#jadeittic

Lando gasped, a dramatic, wounded look instantly taking over his face. "That was a wind gust! A massive one! And wait, whose notebook is that? Are you spying?"

"Goodbye, Lando," you laughed, finally spotting the engineer near the racks, handing it over, and quickly making your exit before anyone could accuse you of anything.

Fifteen minutes later, the green light illuminated for the first qualifying session of the season.

By the time Q3 wrapped up, Lando had put his car on the front row, splitting the otherwise dominant Red Bulls. When you saw the timing screens from your own garage, you shook your head, genuinely happy for him.

It was a great lap. You didn't think about it again.

The second time happened in Silverstone, and it was driven entirely by starvation.

Your FP2 session had been a complete disaster. Your team had suffered an electrical issue that kept you stranded in your garage for forty out of sixty minutes, and Luca had dragged you through a brutal, exhausting debrief.

By 5 PM, you were completely drained, completely miserable, and completely starved.

Mercedes's hospitality unit had run out of those specific protein bars you liked, so you decided to raid a rival. McLaren was closer, and more importantly, their catering staff was usually too distracted by celebrity guests to notice a driver from another team slipping past.

You snuck into the back of their hospitality kitchen, successfully took three bars, and made a clean getaway through the back door.

"Stop right there."

You froze, a bar halfway to your mouth. Lando was sitting on a tire stack outside, a water bottle in hand, watching you with narrowed eyes.

"I'm starving, Lando," you mumbled around a bite.

His eyes went from the bar in your hand to your face, a strange expression crossing his features. "You walked through the back door."

"Yes. Because it was the shortest route away from your terrifying manager."

"Right," Lando murmured, nodding to himself. "Okay."

"Are you... okay?" you asked. "You're being weird."

"Just remember this moment," he said, pointing a finger at you.

Sure enough, amid a chaotic, wet-to-dry race that featured two safety cars and crumbling grid, Lando drove an absolute masterclass. When the checkered flag waved, he crossed the line in first place.

While you were walking through the media pen after finishing a quiet, respectable P4, Lando caught your eye from across the barrier.

He was drenched in champagne, his hair plastered to his forehead, holding his trophy. He didn't wave. He just pointed at you, then pointed at the trophy, and gave you a big smile.

You raised an eyebrow, entirely confused, and kept walking.

By the fifth time, it had become an actual problem.

In Miami, the paddock was incredibly long, hot, and humid. You had just finished a grueling engineering meeting and needed to get back to your team's media unit for an interview.

Looking at the crowded walkway, you realized that taking a direct cut through the middle of the McLaren garage was the fastest, coldest route back to the paddock.

You ducked under the barrier, gave a quick, apologetic nod to a mechanic who looked up, and walked briskly down the central lane. Lando was standing by the data screens, his race suit tied around his waist.

The moment he saw you, his head snapped up.

"Ah!" he shouted, pointing a finger so dramatically that multiple mechanics dropped their tools. "I knew it! You're here!"

"I'm just walking through, Lan. I'm late for an interview—"

"No, no, no!" Don't leave yet!" He literally scrambled across the floor, grabbing you by the sleeve of your team shirt. "Stand right there. Just for ten seconds. Stand by the front wing."

"Lando, let go of me, you look insane," you laughed, trying to pull your arm away as a couple of photographers turned their lenses toward the commotion. "Everyone thinks you've lost your mind."

Oscar walked past, saw what was happening, and immediately did a 180. "I'm not getting involved," he muttered, walking straight back out.

"See that?" you pointed at Oscar's retreating figure. "Even he thinks you're nuts."

Lando ignored him entirely, looking at you with completely sincere, desperate eyes. "Please. Just... touch the wing. Or the nose. Just a little tap."

"I am not touching your car. I could get disqualified because of you." You broke his grip, shaking your head in pure exasperation. "You're an actual child."

You jogged out of the garage, throwing your hands up. Two hours later, the graphics on the televisions screen updated.

LANDO NORRIS SECURES FASTEST IN MIAMI!

You stared at the monitor in your driver room for a full minute. Then, you buried your face in your hands and groaned.

You knew, with absolute certainty, that you were nevery going to hear the end of this.

The next morning, you stepped out of your driver room into the crisp morning air of the paddock, holding a steaming cup of coffee. You stopped dead.

Lando was leaning against the railing of your team's hospitality building. He was fully dressed in his race kit, arms crossed, staring directly at your doorway.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, taking a long, slow sip of your coffee. "Hello to you too."

"You haven't been in the garage yet," Lando said. His tone was flat, completely stripped of its usual humor.

"You realize I don't work for McLaren, right?"

"I know."

"Then why are you standing here?"

"Because it's qualifying," he said, as if explaining the alphabet to a toddler. "And we have a system now. A routine."

"We do not have a routine! You had a good lap because you're a good driver and a good car!"

"No," Lando countered, stepping forward and poking a finger at you. "The data doesn't lie. Bahrain, your stolen notebook, I got front row. Silverstone, your snack heist, podium. Miami, shortcut through ours, I scored fastest."

"It's just a coincidence. Did you skip school?"

"Just walk through the garage, c'mon."

"Lando."

"Please."

"Lando."

"Please. Just one walk. A quick one. You don't even have to look at anyone. Just breathe the air in there."

You looked around. At least twenty people were watching you now, including Toto, your own team principal, who was leaning over the balcony above you with a highly amused smirk on his face.

"Fine!" you snapped, throwing your hands up in defeat. "Fine. But you're buying my dinner for the rest of the races."

"Consider it done," Lando beamed, his face lighting up with a radiant, satisfied grin.

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself being formally escorted through the McLaren garage by a very smug Lando.

"Morning, lucky charm," one of the men called out.

You covered your face with your hands, letting out a long, suffering groan. "I hate you so much," you muttered to Lando.

He just nodded cheerfully. "Maybe. But if I get pole today?"

And pole he got indeed.

Lando had converted his pole position into a stunning race win, fighting off a relentless charge from the Red Bulls in the final five laps. You had managed a brilliant recovery drive yourself, clawing your way up from a messy midfield start to take P2.

Because of the joint podium, you were seated right next to each other on the stage, facing a sea of journalists, blinking lights, and snapping cameras.

"Question for our winner," the journalist said, leaning forward. "Lando, your form over the last few weekend has been incredibly consistent. There's a rumor circulating through the team units that you've adopted a superstition or lucky charm before you get into the car. Can you tell us anything about that?"

You instantly froze, your water bottle pasuing halfway to your mouth. Your eyes widened as you stared ahead at the back wall of the media room.

Please don't say it, you prayed silently, your soul leaving your body. Please, for the love of God, do not say it.

Lando, however, let out a massive, delighted grin.

"Oh, it's 100% real," Lando said. He slowly turned his head to look directly at you. "Every single time I've qualified front row or won a race recently, it's because a certain driver from a certain team walked through my garage."

"Lando, shut up," you muttered, keeping a tight, fake smile plastered on your face.

"She thinks I'm crazy," Lando continued. "But the data doesn't lie."

The journalist looked highly amused. "So, are you saying she's officially on the McLaren payroll now?"

"I mean, if she wants to," Lando nodded. "Though Toto might complain about stealing her. We might have to trade a few people for her services."

You leaned forward, pulling your own microphone closer.

"I would just like to state for the record that I am a professional athlete, not a lucky pot of gold," you announced, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"And if Lando doesn't stop telling every I control his race pace," you continued, "I am going to start walking through the Ferrari garage instead."

The entire room erupted into loud laughter. Lando gasped, clutching his chest with both hands as if he had been physically shot across the stage.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," you shot back, finally breaking into a real, genuine laugh as you shook your head. "I'll wear red next week."

The headlines the next morning didn't even mention tire degradation, pit stop strategies, or track temperatures. Every single sports page across the globe featured a photo of the two of you on the FIA stage, with the bold, sweeping caption: MCLAREN'S LANDO NORRIS' LUCKY CHARM.

The stream exploded. Lando froze. Slowly, he turned toward the camera with the expression of a man realizing his life was over.

"Oh," he said weakly.

You appeared in the background wearing one of his oversized hoodies and fuzzy pajama pants, holding the refrigerator door open.

"There's almod milk, expired strawberries, and six Monsters. Are you surviving entirely on sponsorships?"

YN?????

THAT IS LITERALLY YN

is she wearing his hoodie i've seen that b4

LANDOYN ARE ROOMMATES CONFIRMED??

Lando muted his mic in panic. Unfortunately for him, he only muted discord.

"You were supposed to be asleep!" He whisper-yelled.

You blinked at him. "You were literally screaming."

"Because I'm streaming."

"Oh."

Then you looked directly into the camera. "Oh my God."

Chat lost its collective mind. You slowly backed away like a startled deer before disappearing offscreen.

Lando dropped his head into his hands. "I'm never streaming again."

The second incident was objectively worse because this time you knew he was live. You just didn't care.

Lando was doing an IRL stream during a race weekend in Singapore, walking through the paddock while talking nonsense to chat.

"People think drivers are super disciplined," he was saying. "But honestly most of us are just tired and dehydrated all the time."

You suddenly appeared beside him out of nowhere, sunglasses on despite it being nighttime.

"Speak for yourself. I'm disciplined as fuck."

Lando snorted. "You ate ice cream for breakfast."

You leaned toward the phone camera. "Hi chat!"

MOTHER

why are we wearing shades at this hour

LANDO LOOKS SO HAPPY AROUND HER

Lando kept walking while you stole his iced coffee without asking. "That's mine."

"Was," you corrected.

"You're unbelievable."

"C'mon, you like me."

"No one said that."

You gasped dramatically. "After everything we've been through?"

"What exactly have we been through?"

You both nearly got run over by a scooter because neither of you were paying attention.

Then there was the infamous cooking livestream, which fans still referenced years later. It started because chat dared Lando to cook an actual meal instead of ordering takout.

"Fine," he sighed dramatically. "I'll prove I can cook."

You were sitting on the kitchen counter eating shredded cheese directly from the bag. "You absolutely cannot cook."

"Excuse you, I can make pasta."

"You burned garlic bread last week."

"That was one time."

The stream only got worse from there. You criticized his knife skills. He accidentally spilled sauce everywhere. At one point, the smoke alarm started blaring.

Lando stared at the pan in betrayal. "Why is it doing that?"

"Because the oil is literally black."

"You said medium heat!"

"That is not medium heat, Lando."

The smoke alarm kept screaming. Chat count climbed higher and higher. You grabbed a dish towel and started fanning the detector while laughing so hard you nearly fell over.

Lando was doubled over against the counter. "This is so humiliating."

"You told the internet you could cook!"

"I believed in myself!"

"That was your first mistake."

The stream ended with both of you eating cereal because the pasta had become inedible.

The internet became obsessed with the two of you after that.

Not because either of you confirmed anything, but because every livestream turned into chaos.

There was the one where Lando was trying to do a serious racing Q&A and you walked behind him wearing a facemask like a ghost.

The one where he accidentally revealed your number along with your contact name that was literally just "menace."

The one where you joined his stream for "five minutes" and somehow ended up exposing half the grid.

"Who's the worst texter in Formula 1?"

You answered immediately. "Charles."

Lando nodded. "Oh, definitely."

"He responds like a divorced father."

The best livestream happened during winter break.

Lando was building lego on stream while talking to chat when you wandered in holding a tiny puppy someone had brought to a gathering earlier that day.

The second chat saw the dog, the stream descended into madness.

"Oh no," Lando murmured. "Don't show them the dog."

Too late. You sat beside him cross-legged on the floor, cradling the puppy like it was a newborn child.

"Look at her little face," you whispered.

Lando looked over then softened instantly. Like instantly.

"Can we keep her?" you asked hopefully.

"No."

"She chose me."

"You can't even keep plants alive."

"That's irrelevant.

The puppy promptly fell asleep in your lap. You gasped quietly. Lando leaned closer automatically so the camera could see.

For once, neither of you were yelling. Neither of you were arguing. You just sat there shoulder-to-shoulder while the puppy snored softly between you.

Until Lando ruined it by reading a donation aloud. "Blink twice if you want to keep the puppy."

You immediately blinked aggressively at the camera.

He fell. Oscar slipped on them. Yuki watched it all happen with a horrified face from below the podium. They all ended up on the floor. She raised a thumbs up from the ground and said:

“I stuck the landing.”

“WHY DID SHE TAKE GEORGE DOWN WITH HER”

the team radio breakdown

She was in P2. Two laps to go. The podium was hers. And then—snap. A mechanical failure. Complete power loss, everything stopped.

She rolled to a stop in sector three, heart thundering, fists clenched so tight it shook. The radio crackled. And then—anger.

“I swear, I will actually FIGHT this car. Someone hold me back.”

Luca’s silence was deafening.

Later, she laughed about it. Said she’d cool off. But fans? They turned it into a war cry.

“luca’s js used to everything she’s doing”

post race cravings

Post-race interview. She looked dead behind her eyes. Grease smudged her jaw. Her ponytail was falling apart. The race had been hell. No points, no pace. And the reporter asked what her plans were.

She sighed, blinked slowly, and went: “…nuggets. McDonald’s. I’d sell my souls for a 20 piece right now.”

And the best part? McDonald’s replied. By the next race, she had a personalized nugget box. With her number on it.

“she ate the nuggets during fp1. realest driver out there”

the lewis interview

Post race, she walked into frame next to Lewis. Exhausted, but radiating chaos. He leaned on her shoulder. She leaned back.

“We’re tired,” he said to the mic.

“We’re delusional,” she added. They both bursted into laughter.

They started high-fiving out of nowhere mid-interview. Talking over each other. Giggling at nothing.

The interviewer gave up halfway through.

“these two have NO media training and we LOVE that”

grid kid softness

He looked scared. Eight years old, holding the umbrella next to her on the grid, hands shaking.

She knelt down.

“Hey,” she said gently, handing him her cap. “You look cool. Wanna wear this?” He nodded shyly.

She fist-bumped him. “You’re braver than half the grid.”

He beamed back at her. And she stood for the anthem, capless, with one hand protectively behind his back.

“he said she makes him feel ‘safe.’ i’m actually sobbing’

the seb moment

During a race weekend, Sebastian Vettel made a surprise paddock appearance. YN spotted him from across the media pen and literally gasped. Covered her mouth. Full body turn. Then ran.

They hugged, she squealed. He called her "the fiercest thing on four wheels." She teared up.

Photos of her beaming at Seb like he was her dad? Broke the internet. They love them both.

“she looked like a kid meeting her hero”

the public nap situation

It was between sessions. Hot day. Busiest paddock of the season.

Someone walked by a tire stack and found YN asleep behind it. Fully out. Arm as a pillow. Hoodie pulled over her eyes, how did she get there?

She woke up to the sound of a mechanic accidentally dropping a wrench and sat up like a soldier in a war movie.

“Am I late for quali?” she asked. It was 11 am.

She then fell back to sleep instantly.

username CHILLS.

username yup. and f1 just turned into a marketing campaign. this sport is fucked

username this already feels historic oh my gosh.

username there are F2 drivers who spent their whole lives working for this seat.

username the way everyone either loves her or hates her already is insane

username and suddenly people how have never watched racing are invested

"Turn it off."

The voice came from behind you. You didn't bother looking over your shoulder. You already knew the expression on Ryland, your manager's face. His jaw tight, the twitch in his temple that appeared whenever you ignored protocol.

The television screen in front of you kept replaying the same five seconds—your bike flipping end over end, the sickening screech of metal on asphalt—before cutting abruptly to a glossy montage of her new Mercedes logo.

"Seriously," he said, stepping in your line of sight and blocking the screen. "You're obsessing."

You thumbed the volume higher.

The crash played again—frame by frame, pixel by pixel—burning itself into your retinas. Your fingers tightened around the remote. One screen, your body tumbled across the gravel like a discared doll, limbs twisted at angles that still made your ribs ache in phantom sympathy.

"Stop torturing yourself." Ryland sighed, clicking the TV off manually. "You know what they want from you today. Confidence and certainty. Not—" His genture ecompassed the darkened screen and the tension in your shoulders. "This."

You exhaled from your nose, rolling the stiffness from your neck. Your phone buzzed on the table. Another article sent to you. Does YN LN Have What It Takes In Mercedes?

Ryland sighed again, deeper this time, and tosses a folded Mercedes polo onto the sofa beside you. "Put this on. The car leaves in twenty."

You didn't move immediately.

Your phone buzzed again—another headline, another hashtag, another dissection of your worth. You flipped it facedown without looking.

Twenty minutes later, you stood in the hotel elevator with Ryland's words still rining in your ears—confidence and certainty—as if you could just conjure them from thin air.

The polo clung to your shoulders, the Mercedes logo pressing into your back with every breath. You watched the numbers above the door tick downward, each floor a countdown to the inevitable.

The lobby was worse than you imagined.

A sea of cameras surged the moment the elevator doors parted, flashes popping like gunfire. Microphones were jabbed toward you from every angle.

"How does it feel being a walking PR stunt, YN?" "Will you cry when you realize you can't handle the car?" "Do you even know how to drive a car competitively?"

You blinked against the assault of cameras, your pulse hammering in your throat. Every shouted question landed like a stone against your ribs.

"Do you have anything to prove to the paddock?"

The PR handler assigned to you suddenly appeared at your elbow, murming through a clenched smile. "Don't engage. Keep walking."

Her fingers dug into your elbow just enough to hurt. You could feel the woman's pulse hammering through the contact—fear disguised as professionalism.

"Smile," the woman hissed through clenched teeth.

You bared your teeth and hoped for the best.

formulafocus

liked by username, and 6,084 others

formulafocus 📸: YN LN on her way to the Mercedes garage in Silverstone. The rookie was met by an aggresive media crowd, with several reporters questioning whether she belonged on the grid at all.

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username This made me so uncomfy just watching honestly.

username you can literally see her trying to stay composed

username these questions were disgusting.

username and if she snapped back they'd call her emotional???

The Mercedes garage in Silverstone felt electrifying. You stepped inside and immediately felt the weight of eyes on you. Mechanics glanced up from their workstations, their expressions unreadable beneath the brims of team caps. Some nodded politely. Others didn't bother hiding their skepticism.

You said nothing. You knew what they saw: the girl from that one crash, the motorcycle rider, the gamble.

At the back fo the garage, the car waited. Not just any car—your car.

It sat gleaming beneath the garage lights and it was beautiful. You exhaled slowly. You've seen F1 cars before—from grandstands, from pitlanes—but never like this. Never yours.

A mechanic cleared his throat. "First time up close?"

You didn't answer the question. You didn't need to. The way your fingers hovered milimeters above the car—close enough to feel the heat radiating from its test run—said everything.

First time up close and first time it was yours.

A shadow fell across the car's nose.

"You're blocking the airflow," a voice said. Amused.

The voice had come from your left—low, teasing, edged with something you couldn't quite place. It wasn't hostility. Not curiosity.

Lewis Hamilton leaned against a tool cart, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one elbow. His team suit was unzipped to the sternum. He looked relaxed in a way that only someone who belonged here could.

"Airflow's important," he added, nodding toward your hand still suspended near the front wing. "Especially here."

You dropped your arm. "Didn't realize I was interfering with your wind tunnel."

Lewis smirked, pushing off the tool cart. "You'd be surprised what throws off the balance." He nodded toward the car, "Every milimeter counts."

The garage noise swelled around you, but Lewis' attention remained fixed on you in a way that felt heavier than curiosity.

"You've got the hands for it," he said suddenly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. Your hands—scarred from years of gripping handlebars—twitched reflexively at your sides.

Lewis didn't elaborate. Just tilted his head slightly. "MotoGP riders have good reflexes. Better than most F1 drivers, honestly. Your reaction times will tell you that."

The garage PA system carckled overhead with a muffled announcement, drowning out what you might've said in response. Lewis straightened as a mechanic called his name, but he didn't move immediately.

His gaze flicked to the car between you then back to your face.

"You ever driven anything with four wheels competitively?"

Your lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Not unless you count stealing my best friend's go-kart when I was twelve."

Lewis chuckled, adjusting his grip on the helmet tucked under his arm. "Close enough." His eyes darted toward you again. "You know they're going to test you harder than anyone else, right?"

"I expect nothing less."

Lewis' smirk deepened, but there was something almost approving in the way his eyes lingered on your scarred hands. "Good." He pushed off the tool cart fully, rolling his shoulders. "Because they won't go easy on you just because—"

"—just because I'm a girl?" You finished dryly, arching an eyebrow.

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "Because you're a rookie. Cars don't care about whether you a man or woman. Only if you're fast."

The garage PA crackled again, summoning him to some meeting or another. Lewis rolled his eyes but started backing away, still watching you with that gaze.

"You'll want to meet Toto before the press junket starts. He seems scary but he's a big softie. It's really nice meeting you, teammate."

f1paddocklive

liked by username, and 5,396 others

f1paddocklive Lewis Hamilton speaking to YN LN in the garage today.

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username couldn't hear much from clips but you can see the immediate switching from teasing her to defending her abilities. lewis saw that media narrative forming and shut it down FAST.

username guys why are shipping them after one conversation

username Another important part that people are missing is that Lewis isn't complimenting her just to be nice. He is dead serious about what he's saying.

username they were flirting your honor

f1

liked by lewishamilton, yourusername, and 5,082,812 others

f1 Lewis Hamilton and rookie driver YN LN in the Mercedes garage ahead of testing.

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username OH?????

username lewis immediately clocked her talent

username He looked genuinely interested in what she had to say

username they are officially a package

username finally someone treating her like a DRIVER

username Lewis has always supported women in motorsport idc

Toto Wolff's office smelled like coffee and leather. Very expensive leather. You hesitated at the door, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against your thigh.

"Good to see you. Close the door, please."

You closed the door. The office windows overlooked the paddock, rain streaking the glass like tears. Toto swipped something off his screen and set the tablet aside, folding his hands atop the desk.

"You crashed in Barcelona at the Catalan Grand Prix three years ago," he said abruptly.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. The scars on your palms throbbed in phantom response—you knew exactly which crash he meant. The one where your bike had bucked like a wild animal mid-corner, throwing you into the gravel at 200 kilometers per hour. The one they kept replaying on every sports channel.

"Yes," you said, matching his bluntness.

Toto leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. His wedding band clicked against the wood.

"You remember what you did wrong?"

The question landed like a gut punch. Not what happened. Not how it felt. What you did wrong.

You remembered every millisecond of that crash—the way the bike had wobbled beneath you, the sickening lurch as the rear tire lost grip, the split-second decision that had sealed your fate.

You leaned too early. Adjusted too late. A mistake measured in centimeters that cost you months of recovery.

"I leaned into the corner before the bike settled. I didn't wait for the grip."

Toto's expression didn't change. "And yesterday?"

Yesterday. Your first simulator session. The engineers had watched you like hawks circling their prey. You'd spun twice. Locked the break once.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. Yesterday's data would've painted you in brutal honesty—every oversteer, every missed apex, every rookie mistake.

"I braked too late into Turn 4. The car didn't rotate properly because I was carrying too much speed."

Toto's fingers stilled against the desk. Then he leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath him.

"Good."

Toto's single word—good—hung in the air like smoke after a burnout. You blinked, waiting for the punchline, the reprimand, the inevitable lecture about expectations.

Instead, Toto reached for his tablet and swiped something onto the screen before sliding it across the desk toward you.

"You recognize this?"

You leaned forward. The display showed telemetry from yesterday's simulator session—jagged lines representing throttle input, braking force, steering angle.

Your stomach tightened. There, clear as a fingerprint: the moment you overcooked Turn 4, the graph spiking red where you stomped the brakes too late.

"Yes," you said, forcing her voice steady. The data didn't lie. Neither did the ache in your neck from the simulator's violent snap of oversteer.

Toto tapped the red spike on the graph with one finger, his wedding band clicking against the screen. "You see the problem." It wasn't a question.

You nodded, the phantom weight of the simulator's steering wheel still pressing against your palms. The data showed everything—your hesitation before the turn, the panicked overcorrection afterward.

You could still feel the exact moment the virtual car had snapped out from under you, the simulated G-forces slamming you sideways as pixels spun across the screens.

"Now watch this." Toto swiped to another set of telemetry—smoother lines, more controlled spikes. "Lewis. Same turn. Same conditions."

The difference was brutal. Hamilton's braking point landed three meters earlier than yours, his steering inputs fluid where yours had been jerky.

Your throat tightened. You'd known the gap would be enormous, but seeing it carved into cold data felt like swallowing glass.

You stared at the telemetry curves, the lines burning into your retinas like hot brake rotors. Lewis's graph looked like a masterclass in precision—every input purposeful, every correction minimal. Hers resembled an EKG during a heart attack.

"You see it now." Toto didn't phrase it as a question. His finger traced Hamilton's braking line—a smooth, descending arc that bled speed gradually. "This is where champions live."

The office walls suddenly felt closer. You could hear your own pulse thudding in your ears, syncopated with the distant whine of an engine firing up somewhere in the paddock.

"Give me three sessions." The words left your mouth before you fully processed them. "I'll match that delta."

Toto's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn't laugh. Instead, he turned the tablet screen toward himself and tapped something that made both sets of telemetry vanish.

"Interesting," he said finally, setting the tablet aside. His wedding band clicked against the desk again—three deliberate strikes like a countdown. "Most rookies ask for time. You're demanding results."

You didn't blink. "I didn't come here to be most rookies."

Toto studied you for a moment longer—the kind of silence that could either be respect or pity—before nodding toward the window where rain blurred the Mercedes garage into streaks of silver and neon.

"You'll get three sessions. But not to match Lewis." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his wedding band catching the light as he tapped it once against the wood. "To beat him."

The words hung between you, heavier than the humidity pressing against the glass. You've spent years learning to read the unspoken rules in a room—the subtle shifts in tone that separated a challenge from a threat. Toto's voice held both.

Outside, a car fired up in the garage with a scream that vibrated through the floor. The sound prickled across your skin like static before a storm. You didn't look away from Toto's gaze. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll still drive." Toto shrugged, the leather of his chair groaning beneath him. "But not for us." He said it casually, like discussing tire compounds over lunch.

The implication settled coldly in Your stomach: one season. Maybe less. Just long enough for the headlines to fade.

Three sessions. That's all you had to turn years of bike reflexes into something that could tame an F1 car.

The leather chair groaned as Toto leaned back, his wedding band tapping once more against the desk.

"You'll start tomorrow at Silverstone. Full wet setup." His gaze flicked to the storm raging outside, then back to you. "Unless you'd prefer to wait for drier conditions."

Your jaw tightened. You recognized the test for what it was—a chance to back down gracefully. MotoGP riders feared rain more than anything; two wheels and slick tarmac were a death wish.

But four wheels? Four wheels with aerodynamics and traction control? That was a different beast entirely.

"I'll take the rain," you said, matching his challenge with a steadiness you didn't feel.

lewishamilton

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and 7,268,192 others

lewishamilton Great to be home.

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username HES THERE

username posting this the same day as her test announcement is crazy

username i think he sees himself in yn a little and its making me tear up

username imagine being an f1 rookie and a world champion shows up to watch your test sessions

"That glare," Hannah clarified, bumping her shoulder against yours. "The one where you look at this party like it's something worth writing a thesis on. Relax, babe. It's Friday. Your debate briefs are done, just have fun."

"I am having fun," you said midly. "I just watched a guy try to open a beer bottle with his teeth and fail."

Hannah sighed, shaking her head, though a fond smile played on her lips. At the age of twenty, Hannah Wells was one of the few people at Briar you genuinely liked.

She was grounded, observant, and possessed the patience of a saint—which she needed, considering she was dating Garrett Graham, a man who took up entire too much oxygen in any given room.

Speaking of, your eyes tracked Garrett as he navigated through the sea of drunk undergraduates, making a beeline straight for Hannah.

"Hey, beautiful," Garrett said, sliding an arm around Hannah's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple that was too domestic for a frat party.

He looked over her head at you. "Thrilled as always to see you radiating sunshine."

"I try to keep the moral high, Graham," you replied dryly.

"Where's the rest of your circus?" Hannah asked, leaning comfortably against Garrett's chest.

"Dean is currently trying to convince two freshmen that he's investigating the economics of the campus weed supply for school purposes," Garrett said, sounding entirely unbothered.

"Tucker's in the kitchen making a charcuterie board out of Ritz crackers. And Logan's somewhere. Probably flirting his way into a girl's pants."

Logan.

That name alone felt like a minor inconvenience. He was perpetually restless, hiding an objective sharp mind beneath layers of obnoxious frat-boy humor.

He was the kind of guy who couldn't stop moving—tapping cups, spinning cups, drumming his fingers against tables. His main flaw, as far as you could tell, was his absolute refusal to be genuine for more than three seconds.

"Don't tell me he's right behind me," you said, detecting a sudden shift in the air behind your back.

"He's right behind you," a voice drawled near your ear.

The heat radiating off his chest was immediate, creeping through the thin fabric of your top. You turn slowly, tilting your head back to meet Logan's eyes.

He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the strobe lights from the makeshift dance floor.

"Sweetheart," Logan said, a lazy, infuriating smirk curving his mouth. "You're at my house. Drinking my cheap beer. Looking aggressively judgmental. It's like my birthday came early."

"If it were your birthday, I would've brought a gift," you shot back. "Like a dictionary. Or perhaps a book on basic social etiquette."

Garrett snorted loudly, burrying his face in Hannah's neck to muffle his laughter.

Logan didn't flinch. Instead, he took half a step closer. He did this all the time—invaded personal space, trying to rattle people with his presence. He smelled like beer and an underlying male musk that was very distracting.

"A dictionary?" Logan feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "I passed my comms paper last week. Got a B-plus. Care to issue an apology for implying I'm illiterate?"

"A B-plus?" You arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The prompt was a three-page analysis of team dynamics, and you just described the plot of The Mighty Ducks."

Logan's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine amusement sparking in the dim light. "First of all, it was Miracle. Have some respect for the classics. Second of all, my work was flawless. You're just mad because you actually study for that class and I can bullshit my way into the same bracket."

"You don't bullshit, Logan, you distract," you corrected, your voice dropping an octave as you leaned in just a fraction. Two could play this game.

"Your arguments have zero structural integrity. You win debates by being loud and charming, forcing the opposition to give up out of sheer exhaustion. It's a cheap tactic."

"If it works, it's not cheap," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. "It's effective. You'd know that if you didn't argue like a politician who hates people."

"I don't hate people," you replied smoothly. "I just set high standards."

"Oh, snap!" A new voice interjected cheerfully.

You glanced sideways to see Dean materializing out of nowhere, dragging a very tired-looking Tucker behind him.

"Look who it is," Dean grinned, tossing an arm around Logan's shoulders and gesturing wildly at you with a solo cup. "Briar's premier academic terror."

"Hello, Dean. Did you solve the economic crisis of the campus weed supply?"

Dean blinked, genuinely taken aback, before pointing a finger at Garrett. "You told her? That was supposed to be a covert op, Graham!"

"You were shouting it at two freshmen in the kitchen!" Tucker sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at you apologetically. "Good to see you. Sorry about... all of this."

Logan let out a low huff of laughter, stepping closer again. His arms brushed yours, sending an unbidden, sharp thrill of heat straight up your spine.

"So what are we aggressively debating tonight?" Dean asked eagerly, looking back and forth between Logan and you like you were a tennis match.

"Last week it was the geopolitical implications of Batman. Which for the record, you won. Logan sounded like an idiot."

"I was making a valid point about vigilante infrastructure," Logan protested loudly. "And I'm not doing this again. I was just pointing out that she hates fun. She thinks sports superstitions are dumb."

"I didn't say they were dumb," you corrected, turning your body fully toward Logan. "I said they were pathetic. Tapping a hockey stick against the post does not appease the 'hockey gods.' It's just you, a grown man, relying on magic because you can't shoulder the burden of a random outcome."

The entire circle went dead silent.

Even the thumping bass of the track seemed to fade into the background as Garrett, Dean, and Tucker all stared at you in horror. Superstitions in a hockey house were effectively a religion.

You had basically just walked into the Vatican and insulted the Pope.

Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God."

Logan didn't look mad. If anything, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth grew sharper.

"Say that again," he dared you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a flush of heat creeping up your neck.

"I don't repeat myself for the stubbornly ignorant," you whispered back, holding his gaze fiercely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Logan was overwhelming up close, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. He was staring at you like you were a puzzle he firmly intended to break apart.

The physical awareness between you was suddenly deafening. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight flex of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed absently against the seam of his jeans.

It was heavy, heated, and entirely inappropriate considering you were fundamentally incompatible.

"You guys flirt like divorced parents," Dean announced loudly, shattering the tension.

You stepped back instantly. "I'd rather die, Di Laurentis."

"Seriously," Garrett chimed in, leaning against the wall with a delighted grin. "The sexual tension is ruining my high. Just make out already so Logan stops acting like a rabid dog every time you walk into a room."

"I do not act like a rabid dog," Logan snapped. He glanced at Garrett before shooting a defensive look at you. "And for the record, I don't flirt with her. Having a civil conversation with her is like trying to pet a cactus."

"A cactus?" You crossed your arms. "Your metaphors are weak as shit."

Logan stepped into your space again. "My metaphors are elite. You couldn't handle dating me anyway. I'm exhausting."

"Please," you scoffed. "I'd win."

Logan blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. "You'd... win dating me? That doesn't even make sense."

"It means," you said, stepping right up into his space. "That if we dated, I would be completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, would crack in a week. You need vaildation too much. The moment I didn't laugh at your stupid jokes, your ego would implode."

"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register.

"That's a hypothesis," you whispered, holding his stare. "Backed by evidence."

"Alright, that's it," Garrett shouted, clapping his hands together like a referee ending a play. "Bet."

You tore your eyes away from Logan to look at Garrett. "What?"

"I'm calling the bluff," Garrett announced, stepping into the center of the circle. "Two months."

"Garrett, no," Hannah warned, grabbing his arm. "This is such a bad idea. They'll kill each other."

"No, let him speak," Logan interrupted, his eyes never leaving your face. There was a reckless, arrogant light in his gaze now. "What are you proposing, G?"

"A fake relationship," Garrett declared grandly. "Two months. Exclusive. Here are the terms: You two have to publicly pretended to be wildly, obnoxiously in love. You go to parties together. You sit in the cafeteria. You do all the gross couple shit."

"Absolutely not. You're the one to talk about fake relationships, Graham," you said immediately.

"Let him finish," Dean rubbed his hands together like a villain. "This is getting good."

"If you quit early, you lose," Garrett continued, counting on his fingers. "If you make it obvious to anyone outside this circle that it's fake, you lose. And the most important rule: whoever catches feelings first, loses."

Logan let out a bark of laughter. "Catch feelings? For her? I'd rather drink bleach."

"The feeling is mutual," you shot back smoothly.

"Excellent," Tucker said mildly, folding his arms. "Then this should be effortless for the both of you."

"If you both survive two months without losing," Dean added hastily, clearly inventing the stakes on the spot, "the three of us will cover Logan's share of the rent for the semester. And for the lady... we'll pay for your prep courses for the LSAT."

You froze. LSAT prep courses were expensive. You had been working extra shifts at the campus library just to save up for the basic packages.

Your secret, the one you closely guarded beneath your tailored clothes and sharp remarks, was that you constantly, exhaustingly stressed about money. Your parents weren't footing your tuition like the rest of the kids in this house.

You glanced at Logan.

He looked entirely unbothered, practically vibrating with the arrogant certainty that he could beat you. He probably thought it would be easy money. He probably thought he could charm his way through two months of fake dates, annoy you into quitting, and walk away victorious.

"Two months," you verified. "Exclusive public dating. Must appear convincing. Catching feelings results to an automatic forfeit."

"Those are the terms," Garrett confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Babe," Hannah whispered, leaning into your ear. "Do not do this. Logan is an idiot, but he's a very aggressively charming idiot. You're voluntarily putting yourself in the line of fire."

"Hannah," you murmured back, eyes fixed on Logan. "I'm going to ruin his life."

You stepped forward, extending your hand toward Logan.

"Deal."

Logan looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his calloused hand around yours. His palm was warm, rough from years of handling a hockey stick, and the sheer size of his grip swallowed your hand completely.

The moment your skin made contact, a violent, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight up your arm, setting low and heavy in your stomach. Logan's eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction as if he had felt the same shock.

"Two months," Logan murmured, his voice suddenly sounding lower, rougher than it had a moment ago. "Try not to fall in love with me."

"Don't worry, Logan," you said, stepping back, desperately ignoring the tingling warmth still radiating across your skin. "I prefer men with actual reading comprehension skills."

As you turned away, dragging Hannah toward the kitchen to refill your beer, your mind was racing. You had a 3.9 GPA. You had destroyed professors in debates. You were composed, rational, and immune to college boy bullshit.

What are you doing with your life?

What happens after you agree to a fake-dating bet with John Logan is not a smooth, cinematic transition into romance. It is a controlled massacre of your entire existence.

By Monday morning, Briar University had done what Briar always did with total campus chaos: it weaponized it into gossip.

The exact moment you knew your carefully, ordered, highly academic life had collapsed was when you walked into your first class. Three people you had never seen before in your life turned in perfect, horrifying unision said, "Hey, Logan's girlfriend."

You didn't correct them. Not because it was true, but because correcting them would imply that you cared enough to use your vocal cords. And you absolutely refused to give the entire hockey house the satisfaction of knowing they've got you riled up.

Logan was waiting outside the lecture hall. As soon as he saw you, he pushed the wall with a lazy smirk. "Morning, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that in daylight. I feel like I'm being slaughtered."

"That's the whole point," he replied easily, not missing a beat.

Before you could step past him, he moved directly into your personal space. Logan didn't understand the concept of a normal human boundary.

Or, more accurately, he understood it perfectly and just liked seeing you try to calculate the physics of how much trouble you'd get into for shoving him into the nearest trash can.

He held out a coffee cup. You paused. "...Is that for me?"

"No, it's an experiment. I'm conducting a study on what happens when your cold, robotic, cynical heart accepts a basic act of human kindess. Do you melt? Do you hiss? I need to know."

You snatched it from his hand with a glare. You took a sip, fully prepared to criticize his taste, but stopped mid-swallow. It was exactly how you liked it.

You hated that he knew that. You hated that he had apparently paid attention to your order exactly once three weeks ago and cataloged it away.

By noon, your little arrangement has entered phase two.

When you sat down in the crowded dining hall with your laptop open, ready to get some actual work done, Logan didn't take the empty seat across from you.

He slid right onto the bench next to you. His thigh pressed casually against yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jacket. He acted like it was completely accidental, totally ignoring the fact that your entire nervous system was actively trying to exit your body through your ears.

Dean slid into the seat across from you a second later, immediately grinning like a hyena. "Oh, this absolute disgusting. Look at you two. You're doing the couple lean already. My stomach is turning, I love it."

"We're not leaning," you said, stiffening your posture until you were straight as an ironing board.

Logan immediately leaned his entire upper body weight into your shoulder, resting his chin almost directly on your collarbone to look at your laptop screen.

"What are we studying, baby?"

You shifted away, your face burning.

He followed.

You shifted back toward the edge of the bench.

He followed again, nudging his shoulder against yours with a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against your side.

"If you don't move three inches to the left," you whispered to Logan, "I'm going to stick this fork in your knee."

"Threatening me with bodily harm?" Logan beamed, completely unbothered. "Write that down, G. It's out one-week anniversary."

By the second week, the cracks in your defense strategy started small. Annoyingly, frustratingly small.

The real issue was Logan remembering things. Not grand, cinematic, romantic things. That would've been easy to ignore. It was worse. It was the mundane, everyday things.

On Tuesday, a freak afternoon thunderstorm hit right as your statistics seminar let out. You stood in the lobby of the building, staring gloomily at the pouring rain, fully prepared to ruin your favorite shoes and your mood.

Then the heavy glass doors swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air, and there was Logan. He was soaking wet, his hair blasted blasted by the wind, holding out a massive umbrella.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Don't you have practice?"

"Canceled," he lied smoothly, though you knew for a fact hockey practice was never canceled unless the arena literally froze over from the outside.

"C'mon, I'm not letting your stuff get damaged. I'd never hear the end of it."

On Thursday, after you spent six straight hours in the computer lab and forgot that human beings require food to stay alive, he casually walked past your desk.

Without saying a word, he dropped a bag of chips, a sandwich, and a protein bar right on top of your keyboard. He didn't even linger for a thank you; he just flashed you a smile and kept walking.

Then he started walking you home from the campus library. Every single night.

"You don't have to do this, you know," you told him one chilly night. "I'm perfectly capable of walking without security."

"I know," he replied simply, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

That was it. No cocky comeback. No punchline to ease the tension. Just complete, unbothered certainty. And that was the exact problem. John Logan didn't do anything without intent.

Later that weekend, the hockey house threw a massive party that you were forced to attend to 'keep up the act.' You were standing with Logan by the crowded kitchen island when Dean loudly announced to a group of girls.

"Just so you all know, Logan hasn't even looked at anyone's way ever since she came. The man is practically a monk."

The girls laughed, looking at Logan expectantly, waiting for him to play along or make a joke.

Logan didn't deny it. He didn't even laugh. He just took a slow sip of his cup and said, "No time. I've been busy."

And he looked directly, intensely at you when he said it.

The heat in his gaze made your face feel like it was on fire. You came very, very close to throwing your cup of beer straight at his beautiful, stupid forehead. Almost.

By week three, the rest of the house began to notice that something was seriously off with the atmosphere.

It wasn't that you were acting like a couple in public (That was the literal objective of the bet). The actual problem was much worse: it was starting to look real when absolutely no one was watching.

Hannah cornered you in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon while you were trying to make tea.

"You're aware you're softening, right?" she asked, leaning her hip against the counter and eyeing you.

"I am not softening," you said keeping your voice entirely flat and monotone.

Hannah gave you a long, knowing look that made you want to crawl under the floor. "You're not losing the bet," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But something's happening."

She patted your shoulder in a way that felt entirely too sympathetic and walked away before you could come up with a brilliant counterargument to save face.

The following week was the week everything completely shifted, because Logan stopped performing.

The flirting didn't disappear, but it changed into something unrecognizable. There was less showmanship, less playing to the crowd. He stopped making the rest of the campus his audience.

Instead, he started making you his sole focus.

One chilly Friday night, he walked you back to your dorm after a grueling study session that had left you wishing for a quick death.

"You don't have to come up to the door," you said. "I have my keys anyway."

"I know."

But he didn't move. He just stood there, his breath turning to white mist in the cold night air. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, and he looked incredibly human.

The silence stretched between you, growing longer and heavier by the second. Usually, this was the part where he'd make a sarcastic comment, flash his signature grin, or try to steal a fake kiss to get a reaction out of you so he could tease you about it.

But he just looked at you.

Then quieter than you'd ever heard him speak, Logan said, "You ever think about what happens after this?"

You frowned, "We win. Obviously. You and I get the satisfaction of annoying the boys and not pay for anything. Life continues exactly as it did before we started this."

"That's not what I meant."

You studied his face. The streetlights threw sharp shadows across his jawline. He wasn't smirking, or teasing, he looked incredibly still. It made your stomach tighten in a way that you really, really did not appreciate.

"I don't think about the after," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan nodded once. Like that was a completely acceptable answer. Like it was for now.

"Goodnight," he said softly, turning to walk down the path toward his car.

Naturally, the first real breakdown happened during a completely stupid, unromantic moment.

It was a Thursday night in the absolute deepest basement of the campus library. It was past 2:00 AM. Your notes looked like ancient hieroglyphics, your brain felt like wet cement, and your very last remaining nerve was hanging on by a single, fraying thread of caffeine.

Out of nowhere, a familiar shadow fell over your messy desk. Logan slid into the wooden chair directly across from you. He looked entirely too awake for two in the morning.

“You look like you’re about to commit a felony,” he said, eye-level with your massive stack of textbooks.

“I am studying.”

“That’s worse.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a massive headache blooming behind your eyes. “Why are you even here, Logan? Don't you sleep?”

He reached out and lightly tapped the edge of your open laptop. “Because Hannah told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. And because you’re stubborn.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m just highly focused. It’s an adrenaline rush.”

“You’re going to pass out on a public desk and some freshman is going to steal your notes.”

“I said I’m—”

The words caught in your throat. Logan reached across the table, his large hand wrapping around the top edge of your laptop, and gently but firmly closed it shut.

“Come on,” he said.

It wasn't a command. He wasn't teasing your or trying to be funny. His voice was just filled with a quiet, undeniable certainty that completely disarmed me.

You stared at him, your stubbornness trying to flare up one last time. “I’m not done.”

“You are for tonight,” he said. He paused, looking at you with an expression that was so soft, so genuinely sweet, it scared me more than any test ever could. Quieter, he added, “I’m not asking.”

And for some horrific reason, that was what broke you. It wasn't him trying to control the situation; it was the fact that he was disguising genuine, protective care as control. My throat felt tight.

Once you got outside into the cool, crisp night air, he pulled a warm, wrapped breakfast sandwich out of his jacket pocket—he must have gone to the 24-hour diner down the street—and handed it to you.

“You’re really not supposed to be good at this,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

“At what?”

“Whatever this is. Being nice. Taking care of me. It’s messing with everything”

Logan leaned his back against the brick wall of the library, looking down at you with a soft, steady expression. “I’m not trying.”

And that, right there, was the ultimate problem. He wasn't trying to act like a good boyfriend for the bet. He just was.

By week six, Garrett called an emergency house meeting. In the hockey house, a formal house meeting meant disaster was not just imminent—it had already arrived, unpacked its bags, and moved into the guest room.

“You guys are failing,” Garrett announced, pointing a finger at you and Logan from across the living room coffee table like a disappointed coach.

“We are literally not failing,” you shot back instantly, crossing your arms defensively. “Everyone on campus thinks we’ve been dating for a month and a half. The dean literally asked me how Logan was doing yesterday.”

“You’re not winning, though,” Dean corrected, leaning over the back of the couch with a piece of leftover pizza in his hand.

Tucker nodded from the armchair, not looking up from his phone. “There is a distinct difference between surviving and winning.”

Logan leaned back in his seat, looking completely unbothered as he stretched his long legs out across the rug. “We’re fine. The bet is intact. No one doubts us.”

Hannah didn’t speak at all. She just sat in the corner armchair, watching the two of you with a look that made you incredibly nervous.

Garrett stood up and started pacing, pointing between the two of you. “You’re supposed to be acting. That was the deal. Fake dating. But right now, Logan looks like he’s thinking way too much about what he's doing, and she looks like she’s actively trying not to look at him. It’s weird. The vibe is off.”

“I don’t think,” Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s against my brand.”

Without thinking, your brain completely bypassing your filters, you blurted out, “He absolutely thinks. He thinks more than all of you combined. He’s incredibly observant, and just because he doesn't shout his thoughts doesn't mean he's empty-headed.”

The entire room went dead silent. Garrett stopped mid-pace. Dean froze with the pizza halfway to his mouth.

They all stared at you. Then you realized what you had just done: you had just fiercely, reflexively, passionately defended Logan John’s honor in front of his best friends.

That was entirely new. That was not in the script. You hated myself a little bit in that moment, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson.

It was exactly eleven forty-five on a Friday night, which meant there were fifteen minutes left on the clock.

Fifteen minutes until the wager expired. Sixty days of holding hands in public corridors, sixty days of leaning close enough to share breath but never a kiss, and sixty days of you telling yourself you were fundamentally immune to John Logan.

The bass of the off-campus house party rattled through the worn wooden floorboards, vibrating against the soles of your boots. Red and purple strobe lights sliced through the humid, crowded room, illuminating the exact moment Logan broke through the throng of sweaty bodies.

He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace he always possessed—broad shoulders easily parting the crowd, his dark leather jacket slipping past red plastic cups and uninhibited dancers.

His eyes were locked on you from across the room. There was no trademark smirk tonight. No lazy, arrogant tilt to his jaw. He looked deadly serious.

Your heart did a violent, terrifying stutter against your ribs. Don't lose your nerve. 

The bet had been simple: fake date for two months to get your respective meddling friends off your backs, and whoever caught feelings—whoever tapped out first—lost. It was an exercise in ego. A test of pure, stubborn willpower.

He knew exactly where to touch your lower back to make your breath hitch. You knew exactly how to angle your neck when he whispered in your ear so that he would lose his train of thought. It was mutually assured destruction disguised as a joke.

But as he stopped right in front of you, the joke was violently dead.

He took your hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around your wrist, and pulled you out of the kitchen. You followed blindly, letting him navigate you down a narrow, shadowed hallway away from the crush of the party. The noise muffled slightly, swallowed by the heavy coats piled on a nearby bench.

Logan turned to face you. The shadows carved sharp angles into his cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his dark eyes entirely devoid of their usual playful challenge. He took a single step into your space, trapping the air between you.

"Time's almost up," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape against the thrumming music from the other room.

"I know," you breathed. Your throat felt incredibly dry. You fought the urge to step back, but the wall was already pressing against my shoulder blades. "You ready to concede?"

"No," he said flatly. Then, his gaze dragged down to your mouth, heavy and dark and starving. "I'm ready to change the rules."

Your logical brain told you that you should find a flaw in this plan. Your old survival instinct told you to run away before you got hurt.

But instead, you looked up into his eyes and said, “This is probably going to ruin our entire reputation for being sensible.”

Logan smiled, that beautiful, real smile that didn't have a hint of a smirk in it, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Probably.”

He squeezed your hand tightly, pulling you just an inch closer until your chest was pressed against his jacket. “Worth it?”

You looked at him. Really, truly looked at him—the boy who brought you umbrellas in the rain and remembered how you took your coffee.

You ignored the loud music behind him, the crazy bet behind you, and all the overthinking in your own head. For the first time in two solid months of calculating every move, you didn’t care about the outcome.

“…Yeah,” you whispered, reaching your free hand up to grip the lapel of his jacket. “Definitely worth it.”

Logan exhaled a massive breath, like he’d been holding it underwater for weeks, a look of pure relief washing over his face. “Good,” he said.

And this time, when he stepped closer and leaned his head down, you didn’t move away at all—you reached up to meet him halfway.

The second your lips touched, a violent, desperate shockwave tore through you. It wasn’t a soft, exploratory first kiss. It was an absolute collision.

Logan groaned, a deep, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and immediately dropped his hands to your hips, hauling you flush against his hard body.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like the last two months had been a physical torture he was finally allowed to end. His tongue swept into your mouth, possessive and hot, tasting every corner while his hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise.

"Baby," he breathed raggedly against your lips, peppering hot, frantic kisses down the corner of your mouth to your jaw. "Christ, I've wanted to do this since week one."

"Then why didn't you?" you gasped, letting your head fall back against the wall as his lips dragged down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

"Because you're stubborn as hell," he growled, biting lightly at your collarbone. "And I needed you to be sure. Let's get out of here. Now."

There was no conversation. No goodbye to your friends. You practically sprinted out the back door, stumbling into the sharp chill of the autumn night. His hand was locked in yours, pulling you toward his car parked down the block.

The entire drive to your apartment was a blur of thick, agonizing tension. Logan kept one hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, while his right hand rested heavily on your thigh.

His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles against the denim of your jeans, sending jolts of heat pooling directly between your legs.

By the time you shoved your way through your front door, the final remnants of restraint shattered.

The heavy wooden door hadn't even clicked shut before Logan pinned you against it. His mouth crashed down on yours again, deeper and dirtier this time.

He tasted like desperation. Your hands scrambled at the zipper of his jacket, shoving the cool leather off his broad shoulders so it dropped uselessly to the floor.

"Fuck, baby," he mumbled roughly, his hands already sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His large, warm palms met the bare skin of your stomach, and you threw your head back with a sharp gasp. "Tell me to stop if this is just the adrenaline."

"Logan," you said, your voice shaking with pure need. "If you stop right now, I'll never forgive you."

He let out a low, feral sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.

You stood before him in a bra, chest heaving, entirely exposed to the searing heat of his gaze. Every muscle in his jaw feathered as his eyes took you in.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick, his hands trailing down your sides. "You have no fucking idea what it's been like. Pretending I wasn't obsessing over you. Holding your hand and having to let it go."

"Show me, then," you challenged softly, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off his shirt with brutal efficiency, revealing a broad chest and a torso cut with hard lines of muscle.

You barely had a second to appreciate the view before he was backing you down the short hallway into yout bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of your knees, and you tumbled down into the comforter, Logan following you down instantly.

His weight settled over you, caging you in, heavily masculine and exquisitely overwhelming. He kissed you again, his thigh parting your legs as his hips pressed flush against you.

Even through the layers of denim between you, you could feel exactly how hard and thick he was for.

A desperate, wet heat flooded your panties. You arched blindly against him, seeking friction, and he groaned into your mouth.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his warm breath fanning over your collarbone.

His hands moved with practiced, urgent purpose. He unclasped your bra in a single deft motion, sweeping the lace aside to expose you.

The cool air hit your flushed skin for only a second before Logan lowered his head. His mouth closed over one hard peak, hot and wet, his tongue laving the sensitive center while his teeth scraped lightly.

A loud, embarrassing whimper tore out of your throat. Your hands dove into his hair, gripping tightly as a heavy, twisting coil of pleasure tightened deep in your belly.

He suckled you unapologetically, drawing hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, while his hand moved lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You tore at each other’s remaining clothes. It wasn't graceful; it was chaotic, driven by two solid months of pent-up starvation.

"You're perfect," he breathed, tracing a path down your stomach with one long finger. He followed the trail with a string of open-mouthed kisses, lower and lower, until he reached the juncture of your thighs.

Before you could brace yourself, he settled between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders.

"Logan—" you gasped, reaching for him, but he just smirked—a dark, wicked version of his usual smile.

"I have two months of making up to do," he murmured against you. "Keep your hands in the sheets, baby.”

And then his mouth was on you. He found my clit instantly, his tongue sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, relentless drag.

Your back arched completely off the mattress. You screamed his name, your fingers twisting violently into the heavy fabric of the sheets as he devoured you.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He was thorough, patient, and ruinously skilled. He alternated between deep, rhythmic laps and tight, focused flicks of his tongue, teasing you right to the edge and then backing off just enough to make you beg.

"Please," you sobbed out, thrashing helplessly against his mouth. "Logan, please baby, I need—"

"I know," he soothed, sliding two thick fingers deep inside you while his mouth continued its assault.

you were completely dripping for him, embarrassingly slick, but he only seemed emboldened by how wrecked you were.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It ripped through your body in violent, shivering waves. You cried out, legs clamped tightly over his shoulders as you broke apart under his mouth.

You were still gasping for breath, chest heaving, when Logan rose over you. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes dilated with pure, predatory need.

He settled his weight back between your thighs, propping himself up on his forearms. He nudged the blunt, hot head of his length against your heat, stopping right on the verge.

He looked down at you, his expression softening into an aching vulnerability that made your heart hammer in your throat.

"I need you to know," he said, his voice entirely wrecked in the quiet room. "Before I do this. You have to know it wasn't a game to me. Not for a single goddamn second."

Tears stung the corners of your eyes at the raw sincerity in his tone. "I know. It wasn't a game to me either."

He let out a broken breath, leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to your mouth. As your lips locked, he drove his hips forward, burying himself fully inside you.

You both cried out. He was massive, thick and blazingly hot, stretching you open and filling every empty ache you hadn't let yourself acknowledge.

"Okay?" he whispered, his hips instinctively trembling against yours.

"Don't wait," you begged him, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock his hips to you. “Don't hold back anymore."

That was the only permission he needed. Logan began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt with a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin.

He established a deep, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was accompanied by a harsh grunt, his hips snapping forward to hit the deepest, sweetest spot inside you over and over.

Your nails dug half-moons into his back, your hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, desperate for deeper friction.

"Fuck," he ground out, the pace accelerating. The bed frame let out a heavy rhythmic squeak, echoing the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. "You feel—god, you feel better than I imagined."

"John… baby…” you whimpered, the syllables falling from your lips entirely broken.

He shifted his grip, sliding one hand under your hips to angle you perfectly against him, while his other hand reached between your bodies. His thick thumb found your swollen clit, pressing down right as he drove deep inside.

The pleasure was too dense, too sudden. You let out a sharp cry, your head thrashing on the pillows as the second orgasm rushed up your spine.

"That's it," he praised hoarsely, his grip tightening violently on your hips. "Come for me. Let go."

You shattered around him, your walls clenching tightly over his cock. The sensation tipped him right over his own edge.

Logan let out a deep, guttural shout, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he drove completely to the hilt. His entire body went rigid, cording with strain as he pulsed deep inside you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged tear of your breathing. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel the vibration echoing in his chest, pressed completely flush against yours.

Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving a sprawling warmth in its wake. Logan pressed a soft, damp kiss to the side of your neck before gently rolling to the side, pulling me flush against his side.

He wrapped a thick arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin. His hand smoothed down the messy tangle of your hair, his thumb beginning a slow, possessive stroke along your spine.

"So," he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath your ear. The tension was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, immovable contentment. "I tap out. You win."

You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his bare chest to look at him. His dark hair was a ruined mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were soft and incredibly bright in the dim light of the bedroom.

The smug arrogance of his fake dating persona was completely burned away, leaving only the real boy underneath. The one you were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.

"I don't think either of us actually lost, Logan," you said softly, tracing the line of his jaw.

A lazy, brilliant smile finally spread across his face, lighting up the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against your forehead. "I think you're right."

You lay there in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the neon digits on his nightstand clock finally flipping past midnight.

Day sixty was officially over. The wager was dead and buried. And as his fingers gently laced with yours in the dark, tying your hand to his, you realized the terrifying truth.

The fake romance was easy. Now you had to wake up tomorrow, walk out into the real world, and start playing for keeps.

DRIVER!YN BLURBS older brother/younger sister dynamic + lh44 — that dynamic where he constantly protects her from media pressure

mentor + sv5 — sebastian vettel as her mentor

protective!toto wolff — remake from this blurb

chaotic livestreams + ln4 — driver!yn and lando constantly getting caught in livestreams together

motogp!yn era — everyone wonders where the happy, smiley version of her is. then they see her past self during her motogp days

mercedes' special guest (ft. jude bellingham) — there's a good looking guest in this week's paddock, who could it be?

golden appearance (ft. harry styles) — she makes an appearance in harry styles' music video

cornered by the oldies + jb22, nr6, mw2, sv5 — driver!yn who's the retired drivers' princess

media training's worst nightmare

lh44 seeing driver!yn after signing with ferrari

keeps me grounded + lh44

redbull!yn with mv3

susie wolff's girl

playing live onstream + ln4

still number 1 + lh44 — lewis gets lowkey upset that she's getting comfy with her new teammate after he signs with ferrari

top 3 most handsome drivers

landoyn moments

first grand prix win (and an involuntary appearance at a party) — what happened after her first grand prix win

you're leaving mercedes? — her reaction to lewis leaving mercedes and finding out from the media

hot laps with Y/N L/N

an embarassing crush + sv5

deuxmoi posts about driver!yn

chicken shop date

cancelled podcast

bring back iconic podiums!

driver!yn's youtube videos

driver!yn with WAGs | part two

paparazzi shots and gossip sessions + lh44 (and roscoe)

romantic moments at the paddock — she'd never date any of them, but everyone thinks and wants her to be

crashing out + ln4

the broski report

driver!yn's own WAG — she’s never really had official public relationships during her career—while she keeps her love life private, it’s widely known that she’s had a few discrete relationships

driver!yn viral moments

driver!yn with the rookies

gossip queens + lh44

driver dynamics

driver!yn with fans

driver!yn’s relationship with her family

lando's lucky charm — how can an accidental visit to the mclaren garage lead to her being a lucky charm?