

“You too,” you say softly.

The race is everything you need it to be. Controlled. Focused. Fierce.

You take the lead early and never give it back. Max stays close, relentless, familiar in your mirrors. George holds strong behind him, silver cars locking out the front. When the checkered flag waves, your breath leaves you in a shaky laugh. You’ve won.

Max finishes P2. George P3.

As soon as you climb out of the car, Sebastian is there. He doesn’t wait. He pulls you into his arms, lifting you slightly off the ground, holding you like you’re still a kid and he’s still there to catch you.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs.

You cling to him for a moment longer than necessary.

The grid swarms you after that — handshakes, hugs, smiles, genuine congratulations. There’s no jealousy here. Only respect.

On the podium, Max bumps your shoulder gently, eyes bright.

“He's still watching us even now,” he says quietly.

You laugh, blinking hard. “Yeah.”

Later, the night settles. You sit on the hotel balcony, city lights glowing below, photo album open in your lap. You flip through pages slowly — childhood birthdays, paddock days, Mick and Gina grinning, your parents young and impossibly happy.

You stop on one photo. Michael holding you and Mick just after you were born, Corinna beside him, exhausted and radiant.

Your chest aches. Your phone rings.

“Mick.”

You answer immediately. “Hi.”

“Hello winner,” he says, voice warm. “I knew you’d do it.”

You laugh through tears. “I wish you were here.”

“I’m always with you,” he replies gently. “Testing went well, by the way.”

“Of course it did.”

You sit there together, miles apart but still inseparable. When you hang up, you close the album carefully and look out into the night. Some dreams don’t fade. They just change shape.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

mid season

ynschumacher

liked by mickschumacher, gina_schumacher, maxverstappen1 and 3,705,000 others.

ynschumacher : mid season check in from your championship leader ;)

tagged : maxverstappen1, sebastianvettel and mickschumacher

—

comments have been limited on this post.

kimi.antonelli : my goatttttt

liked by ynschumacher

↳ maxverstappen1 : i thought i was your goat

liked by ynverstappen and kimi.antonelli

↳ kimi.antonelli : i can have two...besides you guys r like the same person

liked by maxverstappen1 and ynschumacher

estebanocon : You've been killing it!!!!!

liked by ynschumacher

jackdoohan : #ynwdc

liked by ynschumacher

↳ ynschumacher : #fckalpine #jackdeservesbetter

liked by jackdoohan

mickschumacher : that's my twin!!!!!!

liked by ynschumacher

↳ ynschumacher : that's my twin!!!!!!!!!!!

liked by mickschumacher

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Hungary is tight and technical and unforgiving. You’ve always loved it for that exact reason. But from the very first lap of qualifying, something feels wrong.

The car won’t rotate the way it should. The balance is off, snapping one corner and understeering the next. You push harder, chasing lap time that never quite comes to you, your jaw tightening with every sector.

P17.

You blink at the screen, certain it’s a mistake. Knocked out in Q1.

The garage goes quiet in that stunned, hollow way you’ve only ever seen from the outside. You pull the car in, remove your helmet slowly, methodically — because if you don’t move carefully, you might shatter.

Your chest feels too tight. You don’t look at anyone as you climb out. Sebastian is already there.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just waits until you’re standing in front of him, eyes glassy, frustration sharp and raw beneath your skin.

“Hey,” he says gently.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I couldn’t find it.”

He nods, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “I know.”

You sit together in the garage long after most people have left. He listens as you replay every corner, every missed apex, every second you felt slip through your fingers.

“This doesn’t define you,” he tells you quietly. “It’s data. We’ll fix it.”

He’s calm. Steady. Exactly what you need.

You stay late with the engineers, poring over traces and setups. Sebastian stays too, leaning over screens, asking thoughtful questions, grounding the room.

When you finally leave, he drives you to your hotel.

“Try to sleep,” he says, squeezing your shoulder.

You nod. You don’t. You curl into the bed instead, tears soaking into the pillow as you pull your journal close. The one you never leave home without.

Papa, you write shakily. Today was hard. I didn’t recognize myself out there. But I’m trying. I promise.

The knock comes just after midnight. You don’t need to check the door. You already know. Max stands there, hands in his pockets, expression soft despite the hour.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “Couldn't sleep knowing you were like this.”

You let him in. He doesn’t push. He never does. He just sits beside you until the words come spilling out — fear, frustration, the weight of leading the championship, the terror of disappointing everyone.

He pulls you into his chest, familiar and solid. You lie there together like you did when you were kids — limbs tangled, silence comfortable. You eventally fall asleep with your forehead pressed to his shoulder. Max kisses your hair gently before slipping out.

Morning comes softer. There’s another knock. This time, it’s chaos. The rookies spill into your room, voices overlapping, concern written all over their faces.

“Are you okay?” “We were worried.” “Like, really worried.”

You blink at them, still wrapped in hotel sheets, then laugh. “You know you’re supposed to be competing against me, right?”

Kimi clears his throat. “We can start tomorrow.”

Ollie lifts the room service menu. “Breakfast?”

Gabriel nods seriously. “We need fuel.”

You sit together on the bed, eating croissants and fruit, laughing when Kimi admits he used Max’s card.

“He said yes,” Kimi insists. “Very clearly.”

The paddock watches as the five of you walk in together later — rookies orbiting you like satellites. The cameras love it. Fans eat it up.

Before the race, Mick calls.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Just checking in.”

“I’m okay,” you reply.

“I know,” he says. “Go show them.”

You start P17. You finish P3.

The drive is relentless. Clean. Smart. Aggressive when it needs to be. The overnight changes work. The car comes alive beneath you. The paddock is stunned.

Lando finds you immediately after. “That was insane,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “I knew you’d do something like that.”

Others follow — congratulations warm and genuine.

Later, alone in your drivers’ room, you record another message.

“Hi, Mama,” you whisper. “Please tell Papa… today I didn’t give up.”

Your voice cracks. “I think he’d like that.”

You wipe your eyes and smile. The season goes on. And so do you.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Summer break feels strange when you’ve spent your entire life moving. No flights to catch. No debriefs. No countdown clocks humming quietly in the back of your mind. You use it to do something impulsive. You don’t tell Mick. You don’t tell anyone. You just show up.

The RLL IndyCar test day is hot and loud and alive in a way that feels different from F1 — less polished, more raw. You stand just beyond the pit wall, sunglasses on, arms crossed, heart thudding with anticipation. Jack stands beside you, vibrating with poorly concealed excitement.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” Jack whispers.

“I know,” you grin.

Mick pulls into the pits, visor lifting as he climbs out of the car — and then he freezes. His eyes find you. Then Jack. Then you again.

“What—” he starts, then breaks into the biggest smile you’ve seen on him in years. He jogs over, pulling you into a hug and gently lifting you.

“You’re here,” he laughs, breathless. “I can't believe it.”

Jack gets folded in immediately after. “Took you long enough,” Mick teases.

You step back, eyes shining. “You look good.”

Mick hesitates, then glances around, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret even though it’s bursting out of him.

“I signed,” he says. “Next year. Full season.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Then you launch yourself at him again, laughing and crying at the same time. “Mick, that’s incredible.”

Jack whoops. “I knew it!”

Mick’s smile softens, something settled and peaceful finally resting on his face. “I’m happy,” he says simply.

And you couldn't be happier for him. But the memory comes unbidden.

You and Mick are nine. Jack is six and far too small for the kart he insists on driving.

The three of you race around a sunlit track, laughter echoing, helmets crooked and oversized. You take corners too fast. Mick pretends to be serious. Jack spins out and laughs anyway.

Michael watches from the fence, arms crossed, smiling so wide it hurts.

“Slow down!” he calls fondly.

You don’t. You never do.

That night, the fire crackles low and steady. You sit wrapped in blankets, stars scattered overhead, trading stories like treasures.

Jack talks about Alpine. Mick talks about IndyCar. You talk about leading the championship and how surreal it still feels. They tease you. You tease them back. It’s easy. Familiar. Safe. Like you are all young again. Unaware of what the future would hold.

You slip inside briefly, phone buzzing. A group FaceTime lights up the screen.

Kimi. Isack. Gabriel. Ollie.

“Hi,” you laugh.

They talk over each other immediately.

“I’m bored.” “I miss you.” “Do you know how weird summer break is?” “I tried surfing.”

You listen, smiling, warmth blooming in your chest.

“You know you can come visit,” you joke lightly. “Texas is big.”

There’s a pause. Four identical looks of oh.

“Wait,” Kimi says slowly. “Like… actually?”

You blink. “I was kidding.”

They are not.

The next morning, you wake to barking. And then shouting. You stumble to the door in pajamas to find four rookies standing on your porch, bags in hand, sunburned and beaming.

Kimi lifts a hand. “Surprise.”

You stare at them. Then laugh.

“Come in,” you say, stepping aside. “All of you.”

Summer break, apparently, is just beginning.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

The rookies do not believe in easing into anything. They decide — loudly, unanimously — that they are making you breakfast. You sit on the counter, legs swinging, coffee in hand, watching them tear through your kitchen like a pit crew with no strategy briefing.

“We need eggs,” Ollie declares, already opening the fridge.

“Why are there so many types of milk?” Isack asks, squinting suspiciously.

Kimi is holding a pan like it personally offended him. “Do we… oil this?”

Gabriel, ever the calm one, is quietly reading the back of a cereal box. “There is fruit in this,” he offers. “This feels safer.”

“You are all guests,” you remind them sweetly. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No,” Kimi says firmly. “We do.”

Mick walks in halfway through the chaos, fresh from outside, freezes in the doorway, and just stares.

“…Why?”

You grin. “Breakfast.”

He snorts, leaning against the doorframe. “Of course.”

Eggs are burned. Toast is somehow both underdone and charred. Someone spills orange juice. But they’re glowing with pride when they place plates in front of you.

“You made this,” you say solemnly.

“We did,” Isack beams.

You take a bite. “It’s terrible.”

They cheer anyway.

Later, you take them out to see the horses. Gina meets you by the barn, eyes widening when she sees the group trailing behind you.

“Is this… a field trip?”

“Apparently,” you reply.

You help Kimi up first. He grips the reins like they might disappear.

“I trust you,” he says nervously.

“You shouldn’t,” you laugh, adjusting his posture.

Isack goes next, already talking to the horse like it understands him completely.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells it. “We’re friends now.”

Ollie decides feeding is his calling. The horse’s tongue flicks out, wet and surprisingly long.

He yelps and jumps back. “Absolutely not.”

You double over laughing.

Gabi stays behind, leaning on the fence beside Mick, chatting quietly about racing, about life, about what comes next. The sun is warm. The moment is easy.

The kart track is loud the moment you arrive. Engines scream, rubber burns, and the rookies all suddenly look far too serious for something that was meant to be fun.

Isack pulls on his gloves. “Okay. Rules?”

“There are no rules,” you say sweetly.

“That feels illegal,” Ollie replies.

Kimi is already climbing into his kart, focused in that way that makes everyone else slightly nervous. “She’s going to destroy us.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Gabriel adds calmly.

You pull your helmet on last. The light goes green.

Isack launches like he’s fighting for his life, immediately trying to block you in the first corner.

“You’re insane!” you shout, laughing as you slip past him anyway.

Kimi is fast — terrifyingly fast — smooth and precise even in a rental kart. You chase him for three laps, pressure building, before diving late into a corner and stealing the line.

“NO,” he yells, half-laughing.

Ollie apologizes over his shoulder as he accidentally bumps Isack. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”

Gabriel hangs back, watching lines, then quietly picks them off one by one.

On the final lap, you’re out front. You win.

They pile out of their karts, sweaty and breathless, arguing loudly.

“That corner was illegal.” “She brake-checked me.” “You literally rammed me!”

You pull your helmet off, grinning. “Training session complete.”

Back at the house, the mood shifts. The hallway grows quieter the closer you get. Your steps slow without you meaning them to. The laughter from earlier still echoes faintly behind you, but here — here it’s different. The air feels heavier. Softer. Sacred.

You stop in front of the door. The boys notice.

“Hey,” Ollie says gently. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, voice calm but careful. “I just… don’t bring many people in here.”

You push the door open.

The room is dim, lit by warm lamps instead of overhead lights. The walls are lined — not cluttered, but deliberate. Each helmet is mounted like a memory, not a trophy. Race suits folded beneath glass. Old gloves. Photographs framed in quiet order.

No one speaks at first.

Isack is the one who exhales, almost silent. “Holy shit.”

Kimi’s eyes move slowly, taking everything in. “These are… all of his?”

“Not all,” you say softly. “Just the ones that meant the most to him. Or to us.”

You walk in, fingertips grazing the edge of a display. “This one,” you point, “he wore when I was born. He joked that it was the first race he ever lost focus in.”

Ollie lets out a small laugh, immediately covering his mouth. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you smile faintly. “He likes jokes.”

Gabriel steps closer to a photograph — Michael younger, arms slung around a much smaller Mick and you, helmets far too big for your heads.

“He looks so… happy,” Gabriel says.

“He was,” you reply. “Tired. Always tired. But happy.”

Kimi swallows. “Did he teach you to drive?”

You nod. “Before anyone else. He sat on the pit wall and made me explain every decision I made. Even when I was wrong.”

Isack laughs softly. “That’s terrifying.”

“It was,” you agree. “But it made me better.”

Silence settles again, thick but not uncomfortable.

Ollie hesitates. “Does it still hurt?”

The question is so earnest, so careful, that it cracks something open in you.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “But moments like this… it feels like he’s still truly here.”

They don’t rush you. They don’t look away.

Kimi steps closer. “Thank you for sharing him with us.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you for asking.”

For the first time in a long while, the room feels lighter. You turn off the lights together. Healing doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it just… breathes.

The living room is chaos again within minutes. Arguments over movies. Blankets everywhere.

“You can’t make us watch that.” “Yes I can.” “We vote!”

You and Kimi sneak into the kitchen, laughing as you prepare snacks.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?” you ask.

"For treating us like family. None of us would've made it through our first season without you." He replies with enough sincerity to make you want to burst into tears.

"Of course. We all start somewhere and we all need someone to keep us steady." You say quietly and pull him into a small hug. He wraps his arms around you and exhales as you place a small kiss on the top of his head.

Isack and Ollie finally agree on Cars 2 as you and Kimi bring the snacks in. The boys surround you on the center of the couch, Isack's legs draped across your lap and Kimi's head on your shoulder. Within an hour into the movie, everyone has crashed. You fall asleep to the sound of easy breathing, heart lighter than it’s been in a long time.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

weeks later...usgp

Texas feels different when it’s race week. The land is still wide, still warm, but now it hums with anticipation — helicopters overhead, distant engines, familiar faces flooding back into your world. The championship lead follows you everywhere, an invisible weight pressing gently between your shoulder blades.

Before qualifying, you go home. Your parents’ house is calm in the way it always has been, like the walls know how to hold grief without letting it spill. The door opens before you even knock.

Corinna wraps you into her arms immediately, strong and grounding.

“There you are,” she murmurs into your hair.

You breathe her in. “I missed you.”

She pulls back just enough to smile at you. “I missed you even more. He is in his spot."

You nod, then pause when she adds softly, “Max is with him.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “Max?”

Corinna smiles in that knowing way she has. “He asked if it was okay.”

You don’t answer. You just head for the stairs. You stop halfway up.

Max’s voice drifts down the hall, low and unguarded.

“She’s incredible,” he’s saying quietly. “You’d be so proud of her. I know you are, but… I wish you could see it.”

You press your hand to the wall, chest tightening.

“She’s grown so much,” Max continues. “We both have. But she’s always been like this. Brave. Stubborn.” A soft huff of a laugh. “Annoyingly fast.”

Tears sting your eyes.

“I try to look out for her,” he says. “Like you did. I don’t know if I’m very good at it, but… I try.”

Your breath shakes. You knock quickly before you lose your nerve.

Max turns immediately. “Hey.”

His expression shifts when he sees your face, but he doesn’t comment. “I was just— I can go. Give you some time.”

“No,” you say, voice thick. “Please stay.”

You move to the bed, sitting carefully beside your father. His eyes are open today, unfocused but present. You take his hand, familiar warmth grounding you instantly.

Max sits on your other side, close but not intrusive. He slips his fingers into yours without looking at you, steady and sure.

“Hi, Papa,” you whisper. “I’m home.”

You talk quietly — about Austin, about the crowd, about Mick's new contract and Gina's life. You feel Max listening, sharing the space with you instead of filling it.

Michael’s fingers tighten faintly around yours.

“There,” you murmur. “There you are.”

You stay like that for a long time. No rush. No expectations.

Max squeezes your hand once. “You’re not alone. You never will be,” he says softly.

You nod, tears slipping free.

“I know.”

Qualifying is the good kind of intense.

You’re calm in the car — focused, grounded, carrying more than just a helmet with you. The lap comes together effortlessly, corners flowing like muscle memory.

P1.

When you climb out of the car, your family is already there.

Mick pulls you into a crushing hug. “That was unreal.”

Gina wipes at her eyes, laughing. “You are insane.”

Corinna cups your face, pride shining openly. “He would have loved that lap.”

Max stands just behind them, arms crossed, a small smile playing at his lips. You catch his eye. He nods once. And for the first time all weekend, the pressure eases. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be. With your family.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

las vegas

ynschumacher

liked by lewishamilton, maxverstappen1, mickschumacher and 15,009,007 others.

ynschumacher : one hell of a season. extremely honored to be your 2025 f1 world champion. in true schumacher fashion, i celebrated with a dinner at texas roadhouse w two of my biggest supporters:,) @/mickschumacher and @/gina_schumacher 🤍

i dedicate this win and my entire career to my papa<3 it was my biggest honor to wear your helmet during the race that won me this championship. you are my hero and have always been my biggest supporter- to keep your legacy going will always be the greatest achievement of my life. i love you so much and i hope i made you proud.

thank you all for all your kind words and love and support for my family. i adore you and this is just our first win...here's to many more 🤍

tagged : maxverstappen1, mickschumacher, gina_schumacher and lewishamilton

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Las Vegas glows like it’s holding its breath. Neon lights blur past as you make your way through the paddock, the desert air cooler than you expect, the weight of the moment settling deep in your chest. One race. One win. One world championship.

Sebastian never leaves your side. He doesn’t need to say anything — he just walks with you, shoulder brushing yours now and then, grounding you in the way only he can.

In your driver’s room, you sit quietly, helmet resting in your lap. You aren’t shaking, exactly. It’s worse than that — a stillness so intense it feels like the world has narrowed to a pinprick.

Then it happens. Your phone lights up. No message. No call. Just the time: 7:07 PM. Your breath catches.

That number has followed you your whole life — race numbers scribbled on childhood helmets, karting laps you never forgot, the time your father always seemed to glance at the clock when you were little. It’s meaningless to everyone else.

To you, it’s everything.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I see you.”

Seb watches you carefully. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think… I think he’s watching.”

Seb doesn’t question it. He just smiles softly. “Of course he is.”

He taps twice on the doorframe before stepping fully inside, like he always does. Then he comes closer and crouches in front of you, forearms resting on his knees.

“You don’t need a big speech,” he says gently. “You already know what to do.”

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” His eyes are warm, unwavering. “That means it matters.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek — grounding, familial, full of love. “Whatever happens out there, I’m proud of you.”

Then, after a beat, he adds quietly, “Your dad once told me… that talent is loud, but courage is quiet. He said you had both.”

Your chest caves in.

“I didn’t know that,” you whisper.

“He didn’t say it to many people,” Seb replies. “But he said it with certainty.”

A knock interrupts the moment.

Lewis steps in, hesitant like he’s stepping into sacred ground. “Hey,” he says softly. “Just wanted to check on you.”

You stand and he pulls you into a gentle hug, rocking slightly. “You’ve carried this season with such grace,” he murmurs. “No matter what today brings — you’ve already made history.”

You pull back, smiling through the nerves. “Thank you. For everything.”

He taps your helmet. “Now go finish it.”

You lower yourself into the car.

Belts tight. Hands steady.

“Radio check,” crackles through the headset.

You smile instinctively. “Loud and clear.”

Then—

“Hey,” a familiar voice cuts in.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp laugh-sob. “Mick?”

There’s a pause, then, “Surprise.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel. “You weren’t— you’re not supposed to be—”

“I know,” he says, voice warm and smiling. “But there was no way I wasn’t here for this.”

Tears blur your vision. “I love you.”

“I know,” he replies softly. “Now go win this thing.”

The lights go out.

The race unfolds like a dream you don’t dare wake from. Clean starts. Perfect calls. Pace you didn’t even know you had. Every lap feels guided — like hands at your back, steady and sure.

When the checkered flag waves, you don’t hear the noise.

You just hear your own breath.

“You’ve done it,” comes through the radio, thick with emotion. “You’re the world champion.”

Max’s radio crackles to life too, GP nearly shouting, “YN has won the championship!”

Max laughs, breathless, overjoyed. “She deserves it.”

The cooldown lap is a blur of tears and disbelief.

When you climb out of the car, the grid doesn’t just congratulate you — they surround you.

The rookies are first.

Kimi wraps you up from behind. “GRID MOM IS A WORLD CHAMPION!”

Isack laughs, lifting you off the ground. “She did it!”

Gabriel and Ollie pile in, chanting your name until you’re breathless with laughter and tears.

Sebastian finds you next.

He holds you like you’re still that little kid in a too-big helmet. “He knows,” he whispers into your hair. “I promise you — he knows.”

Then Mick.

Your twin. Your other half.

You cling to him like the world might fall apart without him there. “We did it,” you sob.

“No,” he corrects gently. “You did.”

Max waits until last. He doesn’t say much — he never does — but when he pulls you into his arms, it’s solid and certain and safe.

“I need to go see him,” you say immediately, voice urgent.

Max nods. “I’ll get you there. Come on.”

You squeeze his hand. “Please stay with me.”

“Always,” he says simply.

When you arrive, the room is quiet. Too quiet for what you’re carrying.

You lie down beside your father, carefully, reverently. Your championship cap rests at the end of the bed. You take his hand, pressing it to your chest.

“I did it,” you whisper, voice breaking. “For you, Papa.”

Max sits beside you, hand warm in yours, thumb brushing gentle circles like he has a thousand times before. Seb and Mick stand close, bearing witness without intruding.

Finally, the grief doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing you. It feels like it’s resting. You close your eyes, breathing him in. And somewhere deep in your bones, you know — he’s proud.

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

maxverstappen1 added a post to his story!

seen by ynschumacher, mickschumacher, gina_schumacher and 5,705,000 others.

ynschumacher (replying to story) :

i love you so much 😭

liked by maxverstappen1

↳ love you schat

⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ ⋆˚𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

bonus : a true texas celebration

The next evening is quiet in the way only family can make it — comfortable, unguarded, real. No cameras. No schedules. Just you, Mick, Gina, and Max piled into the SUV, windows cracked, country music playing low.

“I get to choose,” you announce from the passenger seat, already grinning.

Mick groans. “This is dangerous.”

Gina smirks. “She’s been planning this since Vegas.”

You turn around, eyes bright. “We’re going to Texas Roadhouse.”

Max blinks. “That is… a restaurant?”

Mick laughs. “Oh, buddy.”

The moment you walk in, Max freezes. There’s neon everywhere. Fake cacti. Country music loud enough to feel in your ribs. Buckets of peanuts on every table.

He leans down to you, voice low and baffled. “Why is there… farm equipment on the walls?”

You shrug innocently. “Ambience.”

A server drops a metal bucket of peanuts onto the table.

Max stares at it. “Are we meant to… eat these?”

Gina grins. “Throw the shells on the floor.”

He looks down. Looks back up. “On purpose?”

Mick is already cracking peanuts and tossing shells with dramatic flair. “It’s therapeutic.”

Max hesitates, then carefully drops a shell.

You watch the exact moment he decides to commit.

By the time the rolls arrive, he’s tearing into them like he’s never known hunger. Butter on his fingers. Steak ordered medium-rare without hesitation.

“These rolls,” he says seriously, “are exceptional.”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke. “You love it.”

“I do not,” he replies, then pauses. “But I will be returning.”

When you get home, the house is dark.

You frown. “Did someone forget to turn the lights on?”

Mick slows the car. “Huh. That’s weird.”

You step inside—

“SURPRISE!”

The lights explode on.

The room is full.

Sebastian stands front and center, beaming. Jack Doohan is beside him, already filming. The rookies are losing their minds — Kimi nearly trips over the couch, Isack cheers, Gabriel claps, Ollie shouts your name. Drivers from across the grid fill the space, laughter and applause echoing off the walls.

Your hands fly to your mouth.

“Oh my— Seb— what—”

Seb laughs. “You thought we’d let you celebrate quietly?”

The rookies rush you first.

Kimi presses a small box into your hands. “We, um… we got you something.”

Inside is a bracelet — simple, leather and silver — engraved with your fathers number.

“You taught us everything,” Isack says softly. “We wanted you to have something you could carry.”

Your eyes fill instantly. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Too late,” Ollie grins.

You pull them all into a hug, overwhelmed and glowing.

The night blurs into music and stories and laughter. At one point you catch Sebastian watching from across the room, arms crossed, content. When your eyes meet, he nods — quiet, proud.

Later, you slip outside onto the porch. The Texas night hums around you. Max joins you without a word, leaning against the railing beside you.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For everything. For always being there.”

He looks at you, eyes soft. “There was never a question.”

You smile, tired and full. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead — gentle, lingering. “You would’ve found a way. But I’m glad I didn’t have to watch you do it alone.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. Inside, laughter spills into the night. And for the first time in a long time, the future feels light. Home.