#lucyliterates

That smile. You'd seen it in posters, reels, and the shows he did as a kid. But in person, it was less polished, more real.

"I think I just shoulder checked a Disney prince" you joked, shifting your back to your other shoulder.

"Honestly, that's the best hit I've taken all week" he said "the tour is brutal."

"Hang on, are you coming back from the Descendants Zombies thing?" You had seen the reels about it but weren't able to get any tickets.

"Yeah, just landed. And already tackled by a fan in Terminal B" he said with teasing in his voice, and a wink to punctuate.

You raised your eyebrow "Tackled? I barely touched you"

"Emotionally tackled" he said with a grin "Devastating"

You both laughed, it was the kind of laughter that made time hiccup.

"Are you staying here?" He asked you, a hint of hopefulness in his voice.

"Ah no, I'm not" you answered. "This is just a layover"

"Oooooh" he said "Where are you going?"

"On a holiday" you replied "to Salem" (I only say Salem because that's my next holiday)

"Very... witchy" he replied with a chuckle "I'm going home to laundry and post-tour blues"

"You really are living the dream" you joked

His laugh was soft, raw, real. Something about it made your chest pinch and your breath short.

You were about to say something when the Airport intercom came on "Flight 3213 to Boston is now boarding, that's Flight 3213 to Boston boarding"

You sigh and make sure you have all your things, "that's my flight, I should get going. It was nice meeting you, I'm sorry for emotionally tackling you. I hope you can recover" you said with a laugh

Malachi chuckled "would you, maybe, want to stay in touch?"

You paused for a moment, then answered "As in like, text?"

"Yeah. Or call. Or send goofy selfies. Whatever you're into"

You give a small nod and slow smile, as you pull out your phone "ok Disney prince, you go". You gave him your phone and watched as he typed his number. He was about to hand it back when you said "Wait! I need a profile picture for you"

You opened your camera and pointed it at Malachi, who promptly took your phone, turned the camera around, and pulled you in for a selfie together.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and held the phone out. You wrapped your arm around his waist and rested your head on his shoulder. He rested his head on top of yours, said "smile" and took the photo.

He set it as the profile photo, and then used your phone to send the photo to himself. You heard his phone ping, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He grinned at you from the side as he unlocked his phone, went into his messages. He changed your name to Princess and set the same photo as your profile.

"Thank you" he said.

"No worries" you responded.

"This is the final call for Flight 3213 to Boston, that's the final call for Flight 3213 to Boston boarding"

"You gotta go" he realised "like now"

"Crap, I do"

"I'll walk you to your gate" he said as he took your suitcase and your bag from you, and led the way.

You chuckled and said "My gate is that way"

He turned to see you pointing in the opposite direction from where he was walking "oh, this way then."

He helped you get your bags sorted and walked you as far as he could, bid you goodbye and told you to "text me when you get there"

You thanked him and waved as you walked down the hallway to the plane.

---------------

Malachi: Did you make it to Salem alive? Or were you tragically defeated by airport vending machines?

You: Alive and sleep-deprived. But I did get attacked by a rogue suitcase in baggage claim. I’m limping dramatically for attention.

Malachi: You’re really thriving.

You: Main character energy, tbh. Current status: walking along Chestnut Street listening to sad music like I’m in a breakup montage.

Malachi: You're not even heartbroken and you're still being cinematic. I respect that. Send me a pic so I can rate your brooding skills.

You: <<photo of you with sunglasses, slight pout, graveyard in background>> How’s that?

Malachi: 8.5/10. Would’ve been a 10 if you had dramatic wind in your hair.

You: Rude. The wind was busy.

---------------------

You: Went to the She-Varoy Hills today. Pretty sure I saw your ego from up there.

Malachi: Wow. And I thought I was being charming. I’ve been practicing restraint, you know. I haven’t even sent you a selfie in, like, 36 hours.

You: That’s tragic. Want me to send you a candle or something?

Malachi: Only if you come light it yourself.

You: That sounds vaguely threatening.

Malachi: Good. Keeps you intrigued.

--------------------------

Malachi: You’re fun, you know that?

You: You said that like you’re surprised.

Malachi: I just thought you’d be normal. But you’re not. You’re like… actually cool. Real. Not fake-nice.

You: Are you flirting with me, Barton?

Malachi: I’m considering it. Depends. What’s your stance on missing return flights?

You: Bold of you to assume I’d risk airport chaos for a guy I barely know 😌

Malachi: Bold of me to assume you wouldn’t? -----------------------

These message chains you had with Malachi were adding more and more to your holiday, like you didn't even know you needed it until it happened. Then, you got the one text you had kind of been hoping for.

-----------------------

Malachi: Okay. Serious question. Your layover back is in LA again, right?

You: Yeah. Same gate and everything. (Which feels suspiciously like fate.)

Malachi: What if you… didn’t keep flying? What if you changed your flight and stayed here for like a week? I’ll show you around. Be normal. Be respectful. You can even run if I turn out to be secretly unhinged.

You: What if I say yes and you regret it?

Malachi: Impossible. I already don’t want this to be over when you get on that plane.

----------------------

You had barely slept. Not from the nerves, which were definitely here now, but because you couldn't stop replaying the moment you said yes.

One minute, you were staring at yourself in mirror like a lunatic, making sure you didn't look exhausted. The next, you were standing outside LAX with a wheeled suitcase, a half-melted chocolate bar in your hand, and Malachi Barton waving at you from the curb like he hadn't just rewritten the past week.

“You actually came,” he said, smiling in that stupid, disarming way that should’ve come with a warning label.

"You asked" you shrugged, though your heart was doing more pounding then shrugging.

-------------------

You woke up the next morning, grateful for the sleep you had gotten. He doesn't live in a crazy mansion, but in a cozy house that's half full of unpacked boxes from the tour. He gave you the spare room, fresh towels, and a full bottle of purple shampoo because he "didn't know your hair needs and panicked" even though you had packed shampoo for your original holiday.

You walked out in an oversized tshirt, no makeup and bed head. You found Malachi at the bench drinking orange juice from the bottle.

He spots you and freezes mid sip.

"Morning" you say

“Wow,” he says.

“Wow what?”

“You look like someone who’s about to steal my heart and the last cinnamon roll.”

You raises an eyebrow. “Only one of those things is true.”

He hops off the counter, barefoot, hair messy, shirt inside-out.

“Okay,” he says, clapping once. “Here’s the plan. First, breakfast. Then I’m taking you on the very official Malachi Barton Tour of LA.”

“Does that involve paparazzi and overpriced green juice?”

“Nope. It involves the beach, tacos, a record store that smells like actual dust, and me proving that I’m not just a dude with a blue checkmark.”

You smile, softer this time.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you say.

He pauses. “Maybe. But I kinda want to.”

---------------------

You're walking through the local street market, hands brushing against each other but never fully touching. He tells you stories about filming, and you tease him about his hair product obsession. You end up at a smoothie place and he orders for you without asking what you would like, and he got it exactly right.

"How'd you know" you ask him, suspicion in your voice.

"Lucky guess" he says, even though he definitely went through your texts to find it.

----------------------

You end up sitting on a roof later that night, with some cheap takeout and string lights above you. That weird electric stillness between friends who might kiss but don't want to risk ruining had settled around you.

"This is insane" you whisper.

"You staying?"

'No, I mean this whole thing. You. Me. Here"

"Yeah" he murmurs, leaning back on his elbows. "And yet, you're here"

----------------------

It's late.

You're curled up together on his couch, the kind of squishy, lived-in thing that sinks too much when you sit on one side. Some Disney movie plays softly on the screen, chosen because neither of you planned on paying attention anyway.

You're tucked against his side, legs stretched out, a blanket half draped over both of you. Malachi's arm is slung lazily on the back of the couch, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder every now and again.

Your cheek was resting on your chest. You could hear the steady thump of his heart under your ear and, for once, your thoughts aren't racing, they're still.

“You tired?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s scared to break the moment.

“A little,” you murmur. “But I don’t want to move.”

He smiles, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching.

“Good. Cause I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

You shifts slightly, just enough to look up at him — and finds him already looking down.

That soft, melting silence.

That electricity in the space between them.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move right away. He waits — giving you time, space, choice. And that’s what makes you fall for him a little more.

So you lean up first, slow and sure.

And he meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft, not rushed, not dramatic. Just lips brushing lips, the warmth of his hand slipping gently under your jaw. The kind of kiss that makes your stomach ache in the best way. Like the start of something. Like safety and butterflies and yes.

When you finally pull back, barely inches between you both, he’s smiling. That small, secret smile he only seems to give you.

“So…” he whispers.

“So,” you echo.

“What does that mean?”

You pretend to think and flash him a cheeky grin.

“Means you’re in trouble,” you say, nudging your nose against his.

“Worth it,” he murmurs, kissing you again.

Tag List:

But Lewis never let it faze him. He flirted openly, shamelessly—but there was always a softness behind it, a quiet reverence in the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching.

You cleared your throat, trying to stay professional despite the heat in your cheeks. “P2 today. Strong race. Walk me through those last few laps?”

He answered—mostly focused—but his eyes kept flicking to your mouth when you nodded, your hands when you adjusted the mic. Every little smile you gave him was another nail in his composure.

When the segment wrapped, you went to thank him like always, but he didn’t move.

“Actually…” Lewis said, voice a little quieter, hands twitching at his sides, “mind if I say something else?”

The crew blinked. You blinked.

You nodded slowly. “Of course.”

He turned slightly toward the camera, then back to you, clearly nervous for the first time in all the months you’d known him.

“I’ve been flirting with you for a while now,” he said, voice steady but eyes searching yours, “and I figured if I’m gonna do it properly, I should do it where I know you can’t dodge me.”

You froze.

“Would you…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, smiling like he couldn’t quite believe he was doing this. “Would you maybe wanna go out with me? Off camera, I mean. After the chaos. Just us.”

The camera guy choked. A mechanic cheered in the distance. You could practically feel Charles Leclerc somewhere nearby punching the air in celebration.

You stared at him for a beat too long, stunned.

Lewis bit his lip. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, the biggest smile breaking over your face. “Not even close.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” you laughed, stepping closer as your mic dropped a little. “That’s a very public, very enthusiastic yes.”

He lit up. Truly lit up. Like a podium smile mixed with that rare joy he reserved for moments that actually mattered.

As he walked off, Lando jogged past you, stage-whispering loud enough for the cameras to catch: “Finally, mate! Took you long enough!”

Lewis didn’t look back, but his ears were red.

Tag List:

@alexxavicry

@k-160922-blog

The music was too loud, the drinks too strong, and the heat of the club pulsed like a second heartbeat under your skin. Your group had taken over a booth in the back — half the F1 grid, a few girlfriends, and Arthur pressed beside you, his arm stretched casually across the back of the seat.

You could feel him watching you. He always did. Arthur Leclerc had this dangerous, quiet way of seeing you, like he was waiting for something — or someone — to give him a reason to strike.

So naturally, you gave him one.

“You know,” you said, propping your feet on the low table, nursing your cocktail, “I bet Leclerc’s the most vanilla out of all of you.”

The table roared with laughter.

Arthur’s drink paused halfway to his lips. “Excuse me?”

“I mean look at you,” you teased, eyes locked with his. “Perfect hair. Buttoned-up attitude. You’re definitely still a virgin.”

Even Charles spat his drink out laughing, which made it even better.

But Arthur didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He just tipped his head, slow and thoughtful, and smiled at you like a lion about to pounce.

You didn’t notice the way he rolled his sleeves up after that. Or how he stayed quiet, sipping his drink while never taking his eyes off you. You were too busy gloating.

A little while later, you excused yourself to the bathroom — cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the satisfaction of getting under Arthur’s skin. The hallway was darker than you expected, lit only by the red pulse of a neon exit sign. You were still fixing your lipstick at the mirror when the door opened behind you.

You glanced up.

And froze.

Arthur.

He stepped inside without saying a word, locked the door behind him with a soft click, and leaned against it.

“Vanilla, huh?” he said, voice low, rough with something unreadable.

You blinked. “Leclerc—what are you—?”

He was already behind you. His chest pressed against your back, one hand curling around your hip as his other slid under your dress, palm dragging up your thigh.

“Say it again,” he growled. “Call me vanilla one more time.”

You barely managed a gasp before his fingers found your panties — already soaked. He chuckled darkly against your ear, teeth grazing the shell of it.

“Fuck. Already wet for me, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

Your knees buckled as he pushed your panties aside and slipped a finger between your folds, dragging it up slowly — teasing, relentless.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice dipping dangerously low.

“No,” you whispered, body trembling.

“Didn’t think so.”

He turned you toward the mirror, keeping his hand between your legs. You were a mess already — makeup slightly smudged, mouth parted, eyes wide.

“You talk all that shit in front of our friends,” he muttered, “but this is what happens the second I touch you? Pathetic.”

He pushed a second finger in and you moaned, hips rocking forward involuntarily.

Arthur's other hand came to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at yourself. Look at how needy you are.”

Your breath hitched.

“Leclerc—”

He cut you off by dragging his fingers out of you and licking them clean, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. Then he unzipped his jeans, letting his cock spring free — thick, flushed, and way too big to match your jokes.

You stared.

“Oh my god.”

Arthur smirked. “Still think I’m vanilla, baby?”

He bent you forward over the sink, lining himself up. But when he started to push in, slow and firm, his brows furrowed.

He stilled.

“You’re—fuck—you’re a virgin?”

Your cheeks burned. “Yeah…”

A pause. Then—

“Oh, baby.”

The way he said it made your whole body clench.

“Running that smart little mouth like you’ve had dick before? You really are a brat.”

He slammed into you in one hard thrust, burying himself fully with a groan. You cried out, gripping the sink, overwhelmed by the stretch — the pressure — the way he filled you completely.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, thrusting deeper. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

Each movement sent shockwaves through you, your body gripping him like a vice. Arthur’s hands roamed — one around your throat, the other gripping your hip so hard it’d bruise.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he panted. “Gonna let me ruin you so good you never think about anyone else again?”

You moaned something incoherent, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Say it,” he demanded, hips snapping harder. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasped. “Arthur—fuck—you.”

“That’s right,” he growled, fucking you harder now, eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “You’re mine now.”

Your orgasm hit you like lightning — body convulsing, legs shaking, vision blurring. You were crying out his name like a prayer and a curse, and he followed seconds later, groaning your name low and filthy in your ear as he spilled into the condom.

He held you up when your legs gave out, pressed kisses to your shoulder, and helped straighten your dress — still catching his breath.

When you finally turned to look at him, dazed and ruined, he just smirked.

“Still think I’m vanilla?”

You shook your head, too blissed out to speak.

“Good,” he said, tugging your panties back into place and brushing your hair behind your ear. “Because I’ve only just started.”

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@_astrlape

You loved the way Arthur looked on the podium—confident, sleek, the perfect balance of power and precision. But what you loved more was how much taller he seemed standing next to you. And trust you to have a thing for that.

Arthur was, well, a bit on the shorter side compared to other F1 drivers, but with his racing boots on, and you in your heels, the height difference was deliciously obvious. You craved that feeling: looking up at him with your neck stretched, feeling small and fragile in his presence.

Tonight was different. You were alone together in his hotel room after a long day of press and media appearances. You were dressed in a silky slip dress, your heels clicking softly as you moved toward him. Arthur stood there in his casual clothes, his usual cheeky grin turning into something more mischievous.

“You like the height difference, huh?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

You smirked, biting your lip. “You know I do.”

He took a slow step closer, so you had to tilt your head back just to meet his gaze. “Good,” he murmured, fingers tracing your jawline. “Because I’ve got plans to make you feel even smaller.”

Your breath hitched as his hand slid down your neck to your collarbone. You couldn’t help but shiver under his touch.

He reached for the hem of your dress and slowly tugged it up, inch by inch, exposing your smooth legs. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice low and rough.

You stepped back, turning just slightly so you could arch your back, showing him every curve you knew drove him wild.

Arthur’s eyes darkened. He took you by the waist and pulled you close, fingers digging into your hips as he pressed his body flush against yours. His height advantage was electrifying; you melted into his embrace, feeling protected, cherished, and utterly desired.

Then, he lifted you effortlessly—your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locking behind his neck. The way he held you, so strong and sure, made your heart race.

“Not so small now,” he teased, his lips brushing your ear.

You gasped as his mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck, igniting a fire you hadn’t even known was there.

“Arthur…” you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair.

He carried you to the bed, never breaking contact, and laid you down gently before climbing on top, the height difference still making your pulse thunder.

He kissed you with fierce hunger, hands exploring your body as you arched into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled.

You shivered, words slipping out before you could stop them: “I want you to take control. To remind me how small I am next to you.”

Arthur smiled, a dark, possessive glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I’ll remind you.”

And then he did.

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

You’d only meant to grab a coffee.

You’re still getting used to Monaco — the steep hills, the sea air, the way everyone seems to dress like they’re heading to a yacht party. Your hair’s a bit windblown, your makeup minimal, and you’re in an oversized hoodie and bike shorts, jet-lagged but craving caffeine.

When you step into the café, you don’t expect it to feel so... warm. There’s laughter at one of the corner tables — a close-knit family, clearly. Three men with familiar bone structure and one elegant woman with kind eyes.

It’s the woman who notices you first.

She tilts her head, squinting slightly like she’s trying to remember a dream. Then she whispers something to the young man beside her — tousled brown hair, delicate lips — and his face scrunches in confusion.

You don’t notice them staring. You’re distracted by the pastry case.

But then she approaches you, polite but curious. “Excuse me,” she says softly, in French-accented English. “You must think I’m strange, but… did you ever visit Paris when you were a child?”

You blink. “Um… yeah, once. I think I was four?”

She smiles knowingly. “Did you go to the Eiffel Tower?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. We waited in line forever. Why?”

She pulls something from her phone. A photo.

A little boy with wild brown hair… and a smaller girl, giving him a messy kiss on the cheek. Both of them grinning, their parents blurred in the background.

You laugh, startled. “Oh my god. That’s me.”

Pascale grins. “That’s my son, Arthur.”

You look past her, locking eyes with him. His face is so red.

You walk over slowly, a teasing smile on your lips. “Hi. I think I was your first girlfriend.”

Arthur swallows. “I—I think you were, yeah.”

He asks you to come to a party that night — nothing huge, just friends and drinks by the water. You say yes before he can even finish asking.

When you arrive, heads turn. Your dress is short, tight, barely there. It’s Monaco. You wanted to fit in. But when Arthur sees you, his jaw nearly hits the floor.

You don’t miss the way his eyes trail up your legs, slow and hungry. The way he can’t stop sipping his drink like it’ll help cool him down.

Later, when the music’s low and the champagne’s fizzing, he leans in close. “You still owe me a kiss.”

You raise a brow. “I gave you one already.”

“I want it back,” he murmurs. “Properly. Now that I’m not six.”

You’re kissing before you can answer, lips crashing together, years of distance evaporating between you. His hands roam down your sides, pulling you flush against him. “Come home with me,” he breathes against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “My place is closer.”

The second the door closes, he’s on you.

Clothes scatter. Your dress is on the floor. His fingers are under your panties before you can blink.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you walk in,” he groans, kissing down your chest. “So damn pretty, baby. Couldn’t stop imagining how you’d sound.”

And when he finally slides inside you, slow and deep, he curses against your skin.

You weren’t expecting to come undone so fast — your body tightening, heat coiling, and when it hits, it bursts. Wet and wild. You gasp, your thighs trembling.

Arthur freezes, then pulls back slowly — smirking. “Fuck. You just squirted.”

You cover your face, breathless. “Oh my god—stop, that’s so embarrassing—”

“No, baby,” he says, pulling your hands away, eyes dark. “Don’t hide from me. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You bite your lip, still flushed. “I’ve never done that before…”

He kisses your throat. “I just knew you were a squirter. Guess I brought it out of you.”

His voice drops an octave. “Let’s see how many times I can do it.”

Your breath catches.

And he does.

He eats you out, slow and dirty. Fucks you again, harder this time, not stopping until you're soaked and shaking, your moans echoing through the apartment.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear as you fall apart again. “Told you I’d get my kiss back.”

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

You didn’t know why Lewis Hamilton hated you so much.

You were new to the paddock—27, recently recruited as Ferrari’s PR liaison after a stint in broadcast journalism. Bright-eyed, ambitious, and genuinely thrilled to be there. Everyone had been kind. Charles had gone out of his way to introduce you to people. Carlos and Lando teased you like you were their little sister. Even Max had softened after a few weeks.

But Lewis?

He barely looked at you. When he did, his comments were clipped, sometimes cold, always dismissive.

“Don’t you have PR people for this already?”

“Bit out of your depth, aren’t you?”

“Careful. This place eats people like you up.”

You always laughed it off. Played it cool. Told yourself maybe he was just like that. Maybe you’d annoyed him once without realising. But sometimes—like tonight, at a post-race celebration in Monaco—his words cut just a bit too deep.

You’d worn your favourite dress. Something classy but fun, wine-red and satin. You’d finally started to feel like you belonged. You were sipping a cocktail by the balcony when Lewis walked past with George and said under his breath—but not low enough—

“Wonder how long the novelty will last.”

You froze. He didn’t even glance at you. Just kept walking.

George’s eyes snapped to yours. “Hey, he didn’t mean—”

But you were already pushing past him, vision blurring, heart thudding painfully. You didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

You shoved open the balcony doors and slipped out into the warm night air, heels clicking against stone until you reached the far end of the garden where the music was distant, and you could finally breathe.

You sank onto a bench, mascara already smudging.

“Stupid,” you whispered. “He’s just one person. Why do I care?”

⸻

Inside, Charles had noticed your absence within minutes.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked Lando, glancing around.

Lando raised a brow. “Wasn’t she on the balcony with George? Lewis said something to her and—” His eyes widened. “Wait. Shit. Do you think he said something again?”

George, returning from inside, looked frustrated. “He did. And she ran.”

The group went quiet.

Even Max sighed. “Why does he keep doing this?”

Carlos shook his head. “Because he’s a bloody idiot.”

At that moment, Lewis reappeared, sipping champagne like nothing had happened.

“Where is she?” Charles asked directly.

Lewis blinked. “Who?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Lando snapped. “You know who.”

“She’s fine,” Lewis said dismissively, but his jaw tightened. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Bullshit,” George muttered. “You like her. Everyone sees it. You’re just too scared to admit it.

Lewis tensed. His voice dropped. “You think I want to drag someone like her into my life? She’s young, she’s new. She deserves better.”

“She deserves the truth,” Charles said calmly. “And you don’t get to hurt her because you’re scared.”

For a moment, Lewis didn’t move. Then, slowly, he set down his glass.

⸻

You were still on the bench when footsteps crunched on the path behind you.

“I’m sorry.”

You flinched, wiping your cheeks. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

You turned to face him. “You always act like I’m nothing. Like I’m in your way.”

He exhaled, shoulders stiff. “Because if I didn’t, I’d do something stupid. Like fall for you harder than I already have.”

You stared.

“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, stepping closer. “You’re younger, you’re bright, you’re good. And my life is… loud. Messy. I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, you’d stay safe.”

Your voice cracked. “That’s not your choice.”

He winced. “I know. I thought I was protecting you. But I was just being a coward.”

Silence stretched between you. Then—

“I cried because I thought I wasn’t enough for you.”

Lewis’s face crumpled. “God, no. You’re too much for me, if anything. Too good, too beautiful, too damn smart.” He let out a breathless laugh. “You terrify me.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re Lewis Hamilton.”

“And you’re you,” he whispered. “And I like you so fucking much, it hurts.”

You stood, wiping your face with the sleeve of your dress. “Then stop hurting me.”

He nodded. “Let me fix it.”

You took a step forward.

Another.

And when he kissed you, slow and careful like you were something sacred, you finally believed him.

⸻

Inside, the grid peeked through the windows.

Lando fist-pumped. “Finally.”

Carlos smirked. “Pay up, Verstappen. I said it would happen tonight.”

Max grumbled, pulling out his wallet.

George clinked glasses with Charles. “About damn time.”

Tag List:

@alexxavicry

@k-1609

@alyislost

@supersanelyromantic

@astrlape

The sand is warm under your toes, gritty and familiar. You roll your jeans up to your knees and walk beside Arthur, his shoulder brushing yours every so often like the sea foam teasing the shore.

The Monaco sun glows soft gold, slowly descending, and you can’t tell if your heart’s racing from the salty air or because Arthur keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to say something.

He’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember. Broken bones, birthday parties, breakups—you’ve weathered everything together. And yet, lately, things feel different. Charged. Like something unsaid is crackling between you every time he looks at you for a beat too long.

You pause where the waves kiss the edge of the sand, watching the way the water curls around your ankles.

“You okay?” Arthur asks, voice quiet like he’s scared to break the moment.

You nod, biting your bottom lip. “Just thinking.”

He stops beside you. “About what?”

You look up at him—really look. The sunlight catches in his hair, and for a moment, he doesn’t look like your goofy best friend. He looks like something more. Something you’ve been avoiding admitting to yourself for years.

“Us,” you say before you can second-guess it.

Arthur’s eyes widen slightly. Then soften. “Yeah?”

You nod again. “Have you ever thought about it? What we are now?”

He hesitates, then smiles gently. “Every day since I was sixteen.”

Your breath hitches. “You’re kidding.”

He laughs. “You think I watched you fall asleep on the couch with popcorn in your hair every movie night for the last decade because I didn’t want to date you?”

You shove his shoulder, grinning. “That’s embarrassing. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was scared I’d lose you.” He pauses, suddenly serious. “But I’d rather take the risk than keep pretending I don’t love you like this.”

Your heart stutters.

“So…” He scratches the back of his neck like he’s bracing himself. “Y/N, will you go out with me? Properly. Not just beach walks and shared fries and almost-confessions.”

You don’t answer. You grab his face and kiss him, saltwater on your lips and sunshine in your chest.

He grins against your mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You pull back just long enough to whisper, “Took you long enough, Leclerc.”

And when his fingers tangle with yours, you know that this time, you’re not just walking beside your best friend.

You’re walking into something brand new.

And finally—finally—you’re doing it together.

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It starts small.

Just a few glances. A slightly too-long hug. The way you and Lewis always seem to drift back to each other, even in a room full of chaos and champagne.

Carlos notices it first. He catches Lewis looking at you during media day — you're laughing at something Lando said, completely unaware. Lewis is supposed to be on his phone, but instead he’s just… watching you, like you hung the moon.

“Interesting,” Carlos mutters.

“What?” Charles asks, leaning over.

“Lewis. He’s got it bad.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, follows his gaze, then smirks. “Definitely.”

They don’t say anything. Not yet.

Over the next few weeks, it spreads like wildfire through the paddock.

George walks into the motorhome kitchen one morning and finds Lewis making two cups of tea. “For Y/N?” he asks casually.

Lewis shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “She mentioned a sore throat yesterday.”

George just smiles and steals one of the mugs. “You’re whipped.”

“I am not.”

“You are, bro. It’s cute. Keep it up.”

At the next race, Max catches Lewis absentmindedly fixing a twisted strap on your overalls. You thank him with a soft smile and a gentle hand on his arm.

Max just shakes his head. “You two gonna kiss or what?”

You both sputter in unison. “What?!”

“Nothing,” he says, walking off with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows he’s right.

But it all comes to a head at a team party.

The season’s in full swing, the drinks are flowing, and someone’s put together a makeshift DJ setup. You’re dressed in a black satin dress that fits like it was made for you, laughing with your head thrown back as Pierre twirls you around the dance floor. He’s playfully dramatic, bowing like he’s in a ballroom, and you’re giggling too hard to breathe.

Lewis watches from across the room, jaw tight.

Lando nudges him. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

“Mate, you’ve crushed that bottle cap five times now.”

Lewis looks down at his hand. Sure enough, the beer cap is flattened beyond recognition. His fingers are clenched white.

He knows it’s harmless — Pierre’s just being his usual flirtatious self — but it doesn’t stop the burning in his chest. You look good, and you’re laughing with someone else, and he knows he’s just your best friend but suddenly that title feels like a prison.

He sees Pierre whisper something in your ear and that’s it.

Lewis pushes away from the bar and walks straight toward you.

You turn at the last second, breathless from dancing, cheeks flushed. “Hey! Where’d you go—”

“I need to talk to you.”

You blink. “What’s wrong?”

“Outside. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just heads for the balcony, and you follow him, confused.

The night air is cooler out there, the music muffled behind glass. Lewis runs a hand down his face, then turns to you with a tight jaw and wide, vulnerable eyes.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

Your heart skips. “Doing what?”

He laughs once, bitter and soft. “Watching you look like that with someone else. Pretending I’m okay just being your friend. Everyone keeps saying it and I’ve been ignoring it but I can’t anymore.”

You step closer, pulse pounding. “What’s everyone saying?”

“That I’m in love with you.”

You freeze.

He exhales sharply. “And they’re right. God, they’re so right. I see you and I—” He shakes his head. “I don’t just want to be your best friend anymore.”

For a second, you just stare at him.

Then: “You idiot.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You could’ve had me ages ago.”

Your hands grab the front of his shirt and pull him in, crashing your lips against his.

And just like that, everything shifts.

The world goes quiet. The tension that’s been building for months melts into your skin as he kisses you back like he’s finally breathing again.

Inside, Lando spots the kiss through the glass.

He fist-pumps so hard he spills his drink.

“TOLD YOU!” he shouts.

The entire grid cheers like someone just won the championship.

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