#yt22 fluff

INSTAGRAM

tokyoeats ✓

liked by user1, fan6, user9 and 1,928 others

tokyoeats, Stopped by Tsukimi Table again this week! Cozy little spot tucked in Minato, co-owner Y.T. was helping in the kitchen tonight! Insanely good food as always!!

view comments

yukilover22, CO-OWNER???

user5, love their food! always the best service as well! ❤️❤️

thatf1girl: wait a damn minute. i recognize that face.

user1, god i love their shit man, just looking at their menu makes my mouth water — user9, fuckkkk ikr?? and the owner is hot asf — user1, ok buddy... she's married — user9, WHAT??? SINCE UH WHEN???

load more...

══════════════════════

TWITTER

══════════════════════

INSTAGRAM

yukitsunodalover

liked by f1wags, pierregasly, f1gossippage and 1,625 others

yukitsunodalover, hello... YUKI IS MARRIED????? WHAT THE FUCK???

view comments

f1fandom, NO WAY HE’S BEEN MARRIED THIS WHOLE TIME????

landonutz, he really said eat, race, love, MARRY.

pierregaslyslefttoenail, we have lost another one girls.

yukisramenwife, do you think she calls him chef 😭😭😭😭😭

f1wags, 👀

ilovecharles, WHY IS PIERRE LIKING??? — verstappenlover, OMG DO U THINK HE WAS AT THE WEDDING???

load more...

══════════════════════

TEXTS

══════════════════════

INSTAGRAM

yukitsunoda0511

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername, oscarpiastri and 293,761 others

yukitsunoda0511, from kids, to teens, to adults, together forever 🤍

view comments

f1, THE INTERNET IS ON FIRE

pierregasly, finally bro 😭😭😭

tsunodasimp, this hurts more than Monza 2020.

danielricciardo, about damn time you fed the fans something real 🍜

landonorris, i'll just let everyone know, the food at the wedding was BOMB

redbullracing, “Chef Tsunoda 👨🏻‍🍳🔥 congratulations!”

f1fan, HE’S MARRIED HE’S MARRIED HE’S MARRIED

maxverstappen1, about time.

Spoiler: No.

It happened on an FP1 Friday. The morning was chaotic, and Yuki was late. Not just standard F1-traffic late, but late-late. When he finally jogged into the hospitality area, he looked completely exhausted, half-asleep, and running on pure, unadulterated inertia. More noticeably, he was completely empty-handed. No backpack. No helmet. No neatly packed cooler bag.

A mild panic began to ripple through the Visa Cash App RB side of the garage.

But when Yuki finally stumbled into his driver's room, he froze. His backpack was already sitting perfectly on his chair. His helmet was prepped. And sitting squarely on top of his gear was his familiar insulated lunchbox, with a small, neatly folded sticky note attached to the handle. It wasn't overly sappy or poetic. It just read:

"Eat properly. I’ll see you later."

The garage fell into a sudden, collective silence. Engineers, mechanics, and PR officers all stared at the neatly arranged gear, their sleep-deprived brains slowly connecting the dots.

"Wait, he didn't arrive with that," one of his mechanics whispered.

"Then who...?"

"He definitely didn't cook that this morning," his race engineer pointed out, eyeing the intricate bento box that Yuki was already unzipping. "Or yesterday."

Someone at the back of the garage finally murmured the realization out loud. "So... someone’s been cooking for him this whole time."

Yuki, thoroughly distracted and already chewing on a perfectly seasoned piece of tamagoyaki, blinked up at his team. "Yeah," he said, entirely casually. "My person does."

My. Person.

You were a chef. Not necessarily world-famous, but you worked hard in the paddock, managing the catering for one of the hospitality suites. And you knew Yuki better than anyone. You knew that despite his profound love for food, the stress of a race weekend often made him forget to eat entirely. You knew he always performed better, felt better, and smiled more when someone took the time to feed him properly.

So, you did. No grand announcements. No stealing the credit when the grid praised his culinary skills. It was just love, quietly packaged in Tupperware and thermos flasks.

Later that afternoon, while Yuki was debriefing, one of his trainers gently opened the lunchbox to check his macros for the day. It wasn't just "random food." It was his absolute favorite meal, precisely adjusted for the carbohydrates and proteins he needed for a high-G-force track. The vegetables were cut beautifully. The balance was flawless. It was a meal made by someone who studied his schedule, knew his body, and knew his heart.

His trainer closed the lid with a soft sigh. "This isn’t just food," he muttered to the head mechanic. "This is care."

Much later, when the chaos of FP2 had finally settled and the sun began to dip below the grandstands, Yuki found you. You were wiping down a stainless steel counter in the quiet of the catering kitchen when you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder.

"I didn't even say goodbye this morning," he mumbled, his voice thick with leftover exhaustion, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You leaned back into him, resting your hands over his. "You were asleep, Y/N. I wasn't going to wake you just to say goodbye."

"You still packed my lunch."

You smiled, turning slightly to press a kiss to his cheek. "Always."

Yuki’s grip tightened just a fraction, his tone shifting into something incredibly soft and sincere. "I eat better when you’re taking care of me."

"I know," you whispered back. "That's why I do it."

From that Friday onward, the narrative in the paddock completely shifted. Nobody ever said, “Yuki cooks for himself” again. Instead, whenever he walked into the garage with a perfectly arranged meal that smelled like heaven, the team would just smile knowingly and say, “Yuki is very loved.”

And you kept cooking. Because you loved your craft, because seeing him eat happily was your favorite thing in the world, and because, to you, feeding him was exactly what it meant to love him.

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

yukitsunoda0511 : you mess up a loaf of bread ONE TIME and it follows you everywhere

liked by yourusername and pierregasly

↳ yourusername : you shouldn’t have let it die then!

liked by pierregasly and yukitsunoda0511

pierregasly : ah yes, my sister looking like an angel in every photo while yuki commits war crimes in your kitchen

liked by yourusername, kikagomes and yukitsunoda0511

↳ yukitsunoda0511 : IT WAS ONE TIME STOP BRINGING IT UP

liked by pierregasly, yourusername and kikagomes

↳ kikagomes : no it smelled like something crawled out of hell babes sorry

liked by pierregasly, yourusername and yukitsunoda0511

kikagomes : miss you so much my beautiful angel <3

liked by yourusername and pierregasly

↳ yourusername : and i miss you even more than that!

liked by pierregasly and kikagomes

charles_leclerc : the pastries… i am on my way. please keep two aside for me. maybe three. four is fine too.

liked by yourusername and pierregasly

↳ yourusername : charles you live in monaco

liked by charles_leclerc and pierregasly

↳ charles_leclerc : yes but i have a scooter

liked by yourusername

estebanocon : the pastries look incredible, as usual. i will be ordering a box for the next race weekend!

liked by yourusername and flavy.barla

↳ yourusername : anything for my favorite tall frenchman

liked by estebanocon

↳ pierregasly : what the hell

↳ isackhadjar : hello????

↳ yourusername : i said TALL

liked by estebanocon, isackhadjar and lando

alexandrasaintmleux : becs and i will be by this week! can't wait to see you 💋

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ iamrebeccad : sooooo excited!!

liked by yourusername and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yourusername : i will have all your faves readyyyyyy💋

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and iamrebeccad

danielricciardo : yn gassssslyyyyyyyyy

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : yes dr3?

liked by danielricciardo

↳ danielricciardo : the black dress? ma'am we are family friendly here.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : sorry my king, i had to serve.

liked by danielricciardo

↳ danielricciardo : served. delivered. catered.

liked by yourusername

↳ username005 : im so happy her and daniel r still so close

yukitsunoda0511 : next photo dump will have my PERFECT sourdough. just wait.

liked by yourusername and pierregasly

↳ yourusername : we will believe it when we see it darling

liked by yukitsunoda0511

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

You’re convinced you’re still dreaming when you hear the knock on the front door. It’s 5:45 in the morning. The Milan streets are still quiet, the sky just beginning to soften from black to watercolor blue. You’re balancing a tray of unbaked croissants on your hip as you unlock the bakery, already planning the day in your head—until the door swings open and an out of breath Yuki Tsunoda nearly trips inside.

“Good morning!” he beams, cheeks flushed, hair messy, wearing a hoodie and joggers like he sprinted the whole way here.

You blink at him. “Yuki, what are you doing here? I thought you were already on your way to the next race.”

“I was,” he says simply, like it explains everything. He pushes past you, heading straight for the kitchen like he owns the place. “But then I remembered you said you were scared for the rush today. So!” He claps his hands once. “I help.”

“You have a flight,” you remind him, following behind.

“In four hours,” he shrugs. “Plenty of time to whisk something.”

That makes you laugh, though you try to hide it. “You don’t even like whisking.”

“I do now.”

He says it with the kind of sincerity that makes your stomach warm.

You place the croissant tray on the counter and watch as Yuki washes his hands, ties one of your extra aprons around his waist, and starts searching for the big stainless steel mixing bowl.

You cross your arms. “Are you going to tell me the real reason you’re here?”

He doesn’t look up, but you see the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s for practice,” he says quickly. “If I’m going to be your sous-chef someday, I need to train.”

Your heart stutters—he always jokes like that, as if he expects to still be here years from now, still showing up before sunrise, still working beside you.

But you pretend not to read into it.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Of course. Definitely not because you’re bored. Or lonely. Or…”

He finally looks up, eyes warm and guilty. “Don’t say it.”

“Hopelessly attached?” you finish anyway, raising a brow.

He groans, cheeks going red. “You sound like Pierre.”

You grin. “Pierre knows you too well.”

“He talks too much,” Yuki mutters, pouring flour into the bowl a little too aggressively.

You step beside him, brushing flour off his hoodie sleeve. He freezes for half a second, as if your touch short-circuits him, then clears his throat and pretends to focus on the dough.

“It’s fine,” he says, softer. “I just… wanted to help. And see you before I left.”

The admission floats in the warm kitchen air, delicate and unspoken, like powdered sugar. You let it settle.

By 6:30, the bakery is alive. The ovens hum, pastries bake in neat golden rows, and the air fills with the buttery scent of croissants and sweetness of brioche. Your little bell above the door rings nonstop as the usual commuters flood in.

And Yuki—F1 driver, adrenaline addict, supposed to be on plane Yuki—is running the register like he was born for customer service.

“Good morning! One almond croissant? Excellent choice.”

“Here is your cappuccino! Please ignore the foam design, I am still learning."

“No ma’am, I am not her boyfriend—YET. I mean—No! Sorry—Enjoy your pastry!”

You smack his arm as you pass by, carrying a tray of fresh tarts. “Stop telling strangers you're almost my boyfriend!”

“I didn’t say almost!” he protests, face a shade of pink you didn’t know he could achieve. “They just assumed!”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You like it,” he says under his breath.

And unfortunately for your dignity—he’s right.

By 8:45, the chaos calms. You and Yuki are alone again in the kitchen, the sun now fully peeking through the windows, painting everything in warm gold.

Yuki leans back against the counter, exhausted but glowing with pride. “We survived.”

“You did great,” you say, handing him a brioche roll as a reward. “Even if you traumatized two old ladies.”

“They asked if we were dating! What was I supposed to do?!”

“Not choke.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but he’s smiling. He always smiles around you.

He takes a bite of the roll, closes his eyes, and hums happily. “This is so good. You’re amazing.”

You don’t know if he means the pastry or you. Maybe both.

He suddenly checks his phone and his expression drops. “Ah—I really have to go. My flight boards soon.”

You try not to show how much you’ll miss him. “Okay. Go. Before Laurent has a heart attack when you don’t show up.”

Yuki shrugs off the apron and hangs it back on the hook. But instead of leaving, he steps closer—so close you can smell flour on his skin and sugar on his sweater.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For letting me be here. I always feel… calmer when I’m with you.”

Your chest tightens, your breath catching. “Yuki…”

He smiles, small and soft, like he’s afraid of pushing too much. “I’ll text you when I land, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hesitates for just a second before lifting a hand and brushing flour off your cheek—the same way you did to him a dozen times this morning. His touch is gentle. Lingering. Too lingering. Then he clears his throat, turns, and heads for the door before either of you say something you can’t take back.

The door closes with a soft jingle of the bell. You breathe out a shaky exhale.

You remember the first time you saw him.

Pierre had dragged you into the AlphaTauri garage during preseason testing, introducing you to engineers and mechanics while you held a box of homemade cookies like a peace offering.

And there he was.

A tiny Japanese rookie with wide eyes, messy hair, and more confidence than any 21-year-old should have. He looked at you, then immediately at the cookies.

“You’re Pierre’s sister?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you baked these?”

“Yes.”

He nodded seriously. “I’m going to like you.”

You laughed then. You’re still laughing now.

Because you had no idea—no idea at all—that four years later, he’d be the boy showing up at your bakery before sunrise, apron tied around his waist, hands covered in flour, heart full of something he still can’t quite say out loud. Something you’re starting to feel too.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

Your alarm hasn’t even gone off when your phone vibrates loudly against your nightstand. You groan, burrow deeper into your blanket, and blindly reach for it—only to see Yuki Tsunoda flashing across the screen with a FaceTime icon.

You sit up immediately.

When you answer, the image that appears is half Yuki’s face and half the ceiling of what looks like a hotel room. His hair is sticking up in five different directions, his jacket half-zipped, and he looks entirely too awake for someone who should be jet lagged.

“Good morning!” he practically shouts, way too cheerful.

You squint at him through sleep-heavy eyes. “Why are you yelling?”

“I’m excited,” he says, adjusting the phone so you can finally see his whole face. “And I wanted to see you before the race.”

Your heart melts instantly, traitorously. “Shouldn’t you be in a briefing or something?”

“I was,” he says, waving a hand. “I left early.”

“You LEFT—Yuki!”

“What? I told them I needed to take a very important call.”

You pretend to glare. “You told your engineers that you needed to FaceTime a baker?”

“My favorite baker,” he corrects.

The blush that rises on your cheeks is instant.

“Fine,” you mumble, smiling despite yourself. “Hi.”

He brightens even more, if that’s possible. “Hi.”

For a second you just look at each other—him sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in another country, you sitting cross-legged in bed with messy hair and sleep-warm cheeks—and it feels like something sweet and small and precious.

“So,” he says, leaning closer to the screen. “Do I get a good luck speech?”

You laugh. “A speech?”

“Yes. Something inspiring. Something that will make me faster into Turn One.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice softens. “Okay. Good luck today, Yuki. Drive clean, be smart, be safe, and… if you do well—”

He sits up straighter, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“You’ll get your very own special at the bakery.”

His gasp is dramatic. “Like… my own pastry?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “Only if you earn it.”

He grins. “I accept the challenge."

You shake your head, fighting another blush. “I wish I was there.”

“Me too,” he says quietly—almost too quietly. “It’s weird not seeing you before the race.”

Your heart betrays you again. “Be safe for me, okay?”

“For you? Anything.”

You swallow down the flutter in your chest. “I should let you go. Pierre’s probably yelling because he can't find you.”

“He always is,” Yuki sighs. “Okay. I’ll text you after. And—” He hesitates. “Thank you. For this.”

“For what?”

“For making my mornings better.”

You don’t recover for a solid ten seconds. Then he blows you a tiny, ridiculous kiss before you can respond, and the screen goes black.

You fall back onto your pillow, covering your face with your hands. You’re in trouble.

After a shower and some effort, you decide on something comfortable for the bakery: leggings, sneakers, and— Your eyes drift to the hoodie draped over your chair.

Yuki’s hoodie.

He left it behind one night months ago after attempting (and failing) to bake a roll cake. When you tried to return it, he just shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “Nah. Keep it. It looks better on you.”

You slipped it on now, and it smells faintly like vanilla, citrus shampoo, and something warm you can’t name. It fits you too big. It’s perfect.

After unlocking the doors, you start your usual routine—lights on, mixers humming, ovens preheating. You begin sliding fresh pastries into the front display case when you wander back into the kitchen to grab the brioche sheeter.

That’s when you see it.

A folded sticky note stuck to the inside of the cabinet door.

Your name is written on it in Yuki’s unmistakable messy handwriting.

You peel it off, smiling already.

“YN, If you are reading this, I did something VERY important. Check the back room. Trust me. —Yuki (the soon to be sourdough master)”

You laugh so loudly it echoes off the tiled walls.

In the backroom, sure enough, sits a neat glass jar—labeled in big sharpie YUKI’S REDEMPTION STARTER. There’s a little sticky note taped to the lid with a badly drawn flexing bicep. You shake your head, amused and absurdly fond.

You open the jar, check the bubbles, and whisper, “Okay, little guy. Let’s help you grow,” before feeding it a bit of flour.

And you swear the starter bubbles happier.

When the bakery opens, customers begin to filter in, and soon enough you’re running around as usual—refilling croissants, pulling trays from the oven, and ringing up regulars.

An older woman you’ve known for years approaches the counter with a smile.

“Good morning, darling,” she says warmly. “Everything smells divine, as always.”

“Good morning,” you smile back. “What can I get you?”

“A raspberry tart, please.” She pauses, eyes flicking to your hoodie. “Where’s your cute boyfriend today? The little one. The race car driver."

You choke on air.

“Oh—Yuki? He’s not my— He’s just— He’s at a race!”

Her eyebrows lift knowingly. “Mhm. I’ll bet he is.”

You hand her the tart, still flustered. “Have a nice day!”

“You too, sweetheart,” she says with a wink. “Tell him I said hello.”

You groan as she leaves, face hot. Of course everyone thinks Yuki is your boyfriend. Of course.

Around noon, just after the lunch rush ends, the front door swings open—and in come three women who bring sunshine with them. Kika, Alexandra, and Rebecca.

“HI!” Kika announces, already moving to hug you. “We brought gossip.”

Alexandra sets down a tote bag. “And we want pastries.”

Rebecca laughs. “And we want updates. Specifically about a certain very small, very cute driver.”

You blink. “I—what? No. Absolutely not.”

Kika gasps dramatically. “SHE’S BLUSHING.”

You slap a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED and usher them inside as they giggle.

You bring a tray of assorted pastries to the table and sit with them, already knowing you won’t survive this interrogation.

Rebecca nudges you. “So… Yuki.”

Alexandra leans her chin on her hand. “He calls you every morning.”

“He does not,” you protest weakly.

“He does,” Kika confirms. “And we’ve all seen him wearing that stupidly proud smile afterward.”

You groan into your hands. “We’re just friends.”

Rebecca smirks. “Friends who make pastries together at 5 a.m., right?”

Alexandra adds, “Friends who look at each other like a soft focus romance film.”

Kika gasps. “Friends who have MATCHING RINGS!”

“Kika!” you yelp, half laughing. “It’s not like that!”

“Darling,” she says sweetly, “it IS like that.”

You can’t stop the smile spreading across your face. Your cheeks burn. Your heart flutters.

“I just… really like him,” you admit softly. “A lot.”

They all squeal at once. Even Rebecca, who pretends she doesn’t squeal.

Kika hugs you. “He adores you.”

Alexandra squeezes your hand. “And he’s good for you.”

Rebecca lifts her coffee cup. “To YN and Yuki. The slowest slow burn in history.”

You roll your eyes but clink your mug with theirs anyway, warmth blooming in your chest—the kind of warmth that feels like belonging.

When the bakery finally closes and you clean up the kitchen, you check on the sourdough starter one more time—bubbling away happily.

You snap a photo of it and send it to Yuki.

Your redemption starter is alive and thriving. Also, congratulations. When you get back, you’re officially in charge of all the bread.

He replies almost instantly—even though he should be in the middle of post race press chaos.

YES. I AM READY. I WILL BE THE BREAD KING. Also I miss you.

You stare at the last message for a long moment.

I miss you too.

You set your phone down, hand over your fluttering chest. You’re so, so doomed.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

The sun hasn’t fully risen when you reach your bakery, the sky still tinted that soft indigo shade right before morning. You’re halfway through fishing your keys from your pocket when you notice a familiar figure sitting on the steps by the door—hood up, backpack at his side, legs stretched out like a sleepy guard dog. Yuki.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps.

His whole face lights up, bright and warm and too soft for this early. “You’re late,” he says, even though you’re right on time.

You stop in front of him, hands on your hips. “Yuki, it’s 5:45 in the morning.”

“Exactly.” He stands, brushing off his hoodie. “Perfect time for bread.”

You unlock the door and shake your head. “You know what? I should just give you a key at this point.”

You mean it as a joke. But the way he freezes tells you everything. His eyes go wide. His breath catches. He looks… hopeful.

“Oh,” you say, stomach flipping, suddenly very aware of what you’ve implied. “I didn’t— I mean—”

He breaks into a shy smile, looking down at his shoes. “I would… take it. If you offered.”

Your heart does cartwheels. “We’ll… think about that later,” you whisper, cheeks warm.

He grins.

The second the kitchen lights flick on, Yuki rushes toward the backroom.

“The starter!” he shouts.

You laugh as you follow. “Good morning to you too!”

“I said good morning already,” he insists, pulling the jar out like it’s a newborn child. “Look! It survived!”

“It’s thriving,” you say. “Probably because you wrote it a motivational note.”

He ignores this. “We must bake. Now. Before I leave again and Pierre tells the press again.”

“He wouldn’t—actually, he absolutely would,” you say, grabbing the flour.

You begin measuring ingredients, walking him through each step.

“Okay,” you say, “first, we mix. Gently.”

He plunges his hands into the dough like he’s trying to strangle it.

“No—no—gently, Yuki!”

“I AM being gentle!”

“You’re kneading it like it owes you money.”

He huffs, cheeks puffed, then tries again—this time softer, slower. His hands move intentionally, flour dusting across his fingers. You step behind him to correct his grip, sliding your hands over his. He goes still. So do you.

The only sound is the soft squelch of dough and both of your breaths suddenly tangled in the same space.

“Like this,” you murmur near his ear, guiding his hands.

You feel him shiver.

“O-Okay,” he says, voice cracking adorably.

You step away before you do something stupid, clearing your throat and pretending your heart isn’t slamming against your ribs.

After the dough rises and bakes, you pull the loaf from the oven—and it’s… beautiful.

Golden. Airy. Crisp.

You hold it up proudly. “You did it!”

He beams like you handed him a world championship.

“I am the Bread King,” he declares.

“You are.”

“And the Yuki Special…” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “A sourdough grilled cheese.”

You pause. “With what cheese?”

“All the cheese.”

You laugh. “Perfect.”

The morning rush is smooth with Yuki helping—surprisingly smooth.

He works the prep counter with surprising precision, making sandwiches, plating pastries, handing out lattes with that small satisfied smile when a customer compliments the bread.

Meanwhile you run the register and restock the case, the two of you weaving around each other in a comfortable rhythm. Sometimes brushing shoulders. Sometimes sharing looks that linger too long.

It feels… natural. Like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. The bell above the door jingles. Pierre walks in. He stops dead.

His eyes land on Yuki—wearing an apron, holding a tray of sourdough slices, humming to himself.

Pierre groans dramatically. “Oh god. Not again.”

Yuki looks up, cheerful. “Bonjour!”

“Don’t bonjour me,” Pierre says, crossing his arms. “You’re supposed to be recovering from the race, not working at a second job.”

“I’m training,” Yuki defends. “For my new position as bakery co-owner.”

Pierre mutters something in French that sounds like he’s in love and it’s disgusting, then turns to you.

“You’re enabling him.”

You smile sweetly. “Someone has to.”

Pierre sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t with you two.”

But he orders three pastries anyway and stays to chat until the afternoon.

By the time you close the bakery, the sky is streaked in pink and orange.

You and Yuki clean in comfortable silence—sweeping, wiping down counters, humming to whatever playlist is playing over the speakers.

When you finally switch off the lights, you stand by the door, nerves fluttering low in your stomach.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Um… do you want to come over? For takeout. And maybe a movie?”

His head snaps up so fast you worry he’ll strain something. “Yes.”

You blink. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Yes,” he says again, stepping closer. “I want to.”

Your heart melts all over again.

Your apartment is cozy and warm, and Yuki drops onto your couch like he’s been there a thousand times before.

He scrolls through the menu on your phone.

“Sushi?” he asks, glancing at you with hopeful eyes.

You smile. “Obviously.”

When the food arrives, you eat on the couch, legs tangled accidentally-on-purpose. He steals pieces of your roll. You flick a grain of rice at him. He tries to feed you a piece and misses completely.

You both laugh until your stomachs hurt.

At some point, you settle against him, head on his shoulder, his arm draped around you without hesitation.

On the screen, the movie plays softly.

Beside you, Yuki is warm, steady, and real.

You feel his chin rest lightly on your hair.

“Today was perfect,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It was.”

You don’t know who leans in first. Or who shifts closer. Or who breathes out in that soft, content way. But by the time the credits roll, you’re curled into him like you’ve always belonged there—and neither of you move to change that. Not now. Not ever.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

yourusername

liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly, kikagomes, lando and 1,450,000 others.

yourusername : cannot visit the grid without bringing 10 tons of pastries with me 😇

tagged : pierregasly & yukitsunoda0511

—

user has limited comments on this post.

maxverstappen1 : and we thank you for it

liked by yourusername

lando : i ate like 10 croissants

liked by yourusername

kellypiquet : pretty girl 🤍

liked by yourusername

f1 : still dreaming about the berry tarts 😭 thank you yn!

liked by yourusername

yukitsunoda0511 : 🥐❤️

liked by yourusername

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

The morning starts like any other: you’re unlocking the bakery door, half expecting to see Yuki leaning against the brick wall with two iced coffees in hand. He’s been doing that more and more lately — showing up before sunrise as if he simply can’t start his day without seeing you first.

But today, he doesn’t even wait for you to step inside. The moment you push the door open, he slips in behind you with a practically vibrating excitement, eyes already shining.

“Yuki,” you laugh, hanging your keys on the hook. “You’re here early.”

“I knew today was special,” he says, puffing out his chest. “I could feel it in my soul.”

You snort as you turn on the lights. “Well, your soul’s right. We’re not opening today.”

He freezes.

“Wait— what? Why? Is something wrong?” His face drops so quickly it’s almost comical.

You shake your head and lean against the counter. “I’m coming to the race.”

Silence. Then— A yelp. Not just a yelp — a full-body explosion of joy.

“YOU’RE COMING?! Actually coming?! Like— really? Not backing out? Not changing your mind last minute?”

You grin at him. “Yes. I’m going. And since I’m going, I'm bringing pastries.”

Yuki blinks.

“Pastries,” he echoes. “How many pastries?”

“All of them.”

He stares for a moment… and then slaps both hands onto the prep table.

“Bring it on."

For the next several hours, it’s pure, ridiculous chaos. Yuki dumps flour on the counter like he’s salting a driveway. You’re trying to organize batches, but Yuki keeps sneaking spoonfuls of custard.

He drops a tray of macarons and looks at you with the most devastated expression.

He steals one of your aprons — the pink one with embroidered strawberries — and insists he “feels more powerful this way.”

He challenges you to a competition on who can shape the prettiest brioche knot (you win, but he insists he let you).

At one point, he dips his finger into the chocolate ganache, tastes it, and immediately tries to dip it again until you smack his hand.

And throughout all of it, the closeness builds in tiny, electric moments: His fingers brushing yours as you pass him a whisk. The way he stands too close when reading a recipe off your phone. The butter on your cheek he wipes off with his thumb — slowly, gently, eyes lingering too long.

Around noon, the kitchen smells like a dream: warm sugar, flaky pastry, caramelizing fruit, freshly baked bread. Your display fridge is bursting despite the fact you aren’t even opening.

Yuki leans against the counter, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens.

“When Pierre sees how much we baked,” he says, “he’s going to say it’s because I love you.”

You freeze only for a second — but Yuki notices. His ears turn pink, but he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t laugh it off. He just holds your stare for a long moment.

Then he clears his throat very loudly.

“ANYWAY! We should pack the cars!”

It takes both of your trunks and your back seats to fit everything.

Boxes labeled for every team member. Boxes for crew. Boxes for media teams. Spares for whoever Yuki inevitably decides “looks hungry.”

He insists on carrying the heaviest ones even though you tell him he should not overexert himself before the race.

He flexes dramatically in response.

By the time you finish, you’re both covered in flour, sugar, and tiny flecks of chocolate.

“Perfect,” Yuki says proudly. “We look like real bakers.”

“You look like a mess.”

“That’s the same thing.”

When you pull into the lot, Yuki immediately parks next to you, hops out of his car, and jogs to yours so he can open your door before you even unbuckle.

“You ready?” he asks, smiling in that way that always makes your chest hurt.

“I think so.”

“You’ll love it,” he promises.

He helps you unload all the pastry boxes onto the gold cart waiting beside the jet — your jet, because apparently hospitality staff took one look at the amount of food you were bringing and decided a private flight was safer than putting you on commercial.

Inside, it’s quiet. Soft lighting. You sit next to each other without even thinking about it.

The plane takes off smoothly, and for the first few minutes, you both just stare out the window. Milan shrinks below you until it’s nothing but a patchwork of lights.

Yuki shifts, leaning his head back.

Then — almost shyly — he tilts toward you until his temple brushes your shoulder.

“You don’t mind, right?”

Your breath catches.

“No,” you say quietly. “Not at all.”

He relaxes instantly, tugging your hoodie sleeve lightly. “You wore my hoodie again.”

“You left it,” you remind him.

“Maybe on purpose.”

It comes out soft, almost whispered.

You don’t respond — mainly because your heart is hammering too hard.

Dinner comes shortly after — neatly arranged trays of tiny portions. Yuki frowns at the portion sizes, immediately sliding both trays closer so he can feed you bites of his.

“Try this,” he says, holding up a small piece of miso-glazed eggplant with chopsticks. “Better than it looks.”

He waits until you chew, watching you far too closely.

“Told you,” he grins.

He feeds you pieces of everything — salmon, rice, even dessert. It’s not dramatic or goofy like he usually is. It’s gentle. Warm. Too intimate for a plane this small.

Eventually, he leans sideways until his head finds your shoulder again.

Your hand drifts into his hair without thinking.

He hums — actually hums — and turns just enough so that his forehead rests against your collarbone.

You fall asleep like that, tangled together, the hum of the plane soft around you, the faint smell of warm pastries still lingering from your clothes.

And somewhere mid-dream, you feel his fingers lace with yours. Not accidental. Not subconscious. Just… certain.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

You’ve been to races before, but never like this — never with Yuki meeting you outside the paddock, bouncing on his heels like he’s about to drag you into Disneyland.

He’s practically vibrating when you step out of the car, still wearing his team hoodie and carrying one of the pastry boxes you didn’t trust anyone else to touch.

“There you are.” he beams, jogging up to you. “Ready? Nervous? Excited? Ready?”

You laugh. “Yes. To all of the above.”

He hums, cheeks warming. “Good. Stay close to me, okay?”

You don’t get a chance to answer because Pierre appears behind you, hands on his hips like an exasperated sitcom brother.

“Ohhh look who decided to finally show up,” Pierre drawls. “Little sister and little Yuki. Together. Again.”

You roll your eyes. “Good morning to you too, Pierre.”

“It is a good morning,” he says, smirking. “Because I get to witness this. The flour twins. The lov—”

“PIERRE!” Yuki hisses, going pink instantly.

Pierre raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Let’s see how long you two last before you cause a brawl with half the paddock over your baked goods.”

But there’s no real bite to his words. Yuki looks like he might burst from embarrassment, while you just shove your shoulder into your brother’s.

“I brought your favorites,” you say proudly.

Pierre’s eyes go wide. “Oh— then you are forgiven. Completely.”

The first stop is Red Bull. You hand Max a box, and he lifts the lid with the curiosity of a man discovering a new species.

“Croissants,” he says. “Ah. The good Gasly sibling.”

Max glances between you and Yuki, then smirks like a cat who found the cream.

“You two came together?”

“Yes,” Yuki says defensively.

“So married energy,” Max mutters.

“MAX!”

Even Laurent wanders over, takes one look at you two standing a suspicious two inches apart, and says, “Ah. So it’s official?”

“NOTHING IS OFFICIAL,” Yuki sputters.

You pat his arm gently. “Relax, Yu.”

“That’s even worse,” he mutters under his breath.

McLaren is next. As soon as Lando sees you, he practically sprints over, eyes locked on the pastry boxes.

“THANK YOU,” he says dramatically, taking a box like it’s a newborn child. “You’re an angel. A gift. A queen. And if Yuki doesn’t propose, I will.”

Yuki turns the deepest red you’ve ever seen.

“NO YOU WON’T,” he yells.

Lando shrugs. “Try me.”

Oscar walks by, glances between you and Yuki, and adds calmly, “Yeah, he should marry her. She brings food. That’s marriage material.”

“OSCAR!”

You’re laughing so hard you almost drop a box.

Charles waves so excitedly he nearly knocks over a mechanics stool. Alexandra hugs you, Rebecca squeals that she’s missed you, and Carlos starts clapping when he notices you and Yuki standing incredibly close together.

“All the best couples bake together,” Carlos says wisely.

“We’re not— it’s not—” Yuki babbles.

You just pat his shoulder. “They’re not going to stop.”

“Never,” Charles says proudly.

You watch from the pit wall, pastry crumbs still stuck in your hair from where Yuki flicked a piece of croissant at Pierre earlier.

Every time Yuki’s car flashes by, he gets faster. Sharper. More focused. By the time Q3 ends, he’s glowing. P5.

His best result in months. He sprints toward you immediately after climbing out of the car, helmet half-off, sweaty hair sticking everywhere.

“You saw?!” he beams.

“I did!” you laugh. “I’m so proud of you—”

Before you finish, he hugs you. Tight. Warm. Much too long to be friendly. When he pulls back, he’s breathless for an entirely different reason.

“I want to take you to dinner,” he blurts.

“Okay,” you say easily. “With Pierre? Or the team?”

He smiles so nervously it’s almost cute.

“No. Just us.”

You freeze. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, swallowing.

“Like… a date?”

His ears go pink. “Yes,” he whispers. “A date.”

And your heart doesn’t just flip — it somersaults.

“Then… yes,” you whisper. “I’d like that."

Back at the hotel, you take extra care getting ready. You’re only mildly panicking that you’re overdressed or underdressed or misreading literally everything about this man.

You settle on a soft dress that makes you feel like yourself.

At exactly 7:00, there’s a knock. You open the door and nearly stop breathing. Yuki stands there holding flowers — your favorite ones. He shifts on his feet, cheeks flushed.

“These are for you,” he says quietly.

“Yuki… they’re perfect,” you whisper, touched in a way you can’t cover up.

He relaxes, shoulders dropping, and offers his hand without even thinking.

When you take it, his face lights up.

He takes you to a small, candlelit restaurant tucked away from everything. Soft music, quiet tables, and every dish is your favorite cuisine — the food you always talk about loving but never have time to make.

“You… remembered all this?” you ask as the appetizer arrives.

He shrugs, staring at his lap. “I listened. I always listen.”

Your heart melts.

Midway through the meal, he starts to ramble — classic Yuki.

“I know people tease us. And Pierre is impossible. And everyone thinks I’m in love with you which I mean— I am— I have been for years, actually, but I didn’t want to say anything because Pierre might kill me or you might not feel the same or— or maybe I’m reading everything wrong or maybe you just see me as some loud hungry idiot who—”

You lean across the table and kiss him.

His words die instantly.

He freezes at first… then melts, warm and soft and stunned.

When you pull back, he’s blinking like he’s trying to reboot.

“Yuki,” you say quietly, “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

He swallows hard.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He exhales shakily, then grins — huge, disbelieving, heart-melting.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You laugh. “Please.”

He does — and this time, there’s no hesitation at all.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

Sunlight slips through the hotel curtains in soft gold strips, warming the sheets, your arms, and the small, sleepy F1 driver tangled against you.

Yuki is on his stomach, cheek pressed to your shoulder, hair sticking up. He lets out a content sigh every few seconds — like he’s still processing the fact that he gets to hold you. You brush a hand through his messy fringe. He immediately nuzzles closer.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

He hums, eyes still half-closed. “Morning. You're warm.”

“You’re literally a space heater.”

“Mm. Good.” He squeezes slightly. “Means you need me to stay warm.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to the top of his head. A show plays quietly on the TV — something neither of you are really watching. His fingers trace lazy circles along your waist.

“This is nice,” he mumbles.

“It is.”

“We can do this every morning,” he says sleepily. “Just saying. I’m very available for cuddles.”

“Are you proposing a contract?”

He lifts his head, blink-blinking, cheeks flushed with sleep.

“Actually…” He squints dramatically. “If we get married… does that mean we can bake our own cake?”

You snort. “Jumping a little ahead, aren’t we?”

“Not really.” He shrugs innocently. “We’re good at baking. And we love each other. Perfect combination.”

You cup his cheek, smiling. “Yes, Yuki. If we ever get married, we can bake the cake together.”

He breaks into the softest, happiest grin — the kind that makes your stomach warm.

“Good,” he whispers. “That sounds perfect.”

Eventually, you both force yourselves out of bed and start getting ready. Yuki insists on laying on the bed while you do your hair, kicking his feet as he watches you.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking back.

“I’m appreciating,” he corrects.

When he buttons up his shirt halfway and catches you staring… he smirks.

“Now you’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, steps forward, kisses your cheek, then your lips.

You’re still holding onto that kiss when you open the suite door to leave—and immediately freeze. Because the hallway is full. Full. Of people.

Pierre. Kika. Alexandra. Rebecca. Lando. Charles. Carlos. Alex. Lily. Oscar. George. Carmen. HALF THE GRID.

All standing there like a group of spies caught mid–mission. Pierre is holding binoculars. Kika is holding her phone. Lando has popcorn. Everyone jumps like they’ve been hit with a flashbang.

Pierre shouts first. “I WON THE BET!”

“No you didn’t!” Lando argues. “I said they’d kiss by breakfast!”

“They probably kissed before breakfast,” Charles mutters.

Rebecca elbows Alexandra. “You owe me 50 euros.”

“Worth it,” Alexandra whispers, wiping a tear. “They’re so cute.”

Yuki sputters. “WHY— WHY ARE YOU ALL HERE?!”

Kika beams. “We heard giggling.”

“And laughing,” Carlos adds.

“And furniture moving,” George notes.

“GEORGE.” Carmen smacks him.

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god…”

Pierre is grinning like the most annoying proud older brother alive.

“So… when’s the wedding?”

“PIERRE.”

Yuki grabs your hand and you drag him through the chaotic crowd, everyone cheering like you two just got engaged.

-

You watch the race from the garage with your heart in your throat. Yuki is smooth. Precise. Fast.

At one point he overtakes two cars in one corner and the entire garage erupts. You press your hands to your mouth when he crosses into P3 with ten laps to go.

“Come on, Yuki…” you whisper.

And somehow — he holds it. He holds it.

When he crosses the finish line in P3, his engineer screams. Mechanics jump. The crowd roars. Your vision blurs. Your Yuki. Your heart. Finally got on the podium.

The moment he climbs out of the car, he doesn’t even look around. He sprints. Full speed. Straight at you.

He drops his helmet halfway, tears in his eyes, and practically launches himself into your arms.

You catch him with a laugh-sob sound, wrapping your arms tight around him.

“You did it!” you breathe into his suit. “Yuki— you did it!”

He pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks.

“You were here,” he whispers hoarsely. “I wanted you here.”

And before you can answer, he kisses you. Not shy or hesitant — but full, overwhelmed, giddy joy.

His hands frame your face. Your fingers curl into his race suit. When he pulls away, forehead pressed to yours, he laughs breathlessly.

“I think I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“You are,” Pierre calls from behind you. “Because she carried your team with pastries!”

Everyone laughs, but Yuki just keeps looking at you like you hung the moon.

You kiss his cheek, his hair, his nose.

“Go get your trophy,” you whisper.

He grins, kisses you one last time, then runs toward the cooldown room — still looking back at you every few steps.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

yukitsunoda0511

liked by pierregasly, kikagomes, yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 2,450,000 others.

yukitsunoda0511 : already deciding what flavor the wedding cake should be<3 i've loved you for so long and plan to do it the rest of my life :')

tagged : yourusername

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

epilogue!

The Milan bakery smells like vanilla, toasted sugar, and the faintest hint of lemon zest — the smells of your new test kitchen, the one you and Yuki designed together when the bakery expanded.

Three years. Three years since that first date. Three years since the podium kiss. Three years of flights and flour fights, shared ovens and shared lives.

Now you have three bakeries — Milan, Monaco, Paris — and somehow, every single one carries a piece of him in it. A tiny Tanabe special. A framed picture of him covered in flour. And you.

The fiancée he still stares at like he’s surprised you’re real.

You set down the last tray of test cakes on the marble counter. “Okay,” you say. “We have the vanilla bean sponge, the strawberry crème brûlée, the black sesame chiffon, and the lemon honey cake.”

Yuki claps his hands like a golden retriever. “All of them.”

“We’re tasting, not eating the whole tray.”

He grabs a fork. “Says who?”

“Yuki.”

He grins, kisses your cheek, and cuts into the vanilla first.

The two of you spend the next twenty minutes taste-testing like absolute children. Smearing frosting on each other’s noses. Arguing over whose knife cuts are straighter. Yuki dramatically collapsing into a chair after eating a single spoonful of lemon honey, declaring:

“I am ready to marry you immediately. Today. Right now. Call Pierre.”

You laugh and kiss the frosting off the corner of his mouth. “Which flavor do you want for the actual cake?”

He leans back, looks at you like he’s memorizing this exact moment, then smiles softly.

“Whichever one makes you happiest.”

You press your forehead to his. “We’re baking it together. Remember?”

He brightens instantly. “Right. Our cake.”

And so you start. Side by side. Mixing batter in the giant stand mixer.

Yuki holding the bowls steady while you fold in the mascarpone cream. You guiding his hands as he pipes the borders.

Him gently sliding layers together with the precision of a man who once destroyed an entire kitchen trying to make one loaf of bread.

When the final coat of buttercream goes on, Yuki steps behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

“Looks perfect,” he murmurs.

“It does.”

“Can I taste the frosting now?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

He kisses your neck until you giggle, then pulls back to admire the cake again. Three tiers, clean and elegant. Soft pearl accents. A tiny sugared yuzu flower on top — his request.

“Our wedding cake,” he says softly. “We actually made it.”

You turn in his arms. “Of course we did.”

He holds your face gently. “Three years ago, I was just trying to impress you by running into your bakery at 5:45 in the morning.”

“You did impress me.”

“And somehow, I get to marry you.” His voice goes warm, full, almost trembling. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You smile up at him. “I do.”

He kisses you — slow, sweet, sugar-soft — tasting like vanilla and the future you’ve built together.

When he pulls away, he whispers:

“We’re going to have the sweetest wedding ever.”

You laugh. “Literally.”

He kisses you again, fingers intertwined with yours, both of you standing in front of the cake you made — the cake you’ll slice together in a few days, the one everyone will talk about, the one that is perfectly, beautifully, unquestionably you and Yuki.

The bakery hums quietly around you. Your home. Your life. Your love. Three years later, and somehow, it’s still just the beginning.

You stifled a laugh at the ridiculous position he was in and glanced at your phone for the time. Already 8AM. You needed to get up, but you weren’t ready to disturb your husband from his beauty sleep. Especially with how much he deserved it. After a long and tiring race weekend, Monday was the day he could sleep in a bit. Plus, he had flown in late last night and the jetlag never helped either. 

You started by gently pushing his head aside, making sure that it landed on soft pillows. Getting your legs free was a little more difficult, as they were completely tangled with his. You managed with as little disturbance to his sleep as possible. With a satisfying stretch and a quick kiss pressed to his forehead because you couldn’t quite resist how cute he looked, you made your way to the bathroom.

Before Yuki even opened his eyes, he was already frowning. He could tell you had left the bed and gotten up without him. And he didn’t like that. Especially on his day off. And as soon as he opened his eyes, he was met with something equally as unpleasant as you not being in his arms at the current moment. 

“God, close the curtains—- I think I’m being blinded,” he whined, voice hoarse and tired as he shoved his face into the pillow to avoid the bright stream of sunlight that was directly hitting him. The sound of harmonious giggles filled his ears and made his heart tug in his chest just slightly. Maybe you had been married for over two years now and the so-called honeymoon phase should’ve been long over by now, but that didn’t change how much Yuki loved the sound of your laughter. Sometimes it made his heart flutter just the same way it did when he first met you. He felt the brightness fade from the room and he squinted his eyes open again, gaze finding yours sleepily. He pouted.

“That was the worst way to wake up.”

“Why? Cause you almost lost your vision to the power of the sun? You vampire,” you quipped endearingly at him, taking a sip of your coffee. A smile started to play on his lips. 

“No. You weren’t in bed with me. I think that should be illegal any day I’m actually home,” Yuki defended stubbornly, all with a lovesick smile on his sleepy face. You set your coffee cup down as he reached for your wrist, finding a way to gently tug your body down on top of his. You landed a bit messily on top of the soft duvet, but with Yuki’s hands to steady you, you were in no danger of losing your balance. 

“Well, I’m in bed with you now, aren’t I?” you noted. You stared at the ceiling as your husband wrapped his entire body around yours, legs entangling with your own just as they had during the night. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that he did it in his sleep given how often he did it while conscious too. You were convinced you had married a koala bear with separation anxiety. 

“And you’ll stay here until I decide it’s time for both of us to get up,” Yuki said proudly. 

“As you wish, Mr. Bossy.” 

You ran your fingers through his hair, adjusting the different sections that stood up on their own thanks to the awkward way he had slept. He closed his eyes again, basking in the scent of your shampoo and how warm your body felt against his. 

“Don’t fall asleep again,” you warned, noticing how he was teetering on the edge of dreams again. He shook his head, muttering that he wouldn’t, and held you a bit tighter.