#ns6 fluff

lando : never been more proud

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↳ lando : and keep bringing me kinder and idc how bad you annoy me

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magui_corceiro : meu amorzinho😻 so excited to see you againnnnn

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↳ yourusername : love u sm pretty angel 😇

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carmenmmundt : YOU in that lace jumpsuit??? i need a moment.

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↳ yourusername : come to the next show and i’ll dedicate a song just to you 💋

liked by carmenmmundt

alex_albon: congrats superstar 🫶 i’ll take a signed copy of the album pls.

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↳ yourusername : only if you pay full price xoxo

liked by alex_albon

↳ lilymhe : what about me????

↳ yourusername : everything will be sent to your doorstep FOR FREE

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oscarpiastri : if the album is about him, it must be a very wholesome playlist.

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↳ yourusername : correct! no sad songs this time!!!

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ciscawaumannorris : So proud of my little girl! I love you so incredibly much 💕💕 My shining star⭐️

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↳ yourusername : love you so so so so much mumma 🤍

davidmalukas : so when are you dropping the single??? we’re waiting.

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↳ yourusername : when you learn patience 💋

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↳ username00 : these twoooo???^^ 👀

username57 : so we have no idea who this man is but he is extremely wholesome…do we think it’s a driver????

↳ username001 : the more important question is does lando like this one???

↳ lando : yes.

liked by yourusername and nolansiegel

↳ yourusername : him and lando r bestiesssss😌

username007 : imagine being her bf and getting an entire album written about you omg.

↳ arrowmclaren : lucky lucky man

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↳ username55 : okay now i’m just CONFUSED

↳ username0000 : check twitter guys!!!!

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It’s the last night of your tour. The final stop in London. Four sold-out nights, and somehow the energy in the arena feels even more electric tonight than it did on the first. You’re standing under the stage lights, still catching your breath from the last song, and the adrenaline is buzzing through every inch of your body.

You’ve done this routine so many times, but something makes you glance toward the VIP section, the one you know your family is sitting in. You spot your mum’s familiar light hair, your dad waving like he always does even though you’re mid-set and can’t exactly wave back, and Lando grinning like an idiot, standing on his chair to get a better view. You roll your eyes playfully and then—your gaze snags on someone else.

Nolan.

He’s standing right there with them, tall and easy to pick out, clapping along with the crowd and smiling so wide you feel your chest tighten. You weren’t expecting him. He was supposed to be back in the States, he wasn’t supposed to leave for MTC until next week. The surprise is so genuine you nearly stumble over your next lyric, but you push through, forcing yourself to keep singing even though your stomach is doing cartwheels.

For the rest of the set, you can’t help it—you steal glances whenever you can. He’s impossible to miss: cheering when you hit the high notes, laughing when Lando does something dumb like hold up a random sign he stole from a fan to get your attention. And your parents? They look absolutely delighted that he’s there, your mum leaning in close to say something that makes Nolan laugh, your dad clapping him on the back like he’s already part of the family.

By the time you take your final bow, the crowd screaming so loud it rattles your bones, you’re fighting the urge to sprint off stage and straight into his arms. Instead, you wave, blow kisses, and give the crowd their moment before finally, finally ducking into the wings.

Backstage is chaos—crew members congratulating you, flowers being shoved into your hands, a blur of hugs and camera flashes—but then you hear it. His voice.

“Yn.”

You turn and there he is, slipping past security with Lando behind him, grinning like he’s the one who just sold out four nights at the O2. You don’t even think—you drop the flowers on a table and run straight to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He catches you instantly, lifting you off your feet and spinning you in a circle like you weigh nothing at all.

“You’re here,” you say, breathless, your face buried against his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair. “You were incredible out there.”

When he sets you down, you don’t let go right away, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Lando’s the one who breaks the moment, groaning dramatically.

“Okay, okay, enough of that. Mum and Dad are literally right here.”

You laugh, cheeks warm, but your parents are beaming. Your mum wraps you in a hug next, gushing about how proud she is, and your dad smiles as wide as he possibly can.

“You kept it a surprise,” you say, pulling back to look at him.

Nolan just shrugs, a little bashful. “Your mom may have helped me plan it.”

“Traitor,” you tease, nudging her with your elbow. She only grins wider.

The rest of the night blurs into a cozy, joy soaked haze. You’re crammed in the dressing room with your family and Nolan, everyone talking over each other, Lando stealing chocolates from the snack table while Nolan pretends not to notice, your mum fussing over how tired you must be. Nolan stays close the whole time, his hand always brushing yours or resting on your back, like he can’t quite believe he’s here either.

It’s not the glitz of the stage or the roar of the crowd that makes the night unforgettable—it’s this. The quiet after. The way your family folds him into the circle without hesitation. The way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, even after you’ve just sung your heart out to thousands.

And for the first time all tour, you feel like you can finally breathe.

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By the time you finally make it back to the hotel, the adrenaline of the show has begun to fade, leaving you deliciously exhausted and a little dazed. You’re still half in stage mode—hair teased, eyeliner smudged, your dress swapped for an oversized hoodie and sweats you threw on in the dressing room—but Nolan looks at you like you’ve never been more beautiful.

He carries your bag into the suite without being asked, drops it by the couch, and immediately pulls you into his arms. The door hasn’t even clicked shut behind him before you’re kissing—long, slow, the kind of kiss that feels like a homecoming.

“I missed you,” you murmur against his lips, hands fisting in the back of his hoodie like you’re afraid he might disappear.

“Missed you more,” he whispers back, punctuating it with another kiss, this one a little deeper, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Every day felt like a month.”

You laugh softly, tugging him toward the bed, where you collapse together in a heap of tangled limbs and muffled giggles. He kicks his shoes off clumsily while you curl into his side, and soon you’re both sprawled across the blankets, your head resting on his chest, his hand sliding absentmindedly through your hair.

It’s not rushed, not frantic—it’s slow, easy, the kind of intimacy that comes from knowing each other deeply. Kisses scattered along your temple, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth. His heartbeat under your cheek, steady and grounding. Your legs tangled together like you never want to untangle again.

You spend hours like that, catching up on everything you’ve missed. He tells you about his offseason training, the nerves and excitement about the year ahead, how the team has big plans for him. You tell him about tour chaos—the travel, the exhaustion, the absolute high of performing every night.

At some point, you’re both laughing so hard tears prick your eyes when you reenact a stage mishap from the second London show, complete with dramatic hand gestures. Nolan’s grin is wide and unguarded, the kind of smile you wish you could bottle and keep forever.

Then there are the quiet stretches, where words aren’t needed. Where you simply lie there, kissing lazily, breathing each other in, soaking up the closeness. His fingertips trace patterns across your hip, yours draw lazy circles on his chest, and it feels like everything is finally aligned again after months of schedules pulling you apart.

“You’re staying through the break?” you ask softly, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “I’ll be at the MTC a lot, and then the next few F1 races. I wanted to make sure I’d be here for you, too. For all of it.”

Your chest squeezes at that, and you kiss him again, slow and tender. “You’re the best thing in my whole world, you know that?”

He smiles, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing.”

Eventually, the exhaustion catches up with you both. The city is still humming outside your window, but inside the suite, everything is quiet. Nolan pulls the blankets up over you, tucking you into his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. You’re half-asleep when you feel his lips press one more kiss to your hair.

“Sweet dreams, superstar,” he whispers.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep without missing him, because he’s right there, holding you close.

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You wake up to warmth. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay in bed forever. The curtains are still drawn, soft morning light seeping through the edges, and Nolan’s arm is heavy across your waist. He’s tucked in close, his breath slow and even against your neck, and for a moment you just stay still, listening to the rhythm of him.

It feels like peace. Like after months of hotels and soundchecks and screaming crowds, this is the reward. His hoodie is bunched up between you, his hair a little messy from the pillow, and you can’t help but smile as you turn to face him.

“Good morning,” you whisper, brushing a kiss across his jaw.

His eyes blink open slowly, hazy with sleep, and then he smiles—soft, drowsy, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache. “Best morning ever,” he mumbles, voice still raspy.

You giggle, shifting closer until you’re nose-to-nose, and the next few minutes dissolve into sleepy kisses, whispered I missed yous, and quiet laughter when he tries to pull the blanket entirely to his side. You’re wrapped in your little bubble of warmth, perfectly content—

Until the hotel room door swings open.

“Rise and shine, lovebirds!” Lando’s voice booms into the suite, startling both of you upright.

“Lando!” you squeak, scrambling for the blanket as Nolan groans and flops back down.

“Seriously?” Nolan mutters, dragging the pillow over his face.

“Seriously,” Lando smirks, already raiding the minibar like he owns the place. “Mum says breakfast in half an hour. Thought I’d make sure you two didn’t oversleep. You’re welcome.”

You throw a pillow at him, which he dodges with practiced ease. “Get out, Lando.”

“I like this hotel room,” he says cheerfully, biting into a piece of chocolate that the hotel staff left on the table. “Nice view. Shame about the PDA, though.”

You’re half-laughing, half-mortified, but Nolan just shakes his head, dragging you back down into the pillows once Lando finally leaves. “Your brother’s never going to let me live this down.”

“Probably not,” you admit, kissing him softly. “But he likes you. That’s a good sign.”

Breakfast with your family turns out to be surprisingly sweet. You and Nolan join your parents and Lando downstairs in the hotel restaurant, the table already crowded with croissants, fruit, and about four different types of coffee.

Your mum practically fusses over Nolan, asking if he’s eating enough during the offseason. Your dad keeps steering the conversation toward racing, clearly impressed by Nolan’s determination. Lando, of course, won’t stop teasing— when does he ever?

But even with all the joking, it feels easy. Natural. Like Nolan has been part of these breakfasts forever, like he belongs. He looks so at home sitting beside you, reaching for your hand under the table, joining in with your dad’s stories, laughing when your mum shushes Lando for being too loud.

It’s everything you could have wanted—your worlds overlapping in the most seamless, gentle way.

After breakfast, you tug Nolan’s hand, leading him out of the hotel. “I have something to show you,” you tell him, excitement bubbling in your chest.

He raises a brow, but follows without hesitation.

A short car ride later, you arrive at a rented studio tucked away in London. It’s quiet inside, sunlight streaming through tall windows, instruments scattered in the corner. You’ve spent the last few weeks here whenever you had breaks between shows, piecing together the finishing touches on your album.

Nolan looks around curiously, hands in his pockets. “This is where the magic happens?”

You grin, guiding him toward the speakers. “Kind of. But the real magic is in the songs. And since the album is… about you, I thought maybe you should hear one of them.”

His eyes widen slightly, like the words take a second to sink in. About you. You don’t give him time to spiral—you queue up the track, then step back, watching his expression as the music fills the room.

The beat is soft, dreamy, and then your voice comes in—clear, full of warmth, full of him.

And I, I had almost given up hope

’Til I met a love so pure and true

Day I met you babe

Freed me from the fear

You put the blood back to my heart

Every day was gray

You put color back in my world

Sugar honey, you gave me so much more to live for…

Nolan doesn’t move at first. He just stands there, completely still, eyes locked on you like he’s trying to memorize every note, every word. You can see the way his throat works, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but can’t quite get it out.

When the verse fades into the chorus, you pause the track, letting the room fall silent again.

“It’s about you,” you say softly, suddenly shy. “All of it. Every word. You’re the reason this album exists. You’re the reason I had something real to write about.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he exhales, shaky, his eyes glassy. “Babe…” He swallows hard, blinking rapidly, like he’s on the edge of tears. “I don’t even know what to say. That’s… it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You step closer, sliding your arms around his waist. “You don’t have to say anything. Just know that it’s true. You gave me color again.”

He pulls you in tight, burying his face in your hair, and you feel the tremor in his chest as he laughs softly, overwhelmed. “God, I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” you whisper, tilting your head up to kiss him. It’s gentle at first, then deeper, filled with all the words he can’t quite get out.

When you finally pull away, his eyes are still shining, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re going to wreck me when this album comes out.”

You grin, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Good. That was the plan.”

And as he kisses you again, slow and lingering, you know you’ve never meant every lyric more in your life.

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The studio is buzzing with quiet energy the next afternoon when you and Nolan arrive. It’s not chaos like people might expect—more like an organized calm, the kind that comes with a well oiled crew who all know exactly what they’re here to create. Your creative director greets you with a clipboard in one hand and coffee in the other, rattling off the schedule for the day, but Nolan barely registers it. His eyes are on you, watching how naturally you slip into work mode, how your shoulders straighten and your voice carries just enough authority that everyone listens. He loves seeing this side of you—the superstar, not just his girlfriend curled up in an oversized hoodie with him at night.

Still, even here, he can feel the softness that’s uniquely you. When you pause to thank the makeup artist for the smallest detail or when you squeeze his hand as you’re led toward wardrobe, silently promising that you want him with you through all of this.

The concept of the video is simple, intimate—almost like a love letter captured on film. No flashy sets or heavy choreography, just you in soft lighting, wrapped in lace and silk, singing the song as if you’re whispering it into someone’s ear. Nolan sits quietly in a director’s chair while you’re being styled, his knee bouncing out of habit until you catch him staring in the mirror. You grin and tilt your head, teasing, “You’re looking at me like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me.”

“It kind of feels like it is,” he admits, cheeks warm as he ducks his head. “You look… unreal.”

The first scenes are filmed with you sitting at a small vanity, light pouring through sheer curtains behind you. The lace jumpsuit clings in all the right places, delicate but powerful, and you sing the words like they’ve been stitched into your soul. Nolan feels like he shouldn’t even be watching—it’s too raw, too intimate—but he can’t tear his eyes away.

When the director calls for the “interlude scenes,” Nolan is pulled in. They’ve planned a small feature for him—bare hands, his frame in soft focus, no face. Just his presence. You insisted on it, telling your team, He’s part of the song. He should be part of the video, too.

He’s nervous at first when the crew asks him to sit behind you on a loveseat, just off-center. The idea is simple: you sing the second verse while his arms wrap gently around your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder, your fingers brushing over his. His face won’t be visible, just the suggestion of someone holding you.

The cameras roll, and you sing.

And Nolan can feel you leaning into him, your voice vibrating through his chest. His hands fit so naturally around your waist, and even though it’s a staged setup, it doesn’t feel staged at all. He knows he’s not supposed to move too much, but when you lace your fingers through his and keep singing, his thumb instinctively strokes your knuckles.

Later, while you’re shooting solo cutaways, Nolan stands off to the side, still in awe. Watching you transform on camera—the vulnerability, the strength, the way you pour your heart into every note—makes his chest ache in the best way. He’s used to speed and adrenaline, to being measured by lap times and points, but this is something else entirely. Something slower, deeper.

By the time filming wraps, you’re exhausted, your makeup smudged from hours under the lights, but you’re glowing. You change back into sweats and flop onto the couch in the green room where Nolan is waiting with a bottle of water. He presses it into your hand, then kisses your temple as you sigh and lean into him.

“So?” you mumble, eyes half-closed. “What did you think?”

He laughs softly, almost incredulous. “I think I’m the luckiest person alive. That song… it’s us. And watching you today—you have no idea how much I—” He stops, because the words catch in his throat, too big for the moment. Instead, he pulls you closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

You smile, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s good because I wrote it for you.”

And sitting there, still surrounded by the faint hum of the studio crew packing up, Nolan feels it sink in again: the world may know you as a superstar, but you’re his girl. And he’s never been more in love.

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yourusername

liked by lando, nolansiegel, alexandrasaintmleux and 8,900,000 others.

yourusername : hello my angels!! i am so so excited to finally share this project with you, it holds such a special place in my heart. the first single “sugar! honey! love!” + the mv is out with you now!!!! && i will be releasing my new album, “in my garden…”, on 11/8 💐✨🦋☀️🐝🌼

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lando : you are always so overdramatic with these captions but i will allow it since you look like a fairy

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↳ yourusername : she was a fairy 🧚‍♀️✨

liked by lando

↳ lando : and while we’re at it…11/8 sounds like a special date…any comment???

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↳ yourusername : i would like for you to shut the fuck up before i get mum after you

liked by lando

↳ username15 : 11/8 is nolan’s bday…🤷🏻‍♀️👀

ciscawaumannorris : So proud of you my flower 🌸✨

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charles_leclerc : album of the year incoming.

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↳ yourusername : you know it king

carlossainz55 : just don’t forget us when you win a grammy! so proud of you, cariño ❤️

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↳ yourusername : could never forget about you, carlitos! 😌

lilyzneimer : HELLO MOTHER NATURE ?? goddess vibes.

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↳ yourusername : oh my god oh my god ilysm lily

magui_corceiro : this is so soft and dreamy, i’m obsessed w you🦋

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davidmalukas : nah but this mv got me in my feelings. you snapped fr.

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↳ yourusername : seeeeeee. wasn’t it worth the wait???

mclaren : we LOVE 😭 already added to the garage playlist !

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↳ lando : pls remove, i don’t need to hear her singing about her boyfriend before a race

↳ yourusername : my boyfriend that you also LOVE

↳ lando : blah blah love is a very strong word

username001 : she didn’t just serve, she harvested the whole garden

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↳ yourusername : this made me laugh so hard, ily

username005 : so we all agree she’s the main character of the entire music industry right??

georgerussell63 : already on repeat. even the mv made me emotional 🤧

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↳ georgerussell63 : carmen cried…i totally did not

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↳ carmenmmundt : he most definitely cried first. i’m so proud of you, my love!!!! so excited to hear the rest ✨✨

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username0000 : are we all ignoring the fact that it will be out on nolan’s birthday and it sort of kind of looked like his shadow in the mv???

↳ username77 : could all be a coincidence… (trying not to get too excited so i don’t face disappointment if it’s not true)

↳ username55 : it’s def him (im delusional)

alexandrasaintmleux : beautiful angel🌼🧚‍♀️🦋 so proud of you!

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The afternoon sun filters through the glass when you step out of the car and into the McLaren Technology Centre, the polished building gleaming like it’s straight out of a sci-fi movie. You’ve always loved this place—it has the same energy as a concert venue right before a show: hushed, focused, and buzzing beneath the surface.

Your badge gets you through security, but it’s the familiarity of the lobby that makes your chest warm. You’ve been here countless times with Lando, sometimes sneaking in with coffee just to annoy him, sometimes hiding away in one of the lounges when you didn’t want to be recognized in public.

Today feels different though. Today, you’re not just visiting your brother—you’re here because Nolan’s in the building too.

You catch sight of Lando first, leaning lazily against a railing, arms crossed, sunglasses perched unnecessarily on his head. He grins when he sees you.

“About time,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “Thought tour life made you forget about us little people.”

You roll your eyes. “Sold out arenas don’t make me forget my annoying brother.”

“Annoying? Please, I’m the older and hotter brother.”

“You’re delusional,” you shoot back, but the laugh bubbles easily out of you.

Before you can say more, Oscar appears from around the corner, tall and quiet, holding his phone in one hand like always. His eyes flicker up when he notices you, and though his face doesn’t change much, the little half-smile that tugs at his mouth is enough to make you melt.

“Hey stranger,” you say, pulling him into a hug without hesitation. He stiffens for half a second before returning it, his awkward arms patting your back.

“It’s been… a while,” he says.

“A while?” you gasp, stepping back to squint at him. “Try forever! You didn’t even come to one of my shows.”

Oscar shrugs, deadpan as ever. “I saw the clips on TikTok. Good lighting.”

Lando groans. “You’re impossible.”

But you’re grinning. That’s Oscar—blunt, dry, but underneath it, someone who’s always been like another brother to you. He doesn’t need to gush; the quiet presence is enough.

You don’t have long to catch up before Lando nudges your side. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He leads you down a hall until you reach the simulator room. Through the glass, Nolan sits strapped in, the giant screens surrounding him, hands tight on the wheel, eyes laser-focused. He looks so at home there, the same calm determination you’ve seen on stage in IndyCar but distilled, quiet.

“Don’t let him know we’re here,” Lando whispers, grinning. “Let’s see how he does.”

You press your hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh as you both lean against the glass. Nolan takes corners with sharp precision, shifting his weight like he’s actually in the cockpit. Engineers hover nearby, murmuring numbers, but he’s locked in, not noticing anything else.

When the sim run finishes and he finally lets go of his tight grip on the wheel, he rubs his face with both hands before glancing up—and freezes. His eyes go wide when he spots you through the glass, like he can’t believe you’re really there.

The door opens, and you barely have time to prepare before he’s across the room, pulling you into a hug so tight it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Angel,” he breathes against your hair, as though him mumbling your nickname makes it real. “What are you doing here?”

“Had to see my superstar boyfriend in action,” you tease, but your voice cracks a little.

Lando groans exaggeratedly from the corner. “Oh god, here we go. PDA central.”

You shoot him a glare over Nolan’s shoulder, but Nolan just laughs, not letting go.

Later, after some banter with the engineers and a quick debrief Lando insists on sitting through, you and Nolan slip out for some air. The grounds of the MTC are sprawling, manicured lawns leading down to a small lake, walking paths that wind through patches of trees.

It’s quiet, just the sound of birds and the crunch of gravel under your shoes. Nolan reaches for your hand automatically, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming today. I thought you had press for the album,” he says softly.

“Wanted to surprise you.” You glance up at him, his messy hair still damp with sweat from the sim. “Worth it?”

He looks at you like you hung the stars. “Always worth it.”

You walk in silence for a while, the kind that feels easy. Every so often, he squeezes your hand or points out something small—the way the light glints off the water, a squirrel darting across the path. It’s grounding, a world away from flashing cameras and roaring crowds.

When you finally circle back toward the building, Nolan tugs you closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but… I’m really proud of you. Seeing you on stage, and now here—it’s like…” He trails off, searching for words. “It’s like you can do everything.”

You smile, leaning into his shoulder. “Good thing I’ve got you to remind me when I forget.”

And with that, you walk back into the MTC, hand in hand, the world outside fading to nothing.

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two weeks later…

f1gossipgirls

1,520,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : Miss YN Norris was spotted in the paddock this weekend. She was in attendance for free practice on Friday and was seen in the Mclaren garage yesterday during qualifying. Now, you may be thinking…she is probably just there to support Lando now that she isn’t touring…however, YN has never been in attendance for a practice in YEARS and it just so happens that Nolan Siegel (her rumored bf) drove Lando’s car in FP1 and FP2…coincidence? We think not.

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The paddock is buzzing the morning of Free Practice, more chaotic than usual, because McLaren has a fresh face climbing into Lando’s car for the session. It’s the kind of day that makes headlines, cameras lurking at every angle, and Nolan has barely been able to hear his own thoughts since breakfast.

He’s calm on the outside—helmet tucked under his arm, polite nods to the engineers—but inside he’s buzzing with nerves. It’s one thing to run the sim at the MTC. It’s another to actually climb into an F1 car in front of the entire world.

He doesn’t expect you to be there. You told him you’d stay in London a little longer to wrap up final press for your album, and though he wanted you there desperately, he understood.

So when he ducks into the McLaren hospitality suite for a final pre-brief and hears Lando’s laugh followed by a voice he knows better than his own, his heart stops.

You.

You’re standing there in all Mclaren—black shorts, papaya jacket slightly oversized—with your hair tied back and sunglasses perched on your head. The grin you wear is radiant, wide enough to make the whole room feel lighter.

“Surprise,” you sing, spreading your arms like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Nolan doesn’t even think—he drops the helmet onto a chair and crosses the room in three strides, wrapping you up in a hug so tight the engineers politely look away. He buries his face in your shoulder, muffling a laugh.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You actually came?”

“Of course I did,” you whisper back, hands sliding up his back. “What kind of girlfriend would I be if I missed this?”

From behind, Lando clears his throat obnoxiously. “A horrible one. And a horrible sister for missing my race.”

You and Nolan break apart just enough to roll your eyes at him in unison, which only makes Lando laugh harder.

The garage is alive when Nolan climbs into the car, mechanics swarming, tires being wheeled in, the scent of rubber and fuel sharp in the air. You stand beside Zak and Andrea, headset on, nerves prickling under your skin. You’ve seen Lando do this countless times, but this is different. This is Nolan.

When he rolls out of the pit lane, your stomach flips. He looks so small in the cockpit, helmet visor glinting, but his lines are smooth, measured, each lap faster than the last. You clutch the railing without realizing it, biting your lip as you watch the live times tick across the monitors.

“Not bad,” Zak mutters, and Andrea hums in agreement.

“Not bad?” you echo, half offended. “That’s amazing.”

By the time FP1 wraps, Nolan’s time sits comfortably in the midfield, impressive for a debut. FP2 brings more consistency, long runs where he looks like he’s belonged in that seat forever. Every time he comes past the pit straight, you can’t help but lean forward, waiting for the flash of papaya.

When the session ends and he climbs out of the car, helmet tucked under his arm, his grin is visible even before the visor lifts. He waves once to the crowd, but his eyes are already searching, and the moment he spots you in the garage, he points—like that’s mine.

After debrief, he finds you waiting near the back of the hospitality, still in the papaya jacket. He doesn’t care who’s around; he pulls you in, kisses your cheek, and whispers, “You made today perfect.”

“You made today history,” you shoot back, eyes shining.

And when the media ask about his performance later, Nolan smiles and keeps it simple. “It felt incredible. I had a lot of support today, and that made all the difference.”

Everyone assumes he means the team. But when you catch his eye across the room, you know better.

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time skip…day before album release and nolan’s bday! (we are pretending the brazilian gp is not this week but the next week)

The world feels unusually quiet the night before your life explodes again. Tomorrow means press, cameras, interviews, and your album finally becoming everyone’s, not just yours. And tomorrow also happens to be Nolan’s birthday—the one thing he tried to insist didn’t need “a big fuss.” Of course, Lando had rolled his eyes and promised a party anyway, already inviting half the grid before Nolan could protest.

But tonight is yours. Yours and Nolan’s alone.

You’d rented out a small corner of a tucked away restaurant in Monaco—no paparazzi, no noise, just warm candlelight spilling across white linen and soft jazz in the background. The table is set by the window, overlooking the city lit up like a thousand tiny constellations.

Nolan arrives in a navy button down, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from rushing to meet you. He stops in the doorway when he sees you, his mouth parting slightly. You’re in something simple, elegant, your makeup soft, your smile even softer.

“You…” He shakes his head, stepping closer. “You can’t just look at me like that before dinner.”

“Like what?” you tease, even though you know exactly what he means.

“Like you’re going to ruin me.”

The waiter barely gets through the first course before Nolan leans over, brushing your hair behind your ear with fingers that linger too long. “You’re glowing,” he says quietly, as though it’s a secret meant only for you. “I know it’s the album tomorrow, but—God, you just look… happy.”

“I am,” you admit, swirling your glass. “Because of you. Because we have this little bubble before everything gets crazy.”

His hand finds yours across the table, thumb rubbing slow circles against your skin. “I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I was worried tomorrow would overshadow everything—your release, my birthday, the party, all of it. But right now? This is perfect.”

You smile, and when dessert comes, you’ve arranged for something extra—tiny candles glowing on a plate of his favorite chocolate tart. The restaurant is discreet, but the few staff nearby clap softly as you sing a quiet version of “Happy Birthday,” just for him.

He laughs, shaking his head, cheeks pink. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” you say, cutting him a forkful. “Tomorrow everyone else gets to celebrate you. Tonight, it’s just me.”

Later, after dinner, you both wander through the quiet Monaco streets, the city oddly hushed this late. Your hand is tucked into his pocket with his, and the cold air makes every word between you feel sharper, more meaningful.

At a small bridge, you stop, leaning against the railing to look out at the water shimmering under the moonlight. Nolan steps behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he whispers. “A year ago, I never thought my life would look like this—IndyCar, F1 tests, you…” He squeezes you tighter, almost like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Especially you.”

You tilt your head back against him, smiling at the stars above. “Good thing you don’t have to figure it out. You just have to live it.”

When you finally make it back to the hotel, it’s still early enough that the night feels endless. You curl up together on the couch with a bottle of wine, your legs tangled, your laughter spilling into the quiet. The conversation drifts from silly to serious, from childhood stories to whispered promises about the future.

By the time you both fall asleep, the half finished bottle sits forgotten on the table, the city still humming below. Tomorrow will be chaos—your album, his birthday, Lando’s inevitable loudness. But tonight? Tonight is only yours.

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yourusername

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yourusername : album is out! but more importantly, it is this angel babes birthday!!!!!! the love of my life turned 21 today and i couldn’t be more proud of him. nolan, you are the sun in my life, you bring color to my world and i couldn’t ask for a better soulmate. i love you so so so so much and today is all about you 🤍⭐️💗💘

tagged : nolansiegel

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user has turned off the comments on this post.

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The first light of morning filters through the curtains, soft gold spilling across the hotel sheets. You stir, blinking groggily, and reach across the bed—only to find cool linen where Nolan should be. For a second, your heart skips, until the faint sound of music drifts through the cracked door to the living room.

You recognize it instantly. Your music.

Slipping out of bed, you tug one of Nolan’s sweatshirts over your head, the sleeves hanging almost comically past your hands. You pad barefoot into the suite’s living area, careful not to creak the floorboards.

He’s there. Sitting on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, headphones around his neck so the album quietly fills the space. His posture is slouched, completely unguarded, one hand covering his mouth. And when you get closer, you see it—his eyes glistening, cheeks a little pink.

Your chest aches.

“Nolan?” you whisper softly.

His head snaps up, and for a second he looks caught, like a kid sneaking sweets before dinner. But then he exhales, a shaky little laugh slipping past his lips.

“Sorry,” he says, swiping quickly at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, crossing the room until you’re kneeling in front of him, resting your hands on his knees. “What are you doing?”

“Listening,” he murmurs, almost reverently. He tips the laptop so you can see the tracklist glowing on the screen. “I wanted to hear it with the rest of the world. Just… you and me. And it’s—” His voice cracks, and he has to look away for a second. “It’s beautiful, love. You’re beautiful. The way you wrote about us—it’s like I can feel you in every word.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing under his damp lashes. “Hey,” you whisper. “Don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it,” he admits, laughing softly through the tears. “Nobody’s ever made me feel like this. Like I matter this much. You put me in your songs, in your world—and I don’t know how to handle it except by falling more in love with you every time I hear you sing.”

That does it. Your own tears sting, but instead of letting them fall, you lean forward and kiss him—soft at first, then firmer, pouring everything you can’t put into words into that press of lips. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you into his lap until you’re straddling him, the laptop carefully set aside.

The kiss turns messy, wet with half-laughs and tiny sniffles, his mouth moving against yours like he never wants to stop. Between kisses, he whispers, “I love you. God, I love you so much. You’re everything.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his eyelids where tears still linger. “And you’re mine,” you breathe. “Every song, every note—it’s all you. You’re the reason I can even do this.”

He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe, but you don’t care. The music keeps playing in the background—your voice, your words—and the two of you stay tangled together on that couch, kissing until the morning sun paints you both in light.

At some point, you giggle into his mouth. “You know, I was going to wake up early and make you birthday breakfast in bed.”

He grins, resting his forehead against yours. “You already gave me the best gift I’ll ever get. But I won’t say no to pancakes later.”

“Good,” you tease, kissing him again. “Because you’re definitely getting pancakes. With way too many candles.”

And as his laughter rumbles through your chest, you know this morning will stay with you forever—before the chaos, before the parties, just you and Nolan, wrapped in music and love.

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The party is already loud when you and Nolan arrive—Lando insisted on hosting at a private villa near the track, and he’s gone all out. Colored lights, music thumping through speakers, tables piled with food and drinks, and the entire F1 grid crammed inside like a too big family reunion.

The second Nolan walks in, the place erupts.

“Birthday boy!!!” David yells, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes forward with a Solo cup. “Finally legal enough to—oh wait, you’ve been legal here technically. Whatever. Happy birthday!”

Nolan barely has time to laugh before he’s swallowed by a group hug courtesy of Gabriel, Isack, and Ollie who keep yelling “birthday boy!” like a chant.

Meanwhile, Lando comes out of nowhere, hopping onto the back of the couch and cupping his hands like a megaphone. “EVERYONE SHUT UP. MY LITTLE BROTHER IS HERE.”

The music is abruptly cut. Heads turn. And then Lando grins so wide it’s almost comical.

“Look at him!” he announces. “Twenty one years old, drove my car in FP1, AND somehow managed to steal the coolest girl in the room.” He winks at you before tossing an arm around Nolan’s shoulders and dragging him to the center of the crowd.

You can see Nolan’s ears turning red, but he’s smiling, overwhelmed in the best way.

“Speech! Speech!” Alex starts, slamming his cup against the table for emphasis until everyone joins in.

Nolan shakes his head, laughing nervously, but Lando doesn’t let him off. He shoves a mic—where the hell did that come from?—into Nolan’s hands.

“Uh—hi,” Nolan says, voice cracking just slightly, which makes everyone cheer louder. “Thanks, I guess? For making me feel like part of the family already. Even though most of you make fun of me 24/7.” He shoots a playful glare at Alex, who just shouts back, “DESERVED.”

Nolan continues, his smile softer now. “Seriously though—this year has been insane. I wouldn’t have survived half of it without my girlfriend.” He glances at you, trying not to cry. “She has been there through everything. And… thanks, Lan. For letting me drive your car, for believing in me, and, you know, for throwing this absolute circus of a party.”

The crowd awws, but Lando doesn’t let it sit too long. He tackles Nolan into a hug so tight it lifts him off the floor. “You’re welcome, little bro,” he says into his ear, voice wobbly but teasing. “Don’t mess it up out there, yeah?”

When Nolan’s set down, the music blasts again, and chaos resumes.

Oscar is the first to shove a slice of cake into Nolan’s mouth before he even gets a fork. Carlos insists he needs to do tequila shots “to be a proper driver now.”

You find yourself leaning against the wall, watching him. He’s laughing so hard his eyes crinkle, cheeks flushed from the noise and attention, looking utterly at home among the chaos.

At one point, Lando slips beside you, handing you a drink with a cheeky grin. “He’s happy, isn’t he?”

You nod, eyes still on Nolan. “He is. Thanks to you.”

Lando bumps your shoulder. “Thanks to you, more like. He’s in love, and it shows. But don’t worry, I’m still taking credit for the party.”

Later, near midnight, everyone crowds around again to sing an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” the drivers louder than anyone. Nolan blows out the candles, looks up at you across the cake, and mouths thank you.

And for a moment, in the middle of flashing lights and roaring laughter, it feels like nothing else exists but the two of you—and the wild, ridiculous family that comes with you.

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several months later…beginning of the indycar season

The Florida sun is already blazing when you step onto the paddock at St. Petersburg, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as the sound of IndyCar engines whines in the background. The air smells of fuel and heat, and the atmosphere buzzes with the anticipation of the season opener.

Lando walks beside you, a baseball cap tugged low over his curls, and despite the casual outfit, his grin is unmistakable. “He has no clue we’re here, does he?” he asks, glancing at you sideways.

“Not a single clue,” you reply, suppressing your own smile. “He thought I was still stuck in tour meetings. And you—well, he’s convinced you’d rather eat glass than willingly spend your F1 off-weekend in an IndyCar garage.”

Lando chuckles, bumping your shoulder. “He’s not entirely wrong. But for Nolan? Worth it.”

You weave through the sea of fans, crew members, and other drivers until you reach the papaya sea that is the Arrow McLaren garage. You can already see Nolan, clad in his crisp fireproofs, crouched by an engineer as he studies data on the screen. His face is serious, focused—until the engineer says something and he cracks the tiniest grin, the one you know so well.

Your heart swells. That’s your boy.

Lando nudges you forward. “Go on then. Go make his day.”

You roll your eyes at him but your pulse quickens as you step into the garage. For a moment, Nolan doesn’t look up—he’s still absorbed in the briefing. But then, as if sensing it, his head lifts. His eyes scan the space, casual at first, and then they land on you.

Shock flickers across his face. Then disbelief. Then joy so pure it makes your chest ache.

“YN?” he blurts, half standing so fast his headset nearly slips off. He doesn’t even wait for confirmation before he strides across the garage, weaving past crew and equipment until he’s right in front of you.

You barely have time to open your arms before he scoops you up, spinning you off your feet. “You’re here!” he laughs, voice breaking with how wide his grin is. “I can’t believe—you actually came!”

You bury your face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of fireproofs and heat and Nolan himself. “Of course I came. I wasn’t going to miss your first race of the season.”

When he finally sets you down, he pulls back only far enough to kiss you—quick at first, then lingering, almost desperate. The garage bursts into cheers and whistles, mechanics and engineers clapping, and even Lando shouting, “Get a room!” from the back.

Nolan pulls away, red-cheeked but glowing. “You didn’t tell me,” he says, eyes darting to Lando, who just smirks innocently.

“Would’ve ruined the surprise,” you say softly.

From then on, you don’t leave his side until he has to climb into the car. You help him with his gloves, smoothing the fabric over his hands, and press a kiss to his knuckles before he slips his helmet on. He gives you one last look, a silent for you, before stepping into the car.

Watching him race is… different. It’s not like seeing Lando, where you’re used to the rhythm of Formula 1. This is rawer, faster, somehow more dangerous, and yet Nolan looks like he was born for it. Every lap he takes, you feel your chest tighten with pride. Every overtake has you on your feet, hands clutched together. Lando keeps glancing at you, amused, whispering, “Relax, he’s fine,” even though his own leg bounces nervously.

When Nolan crosses the finish line, his race done with a strong top ten finish, you and Lando are the first ones waiting in the garage. He jumps out of the car, helmet still on, but he rips it off as soon as he sees you. Sweat drips down his face, his hair sticking up in messy tufts, but his grin is dazzling.

“Did you see that?!” he shouts, practically running into your arms again.

“You were incredible,” you breathe, and he kisses you right there, sweat and all, uncaring of the cameras snapping. The world melts away for a moment—it’s just you and him, your heart swelling with pride.

When he finally pulls back, Lando claps him on the back. “Not bad Siegel,” he teases, though his smile is genuine.

Nolan just laughs, pulling you into a tight hug. “Best surprise of my life,” he murmurs against your hair.

And standing there, wrapped up in Nolan’s arms, the crowd buzzing around you, you can’t imagine a better beginning to his season.

username005 : i enjoy that nolan's gf looks like she could eat him alive

liked by yn_norris and nolansiegel

↳ nolansiegel : i do too

liked by yn_norris and 810 others

patriciooward : you two are too cute it’s disgusting.

liked by yn_norris and nolansiegel

↳ nolansiegel : thanks dad

liked by yn_norris and patriciooward

↳ patriciooward : don’t make me revoke your social media privileges

↳ yn_norris : admin says social media privileges for everyone!

liked by patriciooward and nolansiegel

sophia.siegel : the two cutest people alive. mom already framed the last picture 😭

liked by yn_norris and nolansiegel

↳ yn_norris : love you both so much :')

flo_norris_showjumping : so beautiful ♡ miss you sm

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : miss you even more! so excited to see youuuu

lando : nolan looks like he’s auditioning for national geographic in that third pic

liked by yn_norris and nolansiegel

↳ yn_norris : “wild boyfriend spotted in natural habitat”

liked by lando and nolansiegel

oscarpiastri : did you get a dog or did he just decided to follow you??

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : he followed me for miles and i named him oscar piastri wdc

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

↳ lando : ouch

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elbaoward : the prettiest girl in the world omg

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : i ADORE you

liked by elbaoward

magui_corceiro : meu amor 😍😍😍

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : my baby!!!!!! i love you

liked by magui_corceiro

nolansiegel : the best time with the most beautiful girl in the world ❤️

liked by yn_norris

↳ yn_norris : love you forever and ever

liked by nolansiegel

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The sun is still rising when you and Nolan reach the small private hangar, the early light painting everything in soft golds and pinks. There’s something quietly cinematic about the way he moves around the plane — focused, efficient, confident — checking the fuel levels and double-checking every system before you take off. You watch from the side for a moment, chin resting on your hand, before he turns around and gives you that grin — the one that always makes your chest feel warm and stupidly full.

“Ready to see California from the sky?” he asks, tugging his headset on and offering you a hand up into the cockpit.

You take it, sliding into the seat beside him. “As long as you don’t try to do barrel rolls or anything.”

He laughs, flipping a few switches. “No promises.”

The engine hums to life, and soon the world beneath you begins to shrink — highways becoming silver threads, houses turning into toy blocks. You’ve flown plenty of times before, but this is different. Being in the air with Nolan, just the two of you, feels like your own tiny world suspended between clouds. Every time you glance over, he looks completely at home — hand steady, eyes darting between the horizon and the instruments, sunlight glinting off his sunglasses.

At some point, he reaches over, laces his fingers through yours, and rests your joined hands on his thigh. You can’t help but smile.

The flight is smooth and quiet, just the sound of the engine and the occasional exchange of soft laughter through your headsets. You point out mountain ranges, rivers, the patchwork of land below, and he tells you about how he used to sit in his dad’s office as a kid, tracing flight maps and pretending he knew how to read them. There’s something so boyish and pure in the way he tells the story that you fall in love with him all over again — not that you’d ever stopped.

When you finally begin to descend, the view of Northern California stretches endlessly beneath you — rolling hills, neat rows of vineyards, red-roofed houses tucked between trees. The moment the wheels touch down, Nolan exhales softly, and you glance over to find that familiar little smile tugging at his lips.

“Welcome to Palo Alto, co-pilot,” he murmurs.

The Arrow McLaren team had arranged everything — by the time you step out onto the tarmac, Nolan’s car, freshly washed and gleaming in the sun, is already waiting. He tosses your bag into the trunk and opens your door for you with a teasing, “Your chariot awaits.”

The drive through town is peaceful, windows down, warm air pouring in. The roads are lined with tall trees and quiet, sun-soaked houses. You can tell Nolan’s slipping into home mode — his posture relaxes, his voice softens, and when he points out his old high school or the café he used to do homework in, there’s pride in every word.

When you pull into the driveway, you can already see movement inside — the front door swings open before the car even stops. Annette and Mark are on the porch, both smiling wide, and Sophia waves from the doorway like she’s been counting down the minutes.

The moment you step out of the car, Annette’s already there, arms wrapping around you in a hug that feels like sunlight.

“Finally!” she says. “You look even more beautiful in person."

You laugh, hugging her back tightly. “I’ve missed you guys!”

Sophia swoops in next, dramatic as always, tugging you away from her brother. “It’s about time you visited again. He keeps stealing you away — I never get my favorite girl anymore!”

Nolan rolls his eyes. “You see her more than I do sometimes.”

Mark just chuckles, pulling his son into a quick hug. “Good to have you home, champ. Dinner’s almost ready.”

That’s how the evening unfolds — laughter, stories, and warmth filling every corner of the Siegel house. Annette insists you join her in the kitchen, and you do, happily sliding into that familiar rhythm of chopping, stirring, and tasting sauces. You talk about the season so far, about social media chaos and travel, and she listens like she’s genuinely fascinated.

“You’re really good for him, you know,” she says quietly as she hands you a towel. “He’s been calmer lately. Happier. We can all tell.”

Your cheeks heat. “He makes it pretty easy to love him.”

Dinner is loud in the best way — overlapping conversations, Nolan teasing Sophia, Mark cracking jokes that make Annette roll her eyes fondly. You feel like you belong here, like you’ve been part of this family forever.

After dinner, someone suggests a game night, and before you know it, the UNO cards are on the table. Nolan insists he’s unbeatable. Sophia calls him a liar. Annette says she’s just here for fun, and Mark’s the silent strategist who ends up with two cards while everyone else has half the deck.

You’re doing fine until Nolan starts quietly dropping +4s on you like it’s personal.

“You’re supposed to love me,” you hiss across the table.

He grins. “Love doesn’t mean mercy.”

Sophia howls with laughter as you draw another four cards. Annette’s giggling so hard she can barely play her turn. Eventually, Nolan wins the round, stands up, and does an exaggerated victory dance until you throw a pillow at him.

By the time everyone calls it a night, the house is glowing with that soft, comfortable energy only families have. You curl up on the couch next to Nolan, your head on his shoulder as the laughter from upstairs fades into quiet. He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, his voice low.

“Missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed being home. Missed having you here.”

You smile, eyes half-closed, the warmth of him grounding you completely.

“Me too,” you whisper. “Feels like summer’s starting for real now.”

The kind of summer that smells like home-cooked dinners, sounds like laughter echoing down the hallway, and tastes like something you never want to end.

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The next morning feels like something out of a dream. The soft California sun filters through the curtains, painting the room in gold. You’re half-asleep, face buried into Nolan’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat blending with the sound of birds outside. He’s warm, one arm slung lazily around your waist, the other tucked under his pillow. There’s a faint smile on his face — the kind he gets when he’s truly at peace.

You take a moment just to watch him, tracing lazy shapes on his chest through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His hair’s a mess, there’s a faint tan line, and you think, yeah, this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Eventually, he stirs — eyes blinking open, voice rough from sleep. “Morning, sunshine,” he mumbles, pulling you a little closer.

You grin. “Morning, captain.”

He groans playfully. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not when you literally flew us across the country yesterday. That’s peak main character behavior.”

He laughs quietly, presses a sleepy kiss to your forehead, and mumbles, “You’re ridiculous,” before finally dragging himself out of bed.

Downstairs, the house already smells like coffee and something sweet — Annette’s homemade cinnamon rolls, judging by the scent. When the two of you walk into the kitchen, she greets you both with a knowing smile.

“Good morning, sleepyheads. Thought you’d never wake up.”

Mark looks up from his mug of coffee, newspaper spread out in front of him. “Morning, kids. Sleep alright?”

“Perfectly,” Nolan says, stealing a cinnamon roll off the tray. Annette swats at him halfheartedly but doesn’t stop him.

You pour yourself some coffee and slide into a chair across from Mark, who’s smiling in that gentle, curious way dads do. “So,” he starts, “how’s your brother’s season going, YN?”

You smile, resting your chin on your hand. “He’s doing great — he’s happy, confident. A bit too competitive with Nolan sometimes when they play sim races, but that’s normal for Lando.”

Mark chuckles. “Sounds like him. We watched that last Grand Prix — he’s really matured as a driver. You must be proud.”

“I am,” you say honestly. “It’s fun to watch him find his rhythm.”

Annette slides a plate in front of you, and you thank her before looking up at Nolan, who’s already mid-bite into his second cinnamon roll. You nudge his leg under the table. “Slow down before you choke, Siegel.”

He grins around a mouthful of pastry. “Can’t help it. Mom’s baking beats everything.”

The table fills with laughter. It’s one of those quiet, perfect mornings — sunlight streaming in, coffee steaming in mugs, the air thick with easy comfort and the smell of cinnamon and sugar.

After breakfast, Nolan gets that mischievous glint in his eyes — the one that usually means, I have a plan, and you’re coming with me whether you like it or not.

“Okay,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Off-Season Diaries, Episode One: Nolan’s Perfect Day in Palo Alto.”

You laugh. “You’re making that sound way more dramatic than it is.”

“Hey, you’re the social media manager,” he says, pointing at you with mock seriousness. “You need content. I’m providing premium content.”

And he’s right. You grab your camera and notebook, and the two of you set off for the day — you documenting, him narrating.

He starts by taking you to his favorite breakfast café downtown (“I know we just ate, but their croissants are life-changing,” he insists), then to a quiet park he used to bike through as a kid. He shows you the bookstore where he and Sophia used to spend hours reading comics, the tiny ice cream shop that still sells his favorite mint chip flavor, and the hill overlooking the city that he swears has the best sunset view in the entire state.

Throughout it all, you’re filming snippets for the Arrow McLaren page — candid clips of him talking, laughing, and telling stories. You title it “Off-Season Diaries: Homegrown Edition,” and it’s full of tiny moments that feel impossibly real.

“Okay, tell the fans your number one rule about living here,” you ask, camera trained on him as he walks backward down the trail.

He grins. “Always stop for sunsets. No excuses.”

“Profound,” you say, trying not to laugh. “Really deep.”

“I’m full of wisdom,” he says seriously. “Also, never trust Sophia to shuffle the UNO deck.”

You burst out laughing, almost dropping the camera.

By the time evening rolls around, the sky is streaked with orange and pink, and you’re both exhausted but giddy — that kind of happy tired that comes from spending all day outside, soaking up sunshine and laughter.

When you get back to the house, Annette and Mark are watching a movie in the living room, and the pool out back glows invitingly under the string lights.

“Last stop of the day?” Nolan asks, nodding toward the water.

You grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

He doesn’t even answer — just takes off running. You shriek and follow, both of you diving in with twin splashes that ripple through the still night.

The water is warm, the air is light, and when you surface, Nolan’s there — hair slicked back, eyes soft and bright under the fairy lights.

He swims over, wraps an arm around your waist, and murmurs, “You know, if this is what the off-season’s like, I might never go back.”

You rest your forehead against his, smiling. “Good thing I’m documenting all of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “So we’ll never forget a single second.”

Under the California night, surrounded by quiet laughter, rippling water, and the hum of home, you think — maybe you really never will.

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The next morning starts with the familiar buzz of your phone somewhere under the pillow. You groan, half-asleep, fishing for it without opening your eyes. When you finally drag it out, the name flashing across the screen makes you instantly smile.

landoooo...incoming FaceTime

You sit up a little, hair a mess, eyes barely open, and swipe to answer. “You’re calling early,” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

On the screen, your brother’s face fills the frame — he’s already in his McLaren polo, headset slung around his neck, that familiar mischievous grin on his face. “Oi, don’t sound so excited to see me! I’m about to go into qualifying and you haven’t sent me any good luck yet.”

You snort. “You literally call me before every qualifying session. You’ve had so much good luck from me you should be world champion by now.”

He laughs, leaning closer to the camera. “Maybe I need a bit extra today. C’mon, my little charm, do your thing.”

Before you can respond, Nolan’s voice drifts in from the bathroom — toothbrush muffled. “Tell him to avoid the wall or his teammate this time.”

Lando blinks. “Is that Nolan?”

You grin and angle the phone so Nolan can pop his head into view, toothpaste still on his lip. “Hey, Bro,” he says with a wave. “You look nervous. Should I send you some calming breathing exercises?”

“Ha. Ha,” Lando says flatly, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “YN, please tell your boyfriend to stay in his own lane.”

“His lane is currently winning,” you tease, which makes Nolan snort and Lando dramatically clutch his chest.

“Oh, betrayal! You’re supposed to be my favorite sibling!”

“I was never your favorite sibling,” you shoot back, “I was your unpaid therapist, your snack supplier, and your occasional PR damage control.”

“Don’t forget your role as my emotional support human,” he adds quickly.

Nolan laughs, shaking his head. “You two are something else.”

Lando points his finger toward the screen. “Don’t get too comfy, Siegel. I’m watching you. I’ve got people everywhere.”

You giggle. “I’ll make sure to cheer for you later, Lan. Be safe, yeah?”

He softens for a second, the brotherly bravado melting away. “Always. Love you, squish.”

“Love you too,” you say, smiling as he blows a dramatic kiss before hanging up.

Nolan wraps his arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder. “You two are adorable. Makes me want a sibling who actually likes me.”

You laugh. “You and Sophia bicker more than anyone I know.”

“Exactly,” he says with mock seriousness. “That’s sibling love in its purest form.”

By mid-morning, the house is alive with noise and movement. Sophia pokes her head into the kitchen, where you’re making coffee.

“Hey! You guys want to go for a hike? I was thinking we could hit the trails up near Monte Bello Ridge — perfect weather for it.”

You glance at Nolan, who’s already perking up. “Absolutely,” he says. “We’ve got to work off Mom’s cinnamon rolls from yesterday somehow.”

Annette, from behind her book at the table, calls out, “You’re not working anything off until you finish your breakfast.”

You grin, stealing another bite of toast before heading to get ready.

The drive to the trailhead is filled with music — Nolan’s playlist, a chaotic mix of The 1975, The Killers, and a random Taylor Swift song that Sophia insists on replaying twice. The windows are down, and the wind tangles your hair as Nolan drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

Once you reach the base of the trail, you start the hike — steep but beautiful, the kind of climb that smells like pine and wildflowers. Sunlight filters through the trees, painting shifting patterns on the ground. You’re a few minutes in when you feel something brush your leg.

You look down to see a small dog trotting behind you, tongue lolling, tail wagging like you’ve been best friends forever.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “Who’s this?”

Sophia laughs. “He’s not ours! He probably lives nearby — they wander around sometimes.”

The dog nudges your hand with his nose, then starts following you faithfully as you walk. Nolan immediately pulls out his phone. “You’re kidding me. You found a hiking buddy?”

You crouch down to pet him, smiling as he flops his head into your lap. “I’m naming him,” you declare.

Nolan raises a brow. “Oh, really? And what majestic name are you going with?”

You smirk. “Oscar Piastri WDC.”

Sophia bursts into laughter so loud it startles a bird from a nearby branch. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m absolutely serious,” you say proudly. “Come on, Oscar Piastri WDC, let’s go!”

Nolan is still laughing as he films you walking ahead, the little dog trotting beside you like your personal bodyguard. “This is going on the Off-Season Diaries,” he says between laughs. “Episode Two: The Rise of Oscar Piastri WDC.”

“Make sure you tag him,” you say over your shoulder, grin wide. “He needs to know about his namesake.”

The hike stretches on for a couple of hours — long, sunny, and full of laughter. You climb rocks, stop to admire the view, and occasionally pretend you’re making a travel vlog. Nolan takes photos of you when you’re not looking, the kind that feel like memories — hair blowing in the wind, sunlight catching your skin, that quiet smile you only wear when you’re happy.

At the summit, the three of you sit on the edge of a boulder, legs dangling over the drop, the view of the valley below so wide and beautiful it makes your chest ache. You rest your head against Nolan’s shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you.

“Not bad for a hometown date,” you murmur.

He smiles softly. “I could get used to this.”

Sophia, snapping a photo of the two of you, grins. “You already are.”

By evening, after the long hike and a quick shower, the three of you head out to dinner — one of Nolan and Sophia’s favorite little spots downtown. It’s a cozy, family-run restaurant with warm lighting and fairy lights strung across the outdoor patio.

The waiter greets them both by name, and you realize how deeply woven they are into this place — childhood, teenage years, all those small-town memories that built them.

Dinner is easy — laughter, teasing, stories about Sophia’s old school friends, and Nolan dramatically reenacting his disastrous first attempt at flying solo.

When dessert comes — a shared slice of key lime pie — Nolan scoops a bit onto his fork and holds it out to you. “For the best hiking partner and dog namer I’ve ever met.”

You take the bite, giggling. “For the best pilot and human GPS in existence.”

Sophia groans. “Oh my god, you two are so disgustingly cute.”

Nolan smirks. “You’re just jealous.”

By the time you drive home, the city is quiet, the air cool. You lean your head against the car window, watching the blur of streetlights and the sleepy glow of the neighborhood as Nolan hums along softly to the radio. It’s peaceful — the kind of day that doesn’t need grand gestures or dramatic moments. Just sunshine, laughter, a dog named Oscar Piastri WDC, and the kind of love that feels like breathing.

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a few weeks later...

yn_norris

liked by lando, nolansiegel, magui_corceiro, ciscawaumannorris and 890,000 others.

yn_norris : eff won

tagged : nolansiegel, lando, magui_corceiro

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˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

You and Nolan had been up since before sunrise, the quiet hum of the private jet carrying you both toward Budapest. The McLaren team had offered to fly you out a few days early—partly so you could relax, partly because everyone knew how much you’d been looking forward to this race.

When the plane landed, the sky was still streaked with pink and pale blue. You stretched your arms and looked at Nolan, his hair messy from the short nap he’d taken on your shoulder.

“Welcome to Budapest,” you murmured with a grin.

He smiled sleepily. “Can’t believe we’re surprising your family like this. You sure Lando doesn’t know?”

“Positive,” you said, eyes glinting. “He thinks we’re meeting them after the race. Flo’s location says she’s at some café around the corner from the hotel. If we hurry, we can still catch them before they finish breakfast.”

You both rushed upstairs to your hotel room, tossing your luggage onto the bed. Within minutes, you’d changed into a loose linen set and sunglasses, while Nolan threw on a white tee and jeans. He took your hand as you headed out the door, laughing at how giddy you were about the surprise.

The café was a small, sun-dappled spot tucked between old brick buildings. You spotted your parents instantly—Cisca with her coffee, animatedly telling a story, and Adam reading the menu. Flo sat opposite them, her hair pulled into a ponytail, sunglasses perched on her head. She was mid-sip of orange juice when she glanced up and froze.

“YN?!” she gasped, setting down her glass with a clatter.

Your mom turned next, her jaw dropping before she broke into the warmest smile.

“Oh my god—look who it is!” Cisca exclaimed, standing to pull you into a hug.

“Hi, Mumma,” you laughed, hugging her tight before Adam joined, wrapping both of you up.

Flo was still processing, blinking between you and Nolan like she couldn’t quite believe it.

“You weren’t supposed to be here!”

“Surprise,” you said, grinning. “Thought we’d come and see the race.”

Nolan leaned down to hug her. “You’ve been avoiding me since the last family dinner, Flo. I was starting to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

Flo rolled her eyes, laughing. “Please. You’re everyone’s favorite. Even Dad likes you better than me.”

Adam only shrugged good-naturedly. “Nolan’s polite, punctual, and he doesn’t steal money from my wallet.”

The table erupted in laughter. The waitress brought more coffee and croissants, and the five of you sat there talking for hours. Nolan fit seamlessly into the chaos, listening to Cisca’s stories, teasing Flo, and showing Adam a few photos from his latest race weekend. Your parents had always adored him—his quiet kindness balanced your own energy perfectly.

Eventually, you looked at your watch. “Alright, we should probably head to the track. Quali’s later, and I need to actually look alive for it.”

Cisca waved her hand. “Go, go. Tell my son we said hi—and that he better put it on pole or I’ll have words.”

“Knowing you, he’s already feeling the pressure telepathically,” you teased, kissing her cheek before Nolan said goodbye.

Back at the hotel, you slipped into a McLaren tee and sunglasses, pulling your hair back. Nolan, ever the supportive boyfriend, wore a papaya hat that Lando had given him the last time you’d all been together.

“You sure he won’t have a heart attack when he sees us?” Nolan asked as you climbed into the team car.

“Oh, definitely will,” you said, unable to hide your grin. “But he’ll love it.”

When you got to the paddock, the air buzzed with the familiar pre-quali energy—fans chanting, cameras flashing, radios crackling. You slipped past security easily, smiling when a few McLaren staffers did double takes.

You found him near the garage, leaning against a wall, chatting with his engineer. He hadn’t seen you yet. You crept closer, Nolan filming the moment on his phone.

“Excuse me,” you said innocently. “I’m looking for Lando Norris?”

Lando turned, and his jaw dropped.

“NO WAY,” he shouted, his entire face lighting up. “YOU’RE HERE?!” You laughed as he ran up and wrapped you in a huge hug, nearly lifting you off the ground. “I thought you weren't coming!”

“Team gave us a jet,” you said smugly. “Thought we’d surprise you.” When he pulled back, he noticed Nolan and immediately broke into a grin.

“Nolan! Mate! You came too!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Nolan said, shaking his hand before Lando pulled him into a half-hug.

They started bantering almost instantly—Nolan teasing that if Lando didn’t put it on pole, he’d revoke his “brother-in-law privileges,” and Lando firing back.

You all wandered into hospitality, where Magui was sitting with her tablet and coffee.

She looked up, her expression instantly softening. “NO WAY. YN!”

“Hey, bestie,” you said, pulling her into a hug. “We missed you.”

“Missed you more,” she said warmly, before turning to Nolan. “And you—still being the sweetest man alive?”

“Trying my best,” he smiled.

The rest of the pre quali time was spent catching up, joking, and soaking in the energy. Then, as the cars fired up, you and Nolan joined your family in the garage. Flo had her phone out filming, Cisca was clutching Adam’s arm, and you could feel your heart pounding as Lando went out for his final lap. When he crossed the line, purple sectors lighting up the screen, the McLaren garage erupted.

“P1! Lando Norris, provisional pole!” the commentator’s voice echoed through the speakers.

You jumped up and down, hugging Nolan and your family. Lando’s voice came over the radio, laughing breathlessly. “Yesss boys! Let’s go!”

When he returned to the garage, still buzzing, Nolan greeted him first, clapping him on the back. “Knew you had it in you, champ.” Lando grinned, breathless and bright-eyed. “Guess the surprise was good luck, huh?”

You joined the hug, the three of you tangled in pure happiness. Cisca snapped a photo of the moment—three of her kids (well, two by blood, one by love) beaming from ear to ear. It was the kind of picture that summed up everything that mattered: family, love, and the small, golden moments that made all the chaos worth it.

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Race morning had that special feeling to it — the soft buzz of nerves and caffeine, the scent of tire rubber faint even from hospitality, and the golden haze of a Hungarian summer day. The paddock was already alive when you arrived, though it was still early enough that things felt calm, not yet swallowed by the storm of race day.

You’d barely had time to find your seat before Magui appeared, bright smile on her face, holding two mugs of coffee. “There she is!” she said, sliding into the chair across from you.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you smiled, accepting the cup. “I thought you’d still be getting your makeup done.”

“I was,” she said, laughing. “But your mum texted me that she was here, so priorities shifted.”

Cisca arrived moments later, dressed in her usual effortlessly chic way — simple linen pants, a McLaren cap perched on her hair, and that calm smile that always seemed to anchor everyone around her. “Morning, girls,” she said softly, setting down her tea. “Did you both sleep?”

“Barely,” you admitted, stirring your coffee. “Lando’s pole has Nolan acting like he’s about to start the race.”

Magui snorted. “They've known each other too long. They geek up over the same things."

“Sounds about right,” Cisca said, amused. “Your father says that’s what true love looks like in motorsport.”

The three of you laughed, slipping into easy conversation — about Budapest’s summer heat, about old family races, about how proud you were of Lando and how far he’d come. It was soft, grounding, and warm, like every perfect pre-race morning from your childhood. At one point, Cisca reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You look happy, darling,” she said gently. “Nolan’s been good for you.”

You smiled, heart warm. “Yeah… he really has.”

Magui gave you a knowing grin. “He’s our golden retriever in human form.”

You nudged her playfully. “And you’re the chaos we didn’t know we needed.”

Meanwhile, in the garage, Nolan stood beside Lando and his engineer, headset slung around his neck. The two of them were leaning over the monitor, scanning data like it was a sacred text.

“Sector 3’s your sweet spot,” Nolan said, tapping the screen. “You’re smoother through there than anyone else yesterday.”

Lando gave a crooked grin. “You’re getting too good at this. Maybe I should start charging you consulting fees.”

“Please. I’d invoice you for emotional damage every time you oversteer.”

They both laughed, the kind of easy banter that only came with friendship — and family. As race time crept closer, you found your way down to the garage. The air was sharper now, heavier with anticipation. The mechanics moved with precision, checking everything twice. You caught Lando’s eye as he was strapping in, and his entire face softened when he saw you.

“Hey, superstar,” you said, grinning.

He smirked. “Came to give me luck?”

“Obviously.”

You leaned in, and the two of you did your little pre-race ritual — a ridiculous handshake you’d been doing since karting days, complete with finger guns and a forehead tap. It was silly, but sacred.

“Alright, you’ve got this,” you said, squeezing his gloved hand.

“Remember — smooth into Turn 1, eyes up, and…”

“Don’t bin it,” he finished, laughing.

“Exactly.”

He winked before pulling his visor down. “Love you, sis.”

“Love you more, Lan.”

You stepped back, heart pounding as the mechanics wheeled him onto the grid. Nolan joined you, sliding an arm around your waist.

“Ready?”

“Never,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the screen.

The lights went out. The engines roared. Every lap felt like a breath you couldn’t quite take — every pit stop, every sector time flashing on the screen. You and Nolan stood shoulder to shoulder, silent through most of it, both clutching headsets. Cisca and Adam were a few steps behind, eyes locked on the monitors. And then… the final lap.

Lando’s voice over the radio: “Let’s bring it home, boys.”

You screamed before you realized it, tears instantly welling up. Nolan laughed and spun you around before your family engulfed you both in hugs. Cisca’s eyes were shining, Adam’s voice thick as he said, “Our boy did it.”

Down on track, Lando was shouting into his radio, pure joy spilling out. The second he pulled into parc fermé, he didn’t even wait for the usual order of events. Helmet barely off, he scanned the pit wall — and the moment he saw you and your mum, he sprinted.

You barely had time to brace before he was there, sweaty, breathless, eyes glassy with emotion. He pulled you and Cisca into a tight hug, burying his face in your shoulders.

It was raw, real — years of effort, of growing up on tracks together, of watching him chase this exact moment. Nolan stood just behind, smiling like the proudest brother-in-law imaginable. When Lando turned to him, they hugged too, clapping each other’s backs.

“Thanks for keeping her calm,” Lando said, grinning.

“Barely managed,” Nolan said with a laugh.

Watching him on the podium was surreal. The national anthem played, the papaya confetti burst into the air, and you stood arm in arm with your family. Magui had joined you, eyes wet with pride, her hand resting over your mother’s. It was everything that made life beautiful — joy, love, family, and the simple, breathtaking reality of watching someone you adore live their dream.

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yn_norris

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yn_norris : norris family vacay 2025 😇🌴

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˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

The morning broke like something out of a dream. Pale pink light spilled across the horizon, washing the ocean in a soft glow. The air was warm but calm — a quiet kind of magic that only existed before the rest of the world woke up.

You stood on the balcony, one of his hoodies pulled loosely over your swimsuit, a mug of coffee cradled in your hands. The villa was still silent behind you, except for the distant murmur of waves and the hum of the ceiling fans. You’d always loved mornings like this — the way the world seemed to hold its breath, the smell of salt and sun creeping in through the open doors.

The sliding door behind you creaked softly, followed by the slow shuffle of bare feet.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Nolan’s voice was still rough from rest, low and warm. You smiled without turning. “Didn’t want to waste the sunrise.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. You leaned into his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “But you know what’s better?”

You turned your head slightly, already grinning. “You’re going to say me, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” he said, lips brushing your cheek. “Not even the ocean stands a chance.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly, but your heart melted anyway. The two of you stood there for a while, quiet and content, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. The world around you glittered — endless blue stretching beyond the horizon, palm trees swaying lazily in the morning breeze.

Eventually, Nolan nudged your side. “Come on. You know your family’s going to riot if we’re late for breakfast.”

He wasn’t wrong. By the time you both wandered into the open-air dining area, chaos had already erupted. Lando and Flo were arguing over pancakes versus waffles, Oliver was trying (and failing) to open a coconut with the back of a spoon, and your dad was laughing so hard he almost spilled his coffee.

“Good morning, lovebirds,” Cisca greeted with a knowing smile.

“Sleep well?”

“Until your children decided to start a breakfast war,” you said, grabbing a plate.

“Waffles are objectively superior!” Lando declared from across the table.

“Not when you burn them like last time,” Flo shot back.

Nolan took a seat beside you, smirking. “Do they ever stop?”

“Never,” Oliver said, passing him the syrup. “Welcome to the Norris family.”

Magui appeared moments later, balancing a bowl of fruit and wearing Lando’s t-shirt, which earned her a few exaggerated wolf whistles from Flo. “Morning, everybody,” she said cheerfully, ignoring them. “Who’s ready for a beach day?”

Everyone erupted into agreement, and the kitchen filled with the clatter of plates, overlapping voices, and laughter — the kind of beautiful noise that felt like home.

A few hours later, the group spilled out onto the private beach that stretched below the villa. The sun was high, the sand warm and soft underfoot, and the water so clear it looked like glass.

You and Magui set up towels and a speaker while Flo attempted to teach your mum how to make TikToks. Adam lounged under a big umbrella, pretending to read while clearly watching everyone with quiet amusement.

Out by the water, Lando, Oliver, and Nolan were already waist-deep in the waves, a bright orange frisbee flying between them.

“Alright, boys,” Oliver called. “Whoever drops it does dishes tonight!”

“That’s not fair, I’m a guest!” Nolan protested, diving after a wild throw anyway.

“Not anymore, mate!” Lando shouted, splashing him on purpose.

“Cheater!” Nolan laughed, tackling him into the water.

It turned into pure chaos within seconds — frisbee forgotten, all three of them wrestling like overgrown kids. You couldn’t stop laughing, watching the scene unfold.

“They’re going to kill each other,” Magui said through giggles.

“They’re worse than when we were little,” you replied.

By late afternoon, the chaos had mellowed into something soft. Everyone was sun-soaked and tired, sprawled across beach chairs or floating in the shallows. The sky had turned gold, the air humming with cicadas and distant laughter.

As night fell, the beach quieted. A few candles flickered on the deck above, where your family lingered over dinner. You and Nolan slipped away, walking along the shoreline, barefoot and hand in hand.

The waves kissed your ankles, and the air smelled like salt and sunscreen. You could hear the faint sounds of Flo’s playlist drifting from the villa, but here it was just the two of you — the rhythm of the ocean and your laughter mingling with the night.

“This is perfect,” you said softly.

Nolan smiled, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You know what’s even better?”

“Don’t you dare say me again.”

He grinned wider. “You said it, not me.”

You leaned into him anyway, the two of you standing in the glow of the moon, everything calm and easy and infinite.

And then — “BOOOOOOOO!”

You both turned to look up at the balcony, where Lando stood shirtless, waving a towel dramatically.

“Stop being gross! Some of us are trying to digest dinner!”

“Go to bed, Lando!” you yelled back, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

“Make me!”

Nolan cupped his hands around his mouth. “You’re just mad!”

“At what? The PDA or your terrible haircut?”

Flo appeared behind him, smacking his arm. “Leave them alone!” “Never!” he shouted, sprinting away as she chased him inside.

You turned back to Nolan, still laughing, and shook your head. “He’s unbelievable.”

He smiled, pulling you closer. “You love him.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking back at the glowing villa, full of laughter and love. “I really do.”

For a long moment, you both just stood there — waves lapping at your feet, stars scattered across the sky, and the sound of your family echoing behind you — utterly content.

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The last morning of the trip felt like something you wanted to bottle — warm sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains, the smell of sea salt and pancakes wafting through the villa, and the quiet hum of happiness that had settled over everyone. You were curled up on the couch, still in your pajamas, editing a few clips for McLaren’s “off-season diaries” when Lando burst into the room with his signature chaotic energy.

“Alright, up! Both of you!” he said, clapping his hands. Nolan looked up from his coffee like a man who’d seen a ghost.

“No,” he said immediately.

“Yes,” Lando said, grinning. “We’re going parasailing.”

You blinked. “You mean you’re going parasailing.”

“Nope. All of us.”

You groaned, flopping dramatically against Nolan’s shoulder. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Lando insisted. “It’s the last day! We need to make memories.”

“You’re going to make me throw up,” Nolan muttered.

Lando smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

Ten minutes later, you were all walking down the dock — Lando buzzing with excitement, Nolan muttering under his breath about poor life choices, and you caught somewhere between amusement and mild dread.

The instructor gave you a quick rundown, all smiles and reassurance, while Lando nodded like he’d just been briefed for a championship race.

“Who’s going first?” the instructor asked.

Lando immediately pointed to you and Nolan. “Them.”

“Traitor,” you hissed.

Still, a few minutes later, you were strapped in beside Nolan, feet dangling above the water, heart hammering as the boat picked up speed.

“Oh my god,” you whispered as the parachute lifted.

And then — you were flying.

The wind rushed around you, the ocean stretched endlessly below, and the island shimmered like a painting in the distance. Nolan’s hand found yours, steady and warm.

“Okay,” you admitted, laughing. “This is actually kind of amazing.”

He looked over at you, eyes bright. “See? Not so bad.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it again.”

“You will.”

“Never.”

“Definitely.”

Below, Lando’s voice carried faintly from the boat. “WAVE FOR THE CAMERA!”

You both turned, waving like idiots, and then he yelled something else that was lost to the wind — probably a taunt or some kind of joke.

When it was Lando’s turn, the chaos truly began. He insisted on going higher, started doing mid-air commentary for his own imaginary vlog, and at one point pretended to drop his phone — only to reveal it was a GoPro. You and Nolan laughed so hard from the boat you nearly fell over.

“Your brother’s insane,” Nolan said.

“I know,” you replied, beaming. “But he’s ours.”

By the time the sun began to set, everyone had rinsed off the saltwater and changed for dinner. The staff had set up a long table on the sand, lit by string lights and flickering candles. Plates of grilled seafood, fresh fruit, and wine glowed golden under the lights. Cisca sat between Flo and Magui, laughing softly as Adam told one of his trademark dad stories. Oliver was trying to convince Nolan to join a family paddleboard race “next summer,” while Lando kept stealing fries off your plate.

“Stop!” you said, smacking his hand away.

“Sharing is caring,” he said, grinning.

“Then care about your own food!”

Nolan just laughed beside you, arm slung across your chair, eyes crinkling in the firelight. “You two are exhausting,” he teased.

“Welcome to the family,” Flo chimed in.

“Yeah,” Lando said, raising his glass toward him. “You’re one of us now, Siegel. No take-backs.”

Cisca clinked her glass against her husband’s. “To family,” she said softly.

“To family,” everyone echoed, glasses raised, the sound mingling with the hush of the waves.

After dinner, the laughter softened into quiet conversation. You found yourself standing at the edge of the water again, toes sinking into the cool sand. The stars above were impossibly bright — a thousand little reflections of the light you felt inside. Nolan came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, his chin resting gently on your shoulder.

“Perfect ending,” he said quietly.

You smiled, leaning back against him. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It really is.”

From somewhere behind you, Lando’s voice rang out again — loud, teasing, familiar.

“NO KISSING ON MY BEACH!”

“Go away, Lando!” you shouted, laughing so hard you almost doubled over.

“You cannot escape me!” he yelled back.

You turned in Nolan’s arms, shaking your head with a grin. “He’s never going to change.”

“Good,” Nolan said. “I like him exactly like that.”

As the night settled around you — warm, alive, filled with love and laughter — you realized there was nothing in the world you’d change either. Not the chaos. Not the teasing. Not a single moment. Because this — family, sun, sea, and the boy beside you — was everything you’d ever wanted. And it was perfect.

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

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patriciooward : big flexer over here

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : REAL RICH BITCH. period

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↳ elbaoward : miss nunn was not playin

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↳ username000 : did you guys convince pato to watch baddies??

↳ elbaoward : it took zero convincing. id say maybe he even convinced us to watch it

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↳ yn_oward : patito es un chismoso

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elbaoward : forever living for our giant room service orders + sex in the city marathon days🩵 love you mi vidaaaa

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : best sissy in the world 🥹 love youuuuu

liked by elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : where was my invite??

↳ yn_oward : you were across the country driving at high speeds

↳ patriciooward : still would’ve liked an invite

↳ yn_oward : ok king my bad. we will facetime you and set you up on the table next time

liked by elbaoward and patriciooward

emillerosenqvist : obsessed with you 😻😻

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↳ yn_oward : my angel!!!! miss you❤️❤️

username15 : omg girl kali in the likes

↳ yn_oward : wait what ??? don’t play. i might faint

↳ yn_oward : OH MY GOD ITS REAL

↳ patriciooward : way to keep cool pequeño

↳ kaliuchis : nothing better than a pretty girl with good music taste 💋

↳ yn_oward : KALIIIIIIIII<3

↳ elbaoward : this is somehow still better than the first time yn acknowledged nolan

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↳ nolansiegel : i have been silent this entire time. why am i suddenly catching strays????

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nolansiegel : 10/10 post

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↳ patriciooward : there it is

davidmalukas : norbi>>>>>>pato

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↳ yn_oward : agreed

—

When Pato texts you, “Lunch? Usual spot?”, you don’t think twice. Lunch with your brother isn’t unusual—if anything, it’s part of your weekly routine whenever he’s in town. So you throw on something casual but still cute, grab your sunglasses, and head out.

The restaurant is buzzing when you arrive, warm light spilling over polished wooden tables. You spot Pato immediately—he’s standing just inside, grinning like he knows something you don’t. Which, in your experience, is never a good sign.

“Hey,” he greets you, leaning in for a quick hug and planting a kiss on your cheek. “You’re early.”

“I’m exactly on time,” you correct, raising a brow. “Which, by your standards, means I’m early.”

He smirks. “Fair.” Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, he adds, “Oh, by the way—Nolan’s here.”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your face neutral. Nolan Siegel. Your brother’s teammate. A friend. Someone you’ve spent enough time around to know he’s smart, easy to talk to, and annoyingly good-looking in that unassuming, boy-next-door way. Someone you maybe—just maybe—have had a small crush on for months.

And sure enough, there he is, sitting at the table in the corner, looking up from his phone with that soft smile that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” he says when you approach, standing to pull out your chair like some kind of old-school gentleman. “Nice to see you.”

“You too,” you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as flustered as you feel.

Pato slides into the seat across from you, all casual charm. For about five minutes, the three of you chat—racing updates, travel schedules, harmless banter. Then, right as the drinks arrive, Pato’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, then frowns dramatically.

“Gotta take this,” he says, standing up. “Work stuff. Be right back.”

You watch him walk away, phone pressed to his ear, and then—you swear—you see him duck into the side alley instead of actually talking to anyone. Typical.

Nolan chuckles, shaking his head. “I think he ditched us.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you say, rolling your eyes, but your heart is already beating faster. Alone time with Nolan isn’t exactly a bad thing.

From there, the conversation just… flows. You talk about the cities you’ve both been to recently, favorite restaurants, the ridiculousness of some IndyCar travel schedules. He tells you a funny story about his first time meeting Norbi, and you counter with one about how Pato once accidentally wore two different shoes to an event.

You don’t even realize how much time has passed until the food arrives and you’re both still leaning toward each other across the table, completely absorbed. Every now and then, your knees brush under the table, and neither of you moves away.

By the time Pato finally reappears—forty-five minutes later—you and Nolan are laughing over some inside joke you didn’t have an hour ago. Pato looks between you, his expression smug in a way that makes you want to throw your napkin at him.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, sitting down like nothing happened.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shooting him a warning look.

But the way Nolan smiles at you across the table, warm and a little shy, tells you Pato missed quite a bit.

—

After lunch, you and Pato walk back to his car. He’s unusually quiet, which is suspicious, because Pato is never quiet unless he’s plotting something.

You glance at him as you slide into the passenger seat. “What?”

“What, what?” he asks, starting the car, his voice all fake innocence.

“You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m up to something look.’”

He smirks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulls out into traffic. “So… you and Nolan were really talking, huh?”

You narrow your eyes. “We were having a conversation. It’s called being friendly.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, drawing the word out like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Looked more like flirty to me.”

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “You were gone for almost an hour, Pato. What did you expect us to do? Stare at each other in silence?”

“I mean, you probably wouldn’t have minded,” he says, grinning.

“Pato—”

“Hey, I’m not judging! I like Nolan. He’s a good guy. Tall. Drives fast. Knows how to be a gentleman…”

“Can you not narrate my life like you’re casting me in The Bachelorette?”

He laughs, clearly enjoying himself. “All I’m saying is, if you two end up together, I’m taking credit. Best brother and teammate ever. They’ll probably make a Netflix special about it.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, shooting you a sidelong glance. “But I’m also right.”

—

The next day at the paddock, you’re wandering through the Arrow McLaren hospitality area with Elba, sipping your iced matcha and enjoying the rare bit of calm before things get busy. You’ve got your favorite cap on — bright orange with Pato’s number stitched across the front — when you hear his voice behind you.

“Hey, that’s my hat,” he calls, walking up with his own hat conspicuously missing.

“It’s my hat,” you correct, glancing over your shoulder. “Bought it myself.”

“Yeah, but it’s got my number on it. I should be wearing it,” he says, already tugging it off your head before you can protest.

“Pato!” you swat at his arm, but he’s grinning like he’s about to cause trouble. “Give it back.”

He holds it just out of reach. “Nah, I’ll trade you.”

Before you can ask trade for what, he pulls another cap from behind his back — one that looks suspiciously new. Bright orange again… but this time with Nolan’s number stitched across the front.

You freeze. “Seriously?”

Elba, standing beside you, is already snickering. “Oh, this is evil. I love it.”

Pato plops the Nolan hat onto your head before you can stop him. “There. Much better. Now everyone knows who you’re really here for.”

“Pato!” your voice is half annoyed, half laughing, but before you can rip it off, you hear someone clearing their throat.

You turn — and of course, it’s Nolan, standing just a few feet away, looking like he’s trying very hard not to smile too widely.

“Uh… nice hat,” he says, his voice warm but a little shy. There’s the tiniest flush creeping across his cheeks, and you swear his eyes flicker to Pato in a really? you did this? kind of way.

You pull at the brim, trying to hide your own smile. “Apparently it’s the latest fashion.”

Pato, meanwhile, is smirking like a cat who just knocked something off a shelf. “See? He likes it.”

Nolan rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but Pato. “Yeah. It looks… good on you.”

Elba leans over to whisper just loud enough for both you and Nolan to hear, “You two are ridiculous.”

You give her a light shove, but you can’t help the way your stomach flips at Nolan’s words. And if Pato notices the matching smiles on both your faces as you all head toward the garages, well… he doesn’t say a word. But the smug look he’s wearing says everything.

—

It’s a couple hours before the race, and the paddock is buzzing — crew members moving carts, mechanics double checking gear, fans lining up for glimpses of the drivers. You’ve slipped away from the main hospitality area to where the team’s cars are prepped, wandering between the sleek orange machines.

You’re crouched beside one of the cars, idly tracing a finger along the edge of the front wing, when Nolan walks up, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Hey,” he greets, that soft smile immediately tugging at his lips. “You’re here early.”

You shrug, standing. “Wanted to see the chaos before it really starts.”

He laughs quietly. “This is the calm part.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling at him. “You nervous?”

He leans against the pit wall, looking thoughtful. “Not really. I mean… maybe a little. But it’s different when I race here,” he says, gesturing toward the team garage. “Feels like you’re surrounded by people who want you to do well, you know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, then add, “For what it’s worth, I always want you to do well.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, but instead of freezing up, Nolan just looks at you — really looks at you — and smiles like you just made his whole weekend. “That means a lot.”

You both drift into easy conversation, trading little stories— him talking about a funny fan encounter that morning, you telling him about the time Pato got locked out of his hotel room in just a towel. Every now and then, your arms brush when you lean closer to hear each other over the noise, and it sends little sparks up your spine.

What you don’t notice is that, a few feet away behind one of the tool cabinets, Pato and Christian Lundgaard are not being subtle about eavesdropping.

“Look at them,” Pato mutters, leaning just far enough to peek around the corner.

“I am looking,” Christian says, smirking. “I think you’ve officially lost your wingman job. They don’t need you anymore.”

“I started this,” Pato says, pointing between you and Nolan like he’s narrating a nature documentary. “Without me, they’d still be making awkward small talk.”

Christian snorts. “Pretty sure they’d figure it out eventually.”

Pato shushes him. “Shh. This is the good part. Watch.”

They peek again just in time to see Nolan take your coffee cup when you’re gesturing with your hands and set it on the wall next to him, keeping it safe. You thank him with a smile that’s a little too warm for “just friends,” and Nolan ducks his head, his ears going pink.

“Oh my god, he’s blushing,” Christian whispers, grinning like it’s the best gossip he’s heard in weeks.

Pato’s grin turns smug. “Told you. They’re into each other.”

Unfortunately for them, you choose that exact moment to glance over your shoulder… and spot both of them halfway hidden behind a tire stack.

“Are you spying on us?” you call, narrowing your eyes.

Christian chuckles, but Pato doesn’t even try to deny it. “Spying? No. Supervising? Yes.”

Nolan just shakes his head, clearly fighting a smile. “Your brother’s unbelievable.”

“Tell me about it,” you sigh, but when your eyes meet Nolan’s again, the warmth there makes you forget all about the two idiots in the corner.

—

yn_oward

🎵too fast — sonder

liked by nolansiegel, elbaoward, patriciooward and 920,000 others.

yn_oward : my recents…but in b&w🏁

tagged : elbaoward and nolansiegel

—

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alexanderrossi: so are we just ignoring the flowers? or…? 👀

↳patooward: exactly. who sent them??

↳ yn_oward : rossi pls. i thought you stopped the whole big brother act after you left 

↳ alexanderrossi : it never stops princess. NOW SPILL 

elbaoward : sushiiiiiiii 🍱

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : endless gossip and sushi with you is all i need in life

liked by elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : were you guys talking about me?🤨

↳ yn_oward : you make it so easy

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lungaardofficial : I don’t think I have ever seen Nolan smile like that…

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↳ nolansiegel : yn was behind the camera

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↳ patriciooward : new brother in law loading…

kamilajurkus : the prettiest angel<3

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↳ yn_oward : i love youuuuuu❤️‍🔥

patriciooward : guys pls stop hyping her up. she is already insufferable

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↳ yn_oward : says the one who was barking at himself in the mirror

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nolansiegel : 🤠💐

liked by yn_oward

—

The soft clatter of chopsticks and gentle hum of conversation fill the restaurant as you and Elba slide into a cozy booth near the window. The place smells of fresh seaweed and soy sauce, and the warm light reflects off the polished wooden table, making everything feel intimate and relaxed — a perfect spot for one of your favorite traditions: sushi dates with your older sister.

Elba orders your usual—spicy tuna rolls, miso soup, and edamame—and somehow manages to convince you to try a new dish, even though you’re stubbornly loyal to your favorites. She’s got that infectious smile that always makes it impossible to say no.

As you wait for the food to arrive, Elba leans back, watching you with that teasing sparkle in her eyes. “So… spill. How are things with Nolan?”

You nearly choke on your sip of green tea, coughing awkwardly while Elba laughs softly. “I mean, it’s not like anything’s happening.”

Elba raises an eyebrow. “Come on. You’re the worst at lying. And honestly, I’ve been waiting for you to say something for weeks now.”

You sigh, feeling your cheeks warm as you fiddle with your chopsticks. “Okay, fine. I’m… kind of hardcore crushing on him.”

Elba’s grin widens. “Kind of?”

“Well, yeah, ‘kind of’ because I’m trying not to freak out about it every time he texts me. Or smiles at me. Or, you know, exists.”

Elba reaches across the table and squeezes your hand gently. “That’s called being totally smitten.”

You laugh, finally feeling comfortable enough to relax. “I know. It’s just weird. Pato’s always messing around, and I don’t want things to get awkward.”

Elba shakes her head, her tone softening. “YN, you deserve to be happy. And if Nolan makes you smile like that? You have to let yourself feel it. Besides…” She taps her temple with a knowing look. “I already knew. You’re not exactly subtle.”

You pretend to glare, but inside, you’re touched. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But I’m your sister. It’s my job.”

The sushi arrives then, neatly arranged and smelling even better than you expected. As you dig into the spicy tuna roll, Elba raises her glass of sake with a wink. “To crushes, sushi, and knowing your family better than you know yourself.”

You clink glasses, feeling grateful for moments like this — where you can be honest, goofy, and totally loved.

—

The team arrives at the hotel for the next race weekend, buzzing with the usual energy of unpacking bags, checking in, and stealing last-minute quiet moments before the madness begins. You’re juggling your suitcase and a coffee when Pato sidles up to you with that familiar mischievous grin.

“Hey, so, slight change of plans,” he says, eyes twinkling like he’s about to drop a bombshell.

You raise an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Apparently, the hotel’s overbooked. Like, totally out of rooms.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Wait—what?”

Pato nods solemnly. “Yeah. So, you and Nolan are gonna have to share a room.”

You blink, trying to keep your face neutral. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

You glance around, but Pato’s teammates are busy with their own things, none paying any attention. You spot Nolan nearby, chatting with a mechanic, and decide to confront him before this becomes a full-blown crisis.

You catch Nolan just as he’s turning a corner. “Hey,” you say, keeping your voice light, “Pato told me we have to share a room because the hotel ran out of rooms. Did you hear anything about that?”

He blinks, clearly surprised, then chuckles softly. “Yeah, I heard something about that. Sounds like classic Pato to me.”

You laugh, relief washing over you. “Same. But just in case, what do you want to do? I mean, if we actually have to share…”

Nolan scratches the back of his neck, a little shy smile tugging at his lips. “I can totally sleep on the floor if you want.”

You burst out laughing. “You? On the floor? No way. You’re here to race, you need a proper bed.”

He grins, shrugging. “Just trying to be considerate.”

“Well, lucky for you,” you say, “I don’t mind sharing.”

Nolan’s eyes widen, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you suddenly feels warmer, charged with something unspoken but very real.

Later that evening, you push open the door to the hotel room, and Nolan follows behind, balancing a couple of takeout bags. The room feels surprisingly cozy, with a bed, a small sitting area, and a window overlooking the city lights.

You both settle in, the awkwardness from earlier melting away as you talk quietly over noodles and spring rolls. When it’s finally time to sleep, Nolan glances at the beds, then back at you.

“Are you sure? I can take the floor.”

You shake your head, feeling bolder than usual. “No, you take the bed. I can go squeeze in between Elba and Brent and ruin their night.”

He hesitates, then pats the empty spot beside him. “You can come join me.”

You blink, caught off guard, but then a shy smile spreads across your face. “Okay.”

Sliding under the covers, you nestle close, and Nolan wraps an arm around your shoulders. His warmth seeps into you, and the noise of the hotel fades into the background. As you lie there, side by side, you realize that Pato’s prank might have been the best thing to happen to you this weekend.

—

The soft morning light filters through the curtains as you stir awake, nestled against Nolan’s side. His arm is draped protectively over you, and for a moment, the world feels perfectly still—warm, safe, and just right.

Suddenly, the door swings open with a bang.

“GOOD MORNING, LOVE BIRDS!” Pato’s voice booms as he practically bursts into the room, a wild grin plastered across his face.

You and Nolan jolt apart, eyes wide and half-asleep. Nolan scrambles up, knocking a pillow off the bed, while you pull the blanket up to cover yourself, cheeks flaming red.

Pato strides over, hands on hips, clearly delighted. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? Looks like someone took full advantage of the ‘shared room’ situation!”

Nolan stammers, “Pato! Dude, come on, we were asleep—”

Pato holds up a finger, cutting him off. “I am thrilled to witness this moment firsthand. The great ‘matchmaker’ strikes again!”

You groan, sitting up fully now, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips despite the embarrassment. “Pato, you’re unbelievable.”

Elba suddenly appears in the doorway behind him, sipping her coffee, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Morning! I see the team bonding is going very effective.”

Pato throws an arm around Elba, “I’m basically a genius. You two are adorable. Just admit it.”

Nolan, still blushing, shoots you a shy smile. “Guess Pato’s not done meddling yet.”

You shake your head, laughing. “At least it’s working.”

Pato pulls out his phone like a paparazzi, snapping a quick, teasing photo of the two of you sitting there, tangled in blankets and laughter.

“Don’t worry, I won’t post it… yet.” He winks.

Elba chuckles, “Oh, the blackmail material is real.”

You and Nolan exchange a look, both secretly grateful that maybe this crazy family has just welcomed you in for good.

—

It’s a calm, sunny afternoon, and you’re lounging in your living room with Norbi curled up in your lap. The soft patter of his little paws on the hardwood floor catches your attention just as there’s a gentle knock at the door.

You glance toward the entrance, smile already forming, and scoop Norbi into your arms before padding over to open it.

Standing there is Nolan, a little nervous but unmistakably earnest, holding a bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant colors and a fresh scent that somehow brightens the whole room.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm but a little shaky. “I, uh… brought these for you.”

You step aside, holding the door open wider. “That’s so sweet, Nolan. They’re beautiful.”

He steps in, carefully holding the flowers as if they’re fragile treasures. Norbi immediately sniffs him, then wags his tail, happy to see a friend.

“Looks like Norbi approves,” you joke, setting the dog down so he can circle Nolan’s feet.

Nolan chuckles. “Yeah, he seems to like me more than I deserve.”

You laugh, then motion toward the kitchen. “Come on in. Elba’s around here somewhere.”

As Nolan follows you inside, Elba’s voice calls out from the kitchen, “Well, well! Look who it is!”

You hear her footsteps as she rounds the corner, leaning casually against the counter with a playful grin.

Nolan smiles shyly but holds his ground. “Hi, Elba.”

Elba eyes the bouquet and arches an eyebrow. “Flowers? Are we getting serious, Nolan?”

Nolan blushes but smirks. “I figured it was a good start.”

You shake your head fondly and settle onto the couch, Nolan sitting down next to you. Norbi immediately jumps up and claims Nolan’s lap as his new throne.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Nolan clears his throat and says, “Also… thanks for not making me sleep on the floor that weekend. I appreciated the bed upgrade.”

You grin, nudging him playfully. “I’m a generous roommate.”

He laughs softly. “You’re the best.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Nolan looks at you with that earnest, heart-on-his-sleeve expression that makes your chest flutter.

“So,” he begins, “I was wondering if you’d want to go out with me sometime. Like, a proper date?”

Your smile widens, warmth spreading through you. “I’d love that.”

Elba claps her hands together quietly, eyes sparkling. “Finally! Took you two long enough.”

You glance at her with mock sternness. “Shh! Don’t say it too loud.”

Elba winks. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. But—” she leans in conspiratorially “—don’t tell Pato just yet. Let him stew for a bit. It’s too funny.”

You and Nolan exchange amused looks.

“Deal,” Nolan agrees with a grin.

Norbi barks happily, circling your feet like he’s celebrating the good news.

—

The evening air is crisp but comfortable as you and Nolan stroll down a quiet, tree-lined street near the city’s old town. The soft glow of street lamps casts golden pools of light, and the gentle murmur of distant conversations drifts from nearby cafés.

You’re both a little nervous — the kind of butterflies that flutter in your stomach when something feels exciting and new. Nolan’s hands are tucked in his jacket pockets, but every so often, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant but hopeful.

You stop outside a small, cozy restaurant with twinkling fairy lights strung across the patio. Nolan grins, stepping forward to hold the door open for you like a perfect gentleman.

Inside, the atmosphere is warm and intimate, with candlelit tables and soft jazz playing low in the background. You settle into a corner booth, and the conversation flows easily — stories, laughs, shared dreams.

Between bites of perfectly seasoned pasta, you realize how comfortable you feel with him, like you’ve known each other much longer than a few weeks.

After dinner, you decide to take a walk by the river nearby, the city skyline shimmering on the water’s surface. The night feels endless and magical.

Nolan stops beside you on the promenade, looking out over the water. You can feel the quiet tension building — that moment where everything shifts.

He turns to you, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your heart race.

“YN,” he says softly, “I’m really glad we did this.”

You smile, your breath catching. “Me too.”

Without another word, he gently reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Then, slowly, he leans in.

Your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss — sweet and shy at first, then deepening as you both relax into it. The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you beneath the starry sky.

When you finally pull back, Nolan’s cheeks are flushed, and his eyes sparkle with happiness.

“That was… perfect,” he whispers.

You laugh quietly, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Definitely a night to remember.”

—

The motorhome is a quiet oasis tucked away from the roaring engines and shouting crews of the race weekend. You step inside, the familiar scent of leather and motor oil mingling with the faint hint of Nolan’s cologne. He’s sitting on the worn but comfortable couch, helmet resting beside him, eyes bright but shadowed with that familiar pre-race nervousness.

You close the door gently behind you and pause for a moment, just watching him. The way his fingers drum lightly on his knee, the slight furrow in his brow, the way he bites his lip as he’s lost in thought.

You cross the small space and sit down beside him, your hand reaching out without hesitation to find his. Your fingers weave between his, a simple but grounding touch.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

He looks up, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Hey.”

The hum of activity outside the motorhome feels miles away, replaced by the warm, muted light inside. For a long moment, the two of you just sit there, hands entwined, hearts quietly syncing.

Then Nolan leans in slowly, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m nervous,” he admits in a low voice, almost vulnerable.

You smile gently, fingers tracing delicate patterns along his arm. “You’ll be amazing out there. You’ve trained so hard. You’re ready.”

His breath hitches slightly, and he closes his eyes, letting your words settle.

Without thinking, he tilts his head and presses his lips softly to yours — a kiss that’s gentle and full of reassurance. Your heart swells, and you respond, leaning into the warmth, savoring the moment before the race pulls him away.

Pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, Nolan asks quietly, “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back?”

You squeeze his hand firmly, a smile lighting your face. “Always.”

The tension in the room eases, replaced by the soft intimacy of shared space and quiet promises. Nolan pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your waist, and you rest your head against his shoulder.

More kisses follow — slow, tender, a sweet farewell without words.

Time feels suspended. For these few minutes, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and love, safe from the rush of the world outside.

Eventually, Nolan sighs softly, breaking the embrace with a reluctant smile. He reaches for his helmet but pauses, turning back to you one last time.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “For this. For everything.”

“Always. Now go show them what you’ve got.”

He stands, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before grabbing his helmet. You watch him leave the motorhome, heart full but already counting the minutes until he’s back in your arms.

—

The paddock buzzes with activity, but Pato’s attention is locked on one corner of the hospitality area. You’re standing there, chatting and laughing with David — an easy, natural conversation that looks completely innocent.

Except Pato doesn’t see it that way.

He narrows his eyes, jaw tightening. “Wait, wait, wait,” he mutters, voice low but frantic. “That’s not how this was supposed to go.”

Elba, leaning casually against a nearby wall, watches her brother’s slow-motion meltdown with amused eyes.

“He’s freaking out,” she murmurs to herself, smirking.

Pato stalks closer, clearing his throat dramatically just loud enough to grab your attention. “Hey! Hey, YN!”

You turn, smiling politely at Pato, who’s clearly trying to look calm.

“What’s up?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Pato rubs the back of his neck, trying to recover. “Nothing, nothing. Just making sure you’re not… too friendly with David. You know, keeping the options open.”

David, caught in the crossfire, chuckles nervously. “I’m just talking racing stuff.”

“That’s what they all say,” Pato replies, shooting you a pointed look.

Elba steps in, arms crossed, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “Pato, relax. The plan is working perfectly. Nolan’s right over there, looking in love. As always.”

Pato spins around, eyes searching for Nolan, who’s chatting with a mechanic and completely oblivious to the chaos.

Elba shakes her head, grinning. “See? No reason to panic. But you do look adorable when you panic.”

Pato groans dramatically but can’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m a little too invested.”

You laugh, stepping closer. “Thanks for looking out, big brother. But I think Nolan and I have this.”

Pato pretends to sigh, then winks. “Fine. But if you mess this up, I’m coming for you both.”

Elba chuckles. “Classic Pato.”

—

nolansiegel

liked by yn_oward, elbaoward, patriciooward and 500,000 others.

nolansiegel : i love my gf final boss (we did not tell pato so the comments r off)

you have my heart forever pretty girl 💓

tagged : yn_oward

—

user has turned off comments on this post. —

bonus scene 1/2 : pato’s reaction!

The room is dim, cozy, with the soft glow of the TV casting flickering shadows on the walls. You and Nolan are curled up on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, watching some random comedy show that’s more background noise than actual focus. Norbi is nestled at your feet, occasionally wagging his tail as if he knows something exciting is happening.

You laugh quietly at a joke Nolan just made, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling that perfect easy comfort that comes with being exactly where you want to be.

Suddenly, the peaceful vibe is shattered by a loud bang as the door bursts open.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” Pato’s voice booms through the room.

You jump, Nolan nearly spills his drink, and Norbi barks in surprise.

Pato strides in, eyes wild with a mix of disbelief and pure excitement, holding his phone up like a trophy.

“I just saw your Instagram!” he announces, waving the screen dramatically. “The hard launch! The kiss! The caption! Where— why— how—?”

You exchange a glance with Nolan, trying not to laugh at your brother’s over-the-top entrance.

“We… we wanted to tell you,” you say, voice full of amusement.

“Wanted to tell me?” Pato echoes, incredulous. “You literally made me find out like a normal person? Off social media?”

Nolan grins sheepishly. “We didn’t mean to keep it a secret.”

“You didn’t mean to?!” Pato throws his hands in the air, pacing. “I have been your official wingman, your hype man, your entire support squad for months! And now you just go public without me?”

You laugh, wrapping an arm tighter around Nolan. “Pato, you’ve been the loudest one in every conversation about this.”

“And the most dramatic,” Nolan adds, smirking.

Pato stops pacing, turns toward both of you, and suddenly his expression softens into something warm and goofy.

“But honestly…” He pulls you both into a bear hug, squeezing tight. “I am so proud. You two are perfect. And Nolan,” he says, pulling back just enough to look Nolan in the eye, “you’re officially my brother-in-law now. Congratulations, man.”

Nolan’s eyes widen, a mix of surprise and pure happiness flooding his face.

“Wait, does that mean you have to invite me to all family dinners now?” he asks with a laugh.

Pato grins. “You better believe it.”

You grin at the two of them, feeling a warm glow in your chest. The chaos, the teasing, the love — it’s all part of this wild, beautiful mess that somehow feels exactly like home.

Norbi barks again, as if to say, “Count me in too.”

And with that, the three of you settle back onto the couch — this time with Pato wedged in between you, laughing louder than the TV as the comedy show plays on.

—

bonus scene 2/2 : nolan has family dinner with his new family!

The villa is buzzing with that familiar kind of energy only an O’Ward family gathering can summon. Laughter echoes off the walls, kids darting between chairs, and somewhere nearby, Norbi is enthusiastically chasing a tennis ball across the terrace. Nolan’s a little out of his element, but he’s holding his own — mostly — and definitely earning his place at the table.

You’re perched on the edge of your seat, elbow resting lightly on the wooden table as Pato launches into his latest racing anecdote, complete with dramatic hand gestures and a few exaggerated sound effects. Elba is across from you, trying not to laugh but failing spectacularly, while your parents are nodding along, clearly entertained.

Nolan’s just taken a sip of his drink when Pato spots him and grins mischievously.

“So, Nolan,” Pato says, leaning in like he’s about to spill state secrets, “how’s the ‘brother-in-law’ training going? Any progress on mastering the art of salsa dancing yet? You know, it’s mandatory.”

Nolan chokes on his drink, coughing while you stifle a giggle. “I think I need a few more lessons before I can take on that title.”

Elba smirks. “Don’t worry, Nolan, we’ll give you a crash course. The first part is to survive a family dinner.”

Just then, your little cousin zooms past, accidentally knocking Nolan’s glass over. The red wine cascades in slow motion, and everyone freezes for a split second before erupting into a mix of gasps and laughter.

“No worries,” Nolan says, grabbing a napkin and laughing it off like a pro. “Guess I’m earning my stripes tonight.”

Your papà claps Nolan on the back. “You’re doing fine. Just wait until the game. That’s when we really see what you’re made of.”

The conversation shifts to plans for the next day’s beach outing, with Pato insisting on teaching everyone how to properly throw a frisbee while Elba debates fiercely over the best spot for accessories.

As you take a bite of the freshly grilled carne asada and spicy salsa, you catch Nolan’s eye, sharing a quiet smile that says, I’m all in.

Later, as the sun dips below the horizon, you all gather on the terrace, Norbi sprawled contentedly at your feet. Pato pulls out his phone, trying to get a group selfie with everyone in frame.

“C’mon, guys, say cheese!” he calls.

The photo ends up a glorious mess of half-closed eyes, silly faces, and Nolan’s infectious grin front and center.

Elba nudges you. “See? He’s officially one of us now.”

You squeeze Nolan’s hand. “Definitely.”

And as the laughter and chatter continue under the stars, you know this is the kind of chaotic, imperfect, joyful family moment you’ll treasure forever.

After the doctor clears him—just bruising, a few shallow cuts, nothing serious—he’s sent your way for cleaning and patching. You’re used to this part: the adrenaline still humming under the surface, the young drivers trying to mask their nerves with humor. But something about Nolan feels different. He looks… a little shy, actually. Not the usual cocky kind of energy you expect from someone who just climbed out of a race car.

You grab a small tray of antiseptic and gauze before sitting down across from him. “Alright, Siegel,” you say lightly, smiling as you pull on gloves. “Let’s see what kind of trouble you got yourself into.”

He laughs under his breath. “I swear it looked worse on TV.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes for the first time—bright, kind, a little embarrassed—and find yourself smiling. “Uh-huh, sure. That’s what they all say.”

He chuckles again, the sound soft and genuine, and you start gently cleaning a cut along his jawline. He flinches slightly when the antiseptic stings, and you instinctively murmur, “Sorry, I know. Just a second.”

“No, no, you’re good,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “You just—uh—have a really gentle touch.”

You arch an eyebrow at that, biting back a grin. “Was that an attempt at flirting, Mr. Siegel?”

His face flushes immediately, pink blooming high on his cheeks. “No! I mean—maybe? I don’t know. I’m not very good at it.”

That makes you laugh, and you can see his shoulders relax just a little at the sound. “Points for honesty,” you tease, dabbing a bit of ointment over the cleaned scrape. “You’re lucky it’s not worse. That wall doesn’t exactly give second chances.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He pauses for a beat, studying you with curious, warm eyes. “You always sound this calm when someone comes in after a crash?”

You shrug. “Comes with the job. You get used to the noise, the chaos. It’s my job to be the calm part.”

He smiles at that—an easy, boyish kind of smile that you realize could get him out of almost any situation. “Well, it works. You’ve got this whole… soothing aura thing going on. It’s kind of impressive.”

You glance up again, meeting his eyes, and this time the air feels softer somehow. “You’re definitely trying to flirt this time.”

He laughs, a little more confident now. “Maybe. But you can’t really blame me. I mean, you saved me from a life-threatening cut and everything.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “Bruises and minor lacerations, actually. And you’re welcome.”

He watches you tape a small bandage across his knuckles, and when you finish, he wiggles his fingers and says, “Perfect. Best patch job I’ve ever had.”

You shake your head, taking off your gloves. “You’d say that no matter what it looked like.”

“Maybe,” he admits, grinning. “But only because it’s true. And because I’m trying to make sure you remember me.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh? Planning on crashing again just to come back here?”

He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Hopefully not. But, uh… maybe I’ll find another reason to stop by. Something less dramatic.”

You tilt your head, smiling softly. “Like?”

“I don’t know.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a real spark behind his words. “Maybe a check-up on my emotional health. Or to deliver coffee to my favorite nurse.”

You laugh, standing to put away the tray. “You don’t even know my name.”

He hops down from the cot, grinning that same crooked grin that made half the paddock fall in love with him already. “Not yet,” he says. “But I will.”

And when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still watching you—still smiling like he just found the only good thing to come out of crashing his car.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

It’s only been a few days since Nolan’s crash, and you’ve nearly forgotten about the wide-eyed boy with the messy hair and the soft, nervous laugh—until you look up from your desk and see him standing at the entrance of the medical unit.

Dressed in his team polo, he looks out of place but oddly at home all the same. There’s a small cut on his thumb, barely visible from where you’re sitting, but his expression is serious—comically so, like he’s about to announce a life-threatening injury.

You blink. “Don’t tell me you crashed again.”

He shakes his head quickly, lips curving into that familiar sheepish smile. “Nope. No walls this time, I promise. Just a… uh… paper cut.”

“A paper cut?” you repeat, fighting back a grin.

“Yeah,” he says, holding up his hand like proof. “It’s bleeding a little. Thought I should get it checked out, you know, professionally.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Professionally, huh? You realize I deal with concussions and broken bones, right?”

He nods solemnly. “Right. And, well… I’m just making sure I get ahead of it before it turns into something serious. Safety first.”

You can’t help but laugh—soft and warm, the kind of laugh that makes his ears go pink. “You’re a special one,” you say, but you stand up anyway, motioning him over to one of the exam tables. “Alright, sit down, Mr. Safety First. Let’s take a look.”

He hops up, feet swinging slightly off the floor as he offers you his hand. The “injury” is barely more than a nick, but you go through the motions anyway—cleaning it gently, dabbing antiseptic, your fingers brushing against his. He’s watching you again, the way he did the first time, eyes soft and curious, like he can’t decide whether he’s more fascinated by the process or by you.

“You know,” you say, glancing up, “you’re setting a record. I don’t think anyone’s ever come in twice in one week for something this minor.”

He grins. “Guess I’m just an overachiever.”

“Uh-huh. Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to visit the medical staff again?”

“The staff?” he repeats, feigning offense. “You wound me. I came to see you, obviously.”

You feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. “Smooth, Siegel. Real smooth.”

He grins, a little bashful but proud of himself all the same. “Thanks, I’ve been practicing.”

You grab a small bandage from the cabinet and carefully place it over the cut. On impulse, you reach for a pen and doodle a tiny smiley face on the bandaid. Nolan tilts his head, watching with amusement.

“What’s that?” he asks, grinning.

“A finger puppet,” you say matter-of-factly, capping the pen. “When I was doing my clinicals in pediatrics, I used to draw faces on the kids’ bandaids. It always made them feel a little braver. I guess the tradition stuck.”

He stares at his thumb, then at you, his grin widening. “You just gave me a finger puppet?”

“Mhm. His name is whatever you want it to be. Just don’t let him drive your car.”

That makes him laugh—a real, bright sound that fills the quiet room. “I don’t know, he looks pretty capable,” he teases, wiggling his thumb. “Maybe I’ll name him Speedy.”

“Speedy,” you repeat with mock seriousness. “An appropriate choice.”

“Exactly,” he says, clearly pleased. Then, softer, “You know, I think I’m starting to like this place.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Because of the top-tier medical care?”

He smiles at you—an honest, heart-melting kind of smile. “Because of you.”

You feel your face warm, but you recover quickly. “You really are relentless, aren’t you?”

“Only when I mean it,” he says, still smiling.

You shake your head and tuck the pen into your pocket. “You know, you don’t need to injure yourself every time you want to see me.”

“Oh, good,” he says lightly. “Then maybe next time I can just bring coffee instead of a medical emergency.”

You laugh again, and this time, you can’t hide the fondness in it. “I’ll hold you to that, Siegel.”

He stands up, carefully inspecting the little bandaid one more time before looking back at you. “So… if I come back with a paper cut and coffee, do I get another finger puppet?”

You grin. “We’ll see how well you behave during your check-up.”

He points at you with his newly decorated thumb. “Speedy and I will take that as a challenge.”

You watch him leave, still laughing to himself as he disappears down the hall, thumb wiggling in the air like it’s waving goodbye. You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

You would never admit it out loud, part of you kind of hopes you see that bandaid—and the boy wearing it—again soon.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

It’s quiet in the medical unit that morning—one of those rare lulls between sessions where the only sounds are the soft hum of the AC and the faint buzz of conversation outside. You’re halfway through updating a report when you hear a familiar knock against the open door.

You don’t even have to look up. You already know who it is.

“I swear, Nolan,” you say, smiling before you even see him, “if you’ve found a new creative way to injure yourself—”

“No injuries today,” he cuts in quickly, his voice light and teasing. “Promise.”

You glance up, and there he is: standing in the doorway, grinning sheepishly, holding two takeout cups of coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. His team jacket is half-zipped, his hair still damp from the morning heat.

“Well,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “this is a first. You’re showing up without a medical excuse.”

He steps inside, his grin widening. “Actually, I do have one.”

“Oh really?” you ask, crossing your arms. “Do tell.”

“I, uh…” He pauses dramatically, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m here for a check-up. Mental/Emotional health this time.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Emotional health. Of course. How could I have guessed?”

He sets the coffees down on your desk, sliding one toward you. “For my favorite nurse-slash-therapist.”

You try to suppress your smile, but it’s no use. “You’re really leaning into this bit, huh?”

“It’s not a bit,” he says, shrugging casually. “Just… preventive care. You did say I didn’t need an injury to see you.”

You roll your eyes but take the coffee anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“Consistent,” he corrects, sinking onto one of the exam tables like it’s his assigned seat.

You take a sip of the coffee—it’s perfect, the exact way you like it—and glance at him over the rim of the cup. “So, Mr. Siegel, tell me about your symptoms.”

He hums, pretending to think. “Let’s see… mild heart palpitations, usually when a certain nurse smiles at me. Slight difficulty focusing when she laughs. General restlessness when I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

You can’t help but laugh, setting the cup down. “Those sound pretty serious. I might have to prescribe something.”

“Oh? Like what?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, grin tugging at his lips.

“Maybe a few deep breaths,” you say, trying to keep your tone even. “And a reality check.”

He smirks. “That’s harsh, Nurse.”

You shrug, pretending to jot something down on a clipboard. “That’s my job. Keep you humble before you start thinking you’re charming.”

“I am charming,” he insists, but his voice softens around the edges. “Or at least, I’m trying to be.”

You glance up, catching the flicker of sincerity behind the joke. The way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile, like he’s surprised by his own feelings—makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Trying pretty hard,” you say finally, keeping your voice light. “You might be due for a reward at this rate.”

He perks up immediately. “Oh yeah?”

You stand, rummaging through a small drawer beside the desk. When you turn back, you’re holding a red heart-shaped lollipop and a sheet of cartoon stickers—the kind you keep on hand for the younger fans who sometimes visit on open paddock days.

You offer them with a playful grin. “For good behavior.”

His laugh fills the room, bright and unguarded. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all,” you say, handing them over. “Every emotional health check-up deserves positive reinforcement.”

He takes the lollipop delicately, as if it’s the most important thing he’s ever been given. “I’m saving this,” he says, completely serious. “No one will believe me otherwise.”

“Be sure to add the sticker too,” you reply, nodding toward the page.

He peels one off—a cartoon car with a smiling face—and sticks it onto the front of his team polo. “Perfect.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he hops down from the table, still holding the lollipop like a trophy. “You’re so insane.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But you smiled, so I’m calling it a win.”

You watch as he lingers for just a moment longer by the door, glancing back with that same disarming grin. “Thanks for the check-up, Nurse.”

You wave him off, heart unexpectedly light. “Anytime, Siegel.”

When he’s gone, you return to your desk, still smiling to yourself as you pick up your coffee again. But when you lift the cup, you notice a small folded napkin tucked underneath it.

Curious, you unfold it carefully. His handwriting is messy, a little uneven, clearly written in a hurry.

my heart does a little “!” when i see you.

The words are simple, but something about them makes warmth bloom in your chest. You press your lips together, a quiet giggle escaping before you can stop it.

You glance around the quiet room, then pin the note to the corner of your corkboard, right between the emergency schedule and an old paddock photo.

Every time you look up afterward, it catches your eye—the tiny, earnest message from a boy who keeps finding excuses to see you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The morning of race day is always a whirlwind—engines roaring, radios crackling, people rushing everywhere—but somehow, the medical center stays calm, tucked just out of the chaos. You’re restocking bandages when there’s a light knock on the doorframe.

You already know who it is before you even turn around.

“Hey, Nurse,” Nolan says, leaning against the doorway with his helmet tucked under one arm, his fire suit half-zipped. His smile is boyish and just a little nervous. “Figured I’d stop by before things get crazy.”

You glance over your shoulder, a soft grin tugging at your lips. “No paper cut today?”

“Not yet,” he says, stepping closer. “But the day’s still young.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you finish stacking a tray of gauze. “You really do like testing my patience, don’t you?”

“Not testing,” he says, his voice playful but warm. “Just checking in before the adrenaline hits.”

You turn to face him fully, and for a second, the noise outside seems to fade. He looks ready—focused but buzzing with that unmistakable pre-race energy—and yet there’s something softer in his expression when his eyes meet yours.

“Good timing,” you say, crossing your arms with a teasing smile. “I was just about to suggest something for nerves.”

He grins. “Oh yeah? What’s the treatment?”

“A deep breath,” you say, stepping closer to adjust the sleeve of his fire suit like it’s part of the exam. “And good luck.”

His smile falters just slightly—just enough that you can see how much the words mean to him. “You think I’ll need it?”

“I think,” you say softly, “you’ll do just fine. But a little luck never hurts.”

There’s a quiet beat between you—soft, easy, familiar—and then he nods, eyes still holding yours. “Guess I’ll take all the luck I can get then. Especially if it’s from you.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Go drive, Siegel.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a mock salute, backing toward the door. “I’ll report back after the race. For… scientific purposes.”

“Of course,” you reply, laughing. “Wouldn’t want to neglect your emotional health follow-up.”

He grins one last time before disappearing into the hallway, leaving behind that faint trace of warmth that always seems to follow him.

The race flies by in its usual blur of noise, commentary, and tension. You catch glimpses of Nolan on the monitors—smooth, quick, fearless. He finishes strong, somewhere comfortably in the points, and you find yourself smiling, heart strangely full as you watch his cool-down lap.

You don’t expect to see him again that day—not really. Drivers are usually swarmed by team debriefs, press obligations, a hundred post-race demands. So when the door creaks open hours later, you look up in surprise.

He’s standing there again, still in his fire suit but with the top half tied around his waist now. His hair is messy from the helmet, and there’s a faint smudge of oil on his cheek. In his hands—both of them—is a huge bouquet of flowers. Bright, beautiful, completely over the top.

You blink. “Oh my god, Nolan—”

He grins, stepping inside. “Before you say anything—no injuries. No excuses. I swear.”

You raise a brow, laughing softly. “Then what’s all this?”

“This,” he says, holding the bouquet out toward you, “is me finally having a real reason to show up.”

You take the flowers carefully, stunned by how gorgeous they are. The scent fills the small room immediately, and for a moment, you’re completely speechless.

“Nolan…” you start, but your voice catches a little. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. “But I wanted to. I told you I’d find a reason to come by that wasn’t a crash or a cut.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly shy again. “And, um… I also figured it was time I actually got your name. You know, officially.”

You blink, still smiling. “You don’t even know my name?”

“I do now,” he says, grinning. “It’s on your badge. But I want to be able to say it without pretending I’m checking your credentials.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t with you.”

He shrugs, taking a tiny step closer. “You’re smiling.”

You can feel your face warming as you set the flowers on the counter, turning back to him. “So, Mr. Siegel, what’s your next brilliant plan now that you know my name?”

He hesitates, biting his lip for a moment before saying, “Well… I was kind of hoping I could get your number too.”

You arch an eyebrow, pretending to think it over. “Hmm. That depends. Are you going to keep using it for emotional health check-ins?”

“Absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. “Strictly professional. You know, to monitor my heart rate after races. Make sure it doesn’t do that little thing too often.”

That makes you laugh—really laugh—and he grins like he’s just won something bigger than a race. You pull a pen from your desk drawer, take one of the small notepads beside the monitor, and scribble down your number.

When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours—warm, tentative, lingering just a little too long.

“There,” you say softly. “For emergencies only.”

“Got it,” he replies, tucking the paper carefully into the pocket of his suit. “And just to clarify—missing you counts as an emergency, right?”

You groan, laughing as you nudge his shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”

He’s grinning again, but there’s something genuine behind it now—something sweet and open. “Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

You shake your head, but you don’t deny it. “Go celebrate your race, Siegel.”

“I will,” he says, backing toward the door, still watching you. “But, uh… save me a spot on your schedule for tomorrow? I might need a post-victory emotional check-up.”

You cross your arms, smiling despite yourself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He winks—actually winks—and disappears down the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of gasoline, flowers, and whatever this new, dangerous warmth blooming in your chest is.

You glance at the bouquet again, still sitting on your counter, and can’t help but smile.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Your phone buzzes late in the afternoon on a rare off day—no race, no chaos, just the soft hum of a quiet weekend. You glance at the caller ID and nearly laugh out loud when you see Nolan Siegel flashing across the screen.

You pick up immediately, amusement already coloring your tone. “You know, for someone who’s not injured, you call the medical line a suspicious amount.”

“Hey, it’s an emergency,” he says, completely serious.

You sit up a little straighter, heart jumping. “Wait, are you—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, his voice suddenly dropping into that warm, teasing drawl you’ve come to know too well. “An emergency… of the emotional variety.”

You groan, pressing a hand over your face even as laughter escapes you. “Nolan. You can’t do that to people. I thought you actually hurt yourself.”

He laughs too, unbothered. “No injuries this time, promise. But my symptoms are getting worse.”

“Oh really?” you play along, grinning despite yourself. “And what are these symptoms, Mr. Siegel?”

“Restlessness. Increased heart rate. Constant thoughts about a certain nurse,” he says without missing a beat. “I’ve tried everything—sleep, hydration, even carbs—but nothing’s working.”

You try to hide your smile, but your voice still softens. “So what’s your proposed treatment plan?”

“I was thinking,” he says, the grin audible through the phone, “you, me, and an actual date.”

You blink, caught off guard even though you probably shouldn’t be. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly quieter, almost shy. “I know it’s short notice, but I figured I’d risk it. I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now.”

Your lips curl into a slow smile. “You really are relentless.”

“I prefer persistent,” he corrects, though his tone is full of hope. “So? What do you say?”

You pause for a moment, pretending to think. “Depends. Where are you taking me, Siegel?”

“I’ll keep that a surprise,” he says, confidence creeping back in. “I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

You glance at the clock—barely enough time to change and panic properly—but you can’t help the flutter in your stomach. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, and you can practically hear his grin through the phone.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

An hour later, you hear a knock at your door. When you open it, Nolan’s standing there in jeans, a soft gray hoodie, and that same slightly crooked smile that always seems to undo you. He’s holding a small bouquet of daisies—simple, bright, and very him.

“For you,” he says, a little bashful. “You know, to keep my reputation as the flower guy alive.”

You take them with a grin. “You’re setting the bar pretty high, Siegel.”

“Good,” he says, eyes glinting. “Means you’ll have to see me again to make sure I keep it up.”

You roll your eyes but step outside, locking the door behind you. “So where are we going?”

He gestures toward his car—a sleek, dark blue thing that gleams in the late sun. “I figured we’d keep it lowkey. I know this little place near the coast—best burgers, perfect view. Thought we could just… hang out.”

It’s simple, but the thought makes your heart do that stupid little flip again.

The drive is easy, full of soft laughter and half-serious teasing. The wind blows through the open windows, carrying the faint scent of the ocean as the world blurs by. Nolan talks with his hands when he’s excited, his voice rising when he tells a funny story about his first test session or the time he spilled coffee all over his team’s data sheets. You find yourself laughing until your cheeks hurt.

When you get to the spot, it’s perfect—quiet and tucked away, the restaurant sitting just above a rocky stretch of shoreline. The sun’s beginning to dip low, painting the water gold.

Inside, it’s cozy and warm. Nolan holds the door open for you, then somehow manages to charm the waitress within thirty seconds, earning you both a booth by the window.

He insists on ordering for the both of you—two burgers, fries, and milkshakes “because no proper meal is complete without dessert disguised as a drink.”

The conversation flows effortlessly. He’s funny, yes, but also unexpectedly thoughtful—talking about racing with a kind of honesty that surprises you. He tells you how he still gets nervous before every start, how sometimes he feels like he’s chasing something he can’t quite name.

“And then,” he says, smiling softly, “I crash, and some nurse with a smile that could stop my heart tells me I’m fine. Kind of puts things in perspective.”

You laugh, nudging his foot under the table. “That line’s so cheesy, it should come with fries.”

“Good thing we ordered some,” he says, eyes sparkling.

After dinner, he takes you outside, down a short trail that leads to the beach below. The sand is cool beneath your shoes, the waves rolling gently against the shore.

He walks beside you in comfortable silence for a while before saying quietly, “You know, this is the first time I’ve actually felt relaxed in weeks.”

You glance over at him. “Not even during the off-season?”

He shakes his head. “No. I think my brain just doesn’t have an off switch. But right now…” He trails off, looking at you with that soft, open expression that always makes your heart stutter. “Right now feels pretty good.”

You smile. “Yeah. It does.”

He stops walking then, turning toward you, his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Always,” you say softly.

“I really, really like you,” he admits, voice barely above the sound of the waves. “Like, I think about you way more than I probably should. And I’ve been trying to come up with excuses to see you that don’t involve bodily harm, but I was running out of ideas.”

You laugh, your chest tightening in the best way. “So this was your emergency?”

He nods, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Heart-related, like I said.”

You take a step closer, your voice gentler now. “You didn’t need an excuse, you know.”

His grin softens. “I was kind of hoping you’d say that.”

The moment lingers—quiet, easy, electric in that subtle way that feels new and certain all at once.

He finally exhales, running a hand through his hair. “So… would it be weird if I said this is the best off-day I’ve had in a long time?”

“Not weird,” you say, smiling. “Because it’s mine too.”

He looks at you for a long moment, that nervous energy fading into something tender. “Then I guess I did something right.”

You walk back toward the car side by side, the sound of the waves fading behind you. Before you get in, he opens the passenger door for you, but instead of letting you climb in right away, he pauses, his hand still resting on the frame.

“Just so you know,” he says softly, “this is definitely not a one-time check-up.”

You grin, tilting your head. “Oh yeah? Planning another appointment already?”

“Absolutely,” he says, smiling in that bright, earnest way that’s pure Nolan Siegel. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m in this for the long haul.”

And as you slide into the car, heart fluttering like it’s trying to memorize the feeling, you can’t help but think—so are you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

It’s been a few weeks since that first date, and somehow Nolan Siegel has made himself a part of your life in the easiest, most natural way possible. He comes by often — sometimes with coffee, sometimes with flowers, sometimes with nothing but that soft smile that makes your day better instantly. He’s seen your apartment messy, seen you in sweats and an old hoodie, and he still looks at you like you hung the stars.

Tonight, though, feels a little different. He texted earlier:

Don’t make plans for dinner. I’m coming over. Chef Siegel has a vision.

You’re not setting my kitchen on fire, right?

No promises <3

Now, he’s in your kitchen — your Nolan — wearing a plain white t-shirt that’s already dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from where he keeps pushing it back. He’s standing over your stove, squinting at the pan like he’s trying to decode a secret.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you ask, leaning against the counter, arms folded but a grin tugging at your lips.

“Of course,” he says with mock confidence, flipping something that definitely wasn’t meant to be flipped. “I watched one and a half cooking tutorials on YouTube this morning. I’m basically Gordon Ramsay now.”

You laugh, moving to peek into the pan. “That’s… pasta sauce.”

“Exactly,” he says proudly. “And look, it’s red! That means it’s right.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how colors work in cooking, Siegel.”

He shoots you a playful look. “Alright then, Miss Michelin Star, why don’t you come here and show me how it’s done?”

You shake your head but cross over anyway, nudging him aside with your hip as he pretends to protest. Your hands brush as you take the spoon from him, and he smiles like that tiny touch was the best part of his day.

You start stirring the sauce, explaining what he did wrong, but he’s not really listening — not to the words, anyway. He’s watching you, eyes soft, leaning against the counter with that quiet affection that makes your stomach flutter.

“What?” you finally ask, glancing at him.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, then smiles sheepishly. “Just thinking how cute you look when you’re bossy.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to let your grin show. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word,” he teases, stepping closer. “Is that another one of your special nurse skills?”

“I will throw this spoon at you,” you warn, though your voice is already warm with laughter.

He lifts his hands in surrender, laughing, before reaching out to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is small, but it makes your breath catch anyway — his touch soft, his eyes lingering a little longer than usual.

For a moment, the only sound is the quiet simmer of the sauce.

“Okay,” you say finally, breaking the silence before your heart beats out of your chest. “Set the table, Mr. Ramsay.”

He grins, snapping off a mock salute. “Yes, chef.”

Dinner turns out… surprisingly decent. The pasta is a little overcooked, the sauce a little salty, but you both end up laughing so much it doesn’t matter. You sit across from each other on the floor instead of the table, plates balanced on your knees, a candle flickering between you that Nolan found in your kitchen drawer and dramatically declared “for ambiance.”

He’s telling some ridiculous story about his karting days — something about spinning off the track because he was too busy trying to wave at a girl — and you’re laughing so hard your sides hurt.

“Don’t laugh!” he says, grinning so wide it hurts your heart. “It was a romantic gesture!”

“It was a disaster!” you say between giggles.

“Same thing sometimes,” he admits, and you both dissolve into laughter again.

When dinner’s done, you both clean up together — him washing, you drying. Every now and then he flicks a little water at you until you threaten revenge. It’s easy. Effortless. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

Eventually, you both end up on the couch, curled under a blanket with a movie playing quietly in the background. You don’t remember who leaned in first, but somewhere between laughing and teasing, you end up pressed against his side, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders.

You can feel his heartbeat under your palm. It’s steady, strong — a little fast, maybe, but then again, so is yours.

He tilts his head slightly, voice low. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s dangerous,” you whisper, teasing, and he laughs softly.

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, his tone turning gentler, “I can’t help it when you’re around. You make me think too much.”

You look up at him, and for once, he’s not smiling. He’s looking at you like you’re something rare — something he doesn’t quite believe he’s lucky enough to have.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates, then whispers, “How I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath catches. The air shifts — soft, electric, sweet.

So you whisper, “Then do it.”

He doesn’t rush. He moves slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. His hand comes up to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and then he’s kissing you — soft at first, tentative, like he’s still asking for permission.

You lean in, answering him wordlessly, and the kiss deepens just slightly — gentle, warm, perfect.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Wow,” he murmurs, voice a little shaky. “That was…”

You laugh softly, your cheeks burning. “You say that to all your nurses?”

“Just the one,” he says, smiling against your lips.

There’s a pause — the kind that hums with something unspoken — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes are bright, a little nervous but sure.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

You nod. “Anything.”

He exhales. “Will you be my girlfriend? Officially, I mean. I know we’ve been… whatever this is,” he gestures between you both, “but I’d really like to call you mine. If you’ll have me.”

You stare at him for a second, heart swelling until it feels too big for your chest. He’s looking at you like he’s half-expecting you to laugh at him — all soft hope and boyish uncertainty.

You smile. “You really think I’d say no?”

“I don’t know,” he admits with a grin, “you’re kind of intimidating.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yes, Nolan. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

He beams — actually beams — and then he’s pulling you into another kiss, all joy and warmth and relief. You can feel him smiling against your mouth, and it makes you laugh into the kiss, too.

When you finally break apart, he leans back just enough to look at you again, his hand still resting over yours.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

You’re halfway through taping David Malukas’s wrist when Nolan wanders into the medical unit.

The door swings open with that familiar soft creak, and before you even look up, you know it’s him—because only one driver has the confidence to show up here before a race, still in his race suit, wearing that kind of lopsided grin that screams trouble.

David glances over his shoulder. “Oh great,” he mutters, smirking. “Romeo’s here.”

“Hey,” Nolan protests, stepping fully inside, holding up his hands like he’s innocent. “I come in peace.”

You glance up from where you’re gently wrapping the bandage around David’s wrist. “Please tell me you’re not injured again.”

“Nope,” Nolan says easily, sauntering toward you. “Just… emotional support visit.”

David groans. “Man, I’m the one actually hurt here. Can’t you wait until after she fixes my wrist to flirt with her?”

“I’m not flirting,” Nolan says, his tone far too casual to be convincing. “Just saying hi.”

You hide a smile, focusing on David’s wrist. “Almost done,” you murmur, tugging the wrap snugly and securing it with a clip. “There. Should hold up fine for the race. Try not to overdo it, okay?”

David flexes his fingers experimentally, nodding. “You’re the best, YN.” Then, with a mischievous grin, he nods toward Nolan. “Good luck, lover boy.”

Nolan rolls his eyes, but his ears turn faintly pink. “Thanks, man. Real subtle.”

David laughs as he hops off the table, tossing you a grateful smile before heading out. “Don’t let him distract you too long. He’ll talk your ear off about how pretty you look.”

“Go away!” Nolan calls after him, but David only laughs harder, disappearing down the hall.

When the door closes, the room feels suddenly quieter—warmer, somehow. Nolan’s still standing near the exam table, hands in his pockets, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re really starting to make a habit of interrupting my work,” you tease, moving to tidy up the tape and gauze.

“Like I said, very consistent,” he says proudly. “It’s one of my many admirable traits.”

You chuckle. “And what brings you here this time, Mr. Consistency?”

He hesitates for half a second, pretending to think, then steps closer until he’s right in front of you, eyes glinting. “Well,” he says softly, “there’s this rumor going around that good luck kisses make your lap times faster.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm.” He nods solemnly, leaning against the counter beside you. “It’s a scientifically proven fact. I think it’s in the rulebook or something.”

You can’t help laughing. “Right, of course. I must’ve missed that section.”

He grins, inching a little closer. “So… for the sake of research, maybe you could—”

“Give you a good luck kiss?” you finish for him, crossing your arms but fighting a smile.

“Exactly,” he says, his voice dropping just slightly, playful but warm. “Purely professional. You wouldn’t want me crashing because I didn’t get the proper nurse-approved good luck, right?”

You shake your head, laughing. “You are so absurd.”

“Maybe,” he admits, “but it’s working.”

You glance up at him, your heart doing that stupid flutter it always does around him. His hair is still a little messy under his cap, his eyes bright and full of that familiar spark that makes you feel like you’re standing under sunlight.

And honestly… he’s impossible to resist.

You sigh, pretending to give in. “Fine. One kiss. For luck.”

His grin softens into something sweeter as you reach up, cupping his cheek briefly before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It’s quick, soft, but full of that quiet affection that’s grown between you since that first day in the medical room.

When you pull back, Nolan’s smiling so wide it’s almost boyish. “Okay, yeah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Definitely faster lap times incoming.”

You laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

He tilts his head. “Unbelievably in love with you, maybe.”

You groan playfully, swatting his chest. “Go before you make me regret helping you.”

He grins, backing toward the door. “Can’t. You’re my good luck charm. Gotta keep you happy so the universe stays on my side.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, still smiling as you shake your head. “Go win your race, Siegel.”

He points at you as he walks backward through the doorway. “I will—and when I do, I’m bringing you another bouquet.”

“Make sure it’s bigger than the last one,” you call after him.

He winks. “Only the best for my favorite nurse.”

And with that, he jogs off down the hall, laughter echoing behind him.

You stand there for a moment, your heart still fluttering stupidly, then glance at your reflection in the small mirror by the sink. You’re smiling — can’t help it, really.

You turn back to your desk, where the little note he left weeks ago is still pinned:

my heart does a little “!” when i see you.

You trace the corner of it with your finger, shaking your head with a fond laugh.

Because even now — even after all the teasing and all the races and all the chaos — your heart still does that same little trick every single time he walks through your door.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

nolansiegel : about to leave my day job and enroll at miami to be closer to you🙃

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : nolan you wouldn’t last a day in calc II

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↳ nolansiegel : true but at least id be with you🤠

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patriciooward : send help??? you have a porsche and access to my credit card. come visit. 🤨

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↳ yn_oward : patricio. i also have exams.

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↳ patriciooward : exams are temporary. sushi dates with me are forever.

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↳ yn_oward : valid point.

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↳ elbaoward : i don’t think mamá y papà would be very happy to hear you convincing her to blow off school, patito. 🤨

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↳ patriciooward : i don’t think they would be happy to hear she spends 95% of her time at parties either buttttttt

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↳ yn_oward : alr alr that’s enough. what they don’t know won’t hurt them 🗣️🗣️

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elbaoward : i miss you too mi amor 🫶🏼 please no beer pong without me supervising.

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↳ yn_oward : no promises 😇

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yourfriend1 : our game day outfits always EAT

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yourfriend2 : mcdonalds talegating w the porsche>>>>>

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davidmalukas : college life looks way more fun than the off season

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↳ yn_oward : daviddddd pls i’ll sneak u into the student section

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↳ davidmalukas : brb booking the first flight to miami

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alexanderrossi : less party more study

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↳ yn_oward : stop hanging out with my brother. he is making you lame

liked by alexanderrossi and elbaoward

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The apartment is unusually quiet for once. Your roommates are scattered across campus—one at practice, another stuck in a late lab—leaving you in the soft hum of your desk lamp, textbooks open and iPad glowing with hastily scribbled notes. You’re supposed to be focusing on economics, but your brain keeps wandering, tracing the ache of absence you’ve been carrying around like a second backpack.

You’re halfway through highlighting a paragraph when your phone lights up with the familiar name: Nolan. Your heart leaps before your mind can catch up. You don’t even hesitate before answering.

His face fills the screen, slightly pixelated but still unmistakably him—messy hair, soft smile, the kind of tired eyes that make you want to reach through the glass and smooth the weight off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you say, and the word comes out softer than you mean it to.

“Hey, pretty,” Nolan replies, his voice warm and tired all at once. He’s sprawled across what looks like a hotel bed, the curtains drawn tight behind him. Another race weekend. Another city you’re not in.

You tuck your knees up to your chest, the highlighter still in your hand. “You look exhausted.”

“Not as exhausted as you,” he teases gently. “You’ve got, like, four textbooks open. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

You laugh, but it’s a quiet laugh, one that trembles at the edges. “College life, remember? You chose race cars, I chose exams.”

“Yeah, but I’d trade it all if it meant I could be there with you,” he says, and suddenly the air feels heavy between you.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just stare. You can hear the faint sounds of his hotel—voices in the hallway, maybe his teammates down the hall—but mostly it’s just him. Him, and the distance.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

He shifts on the bed, holding the phone closer until it feels like he’s right there, inches away. “I miss you more. Way more than I thought I would when the season started.”

Your throat tightens. You want to tell him about the nights you fall asleep with your phone clutched in your hand, about the way you sometimes hear his voice in a crowded room and whip your head around only to remember he’s miles away. Instead, you say, “I hate that I can’t just drive over and see you. It’s stupid.”

Nolan’s lips curve into a soft, sad smile. “It is stupid. But it’s temporary, right? We just… have to hang in there.”

You nod, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. Temporary.”

For a while, neither of you talks. He asks about your day, and you ramble about your professor’s obsession with pop quizzes; you ask about practice, and he shrugs, saying it’s nothing exciting without you there to watch. Eventually, you’re laughing again—real, belly-deep laughter—when he describes Pato’s attempt to cook pasta in the hotel coffee pot.

But underneath it all, the ache remains. The missing. The wanting.

“Promise me something?” Nolan says finally.

“Anything.”

“Don’t get too used to being without me. Because I’m going to fix this, okay? Somehow. I’ll find a way.”

Your chest warms even as your eyes sting. “You always do,” you whisper.

And for the rest of the call, you let yourself believe that the distance is only temporary, that soon, the space between your worlds will close.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You walk out of the lecture hall with your brain buzzing and your heart still racing, adrenaline from the exam not quite settled yet. For weeks, you’d been dreading this one—your toughest class, the professor notorious for brutal questions, the kind of test that could make or break your grade. You’d barely slept, living off iced coffee and sheer panic.

But now it’s over. The relief is almost dizzying. You sling your backpack over your shoulder, step out into the late afternoon sunshine, and let yourself breathe for the first time all day.

By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re running on fumes, already planning a nap before your roommates drag you out for celebratory drinks. But the second you open the door, you freeze.

Sitting right on the kitchen table, bathed in golden light from the window, is a massive bouquet of flowers—roses and lilies, your favorites, arranged in an almost comically huge glass vase. The kind of thing that looks like it belongs in a movie, not your student apartment.

Beside it, there’s a small red box with a crisp white ribbon. Your heart jumps into your throat.

You drop your bag and walk closer, fingers trembling as you untie the ribbon. Inside, nestled in velvet, is the Cartier watch you’d been secretly obsessing over for months—the one Elba had teased you about wanting, the one you’d told yourself was “ridiculously impractical” but had still saved screenshots of on your phone.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The card tucked under the bouquet is simple:

For my girl who can do anything. I’m so proud of you. Always. — N

The tears slip out before you can stop them. You fumble for your phone, not even caring if your makeup is streaking down your face as you hit Nolan’s contact and press call.

He picks up on the first ring, his familiar grin filling the screen. “Hey, superstar.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice cracking. “Nolan, you didn’t.”

His smile softens when he sees your watery eyes. “I did. And you deserve every bit of it.”

You shake your head, laughing through the tears. “This is insane. Flowers and—Nolan, it’s Cartier. You’re—this is too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he counters gently. “You’ve been killing yourself over that class for weeks, and I hate that I can’t be there to hug you when it’s finally done. So, this is me trying to be there in the best way I can.”

You press your hand over your mouth, overcome. “You’re going to make me sob.”

“I can see that,” he teases, even though his eyes are glossy too. “Please don’t ruin your mascara. You’ll make me feel guilty.”

You glance back at the watch, glinting in its box, impossibly elegant, impossibly you. “How did you even know?”

“Elba may have helped,” Nolan admits, smirking. “But only because she said you’d never buy it for yourself. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect it would look on your wrist.”

You slip it on, holding up your arm for the camera, your breath catching at the sight. It fits flawlessly, like it was made for you.

“Nolan,” you whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you always do this. How you make me feel so—” You stop, the words knotting in your throat.

“Loved?” he supplies softly.

You nod, blinking hard. “So loved.”

He leans closer to the camera, his expression so tender it makes your chest ache. “That’s because you are. More than you’ll ever know.”

And as you sit there, in your little college apartment with flowers too big for the table and a watch that catches the light just right, you realize that even with the miles and the ache, Nolan Siegel has found a way to close the distance—if only for a moment.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

yn_oward added to her story!

seen by nolansiegel, patriciooward, elbaoward and 257,000 others.

nolansiegel : i was right. it does look perfect on you:)

↳ yn_oward : i love you so so much. but you really didn’t have toooooooo

↳ nolansiegel : oh but I did! anything to make my girl smile 🙃

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patriciooward : mocosa mimada (spoiled brat)

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↳ yn_oward : you spoil me all the time. you helped create this monster 😇

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↳ patriciooward : god gave me a baby sister to spoil and bully 🫡

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alexanderrossi : mclaren is paying that kid way too much 🙄

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↳ yn_oward : jealousy is a disease rossiiiiii

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elbaoward : he’s a good man savannah 😭🥹

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↳ yn_oward : thank you for helping him🤍 i could not imagine that man walking into a cartier store by himself

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↳ elbaoward : he was so adorable…and lost😇

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˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You’ve got the windows down, the late afternoon breeze tangling your hair as you drive back from class, phone balanced on speaker through the car’s Bluetooth. The sound of your siblings’ voices fills the car, both of them talking over each other in the way only Pato and Elba can.

They’re in Vegas with your parents, something about a sponsor dinner that somehow turned into a family weekend.

“—and then mamá made us walk half a mile because she said she didn’t trust the hotel buffet, can you believe that?” Pato’s voice cuts through first, dramatic as ever.

Elba’s laughter follows. “You love walking, don’t even start. Anyway, how did your class go, hermanita?”

You groan, pulling into your apartment’s lot. “It was fine, I guess. Long. I just want to crash. Or maybe cry. Or both.”

“Don’t cry,” Elba soothes, though you can practically hear her smile. “You’re doing amazing. And you know it’s temporary, right? You’ll see Nolan soon.”

That makes your chest tighten, the ache you’ve been carrying around sharpening at her words. “Yeah, I know,” you murmur, parking the car. You grab your bag, already planning to heat up leftovers and bury yourself under a blanket—when your eyes catch on something that makes your brain short-circuit.

Parked two spaces down, gleaming even under the dull glow of the lot’s streetlight, is a McLaren. Not just any McLaren. His McLaren.

For a second, you think you’re hallucinating. You blink hard, shake your head, but it’s still there. Shiny, unmistakable, Nolan Siegel’s car, sitting in your parking lot like it belongs there.

You let out a noise so loud that both Pato and Elba fall silent on the other end of the call.

“YN?” Elba says carefully.

“What the hell was that?” Pato demands.

You’re already scrambling out of the car, nearly tripping over your backpack strap. “He’s here. He’s here!”

“Who’s there?!” Pato yells, instantly in overprotective brother mode.

“Nolan!” you scream, sprinting across the lot like your life depends on it. “HE’S HERE, HE’S—” You cut yourself off because your lungs are burning and you’re fumbling with your apartment keys like a madwoman.

Elba’s voice is faint but gleeful through the phone. “Oh, this is good.”

You don’t even say goodbye before hanging up on them, shoving your phone into your pocket as you barrel up the stairs two at a time. Your heart is in your throat, adrenaline flooding every nerve. You burst into the apartment, barely remembering to slam the door shut behind you, and then—

There he is.

Nolan is stretched out on your bed, one hand propped behind his head, the other scrolling lazily through his phone like he does this every day. He looks up at the sound of you crashing in, and his lips curl into the calmest, cheekiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” he says casually, like you didn’t just lose your mind in the parking lot. “Took you long enough.”

You scream again—louder this time—and then you’re running, launching yourself onto the bed so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of him. He laughs, catching you with an “oof,” his arms automatically locking tight around you as you bury your face in his chest.

“You’re actually here,” you mumble, your words muffled against his shirt. “You didn’t tell me, you didn’t—oh my god, Nolan, I thought I was going insane when I saw your car—”

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and steady. “Surprise.”

You lean back just far enough to look at him, your eyes stinging with happy tears. “You’re insane. You’re literally insane.”

“Insanely in love with you,” he corrects smoothly, grinning.

You swat at his chest, but you’re smiling so hard it hurts. “You could’ve warned me! I almost had a heart attack in the parking lot!”

“And miss this reaction?” he teases, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “No way. Totally worth the risk.”

You just shake your head, overwhelmed, your heart finally catching up with the moment. He’s here. Really, actually here. The space between you isn’t miles of highway or time zones—it’s just a breath, a touch, a kiss waiting to happen.

You collapse against him again, holding on like you’ll never let go. “I missed you so much,” you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, his voice quiet and certain. “Missed you more. That’s why I’m here.”

And just like that, the ache of distance dissolves, replaced with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek, a reminder that some surprises are worth every mile.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

For a while, you don’t move. You just curl into him, tangled up in sheets and arms and the steady press of kisses against your hair. The kind of quiet where the world feels far away and nothing exists except the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Nolan trails his fingers up and down your back absentmindedly, as if memorizing the shape of you all over again.

Eventually, you tilt your head up, and his lips are right there, waiting. The kiss is slow at first—soft, almost hesitant, like you’re both savoring the fact that you don’t have to imagine it anymore. Then it deepens, your hands finding his jaw, his thumb brushing against your waist, both of you smiling into it because you can’t not.

When you finally break apart, breathless and grinning, you press your forehead to his. “You’re trouble,” you whisper.

“Trouble, huh?” he teases, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I thought I was romantic.”

You laugh, swatting him lightly before rolling off the bed. “Romantic and trouble. And now I’m taking you on a tour.”

Nolan props himself up on his elbows, looking amused. “A tour?”

“Yes,” you declare, tugging at his hand until he follows you. “If you drove all the way here and surprised me like this, you’re getting the full college experience.”

He humors you, slipping his shoes back on—well, he tries to, until the two of you step into the living room.

Your roommates are sprawled across the couch, half-watching Netflix, half-scrolling on their phones. They look up when you emerge, and the second their eyes land on Nolan, chaos erupts.

“Oh my GOD.”

“NO WAY—IS THAT HIM?!”

You laugh, already bracing yourself as they scramble to their feet, squealing like they’ve just seen a celebrity.

Nolan gives a sheepish little wave. “Uh… hi.”

“This is insane,” your roommate gasps, clutching her chest. “Okay, wait, he has to put on the guest of honor shoes.”

Before you can stop her, she’s sprinting to the hall closet and returning with the most ridiculous pair of oversized yellow Minion slippers. She thrusts them into Nolan’s hands like they’re sacred.

Nolan blinks down at them, then at you, and you’re already giggling so hard you can barely speak. “It’s tradition,” you explain, covering your mouth. “Every visitor has to wear them at least once. House rules.”

With a dramatic sigh, Nolan slips off his sneakers and slides into the Minion slippers, which are two sizes too big and squeak slightly when he stands. Your roommates lose it, screaming and taking pictures immediately.

“Perfect,” one of them declares. “Officially initiated.”

“Yup,” you grin, lacing your fingers through Nolan’s. “Now he’s ready for the tour.”

He lets you drag him outside, still wearing the slippers, though he shoots you a look that says he’s going to get payback later.

The sun is starting to set, painting the campus in soft pinks and golds. Students wander between buildings, laughter and music floating on the breeze. You point out everything—the library that always smells like coffee, the tree you studied under all last semester, the statue everyone rubs before exams for luck.

Nolan listens intently, smiling at your stories, occasionally asking questions just to hear you ramble more. At one point, he stops you mid-sentence, tugging you gently to face him.

“What?” you ask, heart fluttering.

He squeezes your hand, eyes soft in the fading light. “Nothing. Just… you look really happy here. And I love seeing it.”

Your chest warms at the words, and you lean up to kiss him again, slow and sweet, with the sun dipping low behind you.

You keep walking, hand in hand, the Minion slippers flopping with every step, and for once, the distance doesn’t feel so impossible. With Nolan here, in your world, it feels like maybe—just maybe—the two of you can have it all.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

yn_oward added two posts to her story!

seen by patriciooward, elbaoward, yourfriend1 and 450,000 others.

patriciooward : very rude to hang up on your brother earlier. but ill let it go…if i also can wear the slippers.

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : you have to come visit me first patito

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↳ patriciooward : oh. it’s happening little one🥸

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yourfriend1 : he deserves every aspect of the college experience:)

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↳ yn_oward : banana!!!!!!!!!

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↳ yourfriend1 : papoi!!!!!

elbaoward : oh this is just adorable. i could cry:,)

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↳ yn_oward : the only thing that would make my weekend better is you:')

liked by elbaoward

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You wake up to the sound of shrieking. Not panicked shrieking—game day shrieking.

At first, Nolan groans and tries to bury his face deeper into the pillow, arms still looped tightly around your waist. But then another door slams, someone yells, “WHO TOOK MY GREEN SKIRT?!” and he lifts his head, bleary-eyed and confused.

“What the hell is happening?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

You laugh, stretching in his arms before slipping out of bed. “Welcome to college football Saturday.”

By the time Nolan pulls himself up, the apartment is pure chaos. At least ten girls are already inside—your roommates, their friends, friends of friends—music blasting, mimosa glasses clinking, curling irons hissing. Someone’s painting glitter on someone else’s cheeks in the kitchen. Another girl is already tipsy, loudly proclaiming she’s “going to marry the quarterback.”

Nolan stands in the doorway of your bedroom, completely shell-shocked. “This is… a lot.”

You grin at him, holding out a glass. “Mimosa?”

He accepts it slowly, like it might explode. “It’s… 9:30 a.m.”

“Exactly,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek before dragging him back into your room. “Now, you have to look the part. You can’t just show up looking like you.”

“Like me?” he echoes, sipping the mimosa and grimacing slightly at how strong it is.

“Yeah,” you say, already digging through your drawers. “You need school colors. And, preferably, a shirt that looks like you’ve owned it for five years.”

He watches in amused horror as you toss random options onto the bed: a too-big vintage tee with your university logo, a green and orange striped rugby shirt, and—worst of all—a sequined crop top from a costume party that somehow ended up in your drawer.

“You’re joking,” Nolan says flatly, holding up the crop top.

You bite back a smile. “Okay, that one’s a joke. But the others are serious. Try them on.”

He gives you a look that says you’re impossible, but he humors you anyway, slipping the vintage tee over his head. It’s a little big, soft and worn, and when he pushes his hair back and looks at you, your heart stutters.

“That one,” you say immediately, grinning. “Perfect.”

“Perfectly ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

You step closer, smoothing the shirt over his chest, fixing the way it hangs on his shoulders. “No, you look hot. Like a frat boy, but hot.”

Nolan laughs, leaning down to kiss you quickly. “As long as I look hot to you.”

Before you can respond, one of your roommates bursts into the room without knocking, already halfway through her third mimosa. “OH MY GOD, HE’S WEARING SCHOOL COLORS! HE’S ONE OF US NOW!”

Within seconds, the rest of the girls crowd into the doorway, cheering and clapping like Nolan just got drafted into the NFL. Someone puts a foam finger on his hand, someone else drapes a beaded necklace around his neck, and suddenly your boyfriend is standing there in full game day gear, looking bewildered but amused.

“Do I get, like, a certificate or something?” he deadpans, which makes everyone scream louder.

You loop your arm through his, eyes sparkling. “No certificate. But you get to tailgate with us, and that’s basically the same thing.”

He lets himself be dragged out into the chaos, his hand finding yours as the girls chant your school’s fight song at the top of their lungs. And as you look up at him—smiling, relaxed, a little overwhelmed but still holding on tight—you realize he’s not just surviving the college world. He’s actually loving it, because it’s yours.

And for Nolan, that’s enough.

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The parking lot outside the stadium is a sea of tents, music, grills, and people in every shade of green and orange imaginable. The smell of burgers and sunscreen mixes in the air, and every few seconds someone starts a chant that half the crowd immediately joins in.

Nolan sticks close to you, hand firm around yours as he takes it all in, eyes wide. He’s been to paddocks filled with screaming fans, but this is different—messier, louder, more chaotic in a completely unfiltered way.

“So this is… tailgating,” he says slowly, watching a group of guys shotgun beers on top of a truck bed.

“This,” you reply proudly, tugging him toward your friends’ tent, “is college football tailgating. Completely different breed.”

The second you arrive, your roommates and their friends swarm. Someone shoves a Solo cup into Nolan’s hand before he can even protest, another girl insists he has to learn the fight song immediately, and someone else points dramatically at the beer pong table.

“Oh no,” he mutters, realizing too late what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” you laugh, already dragging him over. “If you want the full experience, you have to play at least one round.”

The table is sticky, the cups already half full of warm beer, and the crowd around it is loud enough to rattle your teeth. Nolan hesitates, clearly out of his element, but the chants of “NEW GUY! NEW GUY!” win. He sighs, shooting you a mock glare before picking up a ping pong ball.

And then—swish. Right into the cup.

The crowd erupts, your roommates screaming like he just hit the game-winning three-pointer. Nolan blinks, then grins at you, suddenly competitive. “Beginner’s luck?”

You arch a brow. “Or maybe you’ve secretly been training for this moment your whole life.”

He laughs, shoulders relaxing as he gets into it, sinking another shot while the crowd goes wild. By the end of the round, Nolan is practically a campus legend, with half your friends chanting his name and the other half trying to recruit him for the next game.

You’re still laughing when your phone buzzes with a text from Elba: look outside your tent.

You frown, glancing toward the edge of the crowd—and your heart almost stops.

Pato is striding toward you in a green jersey two sizes too big, a cooler slung over one shoulder like he’s been tailgating his whole life. Elba follows right behind him, already wearing school colors, carrying a tray of cupcakes.

You don’t even think. You scream, launching yourself at them both, nearly knocking the cooler out of Pato’s hands.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” you yell, hugging them so hard Elba squeals.

“Surprise!” she beams, kissing your cheek. “We couldn’t let you have all the fun without us.”

Pato grins, ruffling your hair. “And I wanted to see this legendary ‘college tailgate’ you never shut up about.”

The second your roommates realize who just showed up, chaos doubles. Someone actually drops their drink, someone else screams, “IS THAT PATO O’WARD?!” and suddenly Pato’s being mobbed like he’s a celebrity—which, well, he is.

Nolan makes his way over, clearly amused but also a little wary of how loud everything just got. You slip an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “I swear I didn’t know they were coming,” you murmur.

He kisses your temple, chuckling. “It’s okay. I like it. Makes sense that your siblings would show up in the most dramatic way possible.”

Pato hears that and claps Nolan on the back so hard he nearly spills his drink. “Siegel! Let’s see if you’re actually good at this beer pong thing or if my sister’s been hyping you up.”

Elba rolls her eyes, sliding between you and Nolan like a protective shield. “Don’t listen to him. Come with me—we’re going to get you face paint and a necklace.”

So now Nolan is standing at the pong table, facing off against Pato while half the tailgate cheers for one or the other. He’s wearing glitter stripes on his cheeks, two beaded necklaces in school colors, and the biggest grin you’ve seen on him in weeks.

Elba leans over, watching the chaos with you. “He fits in,” she says softly.

You nod, your heart swelling at the sight of him laughing with Pato, relaxed and alive in a world so different from his own. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “He really does.”

And as the sun climbs higher, the music gets louder, and your worlds collide under a cloud of glitter and laughter, you realize this is exactly what you’ve been missing.

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By the time you all make it to the stadium, the sidewalks are rivers of green and orange. The student section is already loud enough to rattle the concrete, and you can feel the bass of the marching band in your chest.

Nolan has been dragged along like a prize guest, one of your roommates perched on his arm while she explains the chants, Elba skipping ahead with face paint, and Pato hoisting the cooler over his shoulder like he’s training for a strongman competition.

“You weren’t kidding,” Nolan says as you press your tickets at the gate, his eyes darting to the crowd chanting before the game even starts. “This is… insane.”

“Welcome to game day,” you say proudly, lacing your fingers through his. “You wanted the full experience, remember?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire climb up the stands. When you finally reach your row in the student section, the noise swallows everything else. Your roommates are already dancing, Elba is handing out cupcakes like some fairy godmother, and Pato? He’s immediately leading the nearest group of strangers in a chant.

“Pato,” you groan, tugging on his jersey. “You don’t even go here!”

He just grins, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling louder. “DOESN’T MATTER, I’M IN SCHOOL SPIRIT NOW!”

Nolan laughs so hard he nearly spills the soda he’s been clutching like a lifeline. “He’s going to own this place in five minutes, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” you sigh, but you’re smiling too.

When the band marches in, the stadium erupts. Nolan jumps at the cannon fire, nearly jerking you into his lap. You giggle, patting his chest. “It’s tradition.”

“Your traditions are terrifying,” he mutters, but his arm stays wrapped securely around you, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip like it’s second nature.

As the game kicks off, your whole section is a storm—chanting, screaming, swaying, throwing arms around each other like lifelong friends. Nolan tries to keep up, but his timing is hilariously off, his lyrics wrong.

“Fight, fight, go green fight—” he shouts, only to stop mid-cheer when the crowd yells something completely different.

You double over laughing, clutching his arm. “Oh my god!”

He grins sheepishly, cheeks flushed but happy. “I’ll get it eventually!”

Pato, of course, notices. “HEY SIEGEL!” he bellows from two rows down. “You’re embarrassing my sister!”

You immediately slap him on the arm. “Shut up!”

But Nolan just smiles softly at you, leaning down to whisper so only you hear: “Doesn’t matter if I get it wrong. I’m here with you. That’s what matters.”

And just like that, your heart squeezes so hard you think it might burst.

By halftime, Nolan’s got nacho cheese on his fingers, glitter smeared on his cheek, and a necklace of school beads someone draped on him after his enthusiastic (and completely wrong) attempt at the fight song. He looks ridiculous and perfect all at once, and you can’t stop staring at him under the stadium lights.

The fourth quarter comes down to the wire, your section buzzing like electricity. Everyone’s standing on the bleachers, screaming until their voices crack. Nolan’s shouting too now, not even pretending to know the words—just yelling pure joy into the chaos, his arm tight around your shoulders.

When your team scores the game-winning touchdown, the stadium explodes. People are crying, hugging strangers, throwing popcorn in the air. Nolan spins you around before you can react, laughing so hard you’re dizzy, and presses a kiss to your forehead while the band blares the victory song.

“Okay,” he yells over the noise, “I get it now. This is amazing.”

You beam up at him, breathless. “Told you!”

And when you finally tumble out of the stadium hours later, voices gone, glitter in your hair, your hand tucked in Nolan’s, you realize he hasn’t just survived the chaos—he’s become part of it.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The walk from the stadium to frat row feels like a victory parade. Music thunders out of every house, the sidewalks are packed with students in face paint and glitter, and someone’s already climbing a lamppost while a crowd cheers them on.

You’ve got one hand locked with Nolan’s, the other hooked through Pato’s arm as he carries the momentum from the game.

“Frat party,” Pato announces like it’s a sacred pilgrimage. “It’s a rite of passage.”

Nolan glances down at you, his brows raised. “Do I even… qualify?”

You squeeze his hand, grinning. “You’re my boyfriend. That makes you VIP.”

The party is absolute chaos from the moment you step inside. Beer pong tables line the hallway, the living room floor is sticky, and the bass from a half-broken speaker rattles the windows. A chorus of “WOOO!” erupts when your group walks in, like the crowd already knows you just came from a win.

“Alright, Siegel,” Pato claps Nolan on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. “You’re on my team. We’re running this pong table.”

“I—what?” Nolan sputters, but before he can argue, he’s being handed a red cup and shoved toward the table.

You lean against the counter with your friends, laughing so hard your stomach hurts as you watch him try to adjust. His stance is way too technical, like he’s approaching it as an engineering problem instead of a party game.

“Babe,” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth, “you’re not setting up a pit stop—just throw it!”

But somehow, whether by luck or sheer beginner’s magic, the ball arcs perfectly and lands in the cup. The room erupts. Nolan’s ears go red as strangers slap him on the back and start chanting his name.

He glances at you, sheepish but proud, and you blow him a kiss.

Pato, of course, thrives in this environment. He’s chest-bumping frat boys, starting chants, and at one point climbs onto the couch to lead the entire room in a victory song. When someone shouts “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!” he doesn’t even hesitate.

“Elba’s going to kill him,” you mutter to your roommate, but you’re doubled over laughing anyway.

Meanwhile, Nolan finds himself cornered by a group of students asking rapid-fire questions.

“So, you’re actually an IndyCar driver?”

“Wait, like, a real one? With sponsors?”

“Dude, do you get to keep the car?”

He looks overwhelmed, glancing at you across the room. You swoop in, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Yes, he’s real. No, he doesn’t get to keep the car. And no, he will not race your friend’s Honda Civic.”

“Aw, man,” someone groans.

The party keeps rolling—music, laughter, glitter on Nolan’s hoodie. At one point, someone hands him a cowboy hat, and he actually puts it on, tipping it down with mock seriousness that makes the whole room scream.

Later, you drag him out onto the porch for some air. The noise muffles behind you, the night warm and buzzing with leftover energy from the game. Nolan leans against the railing, his arm wrapping automatically around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Okay,” he admits, smiling down at you, “I think I might actually like this whole college thing.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat under the thrum of the music. “Told you it was the full experience.”

From inside, you can hear Pato starting yet another chant—probably leading the entire frat in karaoke by now.

Nolan kisses the top of your head, soft and unhurried, like the chaos inside can’t touch the bubble you’ve made out here. “As long as you’re here, I’ll take it all.”

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yn_oward

liked by patriciooward, elbaoward, nolansiegel and 575,000 others. yn_oward : woke up with 890 drunk selfies of pato and nolan in my phone and they are now frat celebrities. id say it was a successful game day at the u 💚🧡🤍

tagged : nolansiegel, elbaoward and patriciooward

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view 57,000 other comments.

nolansiegel : i do not recall approving of any of those 890 selfies to be posted

liked by yn_oward and nolansiegel

↳ yn_oward : the internet deserves to see frat king nolan‼️

liked by nolansiegel and patriciooward

patriciooward : correction. FRAT PRINCE nolan. king is already taken 😎👑

elbaoward: frat celebrities and my sister was the baddest girl in the room 💅

↳ yourusername: love u hermanaaaa

↳ nolansiegel: facts.

patriciooward : miami welcomed us with open arms (and a lot of beer) 🍻

↳ yourusername: understatement of the century.

↳ fratbro123: pato for president of the frat??

davidmalukas : damn everyone is there IM ON MY WAY GUYS

liked by patriciooward, nolansiegel and yn_oward

lando : never thought i’d see the day pato & nolan were frat boys 😭😭

↳ patriciooward : don’t knock it till you try it bro

↳ yourusername: lando would last 5 mins at a frat party.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You wake up to the faint sound of groaning and the sharp smell of cheap beer clinging to the air. Your head is pounding, but the real chaos isn’t inside your brain—it’s outside your bedroom.

You shuffle out in an oversized hoodie, hair a mess, and nearly trip over a stray shoe (you’re pretty sure it doesn’t even belong to anyone who lives here). Pato is sprawled on the couch like a starfish, one leg hanging off, an empty bag of chips resting on his chest like a trophy. His mouth is slightly open, and there’s a faint snore. Someone—probably Nolan—has draped a blanket over him, but it’s only covering one arm.

Nolan himself is in the kitchen, looking painfully domestic with bedhead and sweatpants, squinting down at his phone as if reading takes all his energy. “Morning,” he says in a raspy voice, giving you a small smile. “Thinking about breakfast. I might need your help walking, though.”

Elba is already up and moving like the saint she is. She’s got her hair pulled back in a bun and is carrying a trash bag in one hand, scooping up red Solo cups and discarded beer cans like she’s running post-disaster relief. “I swear, you guys are worse than teenagers,” she mutters, though her tone is more amused than annoyed.

You pad over to Nolan, resting your chin against his shoulder, and he leans into you instinctively, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We should get breakfast sandwiches,” you whisper, half for him and half for yourself, and his head bobs in quick agreement.

“McDonald’s hash browns,” he mumbles, eyes closing as if the thought alone could cure his hangover.

From the couch, Pato groans dramatically and throws an arm over his face. “Bring me back a McGriddle or I’ll die right here.”

Elba rolls her eyes but tucks a blanket properly over him before looking back at you. “I’ll keep cleaning. Just get the boys fed.”

So you and Nolan, both a little wobbly, pull on sweatshirts and sunglasses and head out into the morning light, holding hands like you’re the only two people alive. The drive-thru line is long, but it doesn’t matter—you’re curled into the passenger seat, Nolan’s hand warm on your thigh, laughing about blurry memories of last night.

By the time you get back, Elba has the apartment looking halfway normal again. You set the bags of food on the counter, and like magic, Pato stumbles in, hair sticking up, eyes half-shut, but with enough energy to grab his sandwich first.

It’s messy, chaotic, and a little loud, but sitting there with Nolan pressed against your side, Elba scolding Pato gently, and the table piled high with greasy breakfast food, you can’t help but think it’s perfect.

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The table looks like a battlefield, but in the best way. McDonald’s bags torn open, hash browns disappearing at record speed, orange juice cartons lined up between empty water bottles. You’re curled into Nolan’s side at the table, your legs tangled with his under the chair, still in that oversized hoodie that smells faintly of his cologne.

Elba sits across from you, hair messy but her posture still somehow graceful, sipping black coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. She side-eyes Pato, who’s hunched over his sandwich like it’s the most important mission of his life. “You’re cleaning the bathroom later,” she tells him pointedly.

Pato lifts his finger, as if to argue, but just groans instead and takes another bite. Nolan snickers quietly, leaning down so his lips brush your ear. “He’s braver than me. I wouldn’t dare argue with Elba right now.”

You stifle a laugh, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. There’s a strange kind of softness in the morning light—your messy little group gathered around the table, greasy breakfast food in hand, the chaos of last night reduced to funny stories and blurry photos.

Elba starts scrolling through her phone, shaking her head. “Look at this,” she says, turning the screen toward you—one of the blurry selfies Nolan and Pato took, their faces squished together, eyes half-shut. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, Nolan joining in right behind you.

He watches you more than the photo, though. His arm is draped across the back of your chair, thumb idly stroking your shoulder, eyes soft and hazy but full of something warm. Like he’s storing this exact moment away—the mess, the laughter, the morning-after comfort of family.

When you catch him staring, you smile, your chest tightening in that way it always does with him. “What?” you tease gently.

“Nothing,” he says, but he shakes his head with a little grin, squeezing your knee under the table. “Just… yeah. Nothing.”

Elba stands with her coffee, muttering about trash bags and Febreze, Pato groans and collapses face-first onto the couch again, and the apartment hums with quiet, sleepy life.

And you, tucked against Nolan’s side, surrounded by the people you love most, feel like you’ve found something golden in the middle of the hangover chaos.

The night before might’ve been wild and blurry, but this—this morning—is what you’ll remember.