#lap90 fics

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

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

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

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

He’s looking for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

A very long, very heavy silence.

Then, a clatter, like he dropped his toothbrush.

"BABE."

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

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

"THERE’S TWO LINES."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence in the room stretches for ten seconds.

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

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

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

She points to the grainy blobs on the screen.

"Well... both are healthy."

Oscar blinks, his brain buffering. "Both?"

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

SILENCE.

Absolute, vacuum-sealed silence.

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

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

"Three?" you manage to squeak out.

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

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

"We celebrated too hard..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naturally, F1 Twitter has lost its collective mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is 3:00 AM in your Monaco apartment.

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

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

"Babe," he says, breaking the silence.

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

"Do we really need three cribs?"

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

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

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

Oscar’s Google History:

triple stroller aerodynamics

how to hold 3 babies with 2 arms

noise cancelling headphones for infants

can triplets share one crib?? pls help

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

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

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

"Can I have a bite?"

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

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

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

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

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

@.oscarpiastri just shared a post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@.lando Bro… chill.

@.carlossainz55 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Ayo? Congratulations mate!

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

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

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

@.lewishamilton Amazing news. Congratulations to you both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go to sleep, Oscar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the best podium of your life.

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

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Boring.

You sighed, digging into your overnight bag. You pulled out a small, sterile piercing kit you’d ordered online a few weeks ago and had been meaning to use. Needing good lighting, you grabbed a medium-sized makeup mirror and propped it up on the shelf directly opposite Lando's setup.

What you completely failed to consider was the geometry of the room. The mirror was angled perfectly, catching your reflection and beaming it directly into the background of Lando’s facecam.

Lando leaned into his mic, completely oblivious. "Yeah, no, I just think if I took the inside line there, I wouldn't have spun out. It's just bad luck, mate."

Meanwhile, in the top right corner of his stream, hundreds of thousands of viewers suddenly had a clear view of Y/N tying her hair back, tearing open an alcohol wipe, and casually sanitizing her upper ear.

The chat, which had been debating sim-racing physics, immediately derailed.

user wait look in the mirror behind him 

user IS THAT Y/N? 

user omg what is she holding 

user SHE HAS A NEEDLE 

user BRO IS SHE PIERCING HER OWN EAR ON STREAM?!

Lando frowned, his eyes flicking over to his second monitor to read the chat. The words were flying by so fast it was a blur of all-caps.

"What are you guys on about?" Lando mumbled, squinting at the screen. "'Look behind you?' 'Is Y/N okay?' What?"

He finally looked at his own stream preview. His eyes widened comically as he spotted the mirror's reflection over his shoulder. He spun around in his chair just in time to see you line up a hollow, medical-grade piercing needle and push it cleanly through your ear cartilage without so much as a flinch.

"Y/N!" Lando shrieked, his voice cracking an octave higher than normal. He practically threw his headset onto his desk. "What are you doing?!"

You paused, calmly sliding the titanium jewelry into the hollow end of the needle to pull it through. You looked over at him, entirely unfazed. "A helix piercing. I was bored."

"You're—you're just stabbing yourself! In my room! While I'm live!" Lando stammered, looking genuinely mortified. He looked back at the webcam, then back at you, gesturing wildly. "Does that not hurt?! Why are you so casual about this? You look like you're just putting on chapstick!"

You pulled the needle through, leaving the silver stud perfectly in place, and wiped away a tiny speck of blood with a cotton swab. You admired your handiwork in the mirror before turning your full attention to your horrified boyfriend.

"It's just a little pinch, Lan. Barely felt it," you said with a shrug, tossing the used needle into a safe container.

Lando just stared at you, a mix of deep concern and utter disbelief washing over his face. He slowly sank back into his gaming chair. "You are an absolute psychopath, Y/N. An actual menace to society."

You grinned, picking up another sealed package from your kit. Walking over, you leaned against the back of his gaming chair, tapping the sterile needle packet playfully against his shoulder.

"I've got an extra one," you offered sweetly, leaning down so your face was right next to his in the camera frame. "Want me to do your lobe? It would look so good on you."

Lando's eyes blew wide in pure, unfiltered terror. He instantly slapped his hands over his ears, shaking his head violently as the Twitch chat exploded with a synchronized wall of YES DO IT Y/N.

"Absolutely not! Keep away from me with that weapon!" Lando yelled, desperately trying to wheel his chair away from you across the carpet. "Chat, tell her no! Ban her from the room! Someone save me!"

You laughed, stepping forward as Lando frantically kicked his feet against the carpet, his chair rolling backward until his back hit the edge of his bed.

"Lan, come on, don't be a baby," you teased, holding the sealed package up to the light of his monitors. "It’ll take two seconds. You won't even have time to cry."

"I am not crying!" Lando defended loudly, though his hands remained firmly plastered over his ears. "I'm protecting my bodily autonomy! From you! You're a menace, Y/N, I'm telling you. A certified menace."

He peeked past you to look at his monitors. The chat was completely out of control, moving so fast it was impossible to read individual messages, though the general sentiment was overwhelmingly clear. Emotes of needles, laughing faces, and thousands of messages chanting “DO IT DO IT DO IT flooded the screen.

Lando gasped in mock betrayal. "Look at them! You lot are supposed to be on my side! I'm the one providing the top-tier racing content, and the second my girlfriend pulls out a lethal weapon, you all turn on me?"

You giggled, finally taking pity on him. You tossed the packaged needle back onto his desk and walked over to where he was cornered against the bed. "Alright, alright, fine. Your ears are safe. For now."

Lando let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh of relief, finally dropping his hands. He grabbed your waist and pulled you down to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms securely around you as if to make sure your hands couldn't reach for any more sharp objects.

He wheeled the chair back over to the desk so you were both fully in the camera frame.

"Chat, she's been neutralized," Lando announced into the microphone, resting his chin on your shoulder. He side-eyed your newly pierced ear. "Though I'm still deeply disturbed by what I just witnessed. Honestly, who just stabs themselves while someone is trying to work?"

"You're playing a video game, Lando. It's not exactly manual labor," you pointed out, leaning into him as you watched the chat react to you appearing on stream.

user she looks so good omg 

user Lando fumbled, she's too tough for him 

user Y/N 1, Lando 0

Lando scowled at the screen. "Right, that's it. I'm banning everyone who says I fumbled. And for the record, I'm plenty tough! I drive cars at three hundred kilometers an hour!"

"But a tiny little needle scares you," you supplied helpfully.

"It's the principle of the thing!" he argued, though a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. He kissed your cheek, right near your fresh piercing, being careful not to bump it. "Whatever. Does it at least look cool?"

You tilted your head toward the webcam so the viewers and Lando could get a better look at the shiny silver stud.

"Yeah, alright," Lando admitted softly, his gamer bravado melting away for a second. "It looks pretty cool. But if you ever pull out a needle behind me again, I'm locking the door when I stream."

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

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

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

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

"Lando, there are hundreds of letters—"

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

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

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

Dear Mr. Norris,

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

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

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

Best, Ms. Y/N

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

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

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

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

Dear Mr. Lando,

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

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

Your friend, Leo.

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

He put the golf clubs out of his mind instantly.

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

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

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

Subject: Career Day - Classroom 3B

Hi Ms. Y/N,

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

Thanks, Lando

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

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

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

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

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

Hi Lando,

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

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

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

Warmly, Ms. Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

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

Full Name: Lando Norris Profession: Driver

He hit send with a triumphant smirk.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, there was the second box.

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

STOP!

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

- L.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando stepped out from behind the curtain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clap. Clap-clap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hands shot up like a forest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lando, you don't have to—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let it implode," Lando murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the stands, the reaction was pure bedlam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A second later, her phone buzzed.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kids giggled. Leo nodded seriously.

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

He looked directly at Leo.

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

The room chuckled, but Lando’s face softened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remembered the early days clearly. Max with his messy blonde hair, always dragging you toward the karting tracks, his scraped knees a testament to his reckless need for speed. You were the only one who could get him to slow down, if only for a moment.

"Y/N, come on!" a seven-year-old Max would shout, tugging on your hand. "Mick is already ahead!"

You’d roll your eyes, even back then, but you always followed him. You were a team. It was always Max and Y/N against the chaotic, high-speed world around you.

As the years passed, the paddock changed, and so did you. The innocent games of hide-and-seek between the hospitality suites turned into shared, quiet moments escaping the flashing cameras of the press. When your father’s accident happened, Max was one of the few people who didn't look at you with suffocating pity. He just sat beside you in a quiet corner of a motorhome, silently offering the only comfort he knew how to give: his unwavering presence.

But somewhere between his historic debut in Formula 1 and your own ventures into adulthood, the easy, childhood lines began to blur.

It happened during the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. You were standing on the balcony of the Red Bull energy station, watching the multimillion-dollar yachts bob in the harbor. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the principality, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

You heard the familiar, heavy footsteps before you saw him. Max, fresh from a grueling and triumphant qualifying session, his navy race suit tied around his waist, his hair damp with sweat from the helmet.

"Thought I'd find you hiding out here," Max said, his voice deeper and rougher than the childhood echoes you often replayed in your head.

"I'm not hiding," you replied, leaning against the glass railing, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Just enjoying the quiet before the storm tomorrow. Pole position, Max. Congratulations."

He stepped up beside you, close enough that you could feel the adrenaline and heat radiating off him. In the past, he would have playfully shoved your shoulder, made a sarcastic joke, and dragged you off to find food. But this time, he didn't move away. He just turned his head, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that usually only belonged on the track.

The air between you felt suddenly, inexplicably thin. You noticed the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight catch in his breathing, and the way his gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to your lips before meeting your eyes again. It was a look that didn't belong to a childhood friend.

"I was looking for you in the garage after the lap," Max murmured, his voice dropping an octave, completely ignoring your congratulations. "You weren't there."

"I didn't want to distract you," you whispered, acutely aware of how close his hand was to yours on the metal railing.

Max slowly moved his hand, his fingers brushing gently against yours. The familiar calluses on his skin, earned from thousands of hours gripping a steering wheel, sent a sudden jolt of electricity straight up your arm. He didn't pull away; instead, he carefully hooked his pinky finger around yours.

"You're the only distraction I actually want, Y/N," he said softly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer.

Before you could fully process the heavy, shifting weight of his words, the heavy glass door to the balcony swung open. A Red Bull press officer called his name, shattering the fragile, charged bubble that had just formed around you both.

Max let out a quiet sigh, his jaw tightening as he stepped back. The familiar, guarded mask of the F1 World Champion slid back into place, but as he turned to leave, his eyes caught yours one last time—promising that this conversation was far from over.

The roar of the crowd and the blaring horns of the yachts in the harbor had faded into a dull, thumping bassline radiating from the Red Bull afterparty. Max had won. Of course he had. Driving the streets of Monte Carlo like he owned them, he had converted that pole position into a flawless victory.

You had watched from the back of the garage, your heart in your throat for entirely different reasons than usual. Every time the camera panned to his piercing blue eyes through the visor, your skin prickled, the phantom touch of his pinky finger against yours from the evening before replaying on an endless loop in your mind.

Now, standing on the edge of the sprawling yacht Red Bull had rented for the night, you swirled the champagne in your glass, feeling entirely out of place despite having grown up in this exact environment. You were wearing a sleek, dark dress that your friend had practically forced you into, insisting that a Monaco win demanded proper celebration attire.

"You're doing that thing again," a familiar, gravelly voice cut through the ambient noise.

You turned to see Max slipping away from a group of sponsors. He had changed out of his race gear and was wearing a crisp white button-down, the top few buttons undone, looking impossibly relaxed for a man who had just wrestled a Formula 1 car around the tightest circuit in the world for two hours.

"Doing what thing?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady as he closed the distance between you.

"Overthinking," he said simply, stopping right in front of you. He didn't leave the polite, platonic distance that usually existed between friends. He stood close, invading your personal space in a way that felt entirely deliberate. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, Y/N."

"I'm just... taking it all in," you deflected, looking out at the glittering lights of the principality reflecting on the dark water. "You were incredible today, Max. Truly."

He took your champagne glass from your hand, setting it down on a nearby table before turning his full attention back to you. The vibrant, chaotic party around you seemed to mute itself.

"I meant what I said yesterday," he said, his tone shifting from casual to intensely serious. The playfulness was gone. This was Max Verstappen, the laser-focused champion, and right now, his sole focus was you.

You swallowed hard, finally meeting his gaze. "Max, we've been friends since we were in single-digit ages. If we cross this line..."

"I know," he interrupted gently, stepping even closer so that the toe of his shoe bumped yours. "I know exactly what the stakes are. Believe me, I've spent the last three years trying to convince myself that you're just Michael's daughter, just my best friend, just the girl who used to beat me at Mario Kart in the motorhomes."

Your breath hitched. Three years.

"And?" you whispered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Max reached out, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, a touch so reverent it made your knees feel weak.

"And I'm terrible at lying to myself," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips. "I don't want to be just your friend anymore, Y/N. I haven't for a long time."

The cool night air of Monaco was completely forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of his skin against yours. When he finally leaned in, closing the agonizing gap between you, it wasn't a hesitant, questioning kiss. It was decisive, passionate, and deeply familiar all at once.

It tasted like champagne and adrenaline, a collision of a lifetime of shared memories and a sudden, exhilarating terrifying new reality. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him back with an intensity that surprised even you. All the unspoken tension, the lingering looks, and the blurred lines of the past few years finally made perfect sense.

When he finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you were breathless. He let out a soft, genuine laugh, a sound that warmed you from the inside out.

"Took us long enough," he whispered, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that had absolutely nothing to do with the trophy he'd lifted earlier that day.

-

The morning sun over the Mediterranean was unforgivingly bright, streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s Monaco apartment. You woke up to the smell of strong black coffee and the sound of muffled Dutch coming from the kitchen.

For a brief, disorienting second, everything felt entirely normal. Waking up on Max’s massive sofa or in his guest room after a long race weekend was a routine as old as time. But then you shifted, and the heavy, warm arm draped securely across your waist pulled you flush against a very bare, very muscular chest.

The memories of the yacht party—the confession, the champagne, the kiss that had completely rewritten the history of your entire relationship—came flooding back in a vivid rush. You hadn't slept in the guest room.

Max ended his phone call, tossing the device onto the nightstand before shifting his attention back to you. His hair was a sleep-tousled mess, and his piercing blue eyes were softer than the world ever got to see.

"Morning," he mumbled, his voice raspy with sleep as he pressed a lazy kiss to your bare shoulder.

"Morning," you breathed out, a smile fighting its way onto your face. "Who was on the phone?"

"Laurent," Max groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Talking about debriefs and simulator schedules. I told him I was indisposed."

"Max!" you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. "You can't just tell the Team Principal of Red Bull that you're indisposed."

"I just won Monaco, Y/N. I can tell him whatever I want," he countered smoothly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The playful arrogance was there, but the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your breath catch all over again.

He reached out, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb, much like he had the night before. The transition from best friends to this felt incredibly fast, yet entirely overdue.

"So," you started, suddenly feeling a spark of nervousness about the reality of your situation outside this bedroom. "What happens now? Max Verstappen dating Michael Schumacher's daughter... the European tabloids are going to have an absolute field day. The Netflix crews will probably start camping outside our motorhomes."

Max’s expression sobered slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he tangled his fingers with yours, resting your joined hands against his chest.

"I don't care about the media, or Netflix, or what anyone in the paddock thinks," Max said, his tone resolute. "But I care about you. If you want to keep this quiet for a while, just between us, so you don't have cameras shoved in your face every time you walk down the pit lane, we keep it a secret."

You looked at him, feeling a surge of warmth. Max was notoriously private, completely detesting the media circus that came with his job. But he was offering to navigate it however you needed.

"A secret," you tested the word on your tongue. "Just for a little while. At least until we figure out how to act around each other without..."

"Without me doing this?" he interrupted, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss that effectively short-circuited every rational thought in your brain.

"Exactly," you whispered against his mouth when you finally pulled away, your heart racing. "We are going to be terrible at keeping this a secret."

"Oh, I give us until Barcelona," Max smirked, kissing your forehead before finally rolling out of bed to grab the coffees he'd left on the dresser. "Lando is going to figure it out in five minutes, and Charles will probably just look at us and sigh."

You laughed, pulling the duvet around your shoulders. The F1 circus was loud, chaotic, and completely relentless, but as Max handed you a mug, his fingers brushing yours with that same electric spark, the paddock suddenly didn't seem so daunting anymore. It was still you and Max against the world—just a slightly different version of it.

Max was wrong. It didn't take Lando five minutes to figure it out in Barcelona. It took him exactly three.

The Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was sweltering, the Spanish sun beating down on the asphalt as teams geared up for Friday's Free Practice sessions. You were sitting in the cool, air-conditioned sanctuary of the Red Bull hospitality unit, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone while waiting for Max to finish his engineering briefing.

To the untrained eye, nothing had changed. You were still Y/N, F1 royalty, fixtures in each other's orbits. But underneath the surface, everything was a live wire. The secret glances across crowded garages, the brushed knuckles in the paddock, the way Max would find any excuse to stand just a fraction of an inch closer to you than necessary—it was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly exhausting to hide.

The glass doors slid open, and Max walked in, still wearing his dark blue fireproofs pulled down to his waist. He looked exhausted but focused, though the moment his eyes found yours, the hard edge of his jaw relaxed.

Normally, this was the part where he would steal your water bottle, throw a sweaty cap at your head, or make some sarcastic comment about how lazy you were being while he did all the hard work.

Instead, he walked up to your table, casually rested one hand on the back of your chair, and leaned down. "Boring morning?" he asked, his voice low enough that the nearby PR assistants couldn't hear.

"Just waiting for you to stop complaining about understeer so we can get lunch," you shot back, looking up at him.

The banter was entirely normal. But the way his thumb was absentmindedly, rhythmically stroking the fabric of your shirt at the back of your chair was not. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture, completely subconscious on his part, and it made the breath catch in your throat.

"I don't complain," Max smirked, his eyes dropping to your lips for a microsecond. "I provide constructive feedback."

"Right. Tell that to GP."

Before Max could reply, a loud, chaotic energy entered the hospitality unit. Lando Norris bounced in, completely ignoring the unspoken boundaries of rival team areas, as he usually did when he was looking for Max.

"Mate, do you have any of those—" Lando froze mid-sentence, stopping a few feet away from your table.

He looked at Max. Then he looked at you. Then his eyes drifted down to where Max's hand was still resting a little too possessively on the back of your chair.

You immediately stiffened, fighting the urge to lean away. Max, cool as ever, didn't move a muscle. He simply raised an eyebrow at the McLaren driver.

"Do I have any of what, Lando?" Max asked smoothly.

Lando narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly like a detective examining a crime scene. "Why are you two being weird?"

"We aren't being weird," you said quickly. Too quickly.

"You're being weird," Lando insisted, pointing an accusing finger at both of you. "Usually by this time on a Friday, Max is insulting you and you're threatening to run over his foot with a golf buggy. Why is it so... quiet?"

"Because I'm maturing," Max deadpanned.

Lando snorted loudly. "Right. And I'm going to win the World Championship in a tractor." He scrutinized the two of you for another ten seconds, his bright eyes darting back and forth. You could practically see the mental gears turning in his head until, suddenly, his mouth formed a perfect 'O'.

A massive, shit-eating grin spread across Lando's face.

"Oh," Lando practically whispered, vibrating with excitement. "Oh my god. Charles owes me fifty euros."

"Lando, what are you talking about?" you tried to deflect, your face burning.

"Nothing, nothing at all," Lando sang, taking a step backward toward the door. "Just... wow. Michael's going to kill you, mate," he added, looking gleefully at Max.

Max finally dropped his hand from your chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you breathe a word of this to the grid, Norris, I will personally make sure you never make it past Q1 again."

Lando just laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. "My lips are sealed! But seriously, about time." With a final, knowing wink, he practically sprinted out of the hospitality unit, eager to go collect his bet from the Ferrari garage.

You dropped your face into your hands, letting out a long, muffled groan. "I am going to die of embarrassment."

Max chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. He moved around to the side of the table, gently prying your hands away from your face. "Hey. Look on the bright side."

"What bright side?"

"Well," Max grinned, that trademark cheeky spark returning to his eyes. "Now that Lando knows, we only have to hide it from the other twenty drivers. The worst part is over."

By the time the summer break ended and the circus arrived at Spa-Francorchamps, your "little secret" was the worst-kept mystery among the younger half of the grid.

Lando had entirely failed to keep his mouth shut, meaning Charles Leclerc, George Russell, and Alex Albon all knew. They had formed a sort of unspoken, highly irritating protective detail around the two of you. If a Drive to Survive camera lingered too long while Max was whispering something in your ear, George would suddenly appear to block the shot, or Charles would loudly drop something metallic to ruin the audio. It was sweet, in a chaotic, kindergarten-level way, but it was also exhausting.

Spa, however, carried a heavier weight than the rest of the calendar.

The Belgian weather was doing what it did best—pouring rain one minute, piercing sunshine the next. You stood at the back of the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, staring out at the mist rolling over the Ardennes forest. This track was holy ground for your family. It was where your father had made his legendary debut, where he had won his first race, and where he held the record for the most victories. Everywhere you looked, there were reminders of Michael Schumacher.

Usually, you handled the legacy with practiced grace. But today, with the media frenzy surrounding Max’s home race and the suffocating pressure of hiding your relationship, the weight of your last name felt like an anchor dragging you down.

"You're doing it again," that familiar, low voice broke through your thoughts.

You turned to find Max stepping out of his driver's room. He was in his race suit, zipped down to the waist, a Red Bull cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn't care who was watching; he walked straight up to you, his eyes scanning your face with razor-sharp precision.

"Doing what?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders," Max said softly, stepping into your personal space. The mechanics were busy prepping the RB22 for Qualifying, the garage a symphony of whirring wheel guns and shouting engineers, but Max was entirely focused on you. "You've been quiet all morning. It’s the track, isn't it?"

You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your boots. "It's just a lot. Everywhere I go, someone asks me about him. They want a quote about his legacy, or they want me to compare you to him. And then I have to stand there, smile, and pretend that the man breaking all his records isn't the man I'm entirely in love with."

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You froze, the ambient noise of the garage suddenly sounding like static. You hadn't actually used the 'L' word yet. Between the secret rendezvous and the adrenaline of the season, you had skirted around the depth of your feelings, letting actions speak for you.

Max went completely still. His blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the intense, guarded Champion mask cracking completely to reveal the boy who used to let you win at karting.

"Say that again," he demanded, his voice thick, dropping almost to a whisper.

"Max, the cameras—" you started, panic fluttering in your chest as you glanced over his shoulder.

"I don't give a damn about the cameras, Y/N. Say it again," he interrupted, stepping closer so that you were pinned between him and the tool cabinets.

You looked up at him, seeing the desperate, genuine hope in his eyes, and the panic melted away into a profound, grounding warmth. "I'm in love with you, Max. I think I have been for years."

Max let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, his hands coming up to grip your waist, completely ignoring the fact that Laurent Mekies was standing less than twenty feet away.

"Thank god," Max murmured, resting his forehead against yours. "Because if I had to spend one more weekend pretending I don't want to marry you, I was going to crash the car into the wall just to get some time off."

"Don't even joke about that," you scolded, though a massive smile was breaking across your face, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

"I'm not joking," he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a fierce, unyielding determination. "I'm done hiding, Y/N. I'm done letting Lando and Charles run interference, and I'm done pretending we're just friends for the sake of the press. This is my home race. It's your family's track. It's the perfect place."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Are you sure? Once this is out, we can't put it back in the box. The media..."

"Can write whatever they want," Max finished for you. He reached down, deliberately and confidently lacing his fingers through yours. "You are Michael Schumacher's daughter. I am Max Verstappen. We belong to this world, but they don't own us. Let them talk."

"Max..."

"Walk down the paddock with me," he asked, a soft, rare vulnerability in his tone. "Not as my friend. As my girlfriend."

You looked at your intertwined hands, feeling the familiar calluses on his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against yours. The ghosts of Spa suddenly didn't feel like a heavy legacy anymore; they felt like a blessing.

"Okay," you whispered, squeezing his hand. "Let's go give Netflix the season finale they didn't know they needed."

Max grinned, a brilliant, blinding expression that rivaled the Belgian sun finally breaking through the clouds. He pulled you out from the shadows of the garage, hand-in-hand, directly into the blinding flash of a hundred paddock cameras.

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

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"Leo! Stay where I can see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leo beamed. "His name is Carrot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Oscar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leo’s eyes went wide. "You fixed it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s a team," he said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this okay?"

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

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

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

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

You messaged Oscar, feeling a familiar weight of guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oscar, you didn't have to—"

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cool?" Oscar asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar ignored them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The questions started small:

"Will Oscar be at the park?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

And that realization was as terrifying as it was beautiful.

-

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

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

"Oscar?"

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

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

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

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

"I like your life," he said simply.

You blinked. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

And you still didn’t understand Formula 1.

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

But you learned about him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Within four minutes, the internet had reached terminal velocity.

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

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

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

Meanwhile, at the Alpine Motorhome...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INSTAGRAM

maxverstappen3

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

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

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

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

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

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

charles_leclerc I actually felt bad and sent a bouquet of "Congratulations" flowers to your motorhome. Please give them to the rig. I hope it enjoys the scent of lilies.

lewishamilton Glad to hear everything is... technically sound. 😂 Enjoy the "nursery," Max.

georgerussell63 I had a PowerPoint ready on "The Aerodynamics of Strollers." I feel like my afternoon has been wasted.

fernandoalo_oficial Is the rig a rookie? If so, I will probably defend against it for 15 laps until it gets frustrated. Welcome to the family, Project P1.

TWITTER

#SimBaby - 1.2M Posts #PoorYN - 850K Posts #MaxLogistics - 400K Posts

f1_gossip_girl Max Verstappen is the only man on earth who can describe a gaming chair in a way that makes 20 international news outlets believe a royal-level pregnancy announcement is happening. Give Y/N a medal and a vacation. #F1 #ZandvoortGP

The following morning, you arrived at the track to find a small, gift-wrapped box on your desk. Inside was a single, high-quality AA battery with a sticky note from Max:

"For the baby's remote. (This is a joke. Please don't kill me. See you at the briefing. — Max"

You smiled despite yourself. It was going to be a very long season.

The "nursery" was glowing with the soft, neon hum of the most expensive sim-rig in Europe. It was 11 PM in Monaco, and the stakes had never been higher.

The upcoming weekend was Monza—the temple of speed and, more importantly, the site of the "Apology Press Conference" where one of you had to sit in front of the global media and explain, once again, that there was no human infant on the way.

"I’m not doing it, Max," you said, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorframe. "You started this. You told them the addition was 'growing.' You go fix it."

Max didn't even look up from the three curved monitors. He was busy calibrating the brake pressure on his load-cell pedals. "I already tried to fix it. I told them about the mounting points. They’re the ones who made it weird."

"You said it 'reacted to touch,' Max!"

"It does!" Max finally turned, a competitive glint in his eye. "Okay, look. One race. Five laps at Spa. The loser does the Monza press conference alone. The winner gets to stay in the motorhome and play FIFA."

You grabbed your racing gloves. "Get out of the seat. You’re going down."

Max stepped aside, but not without a smirk. "I’ve spent forty hours on this rig in the last three days, Y/N. You’re basically racing against a professional."

"I am a professional, Max. Move."

You settled into the carbon fiber seat—the one Max had described as "fitting your body perfectly" to the horrified press—and gripped the direct-drive wheel. The feedback was brutal.

Lap 1: You took the hill flat-out, the motion platform jolting your spine as you hit the kerbs. Max was standing behind you, acting like a frantic race engineer. "Watch the entry speed! You're losing three-tenths! Why are you lifting? Don't lift!"

"Max, if you don't shut up, I'm crashing into the wall on purpose just so I can tell the press you pushed me," you hissed, nailing the exit of Les Combes.

Lap 3: You were currently beating Max’s best ghost-lap time by a tenth of a second. Max realized his Monza fate was looming. He leaned down, whispering right into your ear. "You know, the media asked if we’ve picked out a name yet. I told them we like 'Fanatec' for a boy."

You snorted, nearly losing the back end at Stavelot. "You didn't."

"I might have," he teased. "Unless you win. Then you can tell them the real name."

Lap 5: You were flying. The "Sim-Baby" was performing beautifully. You flew through Blanchimont, heading into the final chicane. If you nailed this, Max would be the one sweating under the Italian sun while reporters asked him about baby monitors.

Suddenly, Max reached over and lightly poked your side.

"Max! Illegal move!" you yelled, twitching the wheel. The car clipped the inner bollard, spinning the virtual Red Bull into a graceful 360-degree rotation. You crossed the finish line backward, three seconds slower than his record.

The screen flashed: POSITION: P2. LOSER.

Max threw his hands up in a victory cheer. "Yes! Haha! Simply lovely. Honestly, the pace was there, but the mental strength? Very weak, Y/N."

You slumped back in the "custom-molded" seat, glaring at him. "That was a foul. I’m calling the FIA. I’m calling your dad."

"No stewards in the living room," Max grinned, leaning down to give you a quick, triumphant kiss on the forehead. "Have fun in Monza. I’ll prepare a list of things for you to say. Maybe mention that the 'baby' prefers 100% force feedback?"

"I hate you," you muttered, though you were already reaching for the 'Restart' button. "Best out of three?"

"Now you're talking," Max said, already grabbing his own headset.

The following Thursday, you sat on the stage in Monza, staring into a sea of cameras.

Reporter: "Y/N, can we get an update on the... situation at home?"

You took a long, deep breath, remembering the bet. "The 'addition' is doing well. It’s currently living in the guest room, it consumes a massive amount of electricity, and Max spends more time with it than he does with me. Any questions about the aero-package for this weekend?"Somewhere in the back of the room, Max was leaning against a wall, wearing sunglasses and holding up a sign that simply read: PROUD DAD.

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"No, that's a lock-up at turn 5!" Max growled into his microphone, frustrated, as he fought to keep the car on track.

Just then, a soft shuffling noise came from the hallway. The office door slowly opened, and a little head of messy blonde hair appeared.

It was Lukas, Max and Y/N's son, about three years old, wearing oversized dinosaur pyjamas. He carried his Red Bull lion plush toy under his arm.

The comments in the stream chat immediately exploded, shifting from "Lock-up, Max!" to a wave of heart emojis and questions about the "surprise visitor."

Lukas stood by the doorway, blinking his blue eyes, identical to his father's, analyzing the complex setup.

"Daddy," Lukas said, his voice barely a whisper that Max didn't hear over the sound of the engine in his headphones.

Max finished the lap, slightly below his target time. He leaned over the wheel. "Good! That was better. Now, let's—"

"Daddy, can I play?"

This time, Lukas's voice was a little louder. Max abruptly pulled off one headphone and he turned in his seat to look at his son. His face, which minutes earlier was tense with competition, transformed into an expression of warmth and affection.

"Hey, grote jongetje (big boy). What are you doing awake?" Max asked, softening his voice. "It's very late."

Lukas timidly approached the chair. "The monster," he whispered, pointing vaguely down the dark hallway, "and you have the loud game."

Max smiled. He understood. The simulated roar of the F1 engine was sometimes the only sound that calmed Lukas's night fright.

"It's okay, champion. Come here," Max said, lifting his son and carefully seating him on his lap, between the steering wheel and his own body. Lukas immediately snuggled in, feeling safe.

In the chat, the comments went wild: "OMG! Baby Max!", "Cutest co-driver," "Softest moment of the year."

Max ignored the chat and pulled the car into the virtual pit lane.

"This game is only for big people, but we can practice one lap. Do you want to drive?"

Lukas nodded vigorously.

Max adjusted the harness belt (which was now ridiculously tight against his son's body) and placed Lukas's small hand on the leather steering wheel, while he kept his own hand firmly underneath to control the direction.

"Remember: smooth," Max instructed, whispering. "Keep your hands steady."

Max drove out of the pit lane and took control of the pedals with his own feet. It was Max who accelerated, braked, and managed the power, but it was Lukas's small hand that turned the wheel, gently guided by his father's immense strength.

"Right, right, champion!" Max said in Dutch, leaning over his son to look at the screens. "Now, smooth left! There it goes!"

The lap was slow, far below Max's time, and it was full of errors and oversteer. But as the car snaked around the circuit, Lukas's soft laughter filled the room, and Max's tension completely disappeared.

After the lap, Max parked the simulated car and the stream briefly stopped.

"Thank you, Daddy," Lukas said, yawning.

"You're welcome, champion. Now to bed," Max said, kissing his son's head.

As Max lifted Lukas off his lap, Y/N appeared in the doorway, her hair tied up and a tired but loving smile.

"So, the monster fear led you to Daddy and the loud car?" Y/N asked, taking Lukas into her arms.

"We played," Lukas announced proudly, pointing to the steering wheel.

Y/N looked at Max, her heart swelling with tenderness. Max, the most competitive driver in the world, was sweaty and his hair was messy, but he had the softest expression she had ever seen on him.

"Good race management, schatje," Y/N told Max, winking. "But I think your co-driver ran out of battery. See you in a minute."

She carried Lukas away, and Max turned to his stream with a genuine smile.

"Well, guys," Max said into the mic, putting his headphone back on. "Looks like my late-night practice time is over. The pit bosses have called my co-driver in for a routine check-up. Thanks for tuning in. See you next time."

Max closed the stream, turned off the screens, and stood up. His heart was full, not because of the fast lap, but because of the small hand that had held the wheel. Family life was his true pit stop of happiness.

The day after the sim stream, Max's intensity was redirected from telemetry to a new goal: Building a cardboard castle for Lukas.

It was Saturday morning in Monaco. F1 was on a two-week break, and Max, who always needed a project, had decided that his three-year-old son could no longer live without a royal fortress.

Y/N, sitting on the living room floor, watched the scene with a mix of admiration and amusement.

Max, kneeling on the hardwood floor, was surrounded by cardboard boxes, industrial-grade silver duct tape (because "it needs to withstand the downforce"), and a ten-step instruction manual he had drawn himself. He looked like he was prepping the car for the 24 Hours of Le Mans.

"Y/N, are you sure the tower should go here?" Max asked, holding up a giant cardboard panel and frowning. "If we put it in this corner, it blocks the line of sight to the TV. It's a strategic disadvantage."

"Max, it's a cardboard castle for Lukas to hide his blocks in, not a blind spot in the rearview mirror," Y/N replied, without looking up from the book she was reading. "Put the tower wherever Lukas thinks is fun."

Lukas, meanwhile, wasn't helping with the strategy. He was using the duct tape to stick a small F1 toy car (Max's, of course) to the ear of his lion plush toy.

Max sighed. He was used to his engineers following his instructions to the letter, not his co-driver being distracted.

"Lukas, focus. If you tape the wing to the ear, the lion will have drag," Max attempted to explain seriously.

Lukas just giggled and stuck the wing to the plush toy.

After an hour of construction (and ten minutes of glue frustration), the castle was nearly finished. Max was proud of its robust structure.

"There," Max announced. "Now, Lukas, do you want us to paint the number 1 on the door?"

But Lukas had already found a new obsession. He had unearthed a box of crayons and was dragging a scrap cardboard panel toward the coffee table.

"No, Lukie, not on the coffee table—" Y/N began, but it was too late.

Lukas grabbed a bright orange crayon and started drawing enthusiastically. Max, seeing his son drawing instead of building his fortress, felt disoriented.

"What are you doing, champion? You need a strong base for the tower!" Max said.

"I'm drawing the circuit," Lukas said, scribbling a series of chaotic, curved lines.

Max leaned in to look at the drawing closely. He tried to make sense of the lines. "Is that turn 12? Or is it a chicane?"

"It's a snake," Lukas said with complete certainty.

Max sighed and ran a hand over his face. Real-life data was much more confusing than telemetry.

Y/N stood up, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked over to Max. She stood behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"See, schatje?" she whispered. "Sometimes the circuit isn't a series of data points you have to optimize. Sometimes it's a snake. And it's perfect that way."

Max chuckled, a deep, resigned sound. "I can't deal with this. In F1, if the corner is a snake, it means you have a suspension problem. Here, it means it's art."

Y/N kissed his cheek. "It means life is less perfect and more fun. Why don't you relax? Let the castle be a little asymmetrical. And draw a snake with me."

Max looked at the slightly leaning castle, then at Lukas's 'snake' scribble. For a moment, his perfectionist instinct fought his fatherly instinct.

Max picked up a blue crayon and, with the precision of a driver drawing a racing line on the asphalt, began carefully drawing a bright sun on the cardboard. It was a small, neat, and perfectly round sun, right next to Lukas's chaotic snake.

"Alright," Max said, feeling strangely satisfied with his non-optimized contribution. "We can have art. But the sun has to be symmetrical. It's a law of physics."

Y/N smiled, watching her favorite champion—the one who could dominate the track at 300 km/h but who surrendered helplessly to a child and a wax crayon.

The Japanese Grand Prix. Suzuka. A circuit that demands brutal precision. Max had had a decent weekend, securing pole position. But on Sunday, the conditions were treacherous, with a light drizzle at the start.

Max was sitting in the cockpit, the grid blurry in the fine rain. The stress on the radio was palpable: engineers were frantically discussing the tire choice.

Back in the Red Bull motorhome, Y/N was in the living area, watching the broadcast on a screen. Lukas was with his grandmother, Sophie, but Y/N felt Max's tension from miles away.

Max, over the radio, was tense and short. "Make up your mind! I need to know if we can hold on with the intermediates, or if dry is better. Now!"

Max's racing line, usually so clear, was clouded with uncertainty. Y/N knew that Max, the sim racer and castle builder, hated the uncontrollable factor of rain and the lack of definitive data.

Just before the cars went out for the formation lap, Lukas, who had slipped away from Sophie, darted into the room, lion plush toy in hand.

"Mommy!" Lukas shouted. "The lion doesn't have a belt!"

Y/N bent down to attend to Lukas, but at that moment, Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max's engineer, connected.

"Max, we're starting on intermediates. You need to be patient for the first few laps."

"Patient," Max retorted dryly. "Understood."

Y/N, without thinking, picked up her headset microphone that was on the table, believing the radio was off.

"Put the belt on him, grote jongetje. And remember, snakes are art," Y/N said to Lukas, referring to the memory of Lukas's drawing and the 'snake' of the wet track.

In Max's cockpit, stunned silence flooded the radio. Max, who was adjusting a switch on the steering wheel, heard Y/N's voice, crisp and clear, in the midst of his team's noise.

Max froze. His pit wall team went silent. Had the driver's wife broadcast a personal message?

Then, Max smiled inside his helmet. It was an immense, liberating smile that no one could see. It was the perfect reminder that in the midst of competitive intensity, a simpler, more fun life was waiting.

"Received, GP," Max said, his voice now completely calm and focused. "Intermediates. And don't worry, ik ga niet te hard (I won't go too hard)."

The race began, and unlike other wet races, Max did not try to force the pace immediately. He used his first few laps to warm up the tires and study the circuit, as if he were analyzing one of Lukas's 'snakes'.

His patience paid off. Other drivers who pushed too early aquaplaned and spun. Max, however, built a slow, controlled lead.

By lap 30, as the sun broke through and the circuit began to dry, Max was in a comfortable P1. His pace was relentless, but the rage that sometimes underpinned his driving had been replaced by a cold, mature precision.

He crossed the finish line and the radio filled with cheers.

"P1, P1! Brilliant work, Max!" GP yelled. "A master victory in difficult conditions!"

Max stopped in parc fermé. After unbuckling his belt, his first words on the radio were not for his engineer.

"Y/N," Max said, with a slight laugh. "Tell the co-driver his pit wall message was very effective. The snake was tamed."

In the motorhome, Y/N laughed, feeling the triumph not just because of the win, but because of the balance.

As he headed to the podium, Max made a subtle gesture to the camera, touching his heart—a message for his family. He knew the victory didn't just come from the data and the simulator, but from the peace he found at home, in Y/N's arms, and in the innocent chaos of his son.

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To the rest of the world, he was Lando Norris—fast, funny, the life of the paddock, a chaotic ball of energy. But here, with you, he was just Lando. Quiet. Soft. Yours.

"You're thinking too loud," you murmured, brushing a curl of brown hair off his forehead.

Lando cracked one eye open, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Am I? What am I thinking about?"

"Probably golf," you teased. "Or what time you have to be at the SIM tomorrow."

He hummed, turning his face to press a kiss against the fabric of your joggers, right over your knee. "Wrong. I was thinking that we should order Thai food. And that I’m really happy you didn't go out tonight."

"I’m happy to be here, too," you said softly.

It had been three years. Three years of navigating the circus of Formula 1, the time zones, the rumors, and the distance. In the beginning, it had been hard. But now? You were a fortress. You were the one thing in his life that didn’t fluctuate based on lap times or strategy errors.

Lando shifted, sitting up slightly to grab his phone from the coffee table. He unlocked it, his thumb hovering over a hidden folder in his photos app labeled simply: 'Ideas.'

He glanced at you. You were looking out the window at the harbor lights, your profile soft in the dim lighting. His heart did that strange, heavy thud it always did when he realized, all over again, that you were actually his.

He didn't just want you for three years. He wanted you for all of them.

He opened the folder. Inside weren't memes or car setups. They were screenshots of rings. Emerald cuts, hidden halos, gold bands versus platinum. He’d been saving them for months. He had a meeting scheduled with a jeweler in London next week—a meeting he told you was for "brand stuff."

"Hey, Y/N?"

You turned back to him, eyes warm. "Yeah?"

"If... theoretically," he started, his voice trying to sound casual, though his pulse spiked. "If we ever did the whole... permanent thing. You’re a gold jewelry person, right? Not silver?"

You laughed, not looking up from your phone as you scrolled through a delivery app. "Lando, you know I only wear gold. Why? Planning on buying me a necklace to apologize for the fact that you're leaving for that party in Ibiza next week?"

Lando froze for a split second, then relaxed. You didn't suspect a thing. You thought it was just a gift.

"Maybe," he grinned, locking his phone and tossing it aside to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you down so you were lying on top of him. "Or maybe I just pay attention."

"You? Pay attention?" You scoffed, but you melted into the hug, resting your chin on his chest.

"I see everything," he whispered, his tone shifting to something more serious. He ran a hand down your back. "I see how patient you are with me. I see how you handle the media. I see you."

He kissed your forehead, lingering there.

For Lando, there was no fear. No "what ifs." He looked at other girls at after-parties or events and felt absolutely nothing. It was like looking at a lamp or a chair. You were the only one in technicolor.

"I love you," he said, the words vibrating against your skin.

"I love you too, Lando."

He squeezed you tighter. "When I get back from this trip," he thought to himself, I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask her.

Everything was perfect. The foundation was solid concrete. There wasn't a crack in sight.

The bass in the club was heavy enough to rattle teeth. It was an after-party in Ibiza, one of those "exclusive" events where the exclusivity just meant the champagne was more expensive and the privacy was an illusion.

Lando sat in a booth upholstered in velvet, nursing a drink he hadn't really touched. He checked his phone for the third time in ten minutes.

Y/N: Don't stay out too late, old man. Good luck with the 'networking'. Love you.

He smiled down at the screen. You were back in London, buried under a work deadline you couldn't move. He wished you were here—not because he loved these parties, but because you acted as a shield. With you on his arm, the world made sense. Without you, he felt like a target.

"Lando! Stop looking at your phone, mate!" A friend slapped his shoulder, shouting over the DJ set.

Lando pocketed the phone. One more hour, he told himself. Then I can go back to the hotel, FaceTime Y/N, and sleep.

He stood up to head toward the bar for a water, navigating the crush of bodies. The air was thick with perfume and smoke.

That’s when he saw Bianca.

She was part of the wider social circle—someone he’d seen at races, someone who knew the drivers. They were friendly, strictly platonic on his end. She waved, weaving through the crowd toward him. She looked wobbly, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Lando!" She practically fell into him, grabbing his biceps to steady herself.

"Hey, Bianca," Lando said, his voice polite but guarded. He gently tried to steady her by her elbows to create space. "You okay? You look like you’ve had a good night."

"It's so loud," she giggled, leaning in closer. Too close.

Lando instinctively took a half-step back, but the crowd behind him was dense. He hit a wall of people. "Yeah, it is. I was just grabbing water."

"You're always so good," she slurred, her hand moving up his arm to his shoulder.

In his head, alarm bells started ringing. Exit strategy. Find the exit. He wasn't attracted to her. He wasn't flirting. He was just trying to be polite to a drunk acquaintance without causing a scene.

"I think I’m gonna head out actually," Lando said, trying to peel her hand off his shoulder.

"No, stay," she whispered.

Before his brain could process the shift in her body language, she lunged.

It wasn't romantic. It was clumsy and sudden. She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him down, smashing her lips against his.

Lando froze.

It was that split-second freeze of pure shock—the what is happening moment that feels like an eternity but lasts only a heartbeat. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't kiss back. His hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to put them without hurting her.

For one second, he was motionless.

In that one second, a flash went off.

The white light of a camera cut through the strobe lights of the club. The visual shutter-click shattered Lando’s paralysis.

He shoved her back—harder than he meant to.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lando snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes wide with panic. The taste of her lip gloss made him feel sick.

Bianca stumbled back, looking confused and rejected. "I thought..."

"No," Lando said, his voice shaking with sudden rage and fear. "No. You know I’m with Y/N. What is wrong with you?"

He looked around wildly. He saw the phone. A guy a few feet away, smirking, lowering an iPhone.

The blood drained from Lando’s face.

He didn't care about Bianca anymore. He didn't care about the party. All he could see was that flash.

He knew how it looked. He knew he hadn't pushed her away instantly. He knew the photo wouldn't show the shove that happened a second later. It would only show the kiss.

He bolted for the exit, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he unlocked it.

He had to call you. He had to tell you before the internet did.

Lando slammed the car door shut, the silence of the private hire vehicle deafening after the noise of the club.

"Hotel," he choked out to the driver. "Just… go. Please."

His hands were shaking so violently he almost dropped his phone. The screen lit up with a notification. Then another. Then a flood. It had been twelve minutes since the incident. Twelve minutes.

He opened Twitter first. He didn't want to, but he had to know.

It was trending. #LandoNorris #Ibiza

He clicked the first video. It was grainy, shot from a low angle, obscured by shadows. But the figures were unmistakable.

The video was five seconds long. Second 1: Bianca leaning in. Second 2: The kiss. Her hands on his face. His stillness. Second 3: The video cuts.

It looped. Over and over. It didn't show the shove. It didn't show him yelling. It didn't show the disgust on his face afterward. It just showed Lando Norris, standing there, letting another woman kiss him.

He scrolled to the comments. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.

@.landofan4 OMG NO WAY. He cheated???? @.f1gossip Looks like the 'happy couple' isn't so happy. Poor Y/N. @.landofan12 Men are trash. I actually believed in them. @.user34 Y/N is back in London working and he’s doing this? Disgusting.

Lando felt bile rise in his throat. "No," he whispered, his voice cracking in the empty car. "No, no, no."

He switched apps. WhatsApp. He tapped your name. Pinned at the top. Last seen: Today at 23:45. (It was now 01:15).

He hit the call button.

Ring… Ring… Ring…

"Pick up," he begged, pressing the phone so hard against his ear it hurt. "Please, Y/N, pick up."

“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. Leave a message.”

The beep sounded like a gunshot.

"Y/N," Lando gasped, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. "Y/N, don't look at your phone. Please, don't look at social media. It’s not—it’s not real. I mean, it happened, but it’s not what it looks like. She grabbed me. I pushed her away immediately. Y/N, please call me back. I love you. I’m coming home. I’m booking a flight right now. Just… please answer."

He hung up. He stared at the screen.

Lando: Please, let me explain. Lando: It was a mistake. She was drunk, she grabbed me. Lando: I didn’t kiss her back. The video is cut. Y/N please. Lando: I love you. Only you.

One tick. Delivered. No blue ticks.

He sent an audio message. He didn't care that the driver could hear him crying now. He held the button down, his voice thick with tears.

"Baby, I swear on my life, I swear on my family, I did nothing. I froze. I was just shocked. I left immediately. I’m going to the airport now. I can’t lose you over this. I can’t. Please tell me you believe me."

He watched the screen.

Status: Online.

His heart stopped. You were awake. You were looking at your phone.

The status changed to Typing...

Lando held his breath, tears blurring his vision.

Then, the typing stopped. No message came through. Your status went back to Last seen today at 01:20.

She had seen the messages. She had seen the video. And she had nothing to say to him.

Lando dropped his head into his hands, pulling at his hair, a scream of pure frustration trapped in his chest. The ring he had been looking at—the future he had planned—felt like it was dissolving into smoke.

The hotel room key card took three tries to work because his hands were shaking so badly. When the green light finally flashed, Lando shoved the door open and collapsed into the room, the silence hitting him harder than the noise of the club ever could.

He didn't turn on the lights. The glow from the city outside cast long, distorted shadows across the floor.

He paced. Back and forth. Bed to window. Window to bed.

His phone buzzed with notifications—PR managers, his trainer, his friends asking what happened. He threw the phone onto the mattress face down. He didn't care.

Let them talk. Let them fire me. I don’t care.

His mind was a broken record, skipping over the same agonizing track. It wasn't about the media spin. He wasn't crafting a statement in his head. He was picturing you.

He was picturing you in the London apartment, staring at a screen, your heart breaking. He knew your insecurities. He knew how hard you fought to trust him in this world of models and parties. He knew how much courage it took for you to love him.

And he had repaid that courage with this.

"I should have left earlier," he muttered to the empty room, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair and pulling until it stung. "Why didn't I just leave? Why was I so slow?"

She’s not going to believe me. Why would she? The video looks damning.

He felt sick. Physically ill. The guilt wasn't about cheating—because he hadn't—the guilt was about failing to protect you. He had let the chaos touch you. He was supposed to be the safe place, and tonight, he was the weapon that hurt you.

His legs gave out, and he sank onto the edge of the bed.

He stared at the bedside table. The drawer handle glinted in the semi-darkness.

His breath hitched.

Slowly, like he was moving underwater, he reached out and pulled the drawer open. Tucked in the back, hidden inside a pair of rolled-up socks, was a small, navy blue velvet box.

He pulled it out.

His hands were trembling so much the box rattled against his ring. He opened it.

Even in the dark room, the diamond caught a stray beam of light. It was perfect. It was exactly what you wanted. Gold band. Simple. Timeless. He had picked it up just two days ago, hiding it in his luggage like a smuggler, terrifyingly excited to bring it home.

Lando stared at the ring, and his vision blurred with hot tears.

"I was going to ask you," he whispered to the silence, his voice breaking into a sob. "I was going to ask you to marry me."

The irony was suffocating. He held the symbol of forever in his hand while "forever" felt like it was slipping through his fingers like sand.

He couldn't tell you. Not now. If he told you now, it would look like a manipulation. It would look like he was using the ring to fix a mistake. It would taint the memory.

So he sat there, alone in the dark, clutching the ring box so tight his knuckles turned white.

I hurt her, he thought, the realization sharper than any physical pain. I promised I never would, and I hurt her.

He snapped the box shut. The sound was final. He put it back in the drawer and buried his face in his hands, waiting for a phone call that he was terrified would never come.

The sun began to bleed through the sheer curtains of the hotel room, turning the grey shadows into a harsh, unforgiving white. Lando hadn’t moved.

He was sitting on the floor now, back pressed against the side of the bed, knees drawn to his chest. His phone lay on the carpet, exactly twelve inches away.

Buzz. His heart hammered against his ribs. He flinched, staring at the screen. Team Manager: We need to draft a statement. Call me.

Lando let his head fall back against the mattress with a hollow thud. It wasn't you.

Buzz. Carlos: Mate, just saw. You okay?

It wasn't you.

Every vibration felt like a physical blow. It was torture by anticipation. He was terrified of the silence, but he was more terrified that the next message from you would simply say: “It’s over.”

He hadn't slept. His eyes were dry and gritty, burning with exhaustion. His stomach cramped with hunger, but the thought of food made him gag. A bottle of water stood unopened on the nightstand.

He picked up the phone again. No new notifications from your chat. Just the two grey ticks on his last desperate plea.

He looked at the time. 06:42 AM.

He imagined you in London. You were probably awake now. Or maybe you hadn't slept either. The thought of you crying, curling into yourself the way you did when you were hurt, broke something fundamental inside him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

Panic was useless. Despair was useless. He needed a strategy. He was a driver; when the car spun, you didn't just let go of the wheel and scream. You fought for control. You corrected.

He opened his eyes. The fear was still there, but beneath it, a bedrock of absolute certainty hardened.

He wasn't going to let this be the end. He refused.

He didn't care if he had to fly to London and sit on your doorstep for three days. He didn't care if he had to quit racing to prove he was serious (okay, he cared, but he cared about you more). He didn't care if it took a month, a year, or a decade to rebuild the trust that three seconds of stupidity had shattered.

She is insecure, he thought, remembering the way you sometimes compared yourself to the models in the paddock. She thinks she’s not enough. She thinks this confirms her worst fears.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

“I will fix this,” he said aloud, his voice raspy.

It wasn't a hope. It was a promise.

He stood up, his legs stiff. He grabbed his suitcase and started throwing clothes in, uncaring of the wrinkles.

I will spend the rest of my life proving it was never her, he thought. I will spend every day making Y/N realize that she is the only person I have ever seen.

He picked up the phone one last time. He didn't text again. He opened his flight app.

First flight out. 08:30 AM.

He booked it.

He wasn't going to wait for a text back. He was coming home to fight for you.

It was 1:13 AM in London.

The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic tick-tock of the wall clock and the low hum of your laptop. You were exhausted, eyes straining against the blue light of the screen, finishing up the last few slides of a presentation.

You picked up your phone, intending to just check the time, maybe send Lando a goodnight text before dragging yourself to bed.

Instagram: You have been tagged in a post. Twitter: @user99 mentioned you. DM: im so sorry y/n...

You frowned. A strange, cold prickle started at the base of your neck. It was too late for casual tags.

You opened Twitter.

It didn't load a picture. It auto-played a video.

The world didn't stop. It didn't slow down. It just... vanished. The air left the room.

You watched it. Lando. The familiar curve of his shoulders. The shirt you helped him pack. And her. Blonde. Tall. Stunning. The kind of girl who belonged in Ibiza. The kind of girl who looked like she was made of gold and champagne.

And then the kiss.

Your chest didn't just sink; it collapsed. It felt like a physical weight had been dropped onto your sternum, crushing the breath out of you.

You didn't blink. You didn't scroll. You just watched the three-second loop. Kiss. Pull away. Cut. Kiss. Pull away. Cut.

There was no sound in the apartment, but your head was screaming. It was a rush of white noise, like static on a television, drowning out every rational thought.

You didn't cry. You were too stunned to cry. It was a paralysis of the soul.

Of course, a nasty, quiet voice whispered in the back of your mind. Of course it happened.

The old insecurities, the ones you had buried under three years of Lando’s reassurance, clawed their way out of the grave. You’re just normal. She’s spectacular. He’s a Formula 1 driver. You’re just... you. It was only a matter of time before he got bored of 'homey' and wanted 'exciting'.

Your phone started to vibrate in your hand. Incoming Call: Lando 🧡

You stared at the name. Usually, seeing that name made you smile. Now, it made your stomach turn over.

You couldn't answer. You couldn't hear his voice. If you heard his voice, the static in your head would break, and you would fall apart. You weren't ready to fall apart. You needed to survive the shock first.

You let it ring. And ring. And ring.

The silence that followed when the ringing stopped was louder than the noise.

Messages started popping up. Please, let me explain. It was a mistake.

"A mistake," you whispered to the empty room. Your voice sounded foreign. Hollow.

A mistake is forgetting to buy milk. A mistake is taking the wrong turn. Kissing someone else isn't a mistake. It’s a choice. Even if it was for a second. Even if he regretted it. He was there. He let her get that close.

You placed the phone face down on the table, very carefully, as if it were a bomb.

You walked to the window and looked out at the London streetlights. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold your shattering pieces together. You felt small. Insignificant.

You didn't cry until an hour later. And when you did, it wasn't a loud sob. It was a silent, shaking stream of tears that burned your cheeks, born from the terrifying realization that the person who made you feel safest in the world had just become the source of your greatest pain.

The sun rose over London, grey and muted, casting a pale light over the living room. You hadn’t moved from the sofa. You hadn’t slept.

The phone lay on the coffee table, screen down. It had buzzed incessantly for hours—Lando, his friends, maybe even family—but eventually, the battery had died. You didn't charge it. You didn't want to be reached.

You felt... small.

That was the only word for it. You felt like you had shrunk inside your own skin.

You walked into the kitchen to make tea, purely out of muscle memory, but when the kettle boiled, you just stared at it until it clicked off. You didn't pour the water.

You feel foolish.

That was the sharpest shard of glass in your chest. You looked at the magnet on the fridge—a polaroid of you and Lando making pizza, his face covered in flour, you laughing with your head thrown back.

Look at her, you thought, staring at your own smiling face in the photo. Look how happy she is. Look how safe she thinks she is.

You felt stupid for believing in the fairytale. You felt stupid for thinking that a girl who wears oversized hoodies and reads paperbacks could keep the attention of a boy who had the world at his feet.

“What if I was just a placeholder?”

The thought was venomous.

“What if I was enough for the quiet moments, but not for the loud ones? What if I’m boring? What if easy isn't the same as loved?”

You didn't scream. You didn't pack a bag and storm out. That would require energy, and you had none left.

Instead, you shut down. It was a defense mechanism you hadn't used in years. You went numb. You folded yourself inward.

You sat at the kitchen island, tracing the grain of the wood with your finger. You replayed the video in your head, even though you tried to stop it. The blonde hair. The confidence. The way she reached for him like she had a right to.

Am I that easily replaceable? you wondered. Is three years worth less than three seconds?

The apartment, usually so warm and full of life, felt sterile. It felt like a set for a movie that had just been cancelled.

You heard a key turn in the lock.

Your heart didn't race. It just stopped.

The door opened. The sound of a suitcase being dropped heavily onto the floor. Heavy, frantic breathing.

"Y/N?"

His voice was wrecked. Hoarse, desperate, terrified.

You didn't turn around. You just sat there, staring at your hands, waiting for the scene to play out, feeling like a ghost in your own life.

Lando didn't rush to touch you. He seemed to understand that he lost that privilege the moment that video went live.

He stood near the fridge, his suitcase abandoned by the door. He looked terrible. His eyes were rimmed with red, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. The vibrant, cheeky Lando was gone. In his place was a man terrified of losing his world.

"I’m sorry," he said. His voice cracked, dry and brittle. "I know 'sorry' doesn't fix it. I know that."

You finally looked up from your hands. Your eyes were dry, but they looked bruised with exhaustion. "I don't know what to say to you, Lando."

He took a step forward, then stopped, his hands clenching at his sides.

"You don't have to say anything," he said quickly. "Just... please listen. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m not here to tell you she tripped and fell on my mouth. I’m here to tell you that I failed you."

He took a breath, his chest heaving.

"I should have stepped away faster," he said, the words coming out with self-loathing intensity. "I saw her coming, and I was polite when I should have been cold. I froze when I should have run. I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I put you in a position where you had to doubt me."

"I didn't just doubt you," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. The numbness was starting to crack, letting the hurt bleed through. "I doubted me."

Lando’s face fell. That hit him harder than if you had screamed at him.

"I saw her," you continued, looking away from him, back to the grain of the wood on the table. "She’s stunning, Lando. She fits that world. The lights, the parties, the glamour. And I sat here... in my pajamas... and I felt so small."

"Y/N, no..."

"I felt like a placeholder," you said, tears finally pricking your eyes again. "I thought, 'Maybe this is it. Maybe he finally realized he can do better.' That video... it didn't just break my trust. It broke my confidence. It made me feel like I was foolish for thinking I was enough for you."

Lando moved then. He couldn't stay back anymore.

He crossed the kitchen and dropped to his knees right in front of your chair. He didn't touch you. He just knelt there, so he was looking up at you, placing himself beneath you.

"Look at me," he begged softly.

You looked down. His eyes were swimming with tears.

"You are not a placeholder," he said, his voice shaking with the force of his honesty. "You are the destination. You are the only thing in my life that is real."

He reached out, his hand hovering, waiting for permission. When you didn't pull away, he gently took your hand, pressing his forehead against your knuckles.

"That girl? That party? It was noise. It was nothing. I felt nothing," Lando whispered against your skin. "But when I saw that video, and I knew you saw it... I felt like I was dying. Because hurting you is the one thing I promised myself I would never do."

He looked up again, holding your gaze.

"There has never been anyone but you," he said. "Since the moment we got serious, there has been no one else. Not in my head. Not in my heart. You aren't 'enough', Y/N. You are everything."

He stayed there, on his knees, on the cold kitchen floor. He didn't ask for forgiveness. He just offered his truth, stripped of all the PR and the fame, leaving just the boy who loved you.

"I will spend the rest of my life fixing the crack I put in your heart," he vowed. "However long it takes."

It wasn't fixed overnight. Lando knew it wouldn't be.

The morning after the kitchen confrontation, Lando took out his phone. He didn't make a big, dramatic public statement that would invite more commentary. He was smarter than that now. He simply unfollowed Bianca. Then he blocked her. Then he archived every photo from that trip.

Later that day, he posted a photo to his Instagram story. It wasn't a selfie. It was just a picture of your hand holding a coffee mug in the apartment, with the rainy London window in the background. No caption. Just a white heart.

It was a quiet, firm signal to the world: I am here. I am staying here.

The real changes happened offline.

When the next race weekend rolled around, Lando didn't go out for dinner with the usual big group of influencers and friends. He ordered room service. He set up his iPad. He FaceTimed you for three hours, eating pasta while you worked on your laptop on the other side of the screen.

"You don't have to stay on," you told him once, feeling guilty. "Go have fun."

"I am having fun," he said, and he looked you dead in the eye. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

He started flying home immediately after races. No detours. No "extra days." He showed up at your office with lunch. He sat through movies he hated just because you wanted to watch them, holding your hand like it was a lifeline.

There were bad days.

Two weeks later, you were at a function with him. A blonde woman laughed loudly across the room, and Lando felt you stiffen beside him. You let go of his arm, your eyes dropping to the floor.

Old Lando might have asked, "What's wrong?" or said, "Don't worry about it."

New Lando didn't say a word. He simply shifted his body, stepping between you and the room, creating a physical shield. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you tight against his side, and kissed your temple.

"I'm ready to go if you are," he whispered in your ear. "We can leave right now. Say the word."

He never sighed. He never rolled his eyes. He never checked his watch.

When you asked him—for the tenth time that week—"Why me?", he didn't get annoyed. He put down his controller, turned off the SIM, walked over to you, and listed three new reasons why he loved you that he hadn't mentioned the day before.

"Because you make me laugh when I lose. Because you treat me like Lando, not the driver. Because your eyes are my favorite color."

He watered the plant of your relationship every single day. He didn't rush the bloom. He just kept showing up, proving that the chaos of that one night was the anomaly, and this—this steady, devoted love—was the reality.

Slowly, the weight on your chest began to lift. The static in your head quieted down. You realized he wasn't staying out of guilt. He was staying because he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

It was a Tuesday. There was nothing special about it. It was raining lightly against the windows of the apartment—a soft, rhythmic patter that usually made you sleepy.

You were sitting on the rug in the living room, leaning back against the sofa, while Lando sat on the cushions behind you, his fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair. It was a comfortable silence, the kind you had fought so hard to get back.

But Lando felt the tension in your shoulders. He felt the way you sometimes looked at him when you thought he wasn't looking—a gaze that asked, Are you sure?

He stopped playing with your hair. He slid down off the sofa to sit on the rug next to you.

"You're doing it again," he whispered.

You looked at him, startled. "Doing what?"

"Thinking that this is temporary. Thinking that I'm staying because I'm trying to make up for a bad night."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but you closed it again. He knew you too well. "I just... I don't want you to feel trapped, Lando. I don't want you to wake up in five years and feel like you settled because of a mistake."

Lando’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a terrifying amount of love. He reached out, taking your face gently between his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

"I don't want anyone else," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I never have. Not before. Not during. Not now."

He leaned his forehead against yours.

"I didn't stay because I felt guilty, Y/N. I stayed because I can't breathe without you. You aren't my safety net. You're my future."

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes. "Wait here. Don't move."

He got up and walked to the bedroom. You heard the sound of a drawer opening. A moment later, he returned.

He sat back down, not on the rug this time, but on one knee.

Your breath hitched. "Lando?"

He held out the small navy blue box. The velvet was worn slightly from how many times he had held it, turning it over in his hands during the sleepless nights of the last month.

"I bought this before Ibiza," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I had it hidden in my socks. I was going to ask you the second I got back."

Tears sprang to your eyes instantly. He hadn't bought it to fix things. He had bought it when everything was perfect.

He opened the box. The gold band shimmered in the low light—simple, elegant, exactly you.

"I almost didn't ask," he confessed. "I thought I ruined it. I thought I lost the right to ask you for forever. But then I realized... we’ve been through the worst now. We’ve seen the ugly part. And we’re still here."

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I don't want a perfect life, Y/N. I just want a life with you. I want to come home to you every day until I'm old and slow and can't drive a car to save my life. Please... let me be the one who makes you happy."

A tear slipped down your cheek. The fear, the insecurity, the noise of the world—it all went silent. All that was left was Lando. Your Lando.

"Yes," you whispered.

His face broke into a look of pure, unadulterated relief. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you laughed, the sound wet with tears. "Yes, you idiot."

He pulled the ring from the box and slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly. Before you could even look at it, he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck, holding you like he would never, ever let go.

And for the first time in a long time, you knew he wouldn't.

The chaos was gone. The cameras were far away. In the quiet of your living room, with the rain falling outside, you were home.

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