synopsis: James Potter, a soldier of the royal guard, is assigned to protect the princess at all costs. His new duty proves far harder than he imagined, for the princess has a habit of doing exactly what she’s not supposed to, and hiding a secret no one must uncover.
tags: princess x bodyguard, forbidden love, royal fantasy world, violence, graphic scenes, smut, slow burn.
current word count: 156.1k
character introduction map playlist moodboard
chapters:
01 ✴︎ beginning of the end
02 ✴︎ a caged bird
03 ✴︎ of magic and secrets
04 ✴︎ flower of fate
05 ✴︎ breaking the cage
06 ✴︎ the parade
07 ✴︎ the last evening
08 ✴︎ there's escape in escaping
09 ✴︎ leap of faith
10 ✴︎ runaway
11 ✴︎ a free bird
12 ✴︎ into the unknown
13 ✴︎ astravel
14 ✴︎ high risk, high reward
15 ✴︎ the snuggly duckling
16 ✴︎ city of stars
taglist: open (comment to be added)
series inspired by: tangled, eldia by yagamidiary on wattpad (omg she’s so talented, check her work), brave, and game of thrones
note: if you’d like, you can find this series on ao3 under the same username (colouredbyd)
Summary: You try one spin class with another F1 WAG and get hooked on the neon lights, perfect playlists, and a leaderboard you can actually win.Max—world champion, competitive menace, and occasionally smug Dutch boyfriend—supports your new obsession… until your race for a free hoodie spirals into ankle trouble, white lies, and him physically carrying you to bed.
a/n: fanfic is supposed to be self indulgent right? lets just say your girl also hyper obsessed at a reward for spin class and over did it a bit. . . but hey! they let me sign the wall 🙃 - definitely needed a max to talk me down from overdoing it so enjoy friends!
It starts with a text from Alex — Charles’s girlfriend — the kind of casual invite you almost brush off at first.
Alex: Girls’ day? Come to spin with me.
You: Spin? Like… bikes?
Alex: Yes. Dark room, loud music, great vibes. Trust me.
She sends a link to the studio, and the pictures look more like a nightclub than a gym—black walls, neon lights, and grinning women in matching sets. You’ve got nothing planned for the afternoon, so you figure, why not?
⸻
When you get there, Alex greets you outside in oversized sunglasses and a perfectly coordinated leggings-and-sports-bra combo. She loops her arm through yours as you walk in together, chatting about nothing in particular until the studio doors open.
Inside, it’s all dim lighting and the low thump of bass. A row of polished bikes faces a small stage where the instructor is setting up her headset mic. Alex leads you to two bikes in the second row and grins.
“This is the fun part,” she says, handing you a pair of rental shoes. “You can opt into the leaderboard. Shows your stats up front in real time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Leaderboard?”
“Yeah, like a race. Tracks how well you hit the beat, your heart rate zone, and how much power you’re pushing. Totally optional.” She smirks. “But I figure… girlfriend of a world champion? You’ll want in.”
You laugh, but inside something sparks. Leaderboard? Real-time ranking? Yeah, you’re opting in.
⸻
The class starts with pulsing lights and a Britney Spears remix, and you’re instantly hooked. The instructor calls for sprints, jumps, side-to-side movements—half workout, half dance party. You can feel yourself slipping into the rhythm, your competitive streak kicking in as the leaderboard flashes on the front wall. You start mid-pack. By song three, you’ve climbed a few spots.
By the final track, sweat is dripping into your eyes, your legs are on fire, and you’re grinning like an idiot. Fifth place. Fifth. In your first class.
⸻
Max is on the couch when you burst into the apartment later that afternoon, still flushed and riding the post-class high.
“Max!” you call, dropping your bag with a thud.
He glances up from the TV, one eyebrow raised. “You look like you just set a lap record.”
You flop down beside him, still catching your breath.
“We did this spin class—Alex invited me—and they have this leaderboard thing. Tracks your stats and shows everyone’s ranking on a big screen. I started somewhere in the middle, but I fought my way into fifth by the end.”
His smile grows, slow and amused. “Fifth? First try?”
“And I was this close to fourth,” you say, holding your fingers barely apart. “One more song and I’d have had it.”
Max leans back, studying you with a knowing look. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“That look. Same one you had when you decided to make candles, and when you bought all that art stuff. You’re going to get obsessed.”
You grin shamelessly. “Maybe. Girlfriend of a world champion, right? I like a challenge.”
He reaches over, tucks a strand of damp hair behind your ear, and smiles fondly. “Schatje, if it makes you this happy, I’m all for it.”
⸻
That night, after your shower, you curl into bed still thinking about the rush of the music and the thrill of seeing your name climb the board. You start idly scrolling Amazon and, before you realize it, you’ve got a cart full: Tiem spin shoes, cleats, a pastel water bottle, and a matching set that will absolutely make you pedal faster.
You fall asleep without checking out.
When Max comes in later and spots your phone lit up with the cart, he chuckles under his breath. Without hesitation, he plugs in the card details, hits express delivery, and locks your phone again.
Because if his girl is going to climb a leaderboard, she’s going to do it in style.
⸻
You’d half-forgotten about your Amazon cart in the chaos of the last race weekend. So when you come home to a stack of packages on the kitchen counter, you’re a little puzzled.
You pick one up, squinting at the shipping label, then tap your phone to FaceTime Max. He answers mid-engineering meeting, the hum of chatter and clicking keyboards in the background. His face fills your screen, hair slightly mussed, eyes glancing up from his laptop.
“Do you have a package coming?” you ask, turning the box over.
“No,” he says casually, sipping from his Red Bull bottle. “But when you open it, I better get to see the result.”
You slice it open and immediately gasp. The Tiem spin shoes gleam in the box, cleats tucked neatly beside them, along with a pastel water bottle and the matching set you’d fallen asleep scrolling for.
“Max.”
“Mm?” He’s smirking now.
“Did you—”
“Express delivery. You’re welcome.”
You hold up the set. “Try-on haul?”
“Obviously. I’ll mute myself so my engineers don’t have to hear me tell you you look hot.”
Ten minutes later, you’re parading the matching set and shoes in front of your phone camera, spinning slowly while Max leans back in his chair on-screen, looking far too pleased with himself.
⸻
The next class is even better than the first.
You go in with your new gear, feeling like you belong on the leaderboard, and the rush of seeing your name climb with every song hooks you all over again. Pretty soon, you’re no longer coordinating with Alex or the other WAGs—you’re booking your own rides.
Boy band throwback ride? Sign you up.
Tate McRae and pop hits? Sold.
An entire class dedicated to house music? You’re already texting Oscar and Lily to see if they’d join.
By the time Max is away at the next race weekend, you’re practically living at the spin studio. You recount your classes to him in ridiculous detail over FaceTime—how you fought your way from seventh to third in one ride, how you nearly passed out but still hit the beat drops perfectly, how the instructor complimented your form during sprints.
He congratulates you every time, that proud little smile tugging at his mouth, but you catch the faintest crease between his brows when you admit to your Saturday schedule.
“So I did the 9 and 10 a.m. classes back to back—”
“Back to back?”
“And then after dinner I went to the 5 p.m. ride because it was a Harry Styles theme and I couldn’t miss that.”
You beam at him. “Podium spots in all three: second, third, and first. Triple podium, baby.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “My schatje, you realise most people would take a nap after one class?”
That night, he calls from his hotel room after media duties, the background quiet for once. You’re curled up in bed, still damp from a shower, hair messy, blinking slow.
“You’re falling asleep,” he says softly.
“M’not.”
“You are.” He leans closer to the camera. “Don’t burn yourself out, yeah? Even world champions have to rest sometimes.”
You mumble something sleepy and noncommittal, but he just smiles, watching you fade. He knows you’ll push the limits until something forces you to stop—and he’s already making a mental note to keep an eye on you when he’s home.
⸻
Convincing Max to come to spin with you takes a little strategic framing.
“Think of it as cardio,” you say, leaning over the back of the couch. “Low-impact, good for endurance.”
He smirks. “Endurance I have. This is just you wanting to watch me suffer.”
“Maybe,” you admit, “but imagine the leaderboard. Imagine beating everyone in the room.”
That gets him.
⸻
At the studio, the instructor’s eyes widen when Max Verstappen himself walks in and clips into a bike beside you. You can already feel his competitive energy radiating off him before the warm-up song ends.
The lights drop, the beat kicks in, and you’re instantly in your zone—hips swaying, arms moving in sync, your pedals hitting every downbeat like you’re born for it. You glance at the leaderboard—your name climbing steadily—and then at Max, who…
Well.
He’s trying.
Power? Through the roof. Sprint speed? Terrifying. Beat matching? An absolute train wreck. He keeps glancing at the leaderboard like it’s the Monaco timing screen, visibly frustrated when he sees he’s hovering in seventh place.
“What is this music?” he mutters between sprints.
“It’s Dua Lipa, Max.”
“It’s chaos.”
Still, every time you catch his eye, he grins like he can’t believe how happy you look—like he’s thinking you belong up front with a headset, leading the class.
⸻
The ride ends with a cool-down stretch. You unclip, swapping your spin shoes for sneakers, and that’s when his first twinge of concern sparks. You’re rolling your right ankle slowly, massaging just above the cleat marks, jaw tightening ever so slightly as you press a thumb into one spot.
“You good?” he asks, watching you carefully.
You glance up, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… long ride.”
“Or maybe you overdid it on the race to first place?”
You smirk, standing to sling your bag over your shoulder. “I earned my place, Max.”
He doesn’t push it—but his eyes linger on your ankle as you walk out, and you can feel him filing it away for later.
⸻
Spin might not have been Max’s thing, but he hadn’t once stopped supporting you. Every so often, a sleek little box from some bougie athleisure brand would show up at your door—matching gym sets in colors you didn’t even know you liked until you pulled them on. Sometimes he’d leave the note blank, other times he’d scrawl You’ll look better in this than anyone else in class.
So when your studio announced a month-long promotion—a bingo card challenge where completing all the squares earned you a limited-edition studio hoodie—you were all in.
Bring a buddy to class? Easy. Alex was free that Thursday.
Buy a class pack? You re-upped your subscription for the next month without hesitation.
Ride front row? You practically lived there already.
Selfie with the instructor after class? Done—smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
You were closing in on the final squares now. All that stood between you and the hoodie was the “ride once with every instructor” challenge, which required some creative scheduling.
⸻
By the time you sat down for dinner one night, your right ankle had started to ache in that deep, nagging way you’d been ignoring for the last couple of weeks. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t… great. You had Max propped up on your iPad, FaceTiming from a bland hotel room between meetings.
The doorbell rang, and you slid off the couch to grab your takeout.
“You ordering in again?” he teased, watching you move toward the door.
“I’ve been riding all week, I deserve noodles.”
But you don’t make it across the room without him noticing. His eyes narrow.
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
You wave him off, balancing the bag in one hand as you return to the couch.
“It’s just a little tight. I’ll stretch later.”
“No—you’re going to get ice and a pillow now,” he says, voice sharper. “Before you make it worse.”
The little flicker of irritation you’d been holding back all week flares.
“Max, I’m fine.”
“You’ve been saying that for days. You’re not fine.”
“I’m this close to finishing the bingo card. One week and I’m done, I just need to finish riding with all the instructors.”
He shakes his head, leaning closer to the camera.
“Then skip this week. Chill with the spin until it’s better.”
“I can’t. I’m so close to the hoodie.”
“Schatje, I’ll just buy you one.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not, Max! It’s like me telling you not to race for a podium and just buy the trophy instead.”
His brows pull together, the competitive part of him bristling.
“That’s not even close to the same thing.”
It’s a tiny argument, nothing explosive, but enough to put a knot in your chest.
“Forget it,” you mutter, setting the food down without opening it. “I’ll just… eat later.”
You cut the call short a few minutes after, irritation still humming under your skin.
⸻
He takes a few moments before texting, but the notification pops up before you’ve even made it to bed:
Max: Love you. Please ice your ankle before you sleep.
You don’t respond. Not tonight.
And as you crawl into bed, hoodie dreams feel a little less bright than they did this morning.
⸻
Max came home a couple days later to a you who was very deliberately not limping. You moved around the apartment in bare feet, keeping your steps light and even. No winces, no hitch in your gait. If he noticed the effort, he didn’t call you out.
That night, after dinner, he leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely.
“I was thinking about what you said,” he murmured.
You looked up from rinsing your plate. “About?”
“The hoodie. And… me buying it for you. I get it now—it’s not the same.”
Your brows softened a little.
“I just didn’t like the idea of you hurting yourself for it. But I also shouldn’t have made it sound like it’s nothing.”
You smiled faintly, accepting the olive branch. When he asked you to take a few classes off to rest? You agreed. You even kissed his cheek and said, “No problem.”
⸻
Then the studio posted the schedule update.
Last-minute instructor swaps, perfect for catching people up on their bingo card challenges. If you worked the new times right, you could finish in three nights. Three classes, and the hoodie would be yours.
Max could never know.
⸻
Night One
You were leaning on the arm of the couch when you brought it up.
“Hey, my sister texted—she’s in town for work. Wanted to grab dinner.”
Max looked up from the TV, brows raised. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. She’s flying out tomorrow.” You threw in a shrug. “We’ll probably talk until the restaurant kicks us out. Don’t wait up.”
He smiled faintly. “Alright. Tell her hi from me.”
You bent to tie your sneakers, keeping your tone casual. “Will do.”
You made it to class with time to spare. Forty-five minutes later, your shirt was damp with sweat, the leaderboard showed your name in the top three, and your ankle was only twinging a little. Instead of driving straight home, you sat in your car in the parking lot, scrolling aimlessly until Max’s Going to bed. Love you. text came through.
When you finally slipped into bed beside him, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder, murmured “Dinner was great”, and let him tuck you under his arm like nothing had happened.
⸻
Night Two
You timed this one for mid-afternoon. He was still on the simulator when you leaned into the doorway.
“Alex wants to see a late movie,” you said, casual as anything. “We’re going shopping first, make a whole night of it.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Late movie? On a Tuesday?”
“Cheaper tickets,” you quipped, grinning.
He shook his head with a smirk. “You two and your ‘girls’ nights.’ Have fun.”
“We will,” you said brightly.
And you did… in your own way. Another podium finish, another instructor crossed off your list.
It would’ve been perfect—until you got home and found him sitting on the couch, one eyebrow arched.
“You said you were with Alex,” he said slowly.
“I was,” you replied, setting down your bag.
“Funny. George sent me a picture of him and Alex at dinner tonight.”
Your brain scrambled, but your mouth moved fast.
“Oh—Alexa. From spin.” You threw in a sheepish laugh. “I said Alex because I thought you wouldn’t know who she was. She missed me in classes and wanted to hang out.”
He studied you for a beat too long. Then, finally, “Right.” He leaned back, turning his attention back to the TV. “Well… glad you had fun.”
“I did,” you said, heading to the bedroom before he could ask more questions.
⸻
Night Three
The class was brutal in all the best ways—climbs, sprints, choreography that left your legs shaking. You locked in your spot on the leaderboard, and when you climbed down, the front desk handed you your hard-earned hoodie.
It should have been the perfect ending—except your ankle was screaming. By the time you reached the car, pressing the gas pedal made you want to cry.
Calling Max was your only option.
⸻
Fifteen minutes later, Daniel Ricciardo’s car pulled up, Max stepping out with his jaw tight. Daniel shot you a sympathetic look as you slid into the passenger seat.
“Good luck,” he murmured, before pulling away.
Max didn’t yell. He just shut your door carefully, walked around to his side, started the car, and said,
“I hope the sweatshirt was worth it, schatje.”
You curled your hands into the sleeves, neck buried in the fabric, tears soaking into the cotton as you stared out the window.
It stayed silent for most of the drive—until his hand came to rest on your thigh, thumb moving back and forth in slow, grounding strokes.
No apology. Not yet. But not anger, either. Just that quiet, complicated space in between.
⸻
The drive home stayed wrapped in that thick, heavy silence. You sat curled into the hoodie, sleeves covering your hands, the neck pulled high enough to hide the tears you couldn’t stop. Max kept one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh—steady, rubbing slow lines with his thumb, like he needed the contact as much as you did.
When he pulled into the garage, he came around to your side before you could even try to get out.
“I can walk,” you mumbled, voice small.
“Not tonight.”
He slid an arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You didn’t protest again, just buried your face in his chest as he carried you inside.
⸻
In the living room, he set you gently on the couch, propping a pillow under your leg before easing your shoe and sock off. The second your foot was bare, his gaze sharpened.
“Bruising already,” he murmured, fingers brushing the tender skin at the back of your ankle.
He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bag of ice wrapped in a tea towel. He adjusted the pillow, settled the ice over the sore spot, and made sure it wasn’t pressing too hard before sitting back on his heels.
And that—him being so careful when you knew he was still mad—was what broke you.
Your throat tightened, tears stinging again.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted, swiping at your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied, I just—”
Your hands moved to push his away from your ankle, from you, because somehow letting him be this gentle when you’d gone behind his back made your chest ache even worse.
“I’m sorry, Max, I’m so sorry—”
The words started tumbling faster, your breaths hitching, until you were nearly gasping between them.
That was the moment his whole posture softened.
“Hey, hey, schatje, stop.”
He climbed onto the couch beside you, catching your wrists gently and folding your arms into his chest, tucking your head under his chin. One strong arm circled your shoulders, the other resting over your forearms to still your fidgeting.
“Shh,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a kiss there. “Breathe for me. In… good girl. Out. I’ve got you.”
You tried to mumble another apology into his shirt, but he just kissed the top of your head again and kept rubbing slow, steady circles on your back.
“No more sorrys. You’re hurt, and I’m here. That’s all that matters right now.”
Your breathing finally began to even out, the tension in your shoulders loosening. You felt him sigh, low and warm against your hairline, his voice softer than you deserved.
“You don’t have to earn me taking care of you. That’s the deal, remember? Always.”
And you believed him—wrapped up in the hoodie you’d fought for, wrapped even tighter in the arms of the man who would always catch you when you fell.
⸻
Max must’ve felt the way your body sagged against him, your energy spent from the crying, because his arms shifted under you again.
“Come on, schatje,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “Bedtime.”
You let him lift you, your face still tucked into his chest as he carried you down the hall. He set you gently on the mattress and knelt beside the bed, pulling your hoodie over your head with careful hands before grabbing one of his softest t-shirts from the dresser.
“Arms up,” he coaxed quietly, guiding you into it, then helping you out of your leggings and into one of his pairs of boxers. Every touch was measured, never rushed, as if sudden movement might scare you off.
He propped your injured foot on a pillow at the edge of the bed, tucking the blanket around you before sliding in beside you.
The tears still sat just at the edge of your eyes, your chest feeling hollow even as his warmth pressed along your side. He kept you close without jostling your leg, his palm starting a slow, repetitive path from your upper arm to your ribs and back again, over and over.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he said softly, lips brushing your temple. “After you get it checked out. Right now you just need to rest.”
You nodded into the pillow, the steady rhythm of his hand and the quiet shhh, I’ve got you washing over you like a lullaby.
It didn’t take long for your eyes to slip shut, but the pit in your stomach stayed—heavy and tight—making the hoodie folded at the foot of the bed feel like the furthest thing from a prize.
⸻
The morning after your sleepless night, Max made it very clear you weren’t doing anything until your ankle got looked at. He even used the words “extra light duty” like you were a race car coming in for a cautious pit stop.
And that’s how you ended up at the Red Bull training complex, perched on a padded table while two of their physical therapists circled your ankle like it was the problem child of the day.
It didn’t take them long to clock how bad it was.
“Significant swelling here, bruising just starting at the back,” one of them noted. “Let’s try a gentle range-of-motion stretch.”
Max stood at the end of the table, arms folded, clearly waiting for the I told you so moment.
The stretch came, you flinched—hard—and he didn’t even bother hiding the smug flicker across his face.
“Uh-huh,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
But the smug didn’t last long; the concern stayed.
The Red Bull therapists fitted you with a stiff brace for compression and stability, handed over instructions for on/off icing, OTC pain relievers, and a very strict “light duty” plan until the swelling and bruising were dramatically better. They didn’t even need to look at Max to know he was already memorizing every word of it.
⸻
By the time you were walking—okay, hobbling—out with a borrowed pair of crutches, you were so deep in your own head that you didn’t even notice you hadn’t said a word since leaving the treatment room.
Max got you to the car, waited until you were settled in the passenger seat, and then before you could reach for the door handle at your building, he stopped you with a hand over yours.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You looked up, startled.
“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I know how excited you were about all of this. And I am proud of you. But I want you in one piece for the rest of our lives, schatje. Not wrecked over a sweatshirt.”
The lump in your throat returned, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was warmth. A few happy, stinging tears slipped free before you could stop them.
You sniffed, glancing down at the hoodie in your lap. “Honestly, I think I’m going to give this to Alex. Now I’m just embarrassed about the whole thing.”
Max’s jaw dropped theatrically.
“After all that, you’re just going to give it away?”
You gave a tiny shrug, then tried to soften it with a little grin.
“If I really wanted another sweatshirt… I do know a pretty Dutch man who promised he’d buy me whatever I wanted.”
Max’s mouth twitched into a wide smile, his eyes warm in a way that made your chest squeeze.
“Yes,” he said simply, “yes, he would.”
And just like that, the tension melted into something light, silly, and safe again—exactly where you always landed with him.
A/N Okay, okay you guys convinced me to post it! I am not hating on any the drivers girlfriends/friends/situationships or whatever, and this shot was written before the GP on Sunday, just updated slightly (:
WORDS: 2529
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I knew what I had signed up for when I started dating Lando Norris. Late-night calls due to different time zones, meeting in secret, and trying to stay out of the media's focus. He is a public figure and I am just about to graduate from university. Keeping our relationship private felt safe at first, romantic like in a novel, but the downside came around quicker than I thought it would.
Monaco was the downfall. The weekend, I couldn’t even attend if I wanted to. My final exam was coming up in the following week, and as much as I wanted to be there for Lando, I needed to sit this race out. Lando was understanding, even encouraging me to stay home and ace my exams, but the distance hurt deep down in my chest.
Lando made the effort to keep in touch with me. He texted me in the morning, between the sessions, and I tried to reply to him and keep things light, but it felt harder and harder with every short message or blurry picture he sent over.
Good morning, Love. Quali is today. Wish me luck?
I smile softly at his message, him acting like I might forget how important today is and I can only think about that smile on his lips when he asks for some luck.
Stay out of the barriers (:
It feels cold-hearted even to me, but I can’t bring myself to write anything else. My chest feels hollow, and I am unable to display the affection he deserves, but I hope all of this will fade when we are back together.
By the time qualifying came around, social media was buzzing. Usually, I try to keep myself away from gossip pages, but some pictures draw me to them. There is Magui, laughing in the paddock with some friends, even spotted with Lando’s parents and my heart sinks. The pictures aren’t overly confirming, but they bring on even more speculations. Fans are picturing things with the crumbs they collected over the last months.
Oh god, Magui is with McLaren!
They are so soft launching.
This is a hard launch for their standards.
May I present to you Lando “Magui is just my friend” Norris.
Guess the rumours were true for once.
Every comment feels like a knife being dragged over my heart. I know that it is just fan theories, Lando being the one loving me, but it still gnaws at me. This is what comes with dating someone famous: rumours and everything I should keep my distance from. But as much as I want to ignore it, every time I open any social media, it gets worse.
The algorithm is laughing at me while showing me more pictures of Magui around the paddock. Being in the team hospitality, lingering around Lando’s crew and even more pictures with Cisca and Adam. I stare at the last picture for a whole minute before locking my phone, throwing it face down on my bed.
I didn’t say anything to Lando, not wanting to seem jealous, insecure or clingy. But the ache is real, and it doesn’t fade during the day. It doesn’t fade when Lando gets pole, breaking the lap record in Monaco and even though a smile comes to my lips while seeing him celebrate, it doesn’t soothe anything.
That night, my phone lights up, a FaceTime call from Lando and I answer it, managing to put half a smile on my face.
“Hey there stranger.” Lando greets me, grinning widely, but his eyes are tired. Curls still damp from the shower, and it looks like he is ready to drop onto his bed and sleep until the race is about to start tomorrow.
“Look at you, breaking records and snatching pole.” I tease him, feeling genuinely happy, no matter how much my heart aches.
“You should be here.” Lando says, not accusing me of something, just simple honesty. “It's not the same without you.” He adds and it doesn’t help the aching feeling in my chest.
“You have company.” I say, tilting my head slightly, trying to indicate his parents being around him all the time, but it comes out way too bitter. Lando’s smile drops and my stomach twists, knowing he can sense my discomfort through the phone. There is a pause, dreading and long enough to sting.
“She is just around because of mutual friends and stuff. You still know that.” Lando speaks up quickly, before a sigh leaves his lips. “Right?” His eyes scan my face, like he is trying to figure out through the screen if I am serious or not.
“Yeah.” I just hum and we look at each other for a moment.
“I miss you.” Lando whispers and I hate it even more that I can’t be with him. That this dam exam has to be this week and not when there is no upcoming race weekend. But I worked so hard for this degree, and I will finish it. After that, I can go to more races, hopefully, being right by Lando’s side.
“I miss you too.” I admit, I feel the urge to explain something to him. “It just feels so hard this weekend, Lando. Seeing and reading all of this. It makes me feel like a dirty secret.” I feel bad for my feelings and know I shouldn’t be, but the pressure on my shoulders does get less with telling Lando.
“You’re not a secret.” Lando rubs the back of his neck. “You are mine and I like to keep you safe.” My heart flutters softly. Lando always had a protective side. When it comes to his family and when it comes to me. No harm through the media and the fans, especially after what happened with his previous girlfriend and every girl he just looked at for a little too long.
“Just…just do well tomorrow, okay?” I whisper, not wanting to keep this topic any longer. We will have to speak about it again, but not now. I don’t want to pull his attention away from his race and Lando’s face softened.
“For you? Always.” Then he grins softly, and everything feels like it's going to be okay. We hung up not long after, the screen going black again, drenching me in silence.
I wake up early on race day, even though I don’t want to. Having way too much time now to cover before the race starts. Revising for my exam doesn’t help, wandering around in the apartment makes waiting even worse and even though I usually don’t even watch it, I put on the prerace coverage, hoping it will help me to be distracted. Celebrities walk over the grind, Monaco shining in all its glory and then the race is about to start.
Part of me doesn’t even want to watch the race, but in the end, I didn’t move from the TV or shut it off. Curled up on the couch, cameras showing the grid for the last time, before the lights go out. Just in the first corner, I fear the race is over for Lando when he locks up, but manages to keep his car safe. My heartbeat is way too quick, but slowly the nerves die down.
Monaco isn’t the most exciting race when it comes to overtakes, but every little mistake can cost the people on the grid everything. Lando drives around with ease and with every lap nearing the end, lets a proud feeling rise in my chest. He is going to nail it.
The day would be great if it weren’t for two sentences from the TV commentators that stick with me.
“And there is Lando Norris' girlfriend.”
“Lando Norris' parents and his partner.”
All the happiness that was building up falls apart when Magui is displayed on the screens and the commentators are calling her Lando’s girlfriend. It feels like betrayal and tears rise to my eyes. I don’t even want to cry, but it seems to be the only thing that soothes the ache in my chest.
Lando wins the Monaco Grand Prix for the first time, and I cheer at the screen, softly, not as loudly as I usually would. I feel broken, but still full of pride, with a mixture of disbelief and joy. He did it.
The camera follows him when he jumps out of the car, when he is hugged and kissed by his parents. Loving to see them so affectionate, but still, heart-aching about what happened. The podium ceremony went by like a blur and I can’t bring myself to turn off the TV, just staring at it, until my phone buzzes.
It's Lando.
Please watch the post-race interviews.
I sigh, eyes focusing back on the screen, making the sound a bit louder, when Lando appears on the screen, still grinning widely. Curls damp by sweat and champagne, but he bubbles with happiness.
“Hi Lando, congrats on the race win here in Monaco.” Nathalie Pinkham starts, sounding like a proud mother while speaking to Lando.
“Thank you, Natalie.”
Then they talk about the race, making me zone out, until I hear one particular question.
“Is there anyone particular whom you would like to thank?” Lando pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to the side to his PR, before he starts to answer.
“I want to thank so many people.” He laughs softly and starts his list. „My parents, I love you; they gave everything for me, and they are the reason I am where I am.” It's sweet to see Lando’s love for his parents, and not just because of the cameras, but also in private.
“McLaren, my team and everyone believing in me.” Lando continues and then he hesitates, like he has to think about his next answer.
“Well, and of course, thank you to my love, who unfortunately couldn’t be here today, but supports me every second, no matter where she is.” My heart stops, before softly fluttering at his words. Without saying much, Lando just revealed that Magui is, in fact, not his girlfriend. I need to blink a few times, reminding me that this is reality.
“She probably screamed at the TV for a bit today.” Lando laughs and I snort softly. Usually, I do scream at the TV for a bit, but it wasn’t so bad today.
“Your girlfriend couldn’t attend today’s race?” Natalie asks after a short pause, like she had to sort her head, probably thinking the same as everyone else. Lando is taken, but not to whom everyone thinks he is.
“No, she is busy with preparations for her final exam at university next week and being at the racetrack isn’t exactly the perfect environment for learning for something so important. So, we decided she will sit this one out to ace her exam.” Lando explains willingly and for the first time this weekend, I feel warm again. A few happy tears slip down my cheeks because now it feels like everything is going to be okay again.
By now, my social media is flooded with pictures from Lando’s win. Him being hugged by his parents, cheering with the team, and celebrating with Oscar and Charles on the podium. It is like the grey clouds have been blown away by celebrations, showing the happy sun again. And I do come by one of the gossip pages again, slightly hesitating to click on the comments, but open them anyway.
Lando is silencing all the rumours about Magui by dropping an even bigger bomb.
He seems to be so in love!
If I was his girlfriend, I would be so pissed at the TV commentators right now.
A bit later, my phone buzzed again with an incoming call from Lando. and I take it without hesitating.
“Hi.”
Lando’s face fills up the screen, eyes still sparkling with happiness, hair messy and him still in his race suit. I can hear the music nearby, cheery voices and people in the background.
“Hey.” Lando says, voice tired in the best kind of way.
“Hi.” I say again, quieter this time. “You did it.”
Lando just grins, “We did it”, making me frown. This is his big moment, his big win.
“I didn’t do anything?”
“That's not true.” Lando’s gaze is soft on me and even though there are celebrations for him, his attention is fully on me.
“You were the one driving 300km/h. You are the one who won Monaco.” I remind him that it was all his effort. Steering precisely around the track, not crashing, not losing his nerves.
“And I was only able to do it because of you.” Lando hums, and just when I want to protest, he continues. “You think our late-night calls didn’t help me sleep? That your texts before quail don’t help to clear my head?” I doubt that I have that much of an effect on him, but if it makes him feel better, I believe him.
“I watched everything, couldn’t move.” I admit how my eyes were drawn to the TV, not willing to let any bit slip by without my attention.
“I felt you.” Lando promises, “I mean my engineer was yelling at me to stay focused, but it was your voice telling me not to crash over and over again.”
I laugh softly, remembering that I told him that before the qualification, “Sounds like something I would say.” Lando hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering around and I tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to speak up.
“And I meant everything I said in that interview. Keeping you private was safe, but at this point, it hurt you more than it protected you.” I blink slowly, trying to keep the tears back this time, but one still rolls down my cheek. My heart, which has been aching the whole weekend, feels like it is being hugged by Lando’s words, making the harsh cuts heal bit by bit.
“I love you.” I whisper with my whole heart and Lando’s smile gets just a bit brighter.
“Says that again.” He mutters and I gladly follow.
“I love you.”
Lando sighs, “Oh, I love you too.” We look at each other for a moment, both faces filled with adoration and happiness.
“Are you going to get any sleep tonight?” I ask him, already doubting it. He won Monaco, many of the drivers live here and partying after Monaco is kind of mandatory.
“Probably not, too many people want to drag me to a club.” Lando says, hand gesturing around and I can only imagine how many people want to party with him tonight.
“Are you going?”
“Forcefully,” Lando grins, “But I show my face and then sneak away again, back to the hotel.” He explains, making me tilt my head to the side.
“To do what?”
“Call you again, talk till the sun rises.” His soft voice, his words, the love in his eyes make all the pain go away. Cause in the in the in I am the one he loves with his whole heart. And just like that, the distance between us doesn’t feel so wide anymore.
Summary: You were his safe place, his release, his almost-something. But when the lines blur too far and your heart breaks too loud, Oscar is forced to face the one thing he’s avoided for months: you.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 1:21
"I don’t know, Oscar. Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?" you wondered, genuinely curious. "Or do I need to scream it from the top of my lungs?"
No answer. Nothing. He stayed quiet, and it unnerved you. You’d been obvious—at least, you thought—with how you felt. How he made you feel.
"Would you hear me more if I—" You closed the distance between you. His breath hitched at the sudden closeness, and he had to hold himself back from making sure his eyes didn’t drift over the empty garage — to really make sure you were alone.
“…touch you right here?” Your hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the small freckle under his eye.
His eyes finally lifted. Hazel clashed with yours.
And for a moment, you thought he finally saw you. Saw who you were. Not just a friend.
You’d been sleeping in his bed for weeks.
It all began because the 2025 season had been brutal after the summer break, and he asked you to accompany him so he wouldn’t feel so lonely when the world got too loud.
You did what any friend with feelings would: packed your bags and booked the next flight to Monaco.
At first, you used to sleep in his guest bedroom, two doors down from his bedroom. On the road, he booked you a separate hotel — until it wasn’t possible because all the rooms had been booked.
You suggested sleeping on the tiny couch the room offered, or even on the floor. But after you’d flown out just for him, he couldn’t let you sleep uncomfortably.
Then one night in Singapore, after one too many drinks, one thing led to another. You didn’t just sleep in his bed as a friend — it was more. Touches and sighs, the brush of lips, moans and soft groans filling the quiet night. He let his tension out on you. And you let him.
Because you knew he needed it more than he should’ve in that moment. And Oscar—being Oscar—he apologized the next morning, telling you you deserved better.
But it was fine. You didn’t mind, because he was still gentle with you.
It wasn’t that he fucked you as if he hated you. No, he fucked you like he needed you — like air to breathe, like water to quench a thirst.
It continued after that. As if it were the most normal thing ever. And you wished it were. It almost was, right?
Not much was missing from it being a “normal” thing.
But the problem was, you never put a name to what it was. You had tried to talk to him. To get him to put a name to it. But either something came in between or he just fell silent — maybe begging you for another day, for when races weren’t so hard, when media wasn’t punishing him, when it didn’t feel like his team was against him, when he wasn’t losing his championship to Lando or Max.
And you let him. You understood.
After all, the reason you flew out to be with him, was: to support him, to take a burden off his shoulders, to bring him a little peace of home on his constant travels. You became his home. His most constant.
"I know you don’t mean it, Osc," you whispered, thumb grazing the soft skin of his cheek. His breath warmed your face, minty and familiar. Your fingers grazed his hair, longer now, brushing the tips. A shiver ran down your spine as his eyes held yours. Intense. Comforting. Dangerous.
"But sometimes," you murmured, "it feels like you only hear what you want… and none of the rest."
“It’s not like that,” he said instantly. And the worst part? He meant it. He always did. And you believed him, but it didn’t change what you felt.
“Yeah, I know,” you breathed, barely audible. “The look in your eyes made me question…”
The tear fell before you could stop it. His eyes widened, as if your sadness surprised him every time, like he didn’t know he caused it.
"Are you… using me, Oscar?" The words slipped out—a mix of frustration, hurt, and a teasing edge, trying to hide the bitterness.
He froze.
The smallest flinch. A blink too slow. A breath too sharp.
You pressed on, voice dropping low. "Because if you are… just tell me. I can accept it."
Trust and challenge mingled—I’m willing to give anything, just be honest with me.
“Hell, I’ll even put on your favorite purple lace… and put on a show just for you." You added sarcastically, though it hurt you more than you’d ever be willing to confess.
You let the silence hang, your chest tight, pulse racing. The dare in your words masked the ache beneath it — the truth of wanting him to really see you, even if it hurt.
"Please," he begged. "Stop." You almost saw the hurt in his eyes—but maybe it was your imagination. If it hurt him, maybe it hurt you less.
It might just mean that what was going on between the two of you meant something to him too. At least a bit.
"I can’t stop," you whispered, doing your hardest not to let the tears continue to fall.
You couldn’t. Not when you’d given him every part of you and he still held the last piece hostage.
Finally, you pressed closer, forehead resting lightly against his. "Oscar," you murmured, soft but insistent, "I need to know… do you feel anything for me, or am I just… convenient?"
His hands twitched at his sides, unsure where to rest them. He swallowed, eyes darting to the empty garage walls as if they might give him an answer. "I… I don’t know what to say," he admitted, voice low, uneven.
And just like that — you shattered.
You could almost hear your heart breaking. This wasn’t what you had expected. Scratch that: hoped for. Wished for.
You stepped back first.
Not much — just enough that the warmth of his body no longer touched yours. Enough that his breath no longer mixed with yours. Enough that your fingers dropped from his cheek, leaving his skin cold.
A tear slid down your cheek and landed on the concrete floor between you.
It echoed louder than anything either of you said.
Oscar saw it, and he flinched like it was a physical blow.
He hurt you. He knew you deserved more than what he had put you through over the last couple of weeks and months.
But he hadn’t had the energy. He’d been avoiding it.
He knew you deserved something proper. Or at least a conversation that would remove you from the nothingness, the uncertainty, and into a clear answer.
He knew you loved him. For way longer than you’d ever admit to him. He knew that even if it hurt, you’d accept just a friends-with-benefits arrangement, as long as you could still have some of him. You were willing to lose yourself, if it meant holding just a part of him.
And with that knowledge, he sometimes felt like the worst person possible.
He never intended to use you — it just had happened; you were there. And now he didn’t know how to stop.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, holding your own ribs like you were trying to keep them from collapsing inward. He watched the movement like it physically pained him, too.
"Fuck, Y/N," he finally sighed, unable to continue staring into the hurt in your eyes. "I can’t breathe when I’m around you."
It felt like another slap to your face.
You took another step back, letting tears fall freely. Letting them cascade down your cheeks, painting a devastating picture with your black mascara.
"And I can’t breathe when I’m without you," he continued, voice raw. "You fuck me up."
You stood frozen, chest tight, letting his words sink in. You fuck me up… echoed in your ears, and for a moment, everything else — the garage, the quiet, the months of unspoken longing—disappeared.
His eyes softened: fear, longing, honesty.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped you in a tight, desperate hug. His arms circled your back, pulling you close until your bodies molded together perfectly, like missing pieces found.
Your hands trembled on his shoulders, face pressed to his chest. His heartbeat thumped against yours. He breathed in your scent, whispered softly into your hair, “I can’t… I can’t let you go.”
The world seemed to shrink to the two of you — the ache, the longing, the months of unspoken desire — all condensed in that embrace. You could feel his need, the vulnerability he had kept hidden, and it mirrored your own.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he tilted his head, his lips brushing the crown of your hair, then the side of your forehead. You lifted your face just enough, meeting his hazel eyes again. For a heartbeat, nothing moved except the rise and fall of your chests.
Then, soft, tender, desperate—his lips found yours. A brush at first, then urgent and all-consuming. Weeks of teasing, hidden smiles, and silent longing poured into this kiss.
You melted against him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, memorizing every part of him. His hands roamed your back, holding you like letting go would mean losing a piece of his soul.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads together, breaths mingling, hearts pounding. His voice came out almost shaky, barely holding itself together.
“You deserve better,” he whispered.
Maybe you did.
But you weren’t sure better even existed.
Because for you, there was no better. Only Oscar.
And as much as it would’ve shattered you to have only half of him, you knew — shamefully, honestly — that you would’ve slipped into that purple lace bra again if it meant just one more night with his hands on your skin. One more moment where he was yours, completely.
You shouldn’t. You knew that.
But… it was Oscar.
It had always been Oscar.
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Curios about how a different Ending would look like? Read: Revolving Door
xoxo babygirl
summary: you and ben are together, which your friends predicted would happen except, tonight was not the night you would prove them right. who? ben florian x fem!reader a/n: someone stop me from putting ben in secret relationships all the damn timeee
y/n?? it’s jane!!
“what-” ben muttered under his breath, barely breaking away from your mouth as he glanced towards the door.
there you were, lying on your bed in the midst of a passionate make-out session when unexpected knocks echoed through the room, causing both of you to freeze. you broke away from each other, startled by the interruption.
“just shut up and hide under the bed, now!” you whisper-yelled to order him.
ben looked at you, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement.
“under the bed? seriously-” he was ready to protest but the authority in your eyes made him realize that this wasn’t debate.
he quickly nodded and made sure he was out of sight and under the bed while you scrambled to hide any sign of his presence here, like the sweater he took off during your heated encounter a moment ago.
as jane kept on knocking, you quickly composed yourself and turned towards the door. you plastered on a wide smile, hoping that she wouldn’t notice your semi-disheveled look.
her smile widened as you opened the door, a sheepish expression on her face. she was clearly unaware of the situation she had interrupted, you thought.
“hey, can i come in for a second?”
she let herself in while your focus remained on appearing normal. “uh, sure, what did you want to talk about?”
“you know, girl stuff.” you stiffened as she was about to take a seat on your bed.
immediately, you lunged for the bed and took her by the arm to go sit on the window seat with you. slight confusion colored her face then, and you silently prayed that she wouldn’t ask any questions. thankfully, she let it go.
“it’s about carlos.” she whispered, as if she was sharing a secret. whatever it was, she seemed really eager to tell you about it.
“okay..” your eyes glanced back to your bed’s foot, still worried about your boyfriend down there.
“so.. you know how things have been going well between us? like really well?” her voice got progressively higher as she got closer to what she wanted to say.
you tried to focus but the wait made it impossible to. a few minutes ago, ben was kissing your face off for god’s sake. the come down was quite hard and thankfully, jane hadn’t noticed anything yet. however, you didn’t have time to fix yourself properly.
using your finger, you tried to wipe your mouth off and jane stopped.
“are you okay? because we can talk about this another time if you want.”
she didn’t know how great that would be. but she looked so happy coming in here, you might as well hear her out now.
you hummed, “i’m fine! you were telling me about you and carlos.” you said with a soft playful tone.
“yes, so today he asked me something,” she paused, building up the suspense, “he asked me, to be his girlfriend.” she blushed, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“oh, my god, jane!!” you extended your arms and hugged her, congratulating her, when you were caught off guard by a loud bang coming from underneath your bed.
jane pulled away from the hug to look around before looking back at you, puzzled by the cause of the disturbance.
“what was that?”
you took a long minute to come up with something believable before you decided to rush her into a hug again, keeping her head away with your hand.
“nothing, nothing! this is just awesome news jane, i’m so excited for you!”
despite being disoriented by the unexplained noise, jane was quickly distracted by your enthusiasm. she was grinning again, totally oblivious to the fact that you were trying to keep her gaze away from the bed.
“thank you, i mean i never thought i’d find someone like carlos. he’s so sweet, and we just click, you know?”
you genuinely smiled. “yeah, i know. you guys are really cute together.”
you thought about what you also shared with ben and- ben. he was still hiding under your bed for god’s sake. you cleared your throat, snapping out of your daze.
“jane, i am so sorry, i have a big day tomorrow and i’m exhausted, why don’t we talk about it more then, mmh? over lunch, sounds good?” you suggested while hurrying her to the door.
“yeah! uhm, totally, sounds good!”
“okay, bye, goodnight jane!” you pushed her out of the dorm, shutting the door behind.
resting your back against it, you exhaled. the silence that started to settle in was broken by ben’s voice, under the bed.
“thought she’d never leave.”
you snorted as he came out of his hiding place, his hair slightly tousled from being underneath furniture, “shut up, she was excited.”
“i could tell, she didn’t even notice me down there.” he chuckled, clearly finding the situation amusing.
“almost” you pointed out, “what was all of this noise about?” you joked while his hands found your waist, pulling you closer to him.
“oh, that was just me trying to find a comfortable position under there.” you lightly slapped his chest as he feigned innocence. he laughed and you couldn’t hold in your own chuckle.
“thank god she was too busy talking about carlos to notice anything, otherwise she wouldn’t have let us hear the end of it.”
ben’s smile only widened, visibly picturing the scenario in his mind.
“i think it’s time for me to leave, too.”
“what?” your smile fell, your hands gripping his forearms. “why?”
ben’s eyes met yours as you looked back up at him. he recognized the disappointment in your tone and felt bad.
“i don’t think we want your roommates to find us like jane almost did.”
you remembered how you kept your relationship a secret, so your friends wouldn’t know they were right after they spent the past year pointing out how obvious it was that you liked eachother. you were 2 months in already, and it got harder each day.
“mmh, you’re right.” you muttered, your sad eyes leaving his.
his hand tucked a hair strand behind your ear, causing you to look up again, “maybe we should just tell our friends. they’d be happy, you know.”
“i know, i just really hate being wrong.” you wrapped your arms around his back and he reciprocated the action, his head resting on top of yours.
you pulled away and stood up on your tiptoes to meet his lips.
“for the road.” you whispered close to his lips.
ben smiled against your lips as you went for another kiss, savoring every second of it. his fingers trailed up your back before he reluctantly pulled away completely, clearly not wanting to leave your side yet.
“okay we should go before they catch us red-handed” you warned him playfully.
ben’s eyebrows rose, “we? you’re coming with me?”
“you really thought i was about to sleep in my dorm alone tonight? after the day we’ve had?” you scoffed, “just open the door already.” he laughed and took your hand in his while leaving your dorm.
as you ran around the school’s hallways, trying not to get caught, you thought about how you would gladly let your friends win this one argument. for once, you were really thankful that they were right.
: ˚⋆✮ in which: kimi and you have been best friends since all he had was a kart and a dream. you knew everything about each other, except the fact that you both were head over heels in love
: ˚⋆✮ a/n: unfortunately we need a part 2 because i hit photo limit… anyway guys kimi oscar charles podium has been my dream for so long and we finally got it hell yes.
part 2
yourusername
liked by kimi.antonelli, olliebearman and others
yourusername never trust a man who takes you on a ‘non-work related vacation’ then makes you do free labour and analyse his track times
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username kimi in 4/6 photos btw
kimi.antonelli YOU OFFERED TO ANALYSE THEM liked by creator
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kimi.antonelli
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kimi.antonelli home before season starts! looking forward to australia
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username he didn’t even post himself im going to scream
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olliebearman home as in italy or her?? liked by creator
yourusername yooo i look so tan liked by creator
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mercedesamgf1 ready for the season 💪💪 liked by creator
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f1.updatezz
liked by antonelli.wdc, f1megafan and others
f1.updatezz kimi in his interview when asked about motivation! i think we all know who he is referring to 👀
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username oh that hesitation told me everything
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username well clearly he is in love and has not admitted it because he fears she does not feel the same and does not want to ruin years of friendship. what he is idiotic about is that she reciprocates the love, both being too stupid to say anything.
username how on earth have you got all that from one interview
ka124life
liked by kimiantonellithegoat, mercsuperfan and others
ka124life i met kimi in australia today! he was super sweet and started smiling when i asked him about his trip to italy before coming here.
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username good lorddd that vein on his arm
username you are so lucky.
username wonder why he was smiling… hehe
yourusername
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yourusername sight seeing 🪩
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username we missed this (actually getting photos of her on her page)
kikagomes perfect liked by creator
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kimi.antonelli nice views liked by creator
olliebearman 😨
georgerussell63 😂
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username he hasn’t told max yet clearly
maxverstappen1 👏
username i stand fucking corrected.
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username podium gave him confidence
rafael21 finally made it to china huh liked by creator
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username oh we don’t want you here “rafael”.
yourusername has posted a close friends story
replied to yourusername’s story
olliebearman he seems relaxed ;)
yourusername kimi says shut up
alexandramalenaleclerc this is not casual??
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alexandramalenaleclerc how many beds? seen
kikagomes both freshly showered hmm
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f1
liked by yourusername, mercedesamgf1 and others
f1 KIMI ANTONELLI IS ON POLE IN CHINA! 👏💨 It's his first Grand Prix Pole Position in F1! 😮💨
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username wdc incoming
mercedesamgf1 lets go kimi 👏
username merc domination never bores fans!!
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username someone let her know we saw that
kikagomes 😂
username saw what wait i didnt see
username she commented “my boy” lmaoo
username she deleted it so quickly im scared a divorce era is coming…
Summary: Lando and Yn Leclerc? absolute chaos, and sometimes chaos might come in the form of arguing with a literal child.
wc: 2477
warning(s): Arguments, being immature/childish, female reader, sibling violence, favoritism
Penelope had always loved Lando.
So when the Monaco GP came around, she did what she always did best—searched for him everywhere.
“Mom, let me go to Lando. Pleaseeee.” She whined as she tried to tug on her mom’s sleeve.
To which Kelly responded, “Later, honey, he’s in the middle of a meeting probably.”
But oh boy was Kelly wrong.
Because Lando? Not even in his own garage.
He’s out and about in broad daylight in the Ferrari motorhome. With whom, you might ask?
Of course, with her.
Charles Leclerc’s little sister—Yn Leclerc.
“Lan, you do know you have a briefing in like five minutes, right?” She asked sarcastically as Lando continued to laze around beside her.
“Relax, love. They won’t start without me.”
“That’s kind of my whole point. You should get going now, or else Zak will scold your ass. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Lando just pouted.
“I take that you don’t want me now beside you. Okay.” He said as he was about to stand up.
She immediately grabbed his sleeve. “Oh my God, sit down.”
He smirked. “…so you do want me here.”
“Don’t push it.”
Their playful banter soon turned into chaos when the voice of a young girl yelled a very loud “Lando!” across the paddock.
That was when Penelope saw them, well, more like Lando. And she strutted inside the garage as if she belonged there.
“Lan!”
She said as she bolted towards him.
“You’re mine today.”
Lando blinked. “Am I?”
“Yes. No sharing.”
Yn slowly turned. “…excuse me?”
Arthur, watching from the side, already whispered, “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Penelope pointed at her. “You already had him yesterday. I want to spend time with him today, no sharing.” She said sternly, as if she were defending her case in front of Lando.
She stood up dramatically. “Well, that’s unfortunate, because I was just about to take him for myself.”
Silence.
She noted the way the kid furrowed her eyebrows together, so she decided to press more and tease.
“It’s a shame, though, P. I was also about to return him to his garage. See, this guy has a meeting in five minutes.”
Arthur wheezed.
And before Lando could react, Oscar came.
“I didn’t know that being a driver for McLaren meant being this guy’s personal babysitter.” He said as he grabbed Lando by the shirt and dragged him out of the garage.
This brought a frown to the kid’s face.
“But… I wanted to play with Lando.” She said, lips pouting.
Arthur gave in, “Say, P. I’ll hand Lando to you later after he’s done.” He said as he crouched to her level to sweet-talk the kid, as he glared at me.
To which I just shrugged at him and looked at Kelly.
“Yeah, we’ll hand Lan to her later. Promise.”
She just laughed, “Okay, you heard them, P. Let’s go.”
As soon as they left, Arthur nudged me.
“Really? Arguing with a literal kid.”
“I was just teasing her!”
“And people say you are the more mature twin.” He said as he shook his head.
“You both are immature…” Charles whispered under his breath, exhausted from the scene that had just played out without involving himself.
Summary: When Lando forgets the date of your anniversary, you can get over it. However, the pressure of his job isn’t a good enough reason to excuse all of his forgetful tendencies and lack of attention for you.
Based on this request!
Lando Norris x fem!Reader, established relationship
WC: 4.8K
Warnings: cursing, angsty, sad fic with happy ending
Masterlist
The soft morning sunlight peeks through the curtains of your bedroom, casting a soft rosy glow over the room. You take a deep breath, a gentle smile settling on your face at the realisation that it’s already been a year – a year of being loved, of sharing every thought and story, of new experiences and memories... One year of being married to the love of your life. It’s hard to believe.
You turn on your side to face your husband, propping your head on your palm as you watch him sleep peacefully. Your hand is softly stroking his chest while you smile with adoration. “Good morning, baby,” you say when you notice the change in his breathing.
Lando merely grumbles, not quite awake yet. Nevertheless, he pulls you closer to his side, letting you cuddle up against his warm body. Pressing your face against his chest, you leave a few kisses along the bare skin.
Lando sighs, stretching out his body. “Good morning, darling,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
You smile excitedly, sitting up to look at the handsome man you get to call your husband.
“Do you know what day it is?” You whisper.
Lando frowns as he wipes his tired eyes, “What day?”
The confusion is evident in his voice. Regardless, you nod excitedly. Your smile falters as you watch the wheels turning in his head, gathering that he doesn’t remember. You move to the bedside table, rumbling through the drawer until you find what you’re searching for.
The expression on Lando’s face changes from confusion to guilt when you proudly show the present you’ve wrapped up so neatly, the realisation settling in. “Fuck. It’s our anniversary today, isn’t it?”
You nod, “I got you a little something, to celebrate,” you clarify. The smile on your face is gentle, comforting, and it nearly makes Lando believe you don’t care that he forgot.
“Oh, baby, I’m really sorry. I can’t believe I forgot our anniversary. God, that’s bad, isn’t it? The first year, and I’ve already screwed it up. I’m so sorry, love. Fuck.” Lando rubs a hand over his face, his expression pained.
“It’s okay, Lan. I know you’ve been busy,” you reassure him, “besides, it’s only the first year, we’ll have many more anniversaries.” You offer your gift again. “Just open the present, please? I want to know what you think of it!” You say enthusiastically.
Lando’s not fully convinced yet, “But I haven’t got anything for you,” he protests.
“Doesn’t matter, I already got this for you. Open, please!”
Lando sighs, but doesn’t resist further. However, the guilt of his forgetfulness settles deeper when he opens the carefully wrapped gift. You had taken the time and effort to make something, rather than buy a present, and he couldn’t even bother to remember your first wedding anniversary. He felt like an asshole.
At his silence, you felt the need to explain, “It’s a jar of notes,” you take the jar from his hands and open it. “It’s got different things: my favourite memories of us, things I love about you, what reminds me of you, just whatever I could think of. Then, when you’re gone for work, you can pull one out whenever you miss me,” you demonstrate, grabbing a note from the full jar, “or you could just call me, or whatever.” You put the piece of paper back, close the jar, and look up to your husband.
“Do you like it?”
Lando smiles lovingly, “I love it! Thank you, baby. I love you,” he says before kissing you softly.
“I’m really sorry I didn’t get you anything. I swear I’ll make it up to you. In fact, I’ll make a reservation for tonight right now, we can go out to dinner together to celebrate, and if you want we can go shopping today too, I’ll buy you anything you want—”
You cut him off with a laugh. “That’s not necessary, Lan. I know you love me. Besides, I’d much prefer to spend today at home with you, while you’re still here,” you say, stroking his face fondly before you pull him in for a kiss.
Regardless of your objections, Lando still manages to make a reservation for tonight at your favourite restaurant. He doesn’t make a single comment when you order the salmon despite his dislike for fish, and for weeks after he anticipates every single need you might have before you can utter even a syllable. He brings you the snacks he knows you love most on his way home, makes homecooked meals for you (however bad at cooking he is – he switched to take away after the first two times), and watches your favourite shows with you even though he hates them. He does anything and everything he can think of to make you feel loved and appreciated.
Unfortunately, his efforts only lasted a few weeks. Now, you knew what you were getting into when you married Lando last year. You had been in a relationship with him for several years before the wedding, so you are well aware of the time he needs to put into his work, even outside of office hours, not to mention the amount of stress and anxiety that come with racing at such a high level. That’s why it doesn’t bother you that much that your husband forgot about your anniversary; you know the pressure he’s under.
However, lately, his work has become even more time-consuming, more stressful and he’s become less attentive. It’s no surprise with how well the last races have been going – Lando’s finishing on the podium every weekend – that pressures have increased. He’s no longer fighting for only the constructor’s championship, but he has an actual chance at the driver’s championship too. The team is excited, and working hard, and the same is expected of Lando. Additionally, the fans have been putting more pressure. You know how much Lando’s affected by the stress of it all; he doesn’t want to disappoint, and now that the car’s performing, the only factor that could cause a loss, is him. The pressure, stress, and anxiety are taking over his body. He’s becoming more forgetful and instead of spending his free time with you, his wife, he’s thinking about the next race’s strategy, working out to improve his performance, or practising the tracks. Formula 1 had taken over the number one spot in his life.
You get where he’s coming from, you really do, but one of the most important things, if not the most important thing, in a relationship is communication and recently, Lando wasn’t communicating with you. He doesn’t tell you about the pressure or anxiety, all you know is from reading the man. After the number of years you’d spent together, you know him well enough to be aware of his struggles without him having to tell you.
You’d address the issue, ask him to talk to you, but you don’t when. Lando’s gone so much that you barely see him. His early mornings and early nights don’t align with your schedule; Lando’s gone before you’re properly up and has already eaten when you get home from work. The both of you have always been busy before, but at least you’d always eat together, and talk about your day. Now that those moments are missing, you feel lonely.
Lando has no clue of the things running through your mind. After all, you never told him. Even during the summer break, you keep quiet about your feelings, not wanting it to affect Lando’s performance during the races when you know how hard he's working to do well. Besides, it does get better during the break; Lando’s home more often and his mind's not as occupied with thoughts about his work. Nevertheless, he’s gone most of the time. You had expected for Lando to spend his time off with you, but instead, he hangs out with his friends.
Although the break has positively affected his behaviour, Lando's forgetfulness remains the same. You had told him about your friend’s birthday party several times during the past weeks, asking him to come along. When he promised you would, you thought things were finally going back to normal. But now, as you are waiting for your husband to come home so you can leave for the party together, you realise nothing has changed.
It’s already quarter past eight. Fifteen minutes later than you had said you would leave. You are ready to go – makeup glowing, favourite dress on, present wrapped and purse checked – when you decide you won’t wait any longer. You had given Lando plenty of chances to show his care for you and to consider you in his plans. You always visited his friends with him when he wanted you to, and he couldn’t show up for one party you asked him to come to? You leave the house, no messages sent and your phone on do-not-disturb: let him worry.
You plaster a fake smile on your face when you arrive to your friend’s house, pulling her into a hug when she opens the door.
“Hey, girl! Happy birthday!” You say in a high-pitched voice. “I can’t believe you’re finally 25!” You continue, squeezing her tight.
“Thanks, babe,” she responds when you let each other go, looking over your shoulder. “Where’s Lando? Parking the car?”
“Uh, no, actually. He couldn’t come.” The awkward smile on your face says enough, she knows not to ask any further.
“Oh, okay. That’s too bad. I would have loved to see him. You know, congratulate him on his podiums, it’s been going well lately, no?” She walks you into the house as she speaks, turning her head to watch your reaction.
“Yeah, the team’s really improved.” Once again, the tight smile on your face is clear.
A frown forms on her face at your reaction and she’s about to ask further, whether everything is okay, when she’s interrupted.
“Hey, Y/N! I haven’t seen you in a while! How are you? You never come to the races anymore,” Carlos tells you with a fake pout.
You look at him in surprise. You always forget that everyone in Monaco knows each other. Carlos and your friend met at the golf club and had somehow become good friends. Usually, you liked seeing him, but tonight you would’ve preferred not to see him. Not because you don’t enjoy his company, but simply because you’d rather not talk about Lando, whom he’ll undoubtedly ask about.
And so, your mask shoots up when he pulls you into a hug. “Hey, Carlos. I’m good. How’ve you been doing?”
“I’ve been doing well. You heard the news? That I’m going to Williams next year?” You nod, saying a quick “Of course, congrats!” Naturally, you heard the news; everyone had. But this conversation was already heading in the wrong direction. “Yes, glad to have found a place that will appreciate me, even if the team’s not doing the best right now. Talking about the best, Lando’s been doing so well. You must be proud of him, hm?”
“Ah, yes, of course,” you say indifferently.
Carlos frowns at your reaction. “Everything good between you two?”
Your smile drops, apparently, you aren’t as good at hiding your feelings as you thought you were. “Yeah, everything is fine. Why do you ask?”
Carlos shrugs, “Just the way you react, is all. You seem kind of tense…”
You sigh, letting a silence fall for a few seconds. You might as well tell him, he’ll figure it out eventually. “You’re right. Things… haven’t been so great lately.”
Carlos frowns at your comment. “Between you and Lando, you mean? He didn’t say anything was up, he seemed fine the last time I spoke to him,” he says confusedly.
You roll your eyes at the suggestion, “I’m not surprised. He seems to be clueless to what’s been going on.”
Carlos takes a sip of his drink, “Have you talked to him about it?”
“That’s the issue. Lando’s never home, we barely speak anymore. He’s been so stressed with work that nearly all his free time is dedicated to racing. He gets up early and goes to bed before I’ve even had dinner. I’ve had no chance to talk to him.”
The frown deepens, and he breathes out a puff of air. “That’s tough.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting this on you.”
“No, it’s fine don’t worry about it. Sometimes you need to get it off your chest.”
You look up at Carlos, hesitating to continue your story.
“Has the break not changed anything?” He pokes further.
Another sigh. “No, not really. Lando’s using his time off to catch up with his friends. And his forgetfulness has clearly not improved either.”
“His forgetfulness?”
“Yeah, he forgot about the party, clearly.” You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes again.
“What else did he forget about?” Carlos asks with a frown.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” you hesitate, “but he forgot our anniversary. I told him it’s not a big deal, which it isn’t, but it’s just that everything is adding up. I feel kind of alone in the relationship at the moment, like he doesn’t really care about me anymore. How can I think otherwise, when we barely see each other, let alone speak?”
“I’m sorry, Y/N. That really sucks.”
You smile sadly, as if to say ‘it is what it is’.
“It’ll work out in the end,” you tell him. You hope. “Maybe tonight he’ll realise he forgot something important, again. Maybe that’ll make a difference.” You offer an awkward smile.
Carlos breathes in deeply, putting an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get your mind off it, huh?” he says while directing you towards the fridge.
You nod, follow him, and accept the drink he offers you. Tonight is not about Lando, it’s about your best friend and the fact she turned 25. You are not thinking about your husband until you get home.
– – – – –
You slam the front door of your shared apartment louder than necessary when you enter. Nevertheless, there’s no reaction when you enter the dark apartment. You switch the lights on, noticing Lando isn’t in the living room or kitchen. Did he really go to sleep not knowing where you were or who you were with? Whether you were safe or not? Lando obviously didn’t remember the birthday party or he would’ve come, yet he didn’t text you to ask you where you were? Does he truly care so little about you? Does he even love you anymore? It feels like a punch to the gut – like someone had ripped your heart out.
The man had been basically avoiding you for weeks, barely saying a word at the moments you did see him, but at least he was still awake to see if you arrived okay. Now he doesn't even stay up to check if you get home safely anymore? Or text you to ask where you are? To say you are upset is an understatement, you feel angry and neglected at his disregard. You feel lonely instead of beloved. The lump in your throat is a painful reminder of how close you are to crying. But you don’t.
You swallow the lump, blink a few times to get rid of the lingering tears in your eyes and go into the bedroom to take off your makeup. You lean on the counter, sniffling silently, and close your eyes. You breathe in through your nose deeply, before breathing out through your mouth. It’ll be okay. Right?
When you enter the bedroom you stare for a minute at the man sleeping peacefully before you. It feels wrong when you climb into bed next to him, nevertheless, you do it. It’ll probably take you a while to fall asleep tonight.
– – – – –
The situation hasn’t changed a bit when the racing season starts back up again. No matter how strained your relationship has become, you do want to say goodbye to Lando before he leaves for the next race. So, the morning he’s supposed to fly, you make sure to get up extra early. You don’t know how, but he still somehow manages to finish his breakfast before you’re even out of bed, the container already in the trash.
“Good morning,” you mumble, wiping your eyes as they adjust to the bright light in the kitchen.
Lando looks up from his phone in surprise, clearly not expecting to see you awake this early. “Hey, what are you doing up?” He asks in a soft voice.
“Wanted to say goodbye,” you say as you walk closer to the kitchen island at which he’s sitting.
“There’s no need for that, Y/N. I’ll see you again soon enough.” The smile on his face is sickeningly sweet, a clear contrast to the words coming out of his mouth.
You frown, “You’re leaving for a week… What do you mean, there’s no need?”
Lando sighs at your question, “Never mind, it’s kind of you to get up extra early just for me,” he smiles dismissively before getting up from his seat. “It’s time for me to go,” he says looking at his watch before grabbing his backpack and suitcase which are sitting by the door, “I’ll see you in a week.”
You’re left staring in surprise as the door slams closed. He didn’t kiss you goodbye. He always did that, even during the worst of fights. That’s your rule. Formula 1 is a dangerous sport, he could be hurt in a split second, never mind being killed. From the start of your relationship, he always kissed you before he left, just in case. You hated the thought at the start, but learned to think it was sweet; that, in case something happened, at least he kissed his girl goodbye.
You’re watching your marriage crumble before your eyes, and Lando doesn’t seem to have a clue, or pretends not to notice. This is it, you decide. This cannot go any further. As soon as he gets home, you will talk to Lando, no matter how badly it will affect his race. You can’t do this any longer.
However, somebody else is already one step ahead of you. Carlos had noticed the toll your strained marriage with Lando was taking on you, and couldn’t help confronting Lando the first second he saw him. It didn’t help either that Charles was way too curious about the relationship drama. He had been pushing Carlos to find out more to save his gossip-desperate soul after the radio silence during the break.
“Hey, Lando!” Carlos yells, jogging up to Lando and matching his pace.
“Hey, man! How are you doing? Had a nice break?” Lando asks, giving Carlos a quick hug.
“Yeah, yeah, I had fun. What about you?”
“Ah, yes. Of course. It was good to get some time off. I really needed it; finally got to see my friends again,” Lando grins while Carlos raises an eyebrow at the answer.
“What about your wife? Finally got to spend some time with her now that you didn’t have to travel so much?” Carlos asks.
Lando laughs awkwardly at his suggestive question, “You know it!”
Carlos ignores the casual response. “I actually saw Y/N last week, at a friend’s birthday party. Was surprised to see you didn’t come with her…”
A frown etches onto Lando’s face. “What birthday party?”
“I think she’s one of Y/N’s best friends, she turned 25?”
Lando’s eyes widen in realisation. “Fuck, yes, I remember now.”
“She told you about it?” Carlos asks, watching as Lando’s expression shifts from realisation to discomfort.
“Yeah… She mentioned it a couple of times,” he admits. “She didn’t tell me that she went...”
Carlos lets him ponder it for a moment before adding, “Well, she was there. We talked for a bit, actually.”
Lando feels his stomach tighten. He tilts his head slightly. “What did she say?”
Carlos hesitates, glancing around the paddock while he weighs his options. “Uhm, she said you’ve been distant lately. That you haven’t been paying much attention to her, that you missed your anniversary…”
Lando stops walking. “She told you about that?”
“Yeah, man.” Carlos sighs. “Look, she didn’t go into too much detail, but… she sounded upset. Maybe you should make some time for her, take her out on a date or something. It seems like she feels pretty lonely.”
Lando shifts uncomfortably, his heart sinks in his chest. “Lonely?” The word echoes in his mind, unsettling him. He knows the feeling all too well. He’s the reason his wife has been feeling lonely? The guilt settles deep within his soul as he mulls it over. He tries to laugh it off, but it feels hollow. “She knows how demanding the season has been. I’ve been swamped.”
“I’m sure she does, but… it’s more than that. She told me she feels like you don’t really care about her anymore.” The look on his face is serious as he says it.
Lando blinks, the weight of Carlos’ words sinking in. How could he have missed something so crucial? Why hadn’t Y/N said anything? More importantly, why hadn’t he noticed?”
“She thinks I don’t care about her?” He mutters to himself. His gaze is unfocused as he chews his lip, running a hand over his face out of frustration. “Why didn’t she tell me?” He says quietly.
“There was no opportunity to tell you, she said. You're never home.”
Carlos lets out another sigh. “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t want your marriage to be ruined. I know you love Y/N to pieces. I would be upset with myself if you guys don’t make it out together knowing I could have done something about it. That being said, I think you should talk to her.”
Lando nods absentmindedly. He didn't even consider that they might not make it out okay. “You’re right. Thanks for telling me, man.”
As Carlos walks away, Lando is left standing there, his mind working overtime. He had been busy, yes, but surely you understood that, right? He’d been working so hard for the both of you, to secure a future for you. But… had he been neglecting you without even realising it?
The conversation with Carlos continues to replay in his head throughout the day. Maybe he hadn’t been as attentive as he thought. Maybe all those nights out with friends, all those early mornings spent focused on racing had a bigger effect than he assumed. He tries to push the thoughts away, to justify it with the pressure of the season, but it doesn’t sit right anymore.
The rest of the weekend Carlos’ words echo through his head, ‘She feels like you don’t really care about her anymore.’ Lando can barely concentrate with the guilt that’s gnawing at his conscious.
– – – – –
By the time Lando leaves his hotel, he has formed a plan. He has rehearsed a dozen different apologies in his head. He’ll explain what happened, that he’s been so busy with work that he didn’t notice, and he’ll say sorry and change his behaviour. And after that, all will be well.
His plan is thrown out the window as soon as he gets home and sees his wife sitting on the couch, your face pale and tired as you watch TV. The state of you makes the practised words dry on his tongue. How could he not have noticed what was happening?
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt lonely?”
You look up in surprise at the abrupt question cutting through the silence. No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you’, no ‘I missed you, baby’, just the sharp edge of confrontation.
“What?”
“Carlos told me you’ve been feeling lonely. Why didn’t you tell me?”
You frown at his directness, “When was I supposed to do that, Lando? You’re always gone.”
“That’s not true—” he tries to protest, but you cut him off.
“There was not one moment I could have told you, Lando! You’re always busy with work and when you’re not, your friends take up all your free time! You haven’t made any time for me in weeks, months even!” You yell.
Tears well up in your eyes at the confrontation. You had kept your frustrations to yourself for weeks and now that he finds out about your feelings he decides to yell at you for it. How else are you expected to react?
Your words hit Lando hard, each one landing like a punch. His eyes flicker with guilt. “I’ve been under so much pressure. The team needs me—this season could be my best chance at a championship, and I—”
You cut him off, your voice soft. “I know, Lando. I know how important your career is and that this is your chance, but that doesn’t mean all your time should be spent on racing. You’ve no time left for me anymore; all your energy is drained when I finally see you at the end of the day.”
“I can’t help that my job is demanding! You know that, Y/N. You’ve always known that. It takes a lot of time to improve, and the team is finally performing. It’s my chance at a championship! I can’t pass that up!”
“I get that Lando, I really do. But I’ve felt alone in this relationship for months now. I never see you, we never talk… The night of the party you didn’t even text me to ask where I was, or who I was with. You were already sleeping before I got home! Weren’t you worried at all? Or even curious to know where I was, whether I was safe? Sometimes… Sometimes, I doubt whether you still care about me – whether you still love me, because it feels like you don’t.” The tears slowly fall down your face while you say it.
That’s when it hits him – truly hits him. Lando swears he could hear his heart break. He looks at you in shock, and you can’t deny you feel a little better because of it. Had he really fucked up that bad? Do you really believe he no longer loves you, or cares about you? You are the most important person in his life. How could this have gone so far without him noticing? How could he have made the love of his life feel like she wasn’t loved? He runs a hand through his hair in distress, trying to wrap his head around your admission.
“I’ve been patient, Lando. I’ve been understanding, but you’re just never present. Not just physically, but mentally, too. I miss you.”
Lando looks at you sadly from across the room, disappointed in himself. He quickly closes the distance, reaching for your hand. His voice is soft when he speaks to you. “I do. I do love you, Y/N,” he says, caressing your face softly, pulling your chin up so your eyes meet, his teary eyes staring into your red ones. “You’re the love of my life. I care about you so much. You’re the most important to me, above anything else, and you always will be. Don’t forget that, okay? Promise me you’ll never forget that, baby.”
You sniffle, wiping away the tears that are slowly making their way down to your chin, while you nod. The sound physically pains him, his heart twisting torturously in his chest. He vows to never make you cry again.
“I’m so sorry I let it come this far, darling. I’ve been so wrapped up in everything, trying to win, trying to be perfect for the team that I didn’t see what I was losing in the process.”
You interrupt him, “I don’t need perfect, Lando. I just need you to be here. With me. Because if it keeps going like this… I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”
Her words hang between them, and for the first time in weeks, Lando realises the gravity of what he stands to lose if he doesn’t make a change soon. He nods frantically. “Of course, baby. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. You say the word, and I’ll do it. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t love you, because I do. So much. I can’t lose you, I don’t ever want to come this close to losing you ever again.”
He pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to let go; like you’ll walk away from him as soon as he does. You press your face into his chest, missing the feeling of him against you and his comforting scent. The last time he touched you, let alone hugged you feels like ages ago.
“I’ll be better, I’ll make time for you, I promise,” he mumbles, his mouth grazing over your hair, as he tugs you impossibly closer into his tight embrace.
You smile faintly through your tears. “I believe you.”
After a harsh breakup, you and Lando reluctantly take a summer trip together to the Amalfi Coast you once booked. Forced to share a car, a villa, and memories, old arguments flare up—but so do burried feelings.
pairing. Lando Norris x ex-gf! fem! reader.
warnings. second chance, 12,5k words, enemies to lovers -ish, slowburn -ish, forced proximity, angst, both are toxic toward each other as hell, a lot of arguing & screaming, profanity, protective!lando, alcohol use, hints of past toxic relationship, pet names (baby, love), emotional ending.
playlist.
YOU HATED HOW DAMN STUBBORN YOU WERE.
Anyone with a shred of common sense would’ve canceled the trip. After all, what kind of lunatic agrees to spend a week in paradise with the person who’d just torn them apart? The breakup hadn’t been quiet. It had been volcanic, ugly—shouting matches that scraped raw, doors slammed hard enough to echo, words thrown like knives that still lodged in the back of your mind.
But somehow, you and Lando had decided to go anyway.
The conversation happened over a series of dry, impersonal texts. No calls. No apologies. Just blunt logistics. The vacation was booked, paid for, and non-refundable. Even for Lando and his millionaire status, tossing that kind of money felt wasteful. For you—on a budget and aching—it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip you probably couldn’t afford to make solo.
So you swallowed your pride and took the chance.
Amalfi. The place you'd once squealed over together on that couch, scrolling through sun-drenched villas like future memories. Back then, it felt romantic. Now it felt ironic. It was Lando’s name on the booking confirmation, his card that sealed the deal. You were going on holiday with your ex—not because it made sense emotionally, but because the receipts said so.
There was a bitter humor to it. You were about to spend seven days surrounded by turquoise water, lemon trees, and honeymoon energy… with the one person you could barely look at without remembering how it all shattered.
───
The plane jolted once, twice, then landed with the grace of a shopping cart being shoved downhill. Classic Ryanair. You stood, shoulders stiff from the cramped seat, heart heavier than your carry-on.
You’d been told Lando would be waiting outside the arrivals terminal in the rented car. That’s all. No details. No “can’t wait to see you.” Just a one-liner text that barely felt like it came from someone you used to call “baby” while brushing your teeth beside him. You had no idea how he’d arrived. Private jet? Yacht? Teleportation via sheer ego? You didn’t care. You didn’t ask.
What you did care about—much more than you wanted to admit—was that there would only be one car.
You could’ve rented your own. Sure. But the price tag on that? Dumb. Especially when your ex was quite literally one of the fastest drivers on Earth. He could drive you anywhere. Probably blindfolded. You convinced yourself it was practical. Just smart economics.
Except… maybe you were also a little terrified he’d crash just to prove a point.
Your mind spun stupid scenarios as you walked through the glass doors of the airport: Lando taking a hairpin turn too sharply with a smirk. Lando casually flooring the gas mid-argument. You rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t flinch.
You told yourself he wouldn’t. That he wasn't that petty. But then again... you hadn’t seen him since your last fight. Since he threw those words that still lived like a burn in your chest.
You stepped out into the blur of heat and exhaust, scanning the arrivals zone like it was a battlefield. Taxis lined up like options. Easy exits. You could just take one—pretend the plan was always solo. Pretend you hadn’t agreed to this ridiculous arrangement with a man who now felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
But then you saw him.
Leaning against a white SUV, arms crossed loosely, phone dangling from his hand. His hair was messier than usual, curls flattened by travel or maybe nerves. And yeah—you were shocked to admit it, but he did look nervous. His gaze kept flicking to the terminal doors like he was debating whether to bolt or stay.
You gripped the suitcase handle tighter, fingers white-knuckled as you gathered what was left of your pride and stepped toward him. One foot in front of the other. No turning back now.
Lando looked up as you approached, locking eyes with you in a way that made your chest clench. His expression didn’t give much away, but his eyes scanned you. And maybe judged you. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just felt like they did.
Suddenly the whole idea seemed catastrophically stupid.
“Hey,” he said, voice caught somewhere between casual and careful.
You nodded once. “Hello.”
That’s all you allowed yourself to say. Nothing warm. Nothing cruel. Just the word that lived in the neutral zone between past and present.
You popped the trunk, lifted your suitcase without asking for help. The silence felt heavy and awkward, pressing into your ribs. You slid into the passenger seat, clicked the belt into place, and stared straight ahead—hoping the engine would cover everything you weren’t saying.
The silence in the car was thick enough to touch, broken only by the occasional aggressive hum of the engine as he pushed the SUV harder into each curve. The road twisted like it was designed to test his patience—or maybe his impulse control. You watched the sheer drop to the sea flicker past your window and gritted your teeth.
Typical Lando. Always driving like the rules were optional, like adrenaline made up for emotional depth.
“Do you always have to drive like you’re trying to crash us?” you said, deadpan. No heat in your voice, but not quite empty either. You kept your gaze trained on the cliffs ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
Lando chuckled, and the sound annoyed you more than it should.
“You used to think it was fun,” he said, like that was some kind of trump card. You could hear it—the smirk stretching across his mouth, the self-assured tilt in his voice. “You loved it. You used to throw your arms out and belt whatever trash was on the radio. Remember that one ABBA song?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder out the windshield. The memory clawed its way up regardless: you, half-hung out the window screaming lyrics with the wind in your hair, him laughing beside you, hand casually firm on the wheel. Back when speeding with him felt more like flying.
“I used to love a lot of things,” you said finally, voice low and flat. The words landed like a slap on the console between you.
“Such as?” he asked, turning his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar glint. The smile tugging at his mouth wasn’t warm—it was calculated. Lando knew exactly what he was doing. Poking. Testing. Pushing the edges of your temper like they were buttons in a video game he used to win every time.
But not today.
You didn’t bite. Not like before.
Instead, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed loosely, gaze locked on the winding road ahead. Then you smiled. That big, ironic one. The one that meant I know what you're doing—and I'm better at it now.
“Such as papaya,” you said coolly. “You kinda ruined the taste.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was victorious.
The car rumbled to a stop in front of the villa, tires crunching over gravel as the sun dipped lazily toward the horizon. It was breathtaking—whitewashed walls draped in bougainvillea and ivy, the house clinging to the cliffside like it belonged there. It looked like something out of a travel magazine. Just not one you ever imagined starring in with your ex.
You stepped out, heart tight, and let your gaze sweep across the facade. It was beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beauty that felt unfair, considering how miserable you were inside.
The moment you crossed the threshold, warm citrus air met polished terracotta tiles. Everything was perfect: airy rooms flooded with golden light, vintage furniture artfully mismatched, and just beyond the arched French doors—a sprawling terrace with a view that stole the breath right out of your lungs. The sea stretched endlessly below, glittering like spilled sapphires.
This was everything you’d wished for.
Until you reached the bedroom.
You stopped cold. Eyes wide. Staring.
One bed. Just one.
Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course they hadn’t listed that tiny, crucial detail when the booking was made—back when shared pillows and lazy mornings were still your reality. Not this.
Your breath snagged in your throat, and you stood in the doorway like you’d been slapped. The bed loomed large, perfectly made, flanked by two matching nightstands and smug silence.
You stood at the bedroom threshold, staring at the one bed like it had personally betrayed you. The pristine white linens, artfully fluffed pillows, and sun spilling across the mattress—it was all too perfect. Too intentional. Too… romantic.
Lando’s footsteps were soft behind you, but you felt him coming long before he spoke. You turned halfway, still wide-eyed.
“There’s only one bed,” you said, flat but not emotionless. More like disbelief simmering under the surface.
He didn’t even blink. Just glanced at the room, then at you, lips curling into a half-smile that felt a little too easy.
“It was supposed to be romantic, remember?” he said, shrugging.
Of course you remembered. The memory flickered across your mind like a cruel joke—you and Lando side by side, tangled in blankets months ago, scrolling through dreamy villas and laughing over terrace views and breakfast baskets. You had picked this one. Together. Back when the idea of shared mornings still felt safe.
Now, his tone landed somewhere between wistful and cocky, and you hated how much it still made your stomach flip. Maybe he didn’t even mean it that way. But coming from him? Everything sounded like a power play lately.
“I’ll take the couch,” you said immediately. You turned without waiting for a response, already sizing up the living room in your head, calculating whether a throw pillow could double as emotional armor.
But Lando didn’t let the silence settle. Instead, his voice came softer, enough to stop you mid-step. “Y/n, c’mon. A woman shouldn’t sleep on the couch. Take the bed.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not after everything. You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes, unsure if he was joking or trying on chivalry like a borrowed jacket. Did someone swap him out for a gentleman when you weren’t looking?
“I’m fine,” you replied, smile creeping into place—sharp, ironic. “You’re the pro athlete. You need sleep to... I don’t know, race cars and stuff.”
He raised one eyebrow, that look in his eyes like he wanted to say something else. Maybe argue. Maybe offer. But he didn’t.
───
The afternoon sun spilled across the streets like thick honey, turning everything gold and soft at the edges. Voices swirled around you—Italian, German, a splash of English from passing tourists. You walked ahead of Lando with deliberate distance, camera in hand, snapping photos while carefully keeping him out of the frame.
It wasn't passive aggression exactly—it was preservation. You wanted memories of Amalfi, not fragments of him slipping into your shots like shadows you didn’t invite. He didn’t say anything about the distance, didn’t try to catch up. Just followed, sunglasses on, hands tucked into his pockets, moving with that cool indifference that used to thrill you but now felt like ice.
You found a small grocery tucked between two pastel buildings, quaint and shaded with striped awnings and handwritten signs. Inside, the space was cramped and overflowing—bright fruit spilling from baskets, dusty wine bottles stacked in corners, the scent of basil and old stone. You wandered the aisles, letting your fingers trail across unfamiliar packaging while Lando trailed somewhere behind you. There was no conversation. Just a silent agreement to stock the villa with food, avoid killing each other, and act vaguely human in public.
Eventually, you reached the pasta aisle. Shelves crammed with every type imaginable—linguine, conchiglie, tagliatelle, shapes you didn’t recognize and didn’t care to. You reached for a bag of rigatoni, mostly at random. It was pasta.
And then came his voice, slicing through the calm like a paper cut. “Really? Rigatoni? They’re cheap shit.”
You froze, staring at the bag in your hand. Of course. Of course he had an opinion. Lando always had an opinion. He snatched the rigatoni from your grip and replaced it with fusilli like he was doing you a favor.
“Take fusilli,” he said, like that settled it.
You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, annoyance prickling beneath your skin.
“Since when does pasta define who I am?”
He barely looked up from the shelf, casual in his dismissal. “It says a lot about your standards.”
Your throat went tight. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You bit down on the response rising fast—but then let it go, sharp and clean.
“Funny,” you said, voice curling around each syllable. “Because my standards clearly weren’t that high even back then.”
You didn't have to name the reference. You didn’t need to say you. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, the smirk faltered.
You could practically see the fire flicker behind his eyes, barely restrained. The jaw clenched, the breath pulled tight, the faint twitch of his fingers like he was seconds from snapping. If you were a betting woman, you’d wager he was one sarcastic syllable away from calling you a bitch—or worse. The pasta aisle had nearly become a battleground.
And then—
The old woman stood beside the shelf of olive oil, her hands folded sweetly over her purse, a smile tucked beneath deep laugh lines and crooked lipstick. She looked pleased with herself. Like she'd just witnessed something adorable.
“Ah, young love,” she said with a thick, choppy Italian accent, her voice loud enough to echo through the aisle. “Always arguing but still together.”
Your whole body went rigid.
For a breath, you were frozen—caught in a strange spiral of horror and disbelief. You had just survived a pasta-based verbal brawl, one emotional landmine away from snapping, and now you were starring in someone’s romantic comedy? You wanted to deny it. God, you wanted to scream the truth in every language available. We’re not together. We’re not anything. We’re not okay. Because going back to him would be reckless. Would be stupid. Would be—you realized—borderline self-harm.
You opened your mouth. “We’re n—”
But Lando cut in, louder than necessary.
“Grazie,” he said smoothly, flashing her the kind of boyish smile that used to win you free desserts.
You whipped around to look at him, stunned. His expression was unreadable—calm, maybe smug, definitely intentional. You could see it now: the calculated deflection, the charm turned up just enough to wrap the truth in velvet and toss it aside.
You stood stiffly by the cashier, watching the old woman disappear between aisles, her comment still echoing in your ears like leftover music from a party you weren’t invited to. Your heart hadn’t fully settled yet.
You turned to Lando, one eyebrow raised, voice tight with disbelief.
“Are you kidding me? What was that?”
He didn’t look up, busy loading tomatoes and rigatoni into the thin paper bag like nothing had happened.
“We’d be here until tomorrow if we tried to explain the whole story,” he muttered, tossing in a bottle of olive oil. “Was easier.”
You narrowed your eyes. Easy. Everything with him was always easier when someone else was watching.
The cashier rang through the last item with a dull beep, and you reached for the bag without thinking. But just as your fingers grazed the paper, his hand intercepted.
“Let me do it,” Lando said, voice quieter now but firm.
You hesitated—then pulled back slightly, the irritation bubbling again. “I can do it myself,” you snapped.
He turned toward you fully, eyes sharp. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?”
You opened your mouth, ready to fire back something cold and cutting, but caught yourself. His words weren’t cruel, just exasperated. Maybe tired. Maybe something else.
So instead, you smiled. That slow, ironic one that always curled at the edge of something deeper. “Okay then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, voice lighter now, teasing—but not without weight.
Lando blinked, then shook his head softly, gripping the bag and stepping toward the door.
───
The day had been surprisingly calm—almost too calm, like the universe had hit pause on the tension you’d been wrapped in for days. No raised voices. No sarcastic comments disguised as jokes. No passive digs over groceries or travel arrangements. Just peace. Uneasy, fragile peace. It was already past 7pm, and not a single argument had erupted. Honestly, that felt like a record worth framing. You weren’t sure if it meant something or if it was just temporary, like the eye of a storm lingering a little too long.
You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out and mind drifting, when you felt Lando walk past behind you. He ruffled your hair with the same casual touch he used to do when things were easy between you—when affection wasn’t layered with awkwardness and sharp memories. You rolled your eyes, a reflex you didn’t bother hiding, though a tiny part of you didn’t actually mind the gesture. It was familiar.
He paused for a second, then said, “Going for a drive, u wanna go with me?”—as if you were still that version of you, eager and uncomplicated. Something in the way he asked made your chest tighten. Just hours ago, you’d nearly stabbed each other with pasta choices, and now he was offering a sunset drive like it was nothing.
You hesitated, the weight of the invitation sitting in your stomach. A drive meant space to talk. Or space to not talk at all, which was almost worse. But you didn’t have anything better to do. And part of you missed the version of your relationship where driving together felt safe. So you gave a small nod and said, “Let’s go,” keeping your tone light, as if agreeing to go wouldn’t stir up memories you weren’t ready for.
The road was high and winding, hugging the edge of the cliffs with the sea stretching beneath you—endless and blue and quietly intimidating. You drove, both hands on the wheel, the breeze sneaking through your open window and making your hair dance. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And it was familiar in a way that made your heart ache. You’d done this drive before—different location, maybe, but same rhythm. The silence, the sunset, the weight of something unsaid sitting between you. Back then, it was the good part. The part of your relationship that felt like exhaling. The two of you always clicked on the road. It seemed like the only place where the mess didn’t follow you.
You glanced out the window, trying to keep yourself grounded in the scenery and not in the past. But then it hit—the music. That one song. It played without warning, and you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips even as your stomach dropped.
“Oh god. Not this again,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully, but with just a bit of weight behind it.
The music filled the car in slow waves, louder now thanks to Lando’s hand flicking the volume knob with casual confidence. You didn’t turn to look at him when he smiled—couldn’t, really. His words landed somewhere between nostalgia and provocation.
“What? It’s our classic,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. Like it still meant something.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
Still is? Nah. Not with the way your stomach knotted on the chorus. Not with the memories this song stirred, bright and painful in equal measure.
You kept your eyes on the horizon, the coastline rolling out like a story you didn’t know how to reread.
“Yeah,” you muttered, half-smiling without real joy. “You played it like a thousand times that summer.”
That summer—the one wrapped in salt air and laughter, cheap wine and hands tangled in sun-warmed sheets. It was reckless, beautiful, doomed. And this song had been its soundtrack, stuck on repeat every time he drove you through cities you couldn’t pronounce, pretending that love was enough.
Suddenly, impulse tugged at you. You shifted in your seat, arching your spine just slightly before leaning out through the open window. The wind tangled in your hair like fingers, cool against your cheeks, sharp against your throat. The music was louder now, filling your chest. It felt like something you’d done a hundred times before—something from the version of you that hadn’t yet been disappointed. For a moment, it was perfect. Reckless. Wild. You let your arm stretch out, fingers splayed into the air as if you could catch a piece of the sunset.
Then you felt it.
His hand landed on your thigh—firm, steady, anchoring you.
Your breath caught like a hook in your ribs. Not from the touch exactly, but from what it meant. The muscle memory of it. The sudden intimacy. You whipped your head around, heart thudding a little too loud.
“What are you doing?!”
Your voice was half panic, half fury, like being touched again broke a rule neither of you had spoken.
Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance over, eyes still on the road. “Making sure you won’t fall out.”
He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Like holding you steady hadn’t meant anything more than preventing roadkill. But you both knew better. That hand wasn’t about safety—it was about familiarity. About instinct. About the version of him who used to know how to hold you without being asked.
You stared at him for a beat too long, trying to swallow the thing rising in your throat—regret, anger, maybe longing. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel safe either.
You went back into your seat. The road kept winding, the sea stretching endlessly alongside as the sky slipped into a deeper shade of gold. For a while, neither of you spoke. Lando’s hand had retreated, resting back on the wheel like nothing had happened, but your thigh still buzzed with the imprint of his touch. You sat upright again, the wind no longer in your hair, but something else stirring just beneath your ribs—unease, maybe. Or something like nostalgia trying to sneak in.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. He was focused, calm, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. Like maybe he regretted reaching for you. Or maybe he didn’t. The thing about Lando was he never gave away more than a flicker—and somehow you still knew exactly what he was feeling.
The song faded into something new, softer, but the silence between you didn’t shift with it. It sat there, heavy and fragile, like it knew one wrong word could unravel the day.
You crossed your arms and leaned slightly toward the window again, letting the breeze bite at the warmth on your cheeks. You hated that this felt good. Not the drive. Not the music. Him. This version of him—relaxed, considerate, soft-spoken. It was dangerous. It made you forget. And forgetting led you right back to the place you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t return.
“You remember when you drove through Monaco with no headlights?” you asked suddenly, voice quiet but laced with an old spark.
Lando chuckled, shoulders relaxing.
“You screamed the whole time.”
“Because you’re insane.”
“I was spontaneous,” he corrected. “It was romantic.”
“You nearly got us arrested.”
He glanced at you then, grinning just a little too wide. “But you said it was the best night of your life.”
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the window, letting the sunset hit your face. You wondered if he knew he was the reason your good memories always felt like sharp edges now.
───
The day had started quietly, again. Almost suspiciously so. The air was warm, breakfast had been peaceful—surprisingly so, considering your recent track record. You’d even laughed once, over something dumb Lando said with a mouthful of toast and marmalade. For a moment, it felt normal. Familiar. Like maybe the storm that had been brewing since the moment you landed in Amalfi had passed. But the quiet didn’t feel secure. It felt like the kind of silence that tiptoes in right before everything breaks again.
After breakfast, you agreed to take a walk through the city. It seemed harmless enough. Streets lined with stone buildings in pastel shades, vines creeping up walls, old men smoking in alleyways with one eye closed against the sun. You slipped into the rhythm of sightseeing. Bought gelato you didn’t finish. Took photos you weren’t sure you’d keep. And then wandered into a little souvenir shop.
The shelves were cluttered but charming—keychains, magnets, bracelets that would snap in two if someone looked at them wrong. You moved slowly through the aisles, picking up little trinkets for your friends back home. Things that screamed “I survived Italy and remembered you.” Your fingers grazed a woven bracelet, and you wondered for a moment if your best friend would find it tacky or cute.
Lando was somewhere nearby, wandering in his own orbit, probably scanning shelves for overpriced sunglasses or debating which bracelet would go best with whatever influencer he was texting lately. You rolled your eyes at the thought. He had a type. Or rather, a pattern. Charm, gift, vanish. Repeat.
You were mid-reach toward a charm bracelet shaped like a tiny lemon when Lando’s voice cut through the quiet of the souvenir shop, light and teasing—like he hadn’t just reopened something you’d worked all morning to bury.
“Look what I found,” he said, stepping beside you with something in his hand. “Would suit you.”
You turned, expecting something cliché—maybe a little magnet or one of those tacky tourist mugs. But no. It was a cropped T-shirt, obnoxiously bright, with bold letters slashed across the front: I love my ex.
Your breath caught in your throat, and something in your chest went rigid. You blinked, letting the message soak in like acid. Was he actually serious? You stared at the shirt, then at him. There was still time for him to laugh it off, play it like a bad joke, shove it back on the rack and move on like it never happened. Still time for him to choose not to ruin whatever fragile peace the day had offered.
But of course, he didn’t.
“Excuse me?” you said, low and clipped, eyes locked on his. You felt something begin to stir in your gut—a pressure, slow-building and hot.
He shrugged, unbothered, as if the shirt didn’t carry emotional shrapnel. “You can read,” he said, tone irritatingly smug. “You’re literally on vacation with your ex. Pretty fitting, no?”
The way he said it—so casually, like it was just facts—made you flinch. It wasn’t just the words. It was the total lack of care behind them. Like this trip, this silence, this effort meant nothing. Like your pain was punchline-worthy.
You stared at him, then at the shirt again—I love my ex, bold and ugly in its mockery—and tried to process the fact that this was real. That Lando had looked at that thing, held it in his hands, and thought it would be funny. That after everything—after the emotional rollercoaster, the silence, the tension, the effort to just survive this trip without killing each other—he still found a way to twist the knife with a smile.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, voice surprisingly calm but shaking at the edges. The kind of calm that carried heat underneath. It wasn’t just about the shirt anymore. It was the principle. The lack of care. The never-ending cycle of him pushing until you broke, like it was sport.
But instead of going off, instead of throwing it at his face or letting him see the sting in your eyes, you turned away. Back to the bracelets. Something safe. Something that couldn’t mock you.
Behind you, Lando scoffed. You could feel the smirk in his voice even before he spoke.
“You’re offended? Still can’t take a little joke?”
You closed your eyes for half a second, fingers tightening around a flimsy charm. Of all the things he could’ve said. Of all the ways he could’ve backed off, shown even a sliver of regret. But no. He doubled down. Like always.
You spun around, no longer interested in staying calm.
“You know what?” you said, louder now, louder than the soft hum of music in the shop and the quiet chatter of other customers. “You just reminded me why we broke up.”
“Because you can’t take a joke and take everything way too seriously?” he fired back, voice tight, more defensive than clever. The bravado was there, but barely. He knew it. You knew it. That wasn’t the real reason. Not even close. He could lie to you, fine. But the way his eyes darted as he spoke—that was him lying to himself.
You turned toward him fully, the bracelet still clenched in your hand. Your heart was thudding now, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something bitter.
“No,” you snapped, barely masking the disgust. “Because you’re still a childish prick who’s desperate for my attention.”
There was no room left for subtlety.
He scoffed, folding his arms, shifting his weight like he needed a new pose to match the ego he was scrambling to protect.
“Desperate for your attention?” he repeated, trying hard to sound unaffected. “Oh please. I moved on the second you slammed the door.”
You laughed—cold and biting, the kind of laugh that didn’t hide anything. That peeled back all the curtains and shone a harsh light on the cracks he kept pretending weren’t there.
“Right. That’s why you called me drunk at 2 a.m. saying you needed me,” you said, laughing again, bitter this time, eyes glinting as you stared him down. “I must’ve imagined that part, huh? You were just bored, or confused, or maybe—just maybe—you weren’t over it like you like to pretend.”
Then you turned toward the rack, grabbed the ridiculous t-shirt from where it hung like a neon reminder, and shoved it against his chest with deliberate force.
“You know what? Maybe you should buy it,” you said, voice low but clear. "It suits you much better than it does me."
The silence didn’t last long—not with the storm already rolling in behind your eyes. The air inside the shop was too still, too tight, and the space between you and Lando was thick with everything you hadn’t said yet. He stood there, arms crossed, trying to wear the smirk like armor, but it was slipping.
“You broke up with me, remember?” he snapped, voice lower, bitter now. “So stop acting like I ruined your life.”
You turned, breath sharp. “I didn’t say you ruined my life. I said you acted like a self-absorbed manchild who didn’t know what to do with someone who actually cared.”
“Oh my god,” he laughed, but it wasn’t real—it was the kind people use to stop themselves from yelling. “You were suffocating. Always needing something, always mad about something.”
“I was asking you to show up, just like real boyfriend should!” You shouted, stepping closer. “Emotionally. Mentally. Occasionally answer a text like a normal person, not disappear for days and come back like nothing happened just to fuck!”
“That’s not how I remember it,” he bit back. “You were obsessed with picking fights! Every single little thing pissed you off!”
“Because everything else was silent!” Your voice cracked then—just slightly. “You don’t talk, Lando. You don’t explain. You just vanish. It’s easier for you to ghost than to face anything real.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tense, like he hated how accurate it was. Then he stepped forward, closer than you wanted.
“I didn’t ghost you,” he said, quieter now. “I was trying to avoid this. The yelling. The constant drama.”
“And now you’re in the middle of a gift shop yelling anyway,” you hissed. “So tell me, how’s that avoidance working out?”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. Just heavy breathing and the echo of your own anger bouncing off sun-faded trinkets.
Then he glanced at the shirt again—the one you’d shoved against his chest—and let out a slow, bitter laugh.
“You know what?” he said, voice cold. “You’re right. I’ll buy it. I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it to the airport if it gets me away from you faster.”
You stared at him, stunned. Then turned on your heel without another word.
───
The whole day had passed in silence. After that fight, after everything he said and did in the gift shop, there wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to talk to him. Not after he made you feel so stupid in front of strangers. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was cruel.
It was late now. Evening had settled in, soft and slow, but it didn’t feel peaceful. You were curled up on the couch that had doubled as your bed for days. It was uncomfortable and stiff, and your body was starting to feel the consequences. Your back ached, your neck was sore, and sleep had become something you dreaded because you never really felt rested. Still, you hadn’t moved to the actual bed. Maybe because you were too stubborn. Maybe because going to the bed felt like admitting defeat—and you’d already had enough of that.
Lando hadn’t said a word to you either. He’d gone straight to the balcony when you got home from the shop and hadn’t left it since. You hadn’t looked at him, but you could imagine the scene clearly. He was probably slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, phone in hand. Knowing him, he was either venting to Max—telling him how you overreacted—or texting some random girl who had no idea how good he was at being charming and careless at the same time.
The couch groaned beneath you as you shifted for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find a position that didn’t make your back scream. Your neck had officially given up—stiff, sore, humming with regret—and the cushions felt more punishment than comfort. But still, you stayed. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because you didn’t want to owe him anything.
Lando walked past, his footsteps echoing slightly on the stone floor, and just as you closed your eyes, his voice cut in.
“You’ll wake up in pieces if you keep sleeping here.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just blinked up at the ceiling, irritation prickling beneath your skin. Of course he had to say something. He couldn’t just keep walking. Why did he comment on everything? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?
“So?” you murmured, jaw tight. “I survived worse.”
Oh, how much you wanted to say more. Like the relationship with you. The words danced at the tip of your tongue, sharp and ready, but you swallowed them back. Not tonight.
There was a pause. You assumed he’d keep moving, leave you in peace, retreat back to the balcony where he’d spent the entire day avoiding any trace of accountability. But instead—he stayed. And then came the unexpected.
“Take the bed.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, trying to hide the disbelief on your face.
Since when did he offer without a punchline attached?
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“You know your dad would kill me if you didn’t come back.”
Ah. There it was. Not kindness. Not guilt. Just logic. Just obligation.
You stared at him, heart tight, thoughts tangled. You could still feel the sting of the fight from earlier, still remember how small he made you feel in front of strangers. And yet here he was, offering a bed that used to be yours. That used to be yours together.
The decision came slow, but it came. The couch had become a war zone of poor sleep and regret, and your back was finally staging a protest you couldn’t ignore. One more night on that lumpy disaster meant waking up with your spine in alphabet soup—and yeah, you deserved better. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Besides, he’d be sleeping out there now, right? It wasn’t giving up. It was survival.
“Okay,” you said, dragging your body upright, every joint groaning in agreement. “But only because the couch is really horrible.”
You didn’t wait for ceremony. You fell into the bed like gravity owed you a favor, sinking into the pillows with the kind of relief that felt criminal. Soft, warm, perfect. The mattress hugged you instantly, almost annoyingly gentle after the concrete couch you’d forced yourself to suffer through. For a moment, you lay there, eyes fluttering shut, letting your body thaw. Heaven. Unexpected, unearned heaven.
And then, of course—he had to ruin it.
The door creaked open, and in walked Lando. Shorts. Shirtless. Like the villa was his runway and drama was his cologne. Your eyes snapped open, immediate whiplash from bliss to disbelief. Shirtless? Seriously?
Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t flinch. Just strolled in like it was a Tuesday. “Relax. I’m not sleeping on that couch either.”
Oh. My. God.
Of course he wouldn’t. Of course this man, this ambassador of chaos disguised as a charm machine, would decide that one tiny moment of peace wasn’t allowed. You blinked at him, trying to process how someone could look so smug and so casual all at once. The bed wasn’t just yours again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered, he’ll ruin your night, just like he ruins everything.
You pushed yourself up from the pillows, arms stiff and body sore from days of pretending the couch was enough. Your eyes went to him instinctively, but they didn’t stop at his face—they landed on his chest first. Bare, relaxed, way too familiar. It threw you off. It wasn’t just the fact that he was shirtless, it was the way he looked like this was all normal. You stared, mostly because you weren’t ready to speak, and when your words finally came, they were laced with disbelief.
“You’re not serious,” you said, voice flat, eyes narrowing.
Lando didn’t even blink. He stood there in his stupid shorts, arms loose at his sides like he didn’t just drop an emotional bomb into the room. His tone was easy, like he was offering you a logical solution instead of stirring up something messy.
“It’s a big bed,” he said. “And I won’t touch you. You know I wouldn’t ever do that.”
Something in your chest tensed. He said it like he was trying to sound respectful, reasonable, but there was something else there too—like he wanted you to remember that once, not so long ago, he used to be the one you let touch without hesitation. And maybe now he was trying to prove he was capable of restraint. Or maybe he was just doing what he always did: pushing the line and pretending it wasn’t loaded.
You rolled your eyes and nodded, already regretting the shared bed arrangement but too tired to argue. He didn’t gloat, didn’t smirk—just grabbed his blanket and settled in on his side, clearly making an effort to put as much space between you as the mattress allowed. It was awkward. Not hateful, just strange. Like trying to sleep beside a ghost of someone who once knew how you curled up at night.
“Should I build a pillow wall?” you asked, voice dry, not exactly serious but not exactly joking either.
“No,” he mumbled, turning away from you, his back a quiet barrier. “I’ll be careful.”
The silence that followed stretched long. Not tense, but definitely not comfortable. You lay there, too aware of the space between you, of how your breathing changed when he shifted, of all the things neither of you was saying. The blanket was warm, but your thoughts kept peeling away layers of stillness until your brain buzzed more than your body relaxed.
Then his voice broke through, casual and ridiculous. “And by the way, don’t you dare fart like you always did.”
It was so random, so unnecessary, so him—you couldn’t stop the laugh that exploded out of you. Full-bodied, messy, uncontrolled.
“Shut up!” you managed through the giggles. “You were worse!”
There it was. The first real laugh in days. Still tangled in bitterness, but alive.
───
The beach was buzzing—kids shrieking near the shoreline, music spilling from hidden speakers, the scent of sunscreen and sea salt hanging heavy in the warm air. The water stretched out in front of you, glittering in every shade of blue, and for once, you weren’t weighed down by drama. The day felt soft. Easy.
You sat comfortably at the beach bar, legs stretched out, a mojito sweating in your hand. Your phone was open on your lap, half a text typed out to your friends. Slept in the same bed as my ex. And somehow… no explosions. You weren’t even sure what reaction you were hoping for—concern, amusement, validation? But it felt worth saying. A small miracle, considering your recent history with Lando.
Speaking of him—he was somewhere in the water, floating around with zero grace, probably reenacting some ridiculous underwater mermaid scene. You didn’t care much. Not actively. But your eyes still drifted to where he was every so often, checking to make sure he wasn’t doing backflips off a floatie or convincing strangers he was a dolphin. It was instinct now. Like your nerves still knew how quickly chaos could show up.
You took another sip of your drink, already melting into the salt-soaked rhythm of the day, when a voice popped up beside you—smooth, confident, unfamiliar.
“Hey gorgeous, mind if I join you? You look like you need some company.”
You blinked, turned. The guy was tall, tan, and very aware of his own charm. Smile practiced. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like a lifestyle choice. The kind of guy who didn’t ask twice because he expected a yes the first time.
Lando was already taking up too much space in your head—his crooked smile, the way he made everything feel exciting and unsafe at once. You hadn’t come here looking for drama. You just wanted quiet. A little peace. Something to help you breathe.
So when that guy slid in beside you and started talking, your whole body tensed. You gave him the easiest answer you could, hoping he’d take the hint. “I’m sorry, but I like to be on my own,” you said, trying not to sound cold, just clear. You even shifted away a bit, politely but firmly. But of course, he didn’t listen.
“C’mon, pretty girl, one drink,” he said with a grin that felt too smug, too sure of himself. That phrase made you feel small. Like you were something pretty to be collected, not someone real with thoughts and boundaries. The irritation rose quickly this time, burning through your chest like fire.
“I’m not interested,” you said, voice hard now. You didn’t care about sounding nice anymore. “Just go a—”
And then—Lando. His voice cut through the noise like a sharp wind against your skin.
“She said she’s not interested, man,” he said, and you turned. Instinctively.
Seeing him there hit you like a wave. The protective stance, the grip on the guy’s shoulder that clearly wasn’t gentle—it was too tight, almost daring. He looked serious, eyes dark with warning. Something inside you flickered at that. Gratitude. Surprise. Maybe even something warmer than you expected.
“Respectfully, fuck off,” Lando added calmly, almost like it was routine. Like defending you came naturally.
The guy puffed up, trying not to back down. “Who even are you? Her boyfriend?” he snapped.
Lando didn’t hesitate. “Kind of,” he said quickly, way too quickly. And your heart did something weird—it stopped for a second, then started again, faster than before.
“Now go away before I have to break your nose,” he added, still calm, still threatening.
The guy looked at you, then back at Lando. He didn’t want the fight. Not with someone like that. So he muttered an apology and walked away, shoulders slumped.
You blinked, still frozen, trying to catch up. Kind of? What did that mean? Was he just saying that to push the guy away, or did he actually mean it? And why did your heart ache a little at how easily the words rolled out of him?
Lando slid into the seat next to you like it was his rightful place. You didn’t even look at him at first—your fingers still wrapped around your drink, heart still thudding from how easily he’d stepped in earlier, jaw tight and protective. It should’ve annoyed you. It almost did. But somehow, it felt good—just for a second.
“Thank you,” you said, turning your head toward him with a playful roll of your eyes, “but I could’ve handled it.”
He leaned in—slow, casual, but just close enough that his presence wrapped around you like the tide. His proximity made your breath catch, just barely. Like old habits were trying to sneak back in under your guard.
“Really?” he said, voice dipped in teasing amusement. “You were about two seconds away from looking like you needed saving.”
You turned toward him properly now, eyebrow raised, mouth curved in that half-smile that always came with a challenge. You hated how easily he stirred something in you, how natural it was to fall back into this rhythm.
“Saving? From that?” you scoffed gently. “Please. I’ve handled worse.”
The moment hung there for a beat, the breeze picking up your words and sending them between you like a dare.
His grin stretched wider, a spark flicking behind his eyes that made your chest squeeze.
“Oh, I know,” he said, smug and unbothered. “You dated me.”
It hit harder than it should have—because you both knew it was true. Because even now, even after the fights and the silence and the mess, he could make you laugh without trying and make your walls tremble with a single look.
───
The yacht gleamed under the sun like it was showing off, bobbing gently on the water as if wealth could float. Typical Lando—big gestures, big toys, zero concern about practicality. He’d rented the whole thing for the day, no hesitation, just a smirk and a swipe of a card like it was nothing. Yeah, rich people will be rich. You just silently crossed your fingers he wasn’t planning on calling this a “shared experience” later and asking for payback in the form of emotional favors.
But truthfully? It was nice. Stupidly nice.
The breeze, the sound of water lapping against the hull, the way the sunlight kissed the surface of the sea—everything felt soft and indulgent in a way you hadn’t let yourself enjoy in ages.
The problem wasn’t the yacht. It wasn’t even the luxury.
It was him.
Lando, with his easy grin and relentless teasing. Every time you rolled your eyes, he leaned closer. Every time you tried to stay cool, he said something that tugged just a little too hard on your past. It was like he couldn’t help himself—chipping away at your restraint with little jabs and dumb jokes and that stupid dimple that appeared when he knew he was winning.
Lando was already sprawled out across the cushioned sofa like a king in his natural habitat—one arm behind his head, legs stretched out, curls completely untamed and defying gravity as usual. His Calvin Klein swim shorts weren’t helping either, and you hated how effortlessly attractive he looked when he was relaxed like that. It was annoying. Unfair, really.
You carried the bag carefully, the scent of sushi already teasing the air. You knew exactly how he felt about it—he’d complained at least five separate times on this trip about how “it smells like a fish market” and how “raw stuff shouldn’t be called food.” But you didn’t care. You were craving it. And maybe, just maybe, part of you enjoyed irritating him in small, harmless ways.
“Lunch is served,” you said with dramatic flair, lowering yourself onto the seat next to him. He turned his head immediately, eyes narrowing the second he spotted the bag in your hands. You smiled sweetly, slow and deliberate, and began pulling out the containers one by one like you were presenting gourmet treasure.
His face twisted into that classic Lando expression—half disgusted, half disbelief.
“Oh fuck off,” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “You know how much I hate it.”
The sushi container was open between you, its bright colors almost mocking his stubborn refusal. You picked up the avocado roll—the most harmless option of them all—and waved it in front of his face, chopsticks poised like a peace offering.
“Come on, Lando,” you said, playful and firm. “You can’t go through life without trying it. This one doesn’t even have fish. Literally just avocado and rice.”
You smiled wide, knowing exactly how to press the right button. He groaned, already looking exasperated before you even got the words out.
“I swear, Carlos said the same thing,” he muttered, pushing your face away with his palm like you were an annoying little sister rather than the ex he still hadn’t figured out how to stop orbiting.
You swatted his hand, laughing, but something about the way he smirked—lips curling and eyes soft with half-masked affection—made your heart thump just once, unexpected.
He brushed past your mention of Carlos like it hadn’t happened, redirecting the moment toward a memory you hadn’t thought about in a long time.
“Do you remember when I once tasted seafood for you?” he said, as if it was nothing. But you did—instantly. That trip was etched into your memory like ink beneath skin.
“Dubai?” you replied, a small laugh slipping out. “And how you threw up five minutes after?”
You remembered the fancy restaurant by the marina, the warm evening air, the golden lights reflecting off the water. He’d insisted on ordering something you loved, even though he hated seafood with a passion. You had warned him. But he had wanted to prove something then, and maybe it wasn’t about the food at all. He had looked so proud sitting across from you, trying to chew through squid like it wasn’t making his stomach turn. You had laughed then too, but with your heart swelling a little because part of you had believed that love meant doing strange things for someone just to see them smile.
“Oh yeah,” he said, chuckling. “See? I was so in love with you. I ate damn seafood for you. And you thought I didn’t love you.”
Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping out as a quick snort when Lando made his dramatic declaration. The sun was warm on your skin, and everything about this moment—his ridiculous tone, the way he sprawled across the cushions like a defeated movie star—felt familiar and easy. “So now seafood trauma is a romantic gesture?” you teased, eyebrows raised as you plucked another piece of sushi from the tray between you. “Soon you’ll be writing love poems to spring rolls.”
Lando groaned loudly, tossing his head back like he couldn’t bear the memory. “Don’t mock my suffering,” he said, dragging out the words like he was physically suffering. “That squid was basically a rubber band soaked in disappointment. It betrayed me.”
You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting with genuine amusement. His voice might’ve been full of regret, but it made your chest feel lighter. This was the kind of rhythm that felt like home—the joking, the banter, the way you both knew exactly how far to push. “You ate it for me,” you said, nodding like it was a serious statement. “And you almost died for me. Your stomach still hasn’t forgiven you.”
He narrowed his eyes at you, not angry—just teasing, like he was deciding whether or not to take revenge. “Watch it,” he said softly. It wasn’t a real threat, but there was something in his look that made your pulse skip a beat.
You raised an eyebrow and popped an avocado roll into your mouth. “Or what?” you asked through a half-chewed bite. “You gonna cry into your fancy yacht pillow?”
That was it.
Lando sat up halfway, lightning-fast, and reached for your ankle without warning. His grip was firm but gentle, playful in the way his fingers wrapped around your skin like he’d done it a thousand times before. “I swear on my overpriced sunglasses,” he said, voice deepening just enough to sound dramatic, “I’ll toss you overboard right now.”
You shrieked in surprise, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as you squirmed, trying to free yourself. “Lando!” you gasped, clutching the tray to keep the sushi from flying everywhere. “You wouldn’t!”
Lando gave you that grin, “I absolutely would.”
You didn’t even have time to scream. One moment, Lando was smirking like the devil himself, eyes full of chaotic joy, and the next—you were airborne, muscles tensing, breath caught in your throat. Your heart jolted as your body flipped through the salty air, and for a second, time slowed. The edge of the yacht blurred past your vision, the glint of the setting sun dancing on the waves. And then splash—cold, wild water swallowed you whole. But you hadn’t gone quietly. In that split-second of instinct, your hand had clawed for anything to take him down with you—and his hand had been the perfect target.
Above the surface, you heard him yell—a mix of surprise and pure panic—and then another splash. And oh, it was glorious. You rose from the depths gasping, water streaming down your face, laughter already bubbling up before you could get the words out. “You actually threw me in, you psycho!”
He burst to the surface beside you, coughing dramatically, curls plastered to his forehead. “You dragged me in like some cursed, revenge-fueled sea goblin!”
“You deserved it,” you shot back, half laughing, half breathless from the adrenaline rush, body already starting to shiver from the temperature drop. The ocean wrapped around you like silk and chaos, waves nudging you both closer.
He wiped his face with both hands, looking at you through soaked lashes. “You’re fucking relentless, you know that?” But his grin was still there, wild and boyish, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t felt in months. “I mean—I was supposed to be the menace!”
You swam toward him, closing the distance a bit. “Takes one to know one,” you murmured, your voice softer now, amused but aching beneath the surface. His eyes locked onto yours, and everything suddenly slowed again—not from adrenaline this time, but because the world got quiet inside you. It was like the noise of your thoughts stopped spinning, just long enough to let something real push through.
He tilted his head, mouth opening just slightly like he was going to toss another joke your way—but it didn’t come. Instead, his expression shifted. He stared for a beat too long, and the gleam in his eyes dimmed into something earnest.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”
You laughed.
He was definitely joking.
Or…?
───
You hadn’t meant for the night to go this way. You and Lando had made a promise—just one drink. Keep things chill, keep emotions at bay. But that stupid confession from yesterday had tangled itself into your thoughts so tightly, you couldn’t ignore it. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.” How were you supposed to hear that and not feel everything? The weight of it, the confusion, the hope. So yeah… you drank. More than one. More than two. Probably more than anyone should. And now here you were, trying to breathe against the cold wall outside the bar, while the world spun like it was mocking you.
You had told Lando you needed fresh air, said it with a smile like everything was fine. But the truth was—your knees were unsteady, your stomach twisting, and your head full of emotions you didn’t know how to name. You’d been standing here for maybe fifteen minutes, barely able to keep upright. Your eyes blurred and doubled, and the tips of your fingers tingled. You kept telling yourself it would pass. That you’d walk it off and rejoin him inside like nothing had happened.
And then—his voice. Sharp, worried, and far too sobering.
“Y/n? What the fuck?” Lando was already halfway out the door, eyes wide as he spotted you slumped against the wall. He rushed over, breath quick, confusion written all over his face. “You okay?”
You tried to wave it off, your hand flicking lazily in the air like it could dismiss everything wrong. “Yeah,” you said, forcing the word through the fuzz in your throat. But the moment you stepped forward, your foot missed the ground, and you stumbled—hard enough for him to flinch.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. Just let out a quiet sigh and mumbled, “Yeah, you’re not walking. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” And then he bent down. No hesitation, no sarcasm. One arm tucked behind your knees, the other pressing firmly against your back, and suddenly you were airborne. Safe. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the scent of his cologne.
He picked you up like it was easy, like he’d done it before, like you weren’t a mess of feelings and regret. And as your head leaned against his shoulder, you felt something settle in your chest—uneven and heavy, but less alone. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.
Your head rested against his shoulder as the world tilted and blurred around you. You felt completely out of it—your body heavy, your thoughts a tangle of half-formed memories and spinning questions. It was like you’d lived this moment before. Him carrying you. You too drunk to walk. That strange feeling hit you hard, like a dream you couldn’t quite remember but your bones knew by heart. Maybe it really had happened before. Maybe it hadn’t.
You didn’t feel like talking, but the words slipped out anyway, low and raw. “Why do you still help me?” You weren’t trying to push him away—you really just didn’t get it. The trip had been a wreck. You’d fought with him so much, said things you didn’t even mean, thrown sarcasm like knives. He had every reason to leave you behind, to walk away and not look back. But he hadn’t. He never did.
He didn’t answer right away, but when he looked down at you, there was something soft in his eyes, something almost tired, but patient. He smiled, that quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. “Because clearly you can’t help yourself.”
You rolled your eyes at his answer, not because it wasn’t kind—but because it wasn’t real enough. It didn’t explain everything. Not the late-night help, not the way he jumped in during that mess on the beach, not how he always showed up when no one else did.
“That’s not the answer, though,” you mumbled, words sticking to your throat as your fingers curled into his shirt a little tighter. You weren’t trying to start something. You just needed to understand.
You lifted your gaze to him, watching the way his jaw shifted—the muscles tight like he was holding something back. You could feel his chest rise and fall underneath your cheek. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you said quietly, voice slower now. “You didn’t have to step in on that beach. Or carry me like this. You could’ve just… left me there. Walked away.”
You hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad. But it did. And now it hung in the air between you like fog, wrapping around everything unsaid.
For a moment, Lando didn’t speak. His mouth moved slightly, like he was forming something careful. His arms didn’t shift—still holding you close, still steady—but you felt the tension in him. The way it settled in his shoulders, how he hesitated before finally letting the words out.
“Yeah, well…” he said, voice lower now, stripped of the joking edge. “I told myself I was done. That I wouldn’t care anymore.” He let out a breath that didn’t sound convincing—like he’d been carrying that lie longer than he wanted to admit. “But I guess I lied. ’Cause I’d still show up. No matter what.”
You blinked slowly, trying to process the weight behind that. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the classic sense. But it hit you harder than anything he’d said the whole trip.
“If you called me five minutes before a race,” he continued, eyes focused straight ahead, “said you needed me—I’d drop everything. I’d come running. No questions, no hesitation. I’d be there.”
Your chest clenched at that. Because even though he was drunk, even though you were a mess and this wasn’t the place for heavy confessions… that felt like truth. Raw and real and maybe a little broken, but still whole in its own way.
The words left Lando’s mouth without much force, but they hung heavy in the air. “I hate that you hate me,” he said, almost like he wasn’t expecting a reply. You turned your head slightly, still pressed against him, and blinked slowly. That sentence wasn’t thrown out like a joke—it felt like something deeper. Something he’d been carrying for a while.
You exhaled, slow and careful, heart thudding. “I don’t hate you, Lando,” you said softly. And you meant it. Honestly, the thought hadn’t ever crossed your mind. Even in the worst fights, even during the cold silences and ugly words. Hate was never what you felt for him. It was frustration, disappointment, pain—but not hate. Never hate.
He scoffed under his breath. “You should.” His voice was quiet, but heavy with guilt. He sounded convinced. Like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve your kindness, your loyalty, your softness. That maybe, after everything, he’d earned your anger. That someone like him—messy, impulsive, hurtful in all the wrong moments—shouldn’t be forgiven. Shouldn’t be missed.
But if only he knew. If only he could see what was actually tucked deep in your chest. That through all of it—every argument, every confusing feeling—he was still your person. Your first real love. The only one who truly made you feel known. You were angry sometimes, sure. But you loved him still. Maybe too much. Maybe you were both just young and stubborn and too afraid to say what you really felt in the quiet moments.
Lando reached the villa with you still in his arms, his grip strong but gentle as he shifted your weight to open the door. He struggled for a second, fumbling with the knob while keeping you steady, until he finally managed to kick it open with his foot.
Inside, the room was dim and quiet, and everything felt like it was moving slower—probably because your head was spinning and you could barely keep your eyes open. He brought you to the bed and lowered you down carefully, but you were so drunk that even sitting felt like too much. You kind of melted sideways, your arms wrapping around yourself for balance, trying to stop the room from tilting.
Lando stood there for a beat, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and exhaustion. Then he raised a brow, gesturing with both hands in a way that you barely understood. “Hands up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But your brain wasn’t connecting dots right now, and you just blinked at him, confused.
“What?” you asked, hugging yourself tighter out of instinct. Everything suddenly felt more vulnerable. You weren’t sure if it was the dress, the mood, or just how close he’d been all night. You could feel the fabric of it sticking to your skin, uncomfortable now after the ocean and the bar and everything in between.
He rolled his eyes, but not in a mean way. More like he was tired of pretending you were shy around him. “Come on, Y/n,” he said, voice low but soft. “I’ve seen every part of you.”
Your cheeks went warm—not from embarrassment, but from the way he said it. Not crude, not teasing. Just honest. And yeah, he was right. You’d let him in, more than once, in ways you hadn’t let anyone else. The history between you didn’t allow for awkwardness now, even if everything else felt messy. Still, the fact that he remembered all those moments—not just the dramatic ones, but the quiet, intimate ones—made your chest squeeze a little.
You lifted your arms slowly, the room spinning just slightly as Lando slipped your dress over your head with care. His movements were gentle, familiar, like he’d done this before—like he remembered your edges better than you did in moments like this. You didn’t protest. You were too tired, too drunk, too wrapped up in the safety of this quiet. He reached behind him and grabbed one of his shirts—oversized, worn, soft—and pulled it over your head, letting it settle around your frame like a blanket. It smelled like him.
Then he dropped down to his knees in front of you, fingers already working to unbuckle the straps of your heels. You barely noticed him move. His head was bent low, curls falling over his eyes, silent except for a tired hum that let you know you could speak if you needed to.
And you did.
“Lando?” you said quietly, voice hoarse.
He gave a soft grunt in response, focused on the buckle. But you kept going.
“I mean… what if we ended up together again?” Your voice shook slightly, your hands folding into your lap. “Would you do it all over again? Like… for real this time. The right way.”
He didn’t say a word while he finished removing your heels, fingers working through the straps carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the quiet between you. When he was done, he rose slowly to his feet, and suddenly he felt so much taller, standing over you like a pause in the storm. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, and your heart jumped at the look in his eyes—steady and sincere, like something had finally shifted.
Lando reached out, palms cradling your cheeks with a softness that caught you off guard. His touch was warm, grounding. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.
“I would,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know I messed things up. I treated you like shit. I hate that—I regret it every single day.” His thumbs brushed gently across your skin. “But if we had a second chance… I’d do it right this time. I’d treat you the way you actually deserve.”
Then he leaned down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead. And in that quiet breath of contact, something inside you cracked—not from pain, but from the way his words settled into the empty spaces you’d been carrying. Maybe you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But in that moment, you weren’t wondering if he cared.
You could feel it.
───
You remembered everything you said to him that night—every word that spilled out when your guard was down, when your emotions were louder than reason. And honestly, you hated that you did. You wished your memory had blurred it all away like the rest of the night. But instead, it stuck. The words you said, the way you felt, and that quiet moment where you let him see how much you still cared.
Now it haunted you. It had you thinking about him constantly, even when you tried to stop. You wanted to hate him. You swore you did. You had reasons—plenty of them. But your heart didn’t seem interested in any of that. No matter how hard you tried, you missed him. Not just the idea of him, but the real, messy, complicated person. You missed the way he made things feel easier, even when everything was hard.
The tears came suddenly, stinging and silent, as you stared down at the photos. Your phone screen glowed with frozen moments—smiles at the beach, blurry selfies, inside jokes captured in time. You pressed your thumb against one of them, like touching it could bring it all back. But you knew you couldn’t go back there. Not really. That version of you, that version of him—it was locked in the past, behind everything that went wrong.
Still, looking at those images made your chest ache. Because even if you couldn’t rewind, maybe you could rebuild. Maybe the words you said while drunk weren’t just chaos. Maybe they were your heart begging for another chance. And maybe now, sober and hurting, you could decide to fix it. To be honest. To let yourself feel it without shame.
You didn’t even know if he remembered all of it like you did. But somewhere deep inside, you hoped that he felt it too. That maybe your mess of a confession had sparked something in him—something worth saving.
The door creaked softly behind you, and you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could recognize Lando’s footsteps anywhere. That low, careful rhythm—no rush, just a quiet urgency like he already sensed something wasn’t right. Before you could wipe the tears from your cheeks, he was beside you. Close enough to feel the shift in your breathing. Close enough to notice the redness around your eyes.
“Hey—” he started, but his words cut short when he saw your face. His brows drew together, eyes scanning you with that look that used to be impatience, but now… it was pure worry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, love?” His voice was soft, careful. Gentle, even. And god, it hurt a little more because a few months ago he would’ve said you were being dramatic. Back then, emotion made him flinch. Now he was standing here like it meant something. Like you meant something.
You turned away slightly, trying to gather yourself even though your heart felt cracked wide open. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t convincing, but it was all you could manage. You didn’t want to fall apart in front of him again.
He didn’t move away. His eyes caught the light from your phone screen still glowing faintly in your hand, and he tilted his head, just enough to see it. “Baby, don’t lie,” he said softly, then paused. “Is that us?”
Your hand scrambled to turn off the screen, already too late. You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears rising again. “No—I mean… yes,” you stammered, breath catching in your chest as you looked up at him. “I was just… looking at old photos, and…”
Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated that even now, after everything, he still had the power to unravel you. But the look on his face—he didn’t judge.
The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and cracked at the edges. “And I just can’t pretend that I hate you,” you said, voice trembling, each word pulled straight from the deepest part of you. “I meant everything I said that night. I hate not being with you. It’s felt like I’ve been missing my other half for months.” You barely got it out before your voice broke completely, a quiet sob pulling at your chest.
Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared for a long second, his eyes fixed on yours like he was trying to figure out how you’d held that in for so long. Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe. Or maybe something softer. Something that looked a lot like understanding.
Then slowly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just close. Real. His shirt soaked in your tears instantly, but he didn’t seem to care. He held you tighter, like he was trying to hold together all the pieces you’d lost along the way.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice shaky as your fingers clung to his back. “I was such a bitch. So toxic. And I hate that I pushed you away. I just miss you. Miss us.”
You pulled away from him slowly, the weight of the hug still clinging to your skin. Something inside you—instinct maybe, or just emotion—told you to look up. To meet his eyes. And when you did, the air felt like it cracked open.
“I love you,” Lando said, no hesitation this time, no jokes wrapped around the truth. “I always did. I never stopped.”
The words landed heavy, almost too much. You stared at him, lips parted, heart barely steady as he kept going.
“I wanted to call you,” he said, voice growing softer. “There were days I just sat with the phone in my hand. I wanted to cry, to say sorry, to beg—but I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.” His eyes didn’t look away, not once. “But then I realized… I wouldn’t survive seeing you with someone else. I couldn’t. And that’s when I knew—I have to be better. I want to be better. For you.”
Your breath caught. Because that wasn’t a speech. That wasn’t rehearsed. It was Lando—raw and scared and finally honest. And all you could think was: this is what it sounds like when someone means it.
Your voice barely made it past your lips, thick with emotion and shaking at the edges. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, the words rushing out before doubt could swallow them. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t rehearse it. But the second it escaped, you knew it was true. As simple and messy and overwhelming as it sounded, it was the only thing that felt right.
Lando didn’t speak—his eyes just locked on yours, wide with something that looked a lot like relief. Like he’d been waiting for that exact sentence and didn’t know if he’d ever hear it. You didn’t give either of you a chance to pull away. You leaned in fast, gripping the sides of his shirt, heart pounding in your chest, and kissed him.
The moment your lips met his, the silence fell away. His hands moved instinctively, one cradling the back of your head, the other resting firmly on your lower back, pulling you closer like he needed you in every possible way. The kiss wasn’t perfect—it was a little desperate, full of emotion and breath and years of not knowing how to say what you both meant. But it was real.
When you finally parted, your faces stayed close, eyes meeting in the quiet aftermath. His thumb brushed your cheek, tender and lingering.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited,” he whispered.
You gave a soft laugh, teary and real. “I think I do.”
SUMMARY you were sure you hated him. you hated the way he always looked unimpressed, the way he never laughed at your jokes, the way he made silence stretch until your frustration crept in. but the thing about oscar is that he never gave you anything halfway.
word count 0.8k
note requested by anon as a part of my 1k celebration <33 i'm sorry i haven't written for f1 drivers (or for my celebration) in sooo long, but i'm back 😇 not one of my best works but hope u guys enjoy !
OP81 MASTERLIST EVENT MASTERLIST
YOU DIDN'T LIKE Oscar Piastri, but that was clear from the beginning. You didn’t like the way he always looked like he was two steps ahead of every conversation, or how he never laughed when you said something funny, only blinked and tilted his head slightly. You didn’t like how composed he was, how he never reacted the way you expected—or needed—him to. You didn’t like the way his voice was so steady when yours wavered, or how he could turn and walk away in the middle of an argument, leaving you standing there with words still sour in your mouth.
And you especially didn’t like how you noticed him. Noticed the slope of his shoulders in the mornings when he was still sleepy and stretching his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to reveal the skin of his stomach. You didn’t like how you noticed the way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he was thinking, or the way he always reached for the smallest coffee cup available, like anything more was too much. You noticed everything, and you hated it. Hated how aware you’d become of his presence, even when he wasn’t speaking. Especially when he wasn’t speaking.
It didn’t help that you were always around each other. Lando was the glue, unknowingly binding you two to the same schedule, the same rooms, and the same inside jokes. He liked having you both close; liked the balance you brought, but all it did was make you feel like you were circling something you weren’t allowed to name.
Because, despite all your bickering, you liked him.
Or, worse, you didn’t just like him. You thought about him when you were alone. You thought about what it might feel like to be someone he smiled at without thinking, someone he let in. You thought about what it meant that he never really let you win an argument, but he always looked at you like he was hoping you’d fight him, like matching your fire was the only way he knew how to be close to you.
You mentioned it to Lando once, casually, like it wasn’t eating you alive. You said, “I think I might be going insane. I think I might have feelings for someone who actively makes me want to scream.” And Lando had just looked at you, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he muttered, “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
It wasn’t until later that you realized he hadn’t been talking about himself.
And then there was the rain delay in Austria.
Team managers muttered to engineers over rain-spattered clipboards, drivers wiped fog from their visors, and mechanics shuffled under umbrellas, all waiting for the storm to clear. You were stuck in the hospitality unit, wrapped in an oversized McLaren hoodie, staring out the window at the grey mist hanging low over the track. The air smelled like espresso and ozone, and everyone around you seemed to be speaking just a little too loudly. So you stepped outside onto the quiet balcony where the rain tapped softly against the railing, and you found him there.
Oscar.
He didn’t look at you right away, just gave you a small nod and turned his gaze back towards the sky, where clouds curled and unravelled like smoke. You stood beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him through the mist. And for once, you didn’t speak. Neither of you did.
Then, quietly, he said, “Lando told me.”
You blinked. “Told you what?”
Oscar didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, slow and even, like he was buying time. Then, finally, he turned his head to meet your eyes and said, “That you think I hate you.”
Your stomach twisted. “He said that?”
He nodded. “And that you might feel something else.”
You laughed, trying to cover your embarrassment. “Well, he has a big mouth.”
Oscar didn’t smile. “I don’t hate you.”
He said so softly that it took you a moment to register it. And when you did, your breath caught. Because there was something in his face you hadn’t seen before; not indifference, not smugness, but something vulnerable.
“I know,” you said, barely audible. “I just didn’t want to admit that maybe I don’t hate you either.”
You both stood there for a long moment, the rain softening around you, the clouds beginning to thin. You watched him, and he watched you, and suddenly it felt ridiculous with how long you’d been pretending. How long had you been pushing when all you wanted was to be pulled in?
“I don’t think we’re very good at this,” you said.
Oscar’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “No. But I think I want to try.”
And just like that, the tension disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic like a firework, but like a tide rolling back. Like the first warmth of the sun after weeks of cold.
He reached for your hand.
And when you looked at him, it felt like you’d been searching for this exact moment your entire life without realizing it.
summary; part one here the only thing more dangerous than your job is dating an f1 driver in secret and oh...! oscar is just trying to survive lando's gossip group chat
featuring; f1driver!oscar piastri x bau agent!f!reader
fc; yu jimin
warnings; english isn't my first language + not proof read YET !
an; if i ever make a tag list y'all would be interested to be in it ? btw i'm free from my exams in four days sooo i'll work on the requests i got !!
navigation masterlist request
oscarpiastri
liked landonorris, yourusername, charles_leclerc and 987k others !
oscarpiastri enjoying the calm before montreal
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username the plushies. the matching energy. THE DOG. we’ve entered the domestic era
username not him soft-launching his gf via stuffed animals
pierregasly10 custom made plushies and a dog ??
kikagomes i mean have you seen her ?? my pretty girl deserves everything
yourusername (🔒) uhhh i love you, simba and magneto needs to meet for a dog date
lewishamilton magneto is the name of the dog ?? i'm dying of laughter
yourusername (🔒) why are they laughing at my dog's name ?? oscar i'm gonna dox them block them before its too late
yourusername (🔒) god forbid a woman is mourning magneto's death ?
landonorris you have every right yn i promise you 🙏❤️🩹
username HE'S SOOOO FINE
username yeah but he's off the market now
username the plushies are HAND SEWN. give me the gun
username stawwwp that's so romantic
f1paddocktea if a man posted a pic of me holding a dog and two plushies that look like us??? i’m framing it.
carlossainz55 you blinked in one of the pics. your gf is losing respect for your field awareness
yourusername (🔒) thank you for noticing carlos
texts between oscar → you
texts between lily, carmen and kaka → you
texts between lando → you and charles → you
texts between oscar → you
texts between lando, charles, carlos, george, kimi, pierre, max, alex → oscar
yourusername
liked by oscarpiastri, lilymhe, yourbestfriend and 27 others !
yourusername hopefully my superior won't know about this private account
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lilymhe sooooo cute
yourusername you are
carmenmmundt omg are federal agents not supposed to have social media accounts ?
yourusername nah i'm pretty sure im allowed but i'll never heard the end of it if my superior sees me all lovey dovey on instagram 🙉
oscarpiastri if only they knew
yourusername lets not oscar
landonorris can i also have the cute little thing to put it in my jeans ?
oscarpiastri are you in this relationship ?
yourusername i'll buy you one lando don't listen to him
landonorris lets me screenshot this and send it in the group chat i'm officially your favorite
yourbestfriend you're so pretty and his back is here ig
yourusername i knew i shouldn't have sacrificed that second slide for him
oscarpiastri you liarrrrrr
yourusername i am :/
alex_albon it feels illegal to be on this account rn
charles_leclerc LITERALLY
oscar leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you skim through your folder with that signature hyper-focused, agent face he pretends doesn’t make his heart beat like it’s lap 58.
''hey, profiler. you’re not allowed to analyze serial killers when I’m right here looking this good." he said as you looked up, amused but mostly unbothered. "you’re shirtless. that’s your only argument." he gasps, real dramatic.
''that might be the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me after a win." you close your folder slowly shifting your full attention on him now.
''fine what's your counteroffer ?'' oscar crosses the room in a few steps, flops beside you, and lets his head rest onto your shoulder with a sigh that sounds like it’s been waiting all weekend.
''i ask for kisses, ten uninterrupted minutes of cuddles or massage and absolutely no more mention of your work or any criminals you might have in mind right know". he listed in one breath, almost impatient to hear for what you're going to say next.
you set the file down on the nightstand, the edge of it still marked with your notes and scribbles from earlier. your boyfriend’s fingers brush yours as he shifts closer on the bed, one arm sliding around your waist with easy familiarity. the hotel room smells like him, vanilla soap, something clean with a touch of citrusy, a trace of champagne from the podium spray still in the air.
you lean into his chest, nose grazing the collarbone you pretend not to be obsessed with.
"we have a deal mister," you murmur, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw. "but after that, i do need to brief you on the psychological implications of what that red bull engineer said during the safety car."
he groans into your neck like you’ve just said the most offensive thing possible.
"nope. you're not allowed," oscar mumbles, arms tightening around you until you’re tangled in that warm, post-race kind of quiet. "i asked for no work talk. you’re just my hot girlfriend right now. not a federal agent. just a girl with cold feet and unfair cheekbones."
you laugh softly, the kind of sound that only escapes around him, the one who sees past all the walls and tactical layers.
"you love my cheekbones."
"i love all of you actually" he says, without hesitation. he tilts your chin up gently, gaze genuine in a way that makes your throat feel warm. "even the scary profiler parts. especially those" he finishes by laughing
you don’t say anything right away. you just melt into him a little more, arms circling his waist, anchoring yourself to the one place in your life that’s never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are. eyes closed, you smile like a secret.
"don’t tell the others," you whisper, "but you’re my softest case." your boyfriend's thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and sure. "and you are my safest place." he says, voice barely audible.
Summary: She’s the youngest Leclerc—okay, not technically, since she and Arthur are twins. But as the younger twin (according to her), she comes with a reputation: the favorite child, the biggest menace, and the one with just enough sass to keep her brothers permanently exhausted.
As the youngest and only girl among the Leclerc siblings, she deems herself the most iconic sibling. She never really obeys her older brothers, not even her twin; she hates being reprimanded. Especially by Charles. And she also hated being associated with her brothers, because according to her, she’s “an iconic woman who can shine on my own without you imbeciles.”
So imagine their surprise when she started showing up to more races. Willingly.
“Ma petite chérie, it’s a surprise to see you here?” Charles asks her as she steps into the garage.
“When I don’t come to races, you guys complain, yet when I do, you still ask questions. Come on, Charles, can’t your beautiful, loving, and iconic sister support you?” She retorted, her hands flailing together as she expressed herself.
“You flatter yourself too much, do you know that?”
“Only the correct and fitting words for me, Charlie.” She said as she sat on the chair beside him.
“You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? And willingly at that?” Charles asked her, skepticism evident in his tone.
She turned her whole torso toward him, annoyance radiating.
“Charlie, can’t you just be glad I’m here?”
“That’s hard to do, especially when it comes to you. Who knows what you’re plotting.” He said, whispering the latter part.
To which she just rolled her eyes.
A loud identical voice was heard and the two siblings turned their head to the owner of the voice.
“Heard my carbon copy is here.”
Of course. It’s Arthur.
“Hello to you, too, Artie.” She greeted her twin with a bored voice.
Charles just shook his head and turned to go back to what he was doing before. Leaving the twins to their own accord.
Arthur just looked at her skeptically and raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
He made sure Charles was out of earshot as he whispered to her.
“Be honest, why are you here?”
She also raised an eyebrow at him. Mimicking his expression.
“You all are doubting me now?”
“Hard not to. Considering who you really are.”
“Can’t a girl just attend races and watch twenty-two rich men drive in circles while they lose their minds?”
Arthur just stared at her. Trying to figure out her real intention.
“Oh come on, Artie! I’m just here to support Charles. Stop overanalyzing me!”
“Then why are you panicking?”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you are.”
She looked at him, frustrated and bewildered.
Arthur crossed his arms, watching her closely, that knowing twin look she absolutely hated.
“You’re fidgeting,” he said simply.
“I am not fidgeting,” she snapped, immediately stilling her hands—only to realize she’d just proven his point.
Arthur smirked. “Right.”
She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re hiding something.”
A beat.
She rolled her eyes, turning away from him. “I’m not hiding anything. I just… decided to show up. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes.”
“…wow.”
Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You never come willingly. Not unless there’s a reason. And when there’s a reason, it’s usually…” he paused, eyeing her suspiciously, “…problematic.”
She scoffed. “Excuse you.”
“I’m serious,” he continued. “Last time you ‘just showed up,’ you—”
“Okay, we’re not revisiting history,” she cut him off quickly.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Exactly.”
She clicked her tongue, crossing her arms. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Says you.”
Before she could fire back, a voice cut through behind them.
“Well… this is new.”
Both twins turned.
Lando Norris stood a few steps away, helmet in hand, a curious smile playing on his lips as he looked between them—then settled on her.
“…I don’t think I’ve seen you in the Ferrari garage before,” he added.
Arthur’s eyes flicked between the two instantly. Slowly. Suspiciously.
She, on the other hand, straightened slightly—just slightly—and lifted her chin.
“Well, now you have,” she said smoothly.
Lando huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”
Arthur’s gaze sharpened.
“Oh,” he said slowly, realization dawning. “Oh, this is—”
She elbowed him hard before he could finish.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You were about to.”
Lando raised a brow, amused. “Should I come back later or…?”
“No,” she said quickly—too quickly.
Arthur snorted. “Definitely don’t come back later. This is getting interesting.”
She shot him a glare sharp enough to kill.
Lando’s smile widened just a fraction, clearly entertained. “Right… I’ll just—uh—stay here then.”
A brief silence settled.
Then—Charles’ voice, from not too far away: “…why is he in my garage?”
Arthur immediately stepped back. “And there it is.”
She closed her eyes for half a second. “…of course.”
Lando muttered under his breath, “I feel like I’ve walked into something I shouldn’t have.”
Arthur grinned. “Oh no, you absolutely have.”
Charles approached, eyes flicking from Lando—to his sister—to Arthur—then back to Lando again.
“…explain,” he said simply.
She stepped forward before either of them could speak.
“He’s just saying hello.”
Charles didn’t look convinced.
Lando, to his credit, nodded. “…yeah. Just saying hello.”
Arthur coughed to hide a laugh. To which she responded with a glare and an elbow to the ribs.
Charles’ gaze lingered for a moment longer before he exhaled. “…fine.”
But his eyes flicked back to her again.
Suspicious. Calculating.
She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly.
Arthur leaned closer to her, whispering just enough for her to hear,
hiii can u pls make a kimi fic that has angst and fluff??? u can make the story☺️☺️☺️🩷🩷 tyyy
sacrifices- k.antonelli
꩜summary: everyone has to make sacrifices...
꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader
“We need your full focus, Kimi,” Toto sighed. “You have a chance this year. You need to capitalise.”
The way he said it sent off alarm bells in his head, and he gulped. There was something about the way Toto was looking at him, that silent sympathy but tough love he was used to. Last minute light night meetings were reserved for real problems, and it wasn’t like Kimi was underperforming. He had won a race already. He was qualifying well. He was on the podium constantly. There was a certain silence in the motorhome that always made him uneasy, and it sure as hell wasn’t helping the way this conversation made him feel.
“I plan on,” he shrugged. “And the team is my full focus.”
Toto sighed. “You don’t understand what I’m asking, do you?” he looked down, exasperated, as Kimi shook his head. “Y/n. You won't… I’ve talked to Y/n.”
That was all kinds of fucked. Kimi’s jaw dropped, his brain bringing him to his feet before he could think about what he was doing, who he was threatening, or what this all meant. The air in the room vanished, replaced only by a thick tension, one Kimi would only add to. His whole body went cold. “You do not get to meddle in my life!” he shouted, crossing the table and getting right up into Toto’s face, a pointed finger at his chest, hitting it, hard. “I have a girlfriend who is nothing but supportive of me and what I do, what I give to this team, even though it takes away from her! And I know you like to pretend I’m your son because it makes you feel better about the fact that your actual sons barely speak to you, but you’re not my dad,” his chest was heaving, head burning with anger, and he scoffed. “Fuck you.”
Toto took a deep breath, shocked at his outburst. Stupidly, he thought this was going to be easy. He thought Kimi would do what he asked blindly. He was wrong. “We all have to make sacrifices-”
“I will not sacrifice her,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the Austrian’s. “Not more than I already have to.”
And he turned and left. He couldn’t do this right now, not when he just got you back from an argument about something stupid he did. He was working hard everyday to make you feel how much he cares about you, how much he loves you, despite the thousands of miles of distance. He dialled your number, terrified that Toto had gotten to you before him, and fucked up any chance he had of reconciliation.
“Kimi?” You sighed. “What?”
“Please don’t tell me-”
“Toto talked to me,” you sighed. “Is that what you want?”
“NO!” he practically screamed down the phone. “God no!”
You let out another teary sigh. “Kimi, if it’s what you want I’ll understand,” you sniffled. “You’re busy now, you’re a famous F1 driver, you don’t have to just keep me around because you feel bad-”
“Baby please,” he begged. “Just please don’t. I love you, I have always loved you. I’m not giving you up just because Toto asked me to,” he shook his head, his feet working as fast as they could to get to his room before he had a breakdown. “Just- please don’t leave me.”
You were quiet. “We can talk about this when you get home, alright?”
The silence was deafening when you hung up the phone and his mind raced as he sat in his driver’s room, his life falling apart.
“Ready for quali?” a knock at the door signalled his time for leaving all of this shit in his driver’s room and making sure it didn’t touch his helmet. He wasn’t sure if he could.
The dim light of the setting sun made the perfect backdrop for your quiet evening alone. You usually liked evenings like this, just you and your dinner, finishing up some college work, making yourself dinner, and calling Kimi. Little candles all over your apartment, a cosy blanket and couch, maybe the cat from next door would come in through the balcony and lie down beside you where Kimi usually sat.
Except, that evening there was no calling Kimi. And the apartment felt much too cold. You couldn’t unhear Toto’s points about how Kimi performed better when you were there, because he had less to work about and juggle, but you couldn’t always be there. You had your own life and friends, your own family to take care of, your school and your work. You couldn’t drop it all just to follow Kimi around the globe. You adored him, but come on, that’s a huge ask from someone. And then Toto suggested breaking up and your heart just… broke.
But if that’s what it has to be, then so be it.
The door opened. “Y/n?” His voice was clearly tired but determined. You turned your eyes to the door, a puff of smoke leaving your mouth as your eyes found his. He hurried over to you and took the cigarette out of your hand before stomping on it, mumbling something about ‘Peccato per te. Giving me heart attacks’.
It was a bad habit you'd picked up from some of your college friends, but you'd gotten it down to only doing it when you were really stressed. You thought this situation more than applied to that.
You sat on the couch as he closed the sliding door of your apartment balcony and sighed. “Congrats on the weekend. Pole and podium are huge.”
He sat down beside you, sighing. “It was… alright, I guess. Didn’t feel as good with you not there,” he turned his head with a small smile and saw the way you dropped at his words. He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say in the prolonged silence.
“I think Toto’s right,” you practically whispered. “You don’t need me coming in and giving you more stress.”
He shook his head, taking your hands. “No, si sbaglia. You’re everything to me-”
“I shouldn’t be. Racing should, Kimi,” you sighed, dropping his hand. “Let’s face the facts, you’re going places in that sport, you’re going to be a household name. You don’t need me fucking up your first season just becasse-”
“You’re not fucking anything up,” he shook his head, calmer than you’d even seen him during a fight. “And I don’t care what Toto says, I love you, and I’m not giving that up. Fine della storia,” he shook his head and took your hands again, bringing them to his mouth to kiss them. “You’re brilliantly smart,” one kiss. “And stubborn,” another. “And everything I want. I’m not giving you up because Toto doesn’t understand me.”
You were quiet for a long moment. He was so sure. So soft with you. There was something in his voice that almost made you believe him. So you nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he questioned, making sure.
You turned your head and nodded. “Okay.”
He leaned in and kissed you, and it felt right. But that growing pit in your stomach made you feel sick, and you didn’t know how long you could act like everything was fine.
PAIRING: Mercedes!Driver Seungcheol x f. reader
Summary: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.
WC: 22,853
GENRE: Exes to Lovers, Best Friends to Lovers, Brother's BFF
AU: Smut, Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Lost of tension and angst, reader sacrifices what she wants constantly for Joshua (her brother) and feels like she is responsible for him, mentions of a parent's death, petty drama, non-linear storytelling, Joshua and Seungcheol are both unfair and stupid in a lot of parts of this, two car crash scenes, both mildly traumatic for reader, arguments/never-ending competitiveness, explicit language, Wonwoo is a little bit of a motherfucker, feelings of betrayal/sneaking around, recreational drinking, sexually explicit content including oral (f. and m. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cum eating, a single slap on the ass.
A/N: This fic is for the amazing Lights Out Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! It was originally only supposed to be one part, but I've decided to try something new with non-linear storytelling which has made it so much longer than I originally planned. Part two will be out soon :) THIS FIC HAS NOT BEEN BETA READ I'M SORRY FOR ANY ERRORS.
A/N 2: Shot out to everyone in the C&E server for this collab - so many people (including myself) are new to F1, and this was so much fun to write. You do NOT have to know anything about F1 to enjoy this fic! There are some terms and race tracks you won't understand, but the main focus is the building tension between the characters. Honestly, there are a lot of parts of this that are not realistic and probably would not work this way in the F1 world on the business side, but WHATEVER!!! This entire fic was inspired by the drama that is Brocedes with Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg lmfao.
MASTERLIST | ASK | LIGHTS OUT COLLAB | PART TWO
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
DAY BEFORE PRESEASON TESTING
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
-
THE BAHRAIN SUN IS MERCILESS. You suppose it's fitting for the day. The paddock is filled with dry heat and tension, the sweat dripping down your spine as you stride across black pavement. Your polo sticks to your skin, making you irritable as everyone else who is buzzing with the energy of preseason testing.
Five years of this hasn’t made you any less nervous. Five years of flights, jet lag, highs and lows, and watching Joshua both fail and win at Bahrain hasn’t made any part of the next few days easier. You try not to think about the list of media needs, the sponsorship requirements, the sheer amount of things Joshua is beholden to.
It’s worth it, though.
Jogging up the steps of the Pit Building, you nod to the dozens of other people that make things for the Mercedes team work. The dozens of people here pale in comparison to the hundreds involved in making sure Joshua’s car can start, much less make it over the finish line.
You spot Wonwoo coming out of a media room and you quicken your pace. Wonwoo only oversees a single driver and you have no desire to see your brother’s teammate right now. You take the stairs to the second floor at a near sprint, hearing the familiar rumble of laughter behind you, chasing you around the corner to the hospitality suite where you find your brother.
Joshua is slumped in a seat, cap tugged low on his head. He fidgets with a water bottle between his hands, jaw locked tight. He senses you as you approach, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sits up a little straighter while you take the seat across from him.
“Don’t look so nervous,” you tease, trying to break the ice. He huffs and rolls his eyes as you pull a tablet from your satchel. “Not going to lie, it’s a pretty full afternoon.”
“Great.”
“Lighten up. You’re getting paid to do it.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
Joshua leans back in his chair, tapping the corner of the bottle against his knee. He doesn’t say anything else, so you scroll through your notes and start reading aloud. Today, he’s got sponsor check-ins, media hits, content requests, track walk and team dinner. You know he’ll smile and charm his way through all of it, but it’ll drain him to do it.
You’ve both been at this long enough to know the rhythm. Even when you were kids, you were always his manager, bossing him around, telling him when he needed to go to practice, reminding him to finish his homework. You’ve carried that role into adulthood, but above all, you're his sister first, and being his sister means choosing him over everything else.
Everyone else.
You shove away the thought before it can distract you from the task at hand. Joshua leans back in his chair, glancing around the room before his gaze settles back on you. “What?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What what?”
“Say what you want to say. I can tell something’s bothering you.”
“Feels like it’s going to be a bad year.”
You frown. “You haven’t even run the car and you’re throwing in the towel?”
“No, I just have a vibe.” He pauses. “Feels like they’ve put more faith in him.”
You don’t have to ask who him is. Joshua only says him like that when he means Seungcheol.
“They won’t do it out right,” Joshua continues, twisting the bottle cap. The plastic cracks and you have to resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands to get him to stop fidgeting. “But it’s pretty obvious.”
You watch him quietly. You know he isn’t wrong. The press has already started sharpening the narrative between the Mercedes teammates ahead of the racing season. Seungcheol, the driver with the bite and the edge that can take Mercedes to another championship. Joshua, the reliable one who knows how to be a team player.
The memory of Singapore looms in the back of your mind. When you look at Joshua, you know he remembers it too, the taste of the memory more bitter than others. Sharper and more painful, too.
“We won’t let them,” you reply, shrugging.
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that. You’re their driver too. If we need to fucking remind them, we will.”
His mouth twitches. “I’d be fucked without you.”
“Definitely.”
Joshua’s smile fades as he leans his head back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Remember when we thought driving together would be the dream? Feels like the worst fucking thing we could’ve done.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have an answer, because Joshua is right. Five years ago, Seungcheol and Joshua joining team Mercedes together was the dream. It was what all the money, hope, sweat and tears of your childhoods had been poured into. Countless hours of practicing, of racing, of being dragged around to watch him. To cheer him on. To give him advice.
You’d been that for Seungcheol, too. Until Singapore.
Sighing, you lean over and squeeze Joshua’s knee. “Let’s go. You have to do some TikToks, buddy.”
Outside, the sun hasn’t gotten any better. It’s an unrelenting, brutal reminder of the pressure cooker that is media day. The paddock buzzes with frenetic energy, full of reporters jostling for soundbites, cameras clicking, cameras in Joshua’s face, phones recording. You’re glued to Joshua’s side, tablet in hand, helping him navigate a relentless schedule of sponsor obligations, interviews, and content shoots.
Joshua’s smile is as polished as ever. He’s always been the media’s darling, a handsome and charming racer who is polite and warm, even when he loses. His answers are rehearsed and perfect, but you catch the strain in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his polo.
Breaking up a media scrum, you navigate him toward a meet-and-greet tent for sponsors. He shakes hands and poses for photos with executives decked out in team gear - some with tags still on it. Afterward, you drag him to another interview with a motorsport outlet where he dodges un-approved questions about team dynamics with a practiced laugh.
“That’ll be all,” you cut in, your smile sharp. “Thanks for your time today.”
The reporter falters, opening his mouth to ask another question but Joshua is already moving, twisting the cap on his water bottle back and forth. “Thanks,” he mutters as you head out of the room. “This is why I drive cars. I hate this.”
“If you want to drive cars-”
“I know,” he sighs, quoting your father. “You have to do the work.”
The content team is waiting for you when you head back to the Pit Building. A sense of dread drops like a stone in your stomach, sinking into the very pit of you when you see the shape of Seungcheol. His back is to you, broad shoulders pulled tight in his team polo as he leans to see something on the social media manager's phone. Wonwoo is a few feet away on the phone, nodding with the device pressed to one ear, his finger pressed into the other.
When Seungcheol turns, your chest tightens. He looks the same as he always does, though his hair has gotten longer. His dark brown hair is wavy today, a little damp with sweat. He bites his bottom lip as he listens to the instructions being given to him by the social media team, arms crossed over his chest.
You’re forced to look the other way. The ache there hasn’t dulled even after a year, and though you’ve prepared all offseason to deal with the frustration of seeing Joshua’s teammate, it still doesn’t prepare you for the stab between the ribs when he looks at you.
Seungcheol’s dark eyes go from inquisitive to guarded. You see the shift happen as you and Joshua approach. You feel yourself stiffen, the tension rippling from Joshua to you and onward. The social media girls notice the sudden silence and turn to see you, both of them grinning and greeting you to try and dispel any awkwardness.
It works in the professional sense. Joshua tilts his head to Sungcheol politely before turning to listen to what the girls are asking him to do. You don’t look at Seungcheol at all, drifting away and pulling out your tablet to stare at schedules and emails and documents.
“You look sour.” You look up at the voice as Wonwoo pockets his phone. “The iPad do something to you?"
“No. Must have been the smell of your cologne.”
He laughs. “Good to see you too.”
You hum but don’t reply. You don’t dislike Wonwoo. On the contrary, you think he’s an extraordinary manager with a lot of connections in Formula 1. But Wonwoo is team Seungcheol and Team Seungcheol is often anti Team Joshua, so Wonwoo gets your distaste by default.
“How was your offseason?”
“Do you care?” You ask him while deleting spam emails.
“No, but it’s the polite thing to ask.”
“Spare me. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
He laughs again. “I like you. Shame we can’t be friends.”
“Mhmm.”
You and Wonwoo watch from afar as the social media team leads Joshua and Seungcheol through a series of content pieces. Watching them interact is strange. Joshua keeps his cap low, mouth twitching when he’s asked to stand closer to Sungcheol. The two of them shift, shoulders brushing just once before Joshua steps to the side.
“They’ve gotten worse at this,” Wonwoo sighs, folding his arms.
“Or better at making it awkward.”
“Good for the media, though.”
You glance up sharply at that. It’s always a game with Seungcheol’s camp, how the narrative bends and who gets painted in what light. Joshua has always been painted as the second, the fallback plan, the team player who is prioritized no matter how hard he tries. Bitter. Charming, but salty.
“They’re supposed to be teammates, not headlines.”
“Naieve,” Wonwoo shoots back. Not rude, just matter of fact. “You know better than that. It’s never just about the race.”
The social media team wraps up and Joshua offers a clipped thank-you to the staff before heading toward you. He glances at Wonwoo and says nothing, brushing past you without stopping. His hand flicks your elbow as if to say let’s get the fuck out of here but you’re rooted to your spot when Seungcheol looks up.
It’s fleeting, no more than a split second, but it feels like the Bahrain sun is scorching through you again. His expression doesn’t shift, still the cool, unreadable driver, but you know him. Know the twitch in his mouth is a tell, know that the flex in his jaw is him gritting his teeth. Angry.
Wonwoo notices. “Still radioactive between you two, huh?”
Instead of answering, you pivot on your heel, following Joshua. He waits for you near the door. This is how it always is - Joshua goes. You follow. He waits. Your entire life has been the same pattern over and over again, but if you didn’t choose your brother, no one else would.
It’s a burden you have no problem bearing.
“You holding up?” You ask as you both jog down the steps into the heat of the late afternoon.
“Barely. Just have to get through strategy.”
You nod, checking the time. “I’ve got some sponsor calls while you’re in strategy. Team meeting after. You should have time to shower and get ready.”
Joshua gives you a grateful look, the kind that reminds you why you do this, why you’ve always done this. He’s your brother, your responsibility, your constant. Even when both of your worlds have tipped over and over again.
“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”
You smirk. “I’ve been managing you for years. I think I can handle a couple of hours.”
He lifts a hand to his head and gives you a two finger salute. You mimic the action, a little sign off you’ve had since you were kids. He heads to meet with the team for a strategy session as you head for his trailer, the sun baking the top of your head as you squint and hurry, desperate for air conditioning.
Inside Joshua’s trailer, you sit on the couch and get to work. You have about a hundred emails worth of media inquiries, sponsorship questions, news articles and appointment requests, but you’re barely able to focus on any of them. Seungcheol’s gaze haunts you, even hidden away out of sight from the rest of the paddock.
Five years ago it seemed like the culmination of a dream when Joshua and Seungcheol stepped into their Mercedes seats. It was something they’d wanted as kids when they were karting together. You’d been there by default, watching their races under flickering lights, falling asleep in the car on late-night drives to the next place, the three of you dead tired.
You’d been a trio. Joshua, the steady river, the one who kept focus and calculated his moves. Seungcheol, the furious storm, all instinct and ego. And you, some sort of combination of the two of them, the one who tried - and failed - to keep them on track.
Wonwoo was right. Press was always about more than the race. The media had loved the story of childhood best friends turned teammates, an illustrious fairy tale for an illustrious sport. You’d loved it too, watching two of your favorite people get to do what they’d worked so fucking hard for.
Those dreams were for nothing. It had only taken five years to realize that.
The weight of those years settle over you. You’ve spent half a decade managing Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that demands everything. You’ve watched him battle self-doubt, media scrutiny, and the shadow of a teammate who seems to thrive on chaos.
You turn off the tablet, rubbing your temples. Tomorrow, practice begins. It’s the first bout of the fight, the first taste of what the season is going to be like. Knowing that Joshua already feels like the scales are tipped in Seungcheol’s favor gives you anxiety. There’s only two years left in Joshua’s Mercedes contract.
He needs to win.
Tomorrow, you hope he will.
-
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
DAY 1 PRESEASON TESTING
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
The morning is sweltering. You can barely breathe in the air thick with heat. The low hum of engines warming up makes your teeth vibrate as you stand in the Mercedes garage, headset snug over your ears and very much out of the way as people in uniforms run around making final checks.
Joshua’s radio crackles in your headset as he confirms comms with the pit wall. Your tablet is tucked under your arm, your focus entirely on the screens above that display telemetry data and live footage from the track. You don’t handle strategy - that’s for people far more equipped than you - but you’ve been watching Joshua race for years.
The paddock is alive with the shouting of mechanics and engineers, media buzzing around the garages. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings, trying to keep out of the way but also trying to avoid him. Seungcheol’s presence is a constant undercurrent in the garage, buzzing along your awareness like static.
You spot him across the garage, conferring with his race engineer. His dark hair is still damp with sweat and your stomach twists. You force your eyes back up to the screens, trying to focus as your brother readies to run the car for practice.
Seungcheol’s first practice session of the team was perfect. You’re unsurprised. Mercedes has always had reliable cars, and Seungcheol is more than a reliable driver. He’s got an instinct rarely found in drivers his age and he’s competitive. Vicious, even.
Practice starts and you tune out Seungcheol’s existence, entirely focused on Joshua’s car and the crackle of comms between him and the Pit Wall. Today isn’t a day for nerves exactly, but you feel them anyway, a mix of excitement and worry that the car won’t be ready mixing to make your stomach flip.
Joshua completes his first few laps, the car looking sharp as he pushes through the corners. The telemetry shows a decent pace and you feel yourself relax. Joshua sounds relaxed, too. “Car feels solid so far. Bit of understeer in Turn Eight, but nothing major.
One of the media managers walks by and gives you a tap hello. You smile at her - genuine - before turning back to the screen as Joshua paces ahead of his practice group.
Just as he starts his seventh lap, Joshua’s voice comes through, frustrated. “Losing power. Engine’s cutting out.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. The engineer’s voice is calm, but urgent, instructing Joshua to retire the car immediately and to get into the pit if it can. You squeeze your fists, sighing deeply as you watch him struggle toward the pitlane, trying to retire the car.
This isn’t how you want to start the day.
As Joshua’s car rolls into the garage, mechanics swarm him like a hive of bees, tools in hand. You stay back, letting them work as you pull the headset down. Joshua climbs out of the car, yanking off his helmet. His face is flushed, eyes dark with anger as he exchanges clipped words with the engineers. You catch his eye, offering a small nod of support, but he just shakes his head and heads toward his dressing room.
You let him. You know him well enough to feel when he needs support and when he needs to blow off steam. The last thing he wants right now is your empathy, so you linger among the whir of engines and the smell of burnt tires.
“Hey.” You look up in surprise to see Seungcheol coming your way. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you directly in months.
You cross your arms. “What do you need?”
“Just checking in. Tough break on the car.”
“Yeah. Tough break. Happens to him a lot.”
Seungcheol’s borrow furrows. He’s so beautiful up close. You hate that about him. It makes standing this close to him all the more vexing. No man - especially a rival - deserves silky long eyelashes and a perfectly rosey mouth.
“I don’t control what happens to his car. You do know that right?”
“I know how cars work, Seungcheol.”
“Then why does it feel like you think it's my fault?”
You meet his gaze, your eyes hard. “Was there something you wanted, Seungcheol? I’m busy.”
His jaw tightens. His eyes flash with something raw - hurt, maybe - but it’s gone so fast you think you might have imagined it. Seungcheol takes a step back, stiffening. He crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself off from you.
“Busy,” he echoes. He laughs without mirth. “Right. Always busy.”
You say nothing. Seungcheol turns away, making a beeline for his own dressing room away from the eyes and away from you. Wonwoo crosses the garage and raises his brows as he follows Seungcheol’s stormy form down the hall. You watch them go, watching as Seungcheol rakes his hands through his hair, frustrated.
It isn’t until they’re gone that you realize your heart is hammering. It's infuriating how easily Seungcheol throws you off, how he still manages to affect you with a single, clipped conversation. You’d hope not speaking to him over the last few months would dull the edge of his presence, but it seems like a stupid dream now.
Stupid like all the other dreams you’ve had together.
The voices of the mechanics pull you back to the present. They chatter about engine diagnostics, leaning over Joshua’s car. You sigh and turn on your heel, going in search of your brother. There’s work to do - there’s always work to do - and you need the work. Need the distraction.
Need to think of anything but Seungcheol.
The dressing room is tucked in the back of the garage down a narrow hall. You try not to think about the fact that Seungcheol’s is directly across the hall, ignoring the low pitch of his voice as you slip into Joshua’s room. The room is small and utilitarian, kept incredibly clean and orderly by the man sitting on the couch inside of it.
Joshua’s still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and bunched around his waist. His helmet rests on the couch next to him, discarded like an afterthought. He leans back against the couch, hair sweaty and pushed off his head. He refuses to meet your gaze, knee bouncing up and down as he stairs at the TV in the corner instead where the practice run continues.
You sit in an armchair. “There’s still more practice days. It’s why we do this.”
“I know.”
“If you know then why are you pent up like a tiger in a cage?”
“Feels like I’m already playing catch up.”
The fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly. You sigh and lean back in the chair, watching him. The light casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the worry etched into the lines around his mouth. It’s the same look he’s had since you were kids, when a bad race would eat at him for hours. Back then, you’d drag him out for ice cream or make him laugh with a stupid joke.
Now, the stakes are higher and you work for him. You’re his sister first, but sometimes being his manager is more important than being the kid he dragged around the karting track.
“You’re not playing catchup,” you tell him firmly. “It’s day one, Josh. One bad session means fuck all. You cannot start the season thinking you’re already losing or I’m going to make you attend more therapy sessions.”
He huffs, but he nods. He finally looks at you and you see a little bit of the tension melt from him. “I know. Just feels like there’s always something new, you know?”
“Yes. One practice session isn’t going to change the fact that there’s always something. It’s not the first time your car has gone to shit. It won’t be the last.”
“Encouraging.” He smiles, but this time it’s real. “What would I do without you?”
“Suffer. Have shitty sponsorships. Do more weird ass TikToks, I don’t know.” He laughs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I mean it, Josh. You can’t let the little things like this set you back. You’re way tougher than that.”
“You sound like dad.”
“Good. He was a smart dude.” You stand, gesturing at him. “Shower. You smell awful.”
Joshua laughs, a real one this time. “Yes, boss,” he jokes, mimicking your two-finger salute from earlier.
You step out of Joshua’s dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you. The muffled hum of the garage filters through the walls, the roar of cars going down the pitlane reaching you from here. You pause for a moment, leaning against the wall, the cool metal grounding you as you take a deep breath. The air smells like oil and rubber, familiar.
Keeping Joshua in the right headspace is hard. You’re his sister, his manager, his cheerleader, often his strategist, and sometimes, it feels like you’re stepping into the void left by your father.
Your father would have known exactly what to say. He always had a way of cutting through the noise, of making Joshua believe he could outdrive anyone, even on his worst day. You try to channel that now, to summon the same conviction, but it’s hard. You’re not your dad. You’re not a larger-than-life figure who could command a room with a single look. You’re just you, juggling holes that don’t always fit together seamlessly.
It’s a strange kind of loneliness, the responsibility of knowing when to shift between sister, manager, pseudo-parent, friend. You’ve spent years building Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that chews up talent and spits it back out without a second thought.
Standing through him through every high and low hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. You’d do it again every time, you’d choose Joshua every time. You’ve chosen him even when it meant not choosing yourself because if not you, then who was going to do it?
You push off the wall, straightening your shoulders as you head back toward the garage. There’s no time to dwell on it all - not today. Not with more work to be done, media to answer to, and a team meeting to get through. But not for the first time, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like just to be you - no roles, no responsibilities, just… you.
You file away the thought in the same folder as all those silly dreams of you, Seungcheol and Joshua taking on the world together.
-
ALBERT PARK CIRCUIT | 2022
SEASON OPENER
5.278KM | 58 LAPS
Albert Park Circuit is nothing but noise. The grandstands are packed with over a hundred thousand fans waving flags and chanting under the Australian sun, but it’s barely audible over the roar of engines and the hum of machinery and drills as cars pit before spilling back out into the lane to get back to the race.
The Mercedes garage hums with tension. Your eyes are fixed on the monitors above you, arms crossed as you watch the race. Lap times flash in green on one screen, and on the other, Joshua is closing in on Seungcheol in front of him, getting into an overtake position.
“Push here,” the engineer tells Joshua, voice crackling over the radio.
“Heard.”
It’s been a grueling race. Seungcheol and Joshua both started in the midfield after bad qualifying rounds the day before, but the two of them have managed to climb their way to first and second position, turning the race from a battle with other teams to a fight between teammates.
You hate this part. Joshua and Seungcheol have been competitive since you were kids, but the stakes have changed the game. Your palms begin to sweat as Joshua takes a turn fast and perfect, closing the gap between him and the race leader.
“Clear to overtake,” the engineer says.
Joshua’s car shoots forward on the monitor. You hold your breath as he squeezes into the DRS zone, the nose of his car edging alongside Seungcheol’s as they tear down the straight. The garage holds its breath along with you, everyone going rigid as they dive into turn three, neither driver yielding. For a moment, it looks like Joshua has the overtake - but Seungcheol brakes late, tires spitting sparks as he defends the line and forces Joshua life.
You groan. You can’t help it as your head rolls back, watching Joshua lose his momentum. Unfortunately, you have to commend Seungcheol on his driving. He is nothing less than perfect as he holds Joshua off, defending his position until the checkered flag waves and they cross the line in a one-two punch, a double podium
The garage erupts in cheers but you don’t join them. Someone slaps your back and you smile, nodding and giving a thumbs up. You are happy - P2 is great. A double podium is even better. But you know Joshua wanted P1, and starting off in the wake of Seungcheol’s success for the second season in a row is hard.
On the monitors, you watch Seungcheol climb from the cockpit of his car, yanking his helmet off. His smile is bright enough to put the afternoon sun to shame. Joshua parks just behind, slower to climb out, helmet still on.
Sighing, you pull the headset off and follow the PR team into the pit lane, swept in the tide of black uniforms and noise. Fans scream from the grandstands, flags whipping against the sky. Joshua offers Seuncheol a clap on the back as you approach, but when he pulls his helmet off, the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Not the way it used to.
And then it happens.
Seungcheol spots you through the chaos. Still buzzing with adrenaline, he pushes past a cameraman and pulls you into his arm and lifts you, spinning you as he screams in delight. It’s instinctive, you realize. Dizzying. Elating.
He smells like sweat and fuel, his heartbeat slamming against your cheek where it’s pressed to his chest. For the smallest fraction of a second, you let him hold you there, arms caught halfway between pushing him off and holding on. Because his win is your win - it’s been like that for years.
You push him away, giving him a look. He grins at you before jogging back over to Joshua’s side, waving to the fans while your world erupts into chaos of cameras, questioning glances and cleared throats. You ignore them in favor of getting back to your job, ducking to talk to the PR team for Joshua’s upcoming post-race media.
Thankfully, you get through the podium ceremony without incident. You’re back to normal, refusing to think about the way Seungcheol stares at you from the podium or the way Joshua very specifically sprays Seungcheol in the face with champagne. Rivals first. Best friends second.
By the time the ceremony is over and done with and you’re sitting in the hospitality suite doomscrolling on Twitter, wincing at every new post.
Seungcheol wins P1 but tell me why he’s hugging his teammate’s SISTER before anyone else 💀
Joshua finally back on the podium and all ppl can talk about is his teammate and his sister LMAO
Nahhh Seungcheol celebrating w his teammate’s sister is CRAZZZZYYY 😭
Joshua drops in the seat next to you. You flinch, dropping your phone and losing sight of all the insane things people are talking about online. You look at him and offer a forced, nervous smile. He raises his brow, leaning forward to pick up your phone. He glances at the screen as he does, frowning.
“Seungcheol didn’t even hug Joshua first,” he reads out loud. “Straight to his sister? Be serious crying face emoji, crying face emoji, crying face emoji. Is this what you read online?
“No!”
“I just know Joshua is losing his mind frrrr. What’s frrr?”
You snatch the phone back and look at it. “That says ‘f-r’ dumbass, not furrr. It means for real.”
“Well you for real, made things weird today, so who's the bigger dumbass?”
You deflate and slide down in your seat. “Me. P1 in the Dumbass Grand Prix.”
“Why is the internet more interested in you two than the fact Mercedes got a double podium?”
You shove your phone in your bag. “Because the internet is a dark and evil place. Plus, he didn’t mean anything by it.”
Joshua snorts. “Give me a break.”
Across the suite, Seungcheol is laughing with a group of engineers, champagne glass in hand, his eyes flicking toward you every so often like a thread you can’t untangle. You ignore it, despite the fact that every time you feel his eyes on you, your heart starts to race all over again.
The double podium feels a bit hollow. For Joshua, the headlines will sting. P2 is an excellent way to start the season - but it means Seungcheol already has an edge on him. Joshua hates when Seungcheol has the edge. For Seungcheol, it’s an immediate mark in the win column - something that he just expects.
For you, it’s another fault line in an already damaged structure.
-
SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025
RACE DAY
307.47KM | 53 LAPS
Purple clouds swell in the distance, hanging low and angry over the Ise Bay. You eye them as you walk toward the media pen. The air tastes heavy with rain, wind pulling at strands of your hair. You quicken your steps, checking the time as you near the buzz of reporters and other media outlets. The hum of the crowd from the grandstands vibrates through you, the ruckus from the team garages carried on the wind.
Your chest tightens as you enter the media pit. The air promises rain and rain changes everything. It reminds you of Singapore last year, and you want to do anything but think of Singapore last year, when the dam between Joshua and Seungcheol - and you and Seungcheol - had finally broken.
Joshua breaks from his assigned media person and drifts toward you. He’s stoic as always on race day, giving you a nod and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re both in business mode and you lead him to his scheduled media slots, cameras flashing and voices shouting. You steady him with a tap to the elbow before drifting to the side to observe.
“Joshua,” the representative for Sky Sports starts, “We’re just three races into the season and it seems like Mercedes has taken to using you defensively. How do you feel about being asked to hold other teams back to protect your teammates' lead?”
For a moment, you think Joshua is going to bristle. He hates questions like this. But he smiles, polished and polite like he’s been practicing as he answers the question. “I don’t see it that way. Every driver protects position. That’s racing. If I’m in the lead, I expect Seungcheol to protect his position, which in turn protects mine.”
The words are sharper than they sound. No one else seems to notice, but you do. The press laughs and moves on to the next question, but you see the edge in your brother's jaw, the tension set in his shoulders.
It continues like that for a few more interviews. You can taste the static of distant storms in the air alongside a tension you can’t rid yourself of. You don’t like rainy races and Suzuka is a difficult track to race. Joshua is going to need his full focus to get through all of the fast corners, and he’s not going to be able to hesitate when driving today. He’s going to need to be equal parts confident and patient, but he needs to commit.
Joshua is not as good at committing as Seungcheol is.
When the media scrum disperses, Joshua appears at your side. You walk side-by-side back outside, the sky darkening. You see him look at the impeding clouds swollen, with rain, see the tension tighten the corners of his mouth. He turns straight ahead, ignoring the storm, determined to not let it bother him. So you do the same, pushing ahead in silence, the thrum of pre-race energy shivering over the entire circuit.
You part ways when you reach the garage. This is Joshua’s ritual now. You give him a hug and your standard two finger salute, and he returns it, giving you a smile that’s more confident than you feel before he vanishes for a physical therapy session ahead of climbing into his car.
Instead of going into the garage, you head for the main building, needing the steady rhythm of work to distract you from the nerves. You spot Seungcheol walking toward you on his way to the garage and a tingle goes up your spine as his eyes meet yours. He slows his steps, waiting for you to do the same but you don’t, averting your eyes to charge ahead.
“Really?”
You say nothing, ignoring the weight of his eyes on your back. You feel your hands shake but you can’t think about Seungcheol right now. There is no room for him on race day - any day, really - but you cannot let his constant attempts to speak to you disrupt your routine. Your rhythm.
Having a steady cadence to race day is as important for you as it is your brother. While you’re not superstitious, there is a comfort in doing the same thing over and over on race days. And if you occasionally switch something up when Joshua’s race goes poorly - well. That’s between you and whatever higher power is watching.
You exhale when you’re in the hospitality suite again. You find an unoccupied office space and get to work. When you’ve carved through most of your emails, several phone calls and a single brief virtual meeting, you pull out the stats and the logistics from Joshua’s qualifier yesterday.
He’s starting P3 today with Seungcheol at P1. You like his odds. As you flip through the paper, you try not to think about the potential for rain. It isn’t supposed to start until perhaps mid race, but you don’t want rain at all. It makes a race that much harder and when bad enough, suspends the race entirely.
By race time, you’re back where you belong in the garage, headphones on and craning your neck to look up at the monitors. Wonwoo is standing next to you, his silence welcome. Neither of you speak today, the tension too high for a game of wit or to play frenemies.
The race begins dry. You feel a sense of relief as the cars tear down the figure-eight layout. You watch as the driver in front of Joshua takes turn eight too wide and flies into the gravel, giving him an immediate advantage to keep on Seungcheol who is still in P1.
“It’s going to start to rain,” the team engineer radios to Joshua. “Box for new tires.”
“Heard.”
Your nerves spike with every radio call. You watch as Joshua pits for a tire change, the team effortlessly getting him back out before losing too much ground. He easily retakes P2, catching back up to Seungcheol with newer tires, flying through the turns as they near Turn 1 again.
“Push,” the engineer calls. “Overatke in Turn 1.”
Your heart pounds for a few seconds and you hold your breath. As the two Mercedes come around Turn 1, Joshua overtakes, his newer tires giving him the advantage. You clap your hands together, bursting at the seams as the garage goes nuts at Joshua’s flawless maneuver. Seungcheol is still close, but he needs new tires.
And then the rain starts on lap thirty-two.
By lap forty the tarmac is wet and the cars are slipping. Mist sprays up from the tires as the cars slip along the turns. It’s not a full deluge, but already the track is ten times more dangerous. There’s only thirteen laps left though, and Joshua is pushing to win.
“Fuck,” Joshua says over the radio. “Visibility is shit but I’m good.”
“Copy. Stay out. Choi is on new tires and pushing hard - gap is 1.2 seconds. He’s fending off Kwon. Stay focused.”
“Heard.”
The rain intensifies, turning the track into chaos. Someone loses control and goes into the gravel at the back of the race, but there’s no debris and no safety car. You watch as water sheets off the asphalt, Joshua’s tires hydroplaning that send spray arching into the air. You grip your table, fingers trembling as he holds on to P1 - but it’s precarious.
Every corner is a potential disaster, every straight a battle against the elements. The garage is like a pressure cooker, engineers barking updates from the pitwall through your headphones and the pitcrew leaning forward as Seungcheol fights for an overtake position as the laps wind down.
You glance at Wonwoo beside you. His face is a mask of calculated calm, but his eyes are locked on the telemetry data, fingers drumming against his thigh. Seungcheol’s car is a predator now, slicing through the rain with fresh tires that give him the edge in grip. Joshua’s are older, degrading faster in the wet, rough track of Suzuka.
He defends like a fortress. He brakes late into turns, blocking every line Seungcheol probes. You suck in a breath when Joshua weaves into Turn 1, his car twitching as he fights for traction. Seungcheol dives inside, but Joshuaq shuts the door, forcing his teammate wide. You exhale sharply, but it’s short lived.
“Let Choi through,” Joshua’s engineer says. “He’s on fresher tires - better chance to hold off Kwon.”
Your stomach drops. The garage goes deathly quiet, all eyes flicking between the screens and the pit wall. Joshua’s response is immediate. “Fuck that. There’s four laps left.”
“Hong, confirm. Team orders to swap positions.”
“No. He can fight for it.”
Singapore comes back to you. It’s the same nightmare scenario, battle between teammates in the rain, a refusal to comply with team orders. You feel sick, chewing the inside of your cheek so hard that you taste blood as you watch Joshua defy orders.
“Stubborn idiot,” Wonwoo mutters, shaking his head.
“Fuck off,” you snap. “It’s a bullshit ask.”
Wonwoo says nothing. Suzuka is a river of water as Joshua and Seungcheol start the final lap. Seungcheol is aggressive, positioning himself for the kill as they enter Turn 1 again. Joshua holds him off but you see how hard the fight is. All the while, Kwon Soonyoung keeps behind them in an orange McLaren, waiting for them to crash into one another and seize the opportunity.
Seungcheol goes for it again Turn 3, feinting to the outside. Joshua blocks him out, but Seungcheol doesn’t back off. You can barely breath, your heart pounding as your world narrows to focus only on the monitors in front of you. Seungcheol goes for it again at Turn 8, shoving the nose of his car inside, wheels locking as he brakes late.
Time slows. You see it unfold in microseconds as Seungcheol’s car clips Hoshua’s rear wing, a spark of contact that sends Joshua spinning. His Mercedes aquaplanes across the track, slamming into the barriers with an explosion of carbon fiber and metal. Debris shoots outward on impact and the other cars on the field scatter to avoid impact.
Terror claws up your throat as the garage turns into chaos. Your hands fly to your mouth as you watch, chest heaving. Mechanics are all standing on their feet and you hear Joshua’s engineer call for him over the radio. For a second, he doesn’t answer, just static.
“I’m okay,” Joshua says. His voice is deadly calm. “Getting out of the car.”
The cameras cut to Joshua as a team rushes to help him. His helmet is still on and he staggers when he gets out of the car. He’s upright, gesturing wildly with his hands. Even through the rain, you can see the fury on him as he stalks off down the track to head back to the garage.
Seungcheol crosses the line under a red flag, claiming P1 by default. You don’t care. His victory tastes sour in your mouth. You tear off your headset, tossing it onto the seat behind you. You exit the garage, immediately drenched in rain as you jog toward the beacon of light that is the medical center.
Joshua is the only patient inside, sitting on a cot and swinging his legs. His helmet is still dripping on the table behind him, his race suit soaked with rain and sweat. He looks up when he hears you, eyes burning and hands trembling as he grips the edge of the cot he’s sitting on.
“Fucking shit head-”
“You’re okay, yeah?” He nods. A medical attendant comes over to run him through a short series of concussion protocol. When he’s cleared, you squeeze his arm. “It’s more important that you’re okay.”
“Barley.” He looks at you, his anger morphing from anger to something raw. “It’s Singapore all over again. He could have fucking killed me.”
You don’t answer him because you don’t know what to say. He’s right. The team will be angry at the both, but ultimately it was drivers being drivers. It’s competitive. They’re stubborn. Joshua was ordered to let him overtake and he didn’t - Seungcheol wanted to win.
Seungcheol would never intentionally hurt Joshua. You both know that. It doesn’t make the sting of the crash hurt any less, knowing that either of them will do what it takes to win. Once upon a time, they had that in common, fighting side-by-side. Now they’ve turned that ferocity on one another, the need to beat the other strong enough to make them clash like this over and over again.
By the time you both leave the medical center, the podium ceremony is over. Seungcheol has collected his points and Joshua is finishing without any, dropping him in the standings behind Soonyoung for Team McLaren.
Back in the garage, the air is electric. Joshua storms in and spots Seungcheol by his car, his race suit unzipped and tied around the waist. You don’t stop him, swallowing past the tension in your throat, fighting your instinct to play buffer, to keep them from fighting.
That isn’t your job anymore.
“What the fuck was that?” Joshua yells, startling the entire garage. “You pushed me right off the fucking track.”
Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “You didn’t leave room! You always leave-”
“Fuck that, you know you’re in the wrong.”
“You were told to let me overtake-”
“I’m not your lapdog. You locked up, lost control, and took me out.”
“Enough!” You flinch at the sound of Elias König shouting. The team principal for Mercedes rarely raises his voice, but he’s livid now, stalking toward the arguing men. He points to them both. “My office. Now.”
Both men scowl but comply. The garage is silent as they watch them go, steam practically coming off the both of them. Elias turns around to look at the garage, his gaze deadly enough to kill. Everyone jumps into action, going back to post-race duties before Elias stalks off after his drivers.
You like Elias, for the most part. A former high-powered corporate strategist from Frankfurt, he never dreamed of being involved in the world of motorsports. He’s made his reputation restructuring underperforming companies with surgical precision, and he’s done the same for Mercedes.
Elias has always been polished and calm. He’s a deliberate man who leads with logic and discretion, empathetic but ruthless when he needs to be. The last time you heard him raise his voice was in Singapore.
It’s hard to shake the memory of that race.
“Your boy is going to be in trouble.” You look up at Wonwoo who sighs, tired. “He can’t keep ignoring strategy.”
“Fresher tires don't give Seungcheol a free pass to do what he wants,” you snap. “It was a bad strategy. There was no reason for them to ask for a position swap.”
“Long term strategy requires sacrifice.”
“Shut up, Wonwoo. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know anything. I’ve been in this world since I was five.”
Joshua and Seungcheol emerge from Elias’s office, faces dark like thunder. Neither speaks. Joshua brushes past you with a curt nod and you follow. You glance at Seungcheol a single time to see him looking at you, his eyes dark and unreadable.
The silence is louder than any shouting, heavy with everything unsaid.
-
SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025
POST RACE
307.47KM | 53 LAPS
Rain falls against the hotel windows. You stare out through the misty glass, unseeing. The hotel is one of those luxury hotels that focuses on the little details - rich carpets that are soft underfoot, careful designs in the tiled floors, exquisite art in the hallway.
You can’t appreciate any of it right now. Japan always feels like a favorite in your long season of racing. You have memories here over the years: noodles at a tucked-away spot that Joshua insists on revisiting, walk throughs on the lantern-lit streets near the track, late nights spent drinking after a podium win. Japan feels less magical without Seungcheol, though, and neither one of you dared to mention it all evening.
Seungcheol.
Even thinking his name makes something sour rise in your chest, equal parts fury and something else you try to ignore. You can still hear the crunch of the carbon fiber, see the sparks from the barrier as Joshua’s car slammed into it. For one terrible second, there had been that split second of silence on the comms and you thought - this is it. This is when it happens.
It’s always been your worst nightmare. Joshua does a dangerous job. He crashes all the time. But the memory of last year’s crash looms in your mind like an angry spirit you can’t get rid of, following you even to the most remote places.
And now here you are again. Same rain. Same pit in your stomach. Same fight as last year in Singapore.
Anger propels you out of your room and across the hushed corridor. You take the elevator up two floors. You know where his room is - Joshua had been complaining about it all weekend, annoyed at how close he was. Always too close - Elias’s doing, probably.
Joshua isn’t in his room now, though. He’s downstairs with Soonyoung and Jeonghan, who despite being on different teams, have a positive relationship with your brother.
Unlike the man on the other side of the door you pound your fist against.
It opens quicker than you expect. Seungcheol fills the frame, shirtless and hair damp, sweat still cooling on his chest. He has sweats swung low on his hips, and a feminine voice drifts from the room. His eyes flick back before he slips into the hallway, shutting the door almost closed behind him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand, voice harsh. “You could have killed him.”
His jaw tightens, but he’s maddeningly calm. “That’s a bit much. We crash all the time.”
“You didn’t have to overtake-”
“He refused orders. He wanted to race, and so did I. You have to leave room-”
“Fucking leaving room!” Your voice spikes, echoing down the corridor. You take a deep breath, trying to steady the rage coursing through you. His gaze pins you in place and you hate that the heat rises in your chest, the way it feels like shame and anger and something you refuse to name. “You didn’t have to. You know you didn’t have to. It was your ego.”
“Ego? You’re one to talk. You’ve been icing me out since Singapore.”
“This isn’t about Singapore.”
“It’s always about Singapore!” He shouts, finally raising his voice. He steps closer, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick between you. “It always comes back to fucking Singapore.”
Your hands are shaking, but you don’t back away. “He’s all I have left” you hiss. “And with the way you fucking treat him, it’s like you’re trying to take him away from me. Like winning is all that matters.”
The words land like a slap. He flinches, mouth opening and closing. Something falters in his expression and he softens for a second before he turns to stone again. That familiar, old ache blooms beneath your anger, heavy and relentless, the grief of what you once were to Seungcheol pressing into the cracks of his fight with Joshua.
It’s always like this. Seungcheol and Joshua fighting as the primary, your pain and struggle with Seungcheol secondary.
You ignore it like you always do. “Joshua is all I have left,” you whisper, tired.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “You made sure of that, huh?”
Anger and hurt twists into something raw and ugly inside of you. You step back, shaking your head. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
He glares, but his voice is quieter. “You never do.”
“Go back to whatever you were doing. We’re done here.”
“At least she looks at me.”
The words hollow you out. They’re meant to hurt and they do, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You turn, your steps too loud in the muffled carpeted corridor. Outside, the rain still hammers the windows, mimicking the storm inside of you as the elevator takes you back down to your floor.
At least she looks at me.
You don’t know how to tell him that if you do look at him, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll give in and let him win.
Just like he always does.
-
ZANDVOORT CIRCUIT | 2020
POST-QUALIFYING
162.097KM | 37 LAPS
The hotel room smells faintly of takeout and a hint of motor oil, a reminder of the long day at the track. Joshua and Seungcheol - you by default, maybe - permanently smell like fuel and leather, a scent you know by instinct. You sit cross-legged on the floor, balancing styrofoam cartons of noodles and dumplings between you, Joshua and Seungcheol.
Seungcheol is mid-story, animated as his hands fly through the air. “So then I looped the kart around the corner, hit the hale bale, and somehow ended up sliding into the marshmallow pit.”
“I remember that!” You laugh, clutching your stomach, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “Your mom was so pissed - you’d just gotten over a concussion!”
For a fleeting moment, the world feels small and safe, like it did when the three of you were kids sneaking past curfews and running around hotels until your legs ached. You’re older now, still going from hotel to hotel as Seungcheol and Joshua chase pennants in Formula 2, but that gold halo of childhood seems far away from the hotel room floor in Zandvoort.
Joshua nearly chokes on his noodles, his laughter erupting somewhere between a cough and wheeze. “Oh my god, that’s when she threatened to pull you out of karting!”
Seungcheol grins, unabashed. His eyes crinkle in a way that makes your heart flip. “Worth it. I still won the next race.”
He leans back on his hands, the movement pulling his T-shirt tight across his shoulder. You force your gaze back to the dumplings before he catches you staring, terrified that if he does, he’ll immediately start making fun of you for it.
For a moment, the world shrinks to the three of you on the floor, passing cartons and reflecting on your childhood. It doesn’t feel like you’re hopping from country to country, shoving online courses between races so you can keep up with Joshua and your dad.
Your dad wanted you to attend university in earnest. You insisted that you belonged by his side. With him managing both Joshua and Seungcheol, someone needed to take care of him. Even now as the three of you share food, you know your dad is out on the phone with sponsors or strategizing something, leaving the three of you to your own devices.
It’s rare, these moments without his watchful eye. You savor the ease of it and the way you can just be yourself with Joshua and Seungcheol. No pressure. No expectations.
You reach for a dumpling, chopsticks clumsy from laughing, and catch Joshua sneaking a sip from a can of an energy drink tucked behind his knee. Your eyes narrow. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be drinking those anymore!”
He freezes. “It’s just one!”
Seungcheol’s head snaps up and he grins. “Oh you’re done for.”
You lunch across the circle, snatching the can before Joshua can react. He yells and tries to snatch it back, but you press your hand to his forehead, pushing him away while Seungcheol chants, “Manager! Manager!”
Joshua makes a dramatic dive for the can but Seungcheol tackles him back, both of them collapsing in a heap. “Traitor!” Joshua wails, flopping onto the floor with an exaggerated groan. “My own sister and my best friend, stabbing me in the back!”
You roll your eyes. “You’ll thank us when you don’t sleep all fucking night and start tweaking through Turn 1 tomorrow.”
All of you settle back onto the floor, the can hidden behind you. Seungcheol looks at you and his grin softens. He nudges your knee with his, a sideways smirk on his face. “Teamwork, huh?”
Seungcheol’s voice is light, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. You shrug, trying to play it cool, but you feel the heat creeping up your neck.
You’ve had a crush on Seungcheol for what feels like forever - since the days he let you ride on the back of his kart, you think. You know he doesn’t feel the same - you’re just his best friend's kid sister who runs around the paddock behind them - and it makes it all the worse.
“Teamwork,” you agree. “Pass me the noodles.”
He chuckles, low and warm, and passes you the carton. The three of you settle into a comfortable quiet, the TV flickering behind you, casting you in a halo of blue light. Tomorrow’s race looms, but for now, it’s just you, Joshua and Seungcheol, the three of you united in your joint dream of getting them to Formula 1.
-
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
POST-RACE
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
Even without the sun, the Bahrain International Circuit is choked with heat. The air is still thick with the electric buzz of the race that sets your nerves on edge. The roar of the grandstands lingers, a feverish pulse that hasn’t died down since the checkered flag waves. Mercedes has wrapped with another double podium, but this time it’s Joshua stepping onto the first place podium, Seungcheol right next to him in second.
It’s a riot of celebration around the stage. Mechanics clap one another on the back and everyone gives you a congratulatory hug as they pass you where you stand watching. Joshua’s smile is bright as he lifts a bottle of champagne and starts to spray it. Seungcheol does his part well enough, dousing Joshua in champagne and clapping him on the back. But you know him well enough - you see the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.
P2 is good, but for Seungcheol, it’s never enough. Not when Joshua is standing on the top step next to him, doing better in the same car.
You make your way to the pit lane, weaving through the post-race chaos. The media swarm, cameras flashing, fans scream. Joshua’s already surrounded, answering questions with his easy charm, but you keep your distance, checking schedules and murmuring quietly with the PR team. You’re in manager mode, but your focus shifts when you feel him before you see him.
Seungcheol strides toward you, awareness prickling at the back of your neck as you turn to glance at him. His race suit is unzipped to his waist, hair still damp with sweat and champagne. He hesitates only for a second before he asks, “Can we talk?”
Your stomach twists, the memory of your fight in Suzuka still painful. “I’m busy,” you grit out, turning away.
“Wait, just-” He reaches out, not touching you but close enough to make you pause. “Can we please clear the air?”
“This is not the place.”
Your voice is colder than you mean, but you’re right. There are too many cameras and wandering eyes here, and the press and fans alike love inventing theories about you and Seungcheol. They have your entire career. So you pivot, heaving toward the hospitality suite, your heart hammering.
He doesn’t follow, but you feel his eyes on your back. You push through the crowd, dodging reporters, your tablet a shield against the world. By the time you reach the suit, your hands are trembling. You hate how easily he unravels you, how one word from him can drag you back to all the places you’ve been, both good and bad.
Joshua finds you waiting for him in the suite. He’s glowing, the win radiating off of him. His eyes narrow when he sees you, picking up on the tension you’re trying to hide behind a false smile. He sits down and slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing.
“What’s with the face?” He teases. “I just won and you look like you’re going to fire someone.”
“Maybe I should.” He rolls his eyes. “Just a lot to do. You know how it is. But I’m glad you’re back on top.”
“Feels good, honestly. Don’t let him ruin the fun, yeah?” You start to protest and Joshua gives you a look. “Come on. It’s time to celebrate.”
You laugh and let him pull you to your feet. “You’re insufferable when you win.”
“Honestly, so are you. Let’s go. I’m starving and I want more champagne.”
You follow him, the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze fading with each step. You’ll think about it another time.
Like you always do.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2021
POST-PRACTICE
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
Sea salt clings to your skin, the scent of bougainvillea drifting in the air. The hum of the circuit still lingers in your ears as you follow Seungcheol up a narrow, cobbled street. Practice day is utter chaos - yachts gleaming in the harbor, paparazzi swarming, the glitz of Monte Carlo pressing in from every angle. You’re exhausted, but Seungcheol is moving with purpose, his hands brushing yours. So you follow.
“Found this place last year,” he says as you walk. He gives you a grin that makes your heart stutter. “You’re going to love it.”
Seungcheol leads you to a cafe tucked between weathered stone buildings, its faded awning and tiny wooden chairs a world apart from the polished chrome of the paddock. You squeeze into a corner table, knees brushing under the cramped space. The proximity is stifling, sending a quiet thrill through you.
Seungcheol’s dressed down, hair messy. He looks softer here, away from the track, his usual intensity tempered by the distance between the two of you and the world that keeps threatening to break you under pressure. It’s his first year in Formula 1, and you swear you’re ready to let this world break you already.
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Seungcheol teases, nudging your foot with his.
“I’m fine,” you argue, unwilling to let him know how nervous he makes you.
Even after all this time, he makes you nervous. It’s only gotten worse with age as he’s grown from a semi-lanky teenager into a broad-shoulder man. The weight of adulthood has changed things, and you swear his eyes linger on you longer than they used to. Perhaps it's your own silly dreaming.
The waiter sets down two small espressos on the table. Seungcheol leans back and sips his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. You laugh. “Not your thing?”
“Not when it tastes like motor oil.”
“Everything probably tastes like motor oil to you.”
When Seungcheol smiles, his eyes crinkle in that way that makes it hard to breathe. You feel like you’re tiptoeing around something, a secret neither one of you want to mention for fear of making it real. You’d think you were imagining it, but when his knee brushes yours and neither of you pulls away, you start to realize maybe it isn’t just you.
“So,” Seungcheol says, stretching. “What happens when Joshua retires one day? Like, what would you do? I know you’re finishing school right now but are you going to work for your dad or what?”
You snort. “Joshua? Retire? He’d rather crash into every barrier. You know he’ll drive for as long as any team will sign him.” You swirl your espresso, not meeting his face as you think about his question. “I don’t know, though. I guess I’ve never thought about it. This is my life - him, dad - you. What else is there?”
Seungcheol is quiet for a moment. His fingers tap on the table and you watch them. He has pretty hands. It’s a fact about him that you catalogue with all the other facts about Seungcheol, like the way you know his favorite flavor of soda is cherry, or the way he likes to listen to a specific playlist on race day, or the way he has a scar on the back of his neck from a crash as kids.
“There’s more than this, you know.” He looks at you, eyes serious. “You could travel for fun. Study something that’s not online. Go be a big corporate baddie. What do you want?”
The question catches you off guard, his tone gentle but probing. You want to brush it off and make a joke, but the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible. Your chest tightens and you realize you don’t know the answer. Not really. You’ve spent so long being Joshua’s shadow, his support, that the idea of wanting something for yourself feels foreign.
“I…” You shake your head. “I guess I’d figure it out. Maybe I’d just follow you instead, huh?”
His lips twitch, a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Careful. I’d hold you to it.”
Your breath hitches at the way he says it. His eyes are serious as they stare at you, something flickering there. The cafe feels smaller, the air heavier. You fight the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between you, but you don’t. Can’t.
The waiter passes by and breaks the spell. You lean back in your seat as Seungcheol clears his throat, looking out at the street where tourists wander around. Finally he says, “You’d be good at anything. You’re smart as shit.”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks burn. “I’ll make sure to put tough as shit on a resume.”
He laughs, loud and bright and the tension between you eases. It’s not entirely gone, still simmering under every glance. But you manage to finish your coffees, the conversation shifting to safer ground.
Later, when you lie awake in your hotel room, you think back on his question: what do you want? You think of his knee against yours, the warmth of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. You think of the way he laughs and how he’s always so sure of himself.
It occurs to you that the only thing you’ve ever wanted for yourself - truly, entirely wanted - is Seungcheol. And you have no idea what to do with that.
-
JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT | 2025
RACE DAY
308.45KM | 50 LAPS
Something about night races makes the world come alive. The Saudi Arabian night is sharp with the scent of fuel and asphalt, the grandstands pulsing with energy. Fans chant wildly as cars scream down the straights, their engines echoing off the concrete barriers as they race under the floodlights.
You chew on your thumbnail, eyes fixed to the monitors. Joshua is chasing down Red Bull ahead, his pace relentless despite the punishing heat of the track. The race is halfway through, Joshua currently the only member of Mercedes in pole position as Seungcheol fights his way through the midfield from a bad starting position.
Out of habit, you watch Seungcheol’s car. His speed starts to drop down on a straight and the garage groans, mechanics throwing their hands up in the air. It seems the engine trouble he had yesterday in qualifying has returned, his car crawling toward the pit lane as he’s instructed to retire the car.
Your stomach sinks as you glance across the garage where Seungcheol’s crew is already scrambling. His car limps to the garage, mechanics swarming him like a beehive. He climbs out, yanking off his helmet with a scowl that could curdle milk. He exchanges clipped words with his engineer before stalking to the pitwall to talk to Elias. You turn back to the race, crossing your arms as you track Joshua’s movements.
Seungcheol returns, his suit tied around his waist. You assume he’s going to his dressing room, but instead he drifts toward you. You stiffen when he stops beside you, sipping his water bottle. He doesn’t look at you, his hair sweaty and finger-raked back of his forehead. You haven’t spoken since brushing him off in Bahrain, but his presence is a steady weight.
Neither one of you says anything. Instead, you watch the race in silence, both of you with your arms crossed as you glance back and forth between telemetry data and the actual race. You focus on Joshua’s lap times, momentarily distracted when Seungcheol reaches for the headset someone brings him. His arm brushes yours as he leans to take it, the contact sending a jolt through you. You want to move, to put space between you, but you’re frozen to the spot until the contact breaks.
Seungcheol puts the headset on, watching Joshua’s race. Your arm is still buzzing where he brushed against you, so out of it that you nearly miss when he notes, “He’s pushing too hard in Turn 22.” You glance at him, but his eyes are on the screen. “He’s losing time in the exit. Needs to brake later.”
You hesitate. Your instinct is to snap at him, but the nostalgia kicks in, making you swallow past a riposte. “He’s managing the wear,” you say instead, voice hoarse. “Late breaking there risks locking up.”
Seungcheol huffs, but it’s not dismissive. It’s more like he’s thinking it over. “Maybe. But Lee has better traction off the corners. Josh has to match him there or his ass is grass.”
It’s weird. You used to have this kind of back-and-forth all the time. You nod though, adjusting your headset. “He just needs to close that gap for DRS.”
“Hope so.”
You don’t talk a lot. You only make comments here and there, both of you falling into laser-like focus as Joshua closes the gap between him and Red Bull and gets the clear for DRS. He flies on the straight, jerking around Lee Chan, your entire garage clapping as Joshua pulls ahead.
Seungcheol doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Standing next to him like this feels familiar. It’s the most you’ve spoken in months - not that you’ve given him the opportunity. You don’t know why you do now, other than you’re a sucker for nostalgia. You miss this - miss him - and the realization twists in your gut, sharp and unwelcome.
You catch yourself stealing glances at him, at the way his jaw clenches when Joshua nails a corner, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. He’s still Seungcheol - intense and competitive. You hate how much you still notice.
Joshua holds off P1, fending off both McLaren and Red Bull as the checkered flag waves. You clap excitedly, a thrill going through you as the garage erupts into a mixture of relief and pride. You pull off your headset, glancing at Seungcheol.
He pulls his headset off, eyeing you. “You still have an eye for strategy.”
“I’ll stick to management.”
He hums. Seungcheol turns to leave and hesitates. He lowers his voice, voice so soft you can barely hear him in the roar of the garage and the noise of the paddock. “I miss this. Talking to you. You.” His eyes are steady and your chest tightens, the ache of the past flaring up again. “I wish you’d let me be your friend again.”
Friend.
It doesn’t feel like the right word. You and Seungcheol had been friends for years. Joshua had brought Seungcheol home with him after the first day of karting to find you playing video games and it had sealed your fate with the three of you. You’d been a unit ever since, three moons circling the same gravity: the dream that they’d be big someday.
But you and Seungcheol had transcended that. Friends feels like where you started, but not where you ended. You don’t know what to call where you ended, friends but something more. Something almost. You remember the thrill of it, the longing you’d felt for years taking shape into something real and tangible.
And then Seungcheol had ruined it in Singapore.
The ache of the memory makes you shut down again. It feels as raw now as it did almost a year ago and you pull your headphones off, tossing them onto a seat. Seungcheol watches you put the wall back up, the cool indifference sliding back into place where you’re safe from the memories of being friends - of being something more.
You glance at the screen where Joshua is climbing out of his car. “I have to go.”
Seungcheol doesn’t stop you. The look on his face is resigned, as if to say I know. You pivot and head out. He doesn’t follow you, but you feel his gaze, heavy as ever until you’re out of sight. Your heart hammers, torn between the pull of what was and the pain of what is.
You hate how much you wish it could be again.
-
SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2022
POST-PRACTICE SIMULATION
306.198KM | 52 LAPS
It’s quiet at the factory. It feels strange to be here in season - usually being at headquarters only happens ahead of the season for events, business, branding shoots and meetings. Now, the hum of machinery and the faint glow of computer screens are the only signs of life.
The simulation room is tucked away in a corner of the Mercedes facility, a high-tech cocoon where Joshua likes to chase perfection in a virtual world. He’s got a set up in his apartment too, but with the home team advantage for the race weekend he’s begged you to come with him to run simulations of the race again.
As if he doesn’t have this one memorized down to every groove in the track.
It’s well past midnight as you trudged through the building, tablet heavy under your arm. Joshua is practically a zombie in front of you, chugging down water and trekking blearily to the exit. Tomorrow’s grand prix is looming, but he’s been pushing himself harder, desperate to keep up with his teammate in their second year with Mercedes.
The very teammate that you catch in a separate simulation room. You glance through the glass window to see Seungcheol is still there, strapped in and hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s fighting for pole position. The screen in front of him flashes with the familiar curves of the Silverstone Circuit, the same curves and straights you and Joshua have been talking about all night.
Joshua laughs. “He’s going to keep at it for hours. Maniac.”
You hum, noncommittal. Your feet slow until you stop at the door. Seungcheol’s focus is unrelenting, his posture rigid. “Go ahead,” you tell Joshua. “I’ll catch up. Someone needs to pull him out.”
Joshua raises a brow, but he’s too tired to argue. He gives you a two finger salute. “Don’t stay too long. If he won’t leave, just head out. You need sleep too.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Joshua leaves you standing near the glass. You stare at Seungcheol for a moment, watching the way each twitch of his hands is controlled. Deliberate. When the screen in front of him finishes his current session, you knock on the glass.
Seungcheol’s head jerks up and he pauses the simulation. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he gives you a tired smile and waves you in. He relaxes in the seat as you slip in and walk over.
“Didn’t expect you here this late,” he says, voice rough. “Josh here?”
“Just left. Begged me to come with him. Says he likes my strategy more than your own team.”
Seungcheol’s mouth turns. “You are pretty good.”
“Chasing lap times?”
“Always.”
“Maniac.”
“Says you. You’re here too, aren’t you?”
“Mmm.” You cross your arms over your chest, drinking in his features. Seungcheol is handsome as ever, even when the signs of exhaustion are all there. Dark circles under his eyes, dry lips, red eyes. “You’re pushing too hard, Cheol. You’re going to burn out.”
“You sound like your dad.”
“Rude.” You perch on the edge of a table in the room, swinging your legs. “Hows it going, then?”
“Elias has been on me about consistency. I’m struggling with it. Plus, your brother sets the bar so fucking high. His lap times are almost perfect. Always.”
It’s true. Joshua’s lap times are scary consistent, proof of years worth of refined practice and talking over his drives time and time again. Joshua isn’t just perfect - he’s clinical. Logical. Refined. Not like Seungcheol who wins often, but is just as likely to face disaster or have to climb his way out of a bad qualifying position.
“You’re doing fine,” you tell him softly. “P4 in quali today was solid. You’re not out of the race.”
He looks at you, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something that makes your gut tighten and your breath quicken. “Doesn’t always feel like it. Feels like no matter how fast I go, it’s not good enough unless I finish first.”
“Not good enough for who?”
“Anyone.”
The silence stretches between you. You watch as he takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing. You want to comfort him. You want to get up and cross the room, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he’s doing fine - more than fine.
But you don’t. He’s your brother’s best friend and biggest rival, the single person in the world who understands what it’s like for both you and Joshua.
“Doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol says eventually. He sighs and leans against the seat, slumping slightly. “It just feels… heavy, sometimes.”
“I know. I feel it sometimes. Different, but you know how it is. Joshua, too. I’m in your corner though, if it counts for anything.”
His eyes meet yours and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air feels charged and full of something - promise, maybe. His gaze flickers down to your mouth so fast you think you imagine it.
“It counts,” he says, voice soft. “It counts more than you know.”
-
MIAM INTERNATIONAL AUTODROME | 2025
POST-QUALIFYING
308.326KM | 57 LAPS
I wish you’d let me be your friend again.
The words play over and over in your head, looping like the cars around the circuit. You haven’t spoken to Seungcheol since - not that there’s been a chance - but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it had been in Saudi Arabia. How many times in your life had you sat next to him and ranted about strategy? Arguing positioning? Quipped back and forth?
For a moment, it felt like your Formula 2 days again, pressed closed together while watching the cars that Seungcheol would inevitably end up in, both of you arguing about teams and strategy and just… being you.
It haunts you. It always does. Most days you find yourself opening your mouth to say something to him before remembering it’s not like that anymore. That you’d cut him out of your life and slammed the door shut on any sort of a relationship. Sometimes, you walk into a hotel room, scrubbing your hair with a towel only to stop and swear you can smell his cologne again, lingering just beyond in a place you cannot reach.
Everyone talks about the death of relationships. But no one talks about the death of a what if.
Once again, you shove down the thought. You have no time for mourning the past tonight, especially with the piss poor interview Seungcheol gave after securing P2 in qualifying. The memory of it is hot as the Miami pavement as you cross the neon-drenched street. Palm trees sway lazily against a cotton-candy sky, the last of the sun dying soaking the sky in color.
Rows of waterfront venues line the street, each one of the high-end restaurants and beach clubs dotting the Miami River. Heat simmers in the air, the humidity sticking to your skin, balmy and irritating. You try not to let it irritate you, deciding that you want to enjoy Miami while you’re here.
CASA NEOS thrums with lowkey energy as you enter. Fairy lights are draped over open-air cabanas, the water in the distance lapping gently against docks where you can see shiny speed boats and MasterCrafts bobbing alongside orange buoys.
Servers carrying fresh seafood towers and grilled wagyu sliders rush by you as you duck into the private dining room where the buzz of voices draws you to Team Mercedes. The private dining room and then some is roped off for team dinner, your coworkers and everyone who makes anything tick in the garage spread out and enjoys a night of mingling before the race tomorrow.
Team dinners out are rare. Usually formal team dinners happen in the hospitality suite, but Miami is one of the cities where Elias likes to make a show of it, bringing everyone together and rewarding them - within reason - for the season so far.
Joshua raises his hand when he sees you. You nod and dart over to him, pausing to accept a sweating glass of margarita with a cute little umbrella in it as you go. You take a sip and make a face, forgetting how strong the drinks are in Miami.
Honestly, you need a strong drink. A single look at your brother tells you he’s still just as angry as he was two hours ago, and the single beer he’s allowed himself to have hasn’t eased the frustration from hearing Seungcheol’s interview.
It was stupid. Even the PR team hadn’t liked his answer much, but Seungcheol has never been as polished in Joshua with the media. Seungcheol giving an interview about the push and pull between him and Joshua had been fine - every team deals with it. But Seungcheol calling it personal had awakened the online media circus again, reigniting the conspiracy theorists to work out what happened in team Mercedes that broke the friendship between two teammates.
Like every other time fans online caught the tension between Joshua and Seungcheol, you were dragged into the thick of it. You’ve never been able to escape it fully - not since Joshua’s elevation to Formula 1 and your rise to the role of his manager after your dad’s passing. Mercedes die-hards have been calling you the atom bomb of Mercedes for years - the Yoko Ono of Mercedes.
Joshua stabs his salad as you sit down next to him. “What did watercress ever do to you?”
He glares. “You know why I’m pissed.”
You nod. What should be a happy mood to be bonding with the team has been poisoned yet again. You sigh, reaching across the table to pluck a salad plate from the middle. Down the table, you see Seungcheol enjoying himself just fine, laughing at something one of the engineers says. He’s dressed in a casual linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tan arms, the buttons at the top of his shirt undone.
When Seungcheol glances at you, you avert your eyes, turning your attention to one of the strategists next to you to engage her in conversation. She’s a few drinks in but nice, and you decide she’s better company than Joshua who is now nursing water with melting ice and a small cup of gelato that is melting faster than he can eat it.
Halfway through dessert, your phone starts to ring. You sigh, realizing it’s a sponsor you owe a sign-off on a post to. Scooting your chair back, you dismiss yourself outside the venue. It’s night now, lights reflecting gloomily off the rippling black surface of the river, a mix of tropical music, drums and voices drifting from each restaurant on the dock.
You hold the phone to your ear, apologizing as you walk down one of the empty docks. In the distance, you can see the Jose Marti Park across the river. The hum of the city backtracks your conversation as you finish up your phone call, hanging up and pressing your finger to the bridge of your nose as though it could relieve the tension there from the long day.
Footsteps behind you draw your attention. You turn, expecting people returning to their boats. Instead, you find Seungcheol. He’s silhouetted in shadow, a soft glow to his face from the lights on the side of the boat. Your heart immediately lurches at the sight of him, followed instantly by anger.
“Uh oh,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “You’ve got your mad face on.”
“Yeah I’ve got my fucking mad face on.”
The humor vanishes from his face. “What now?”
“What now? Your horrible media training is what.”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you seriously mad about the interview? I said nothing wrong. It’s no secret we’re competitive.”
“Whatever.” You move to walk past him but he steps in front of you. “Seungcheol, not now.”
“Not now. I’m busy. Not the right time. That’s all it ever is with you. I thought maybe we made a bit of progress in Saudi Arabia. I thought we were working on this-”
“There’s no this, Seungcheol. What is so confusing to you?”
You stare at him, the words hanging in the humid air between you. The dock creeks softly under your feet, the gentle lap of the river against the pilings the only sound cutting through the sound from the restaurants.
All you can focus on is Seungcheol, standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, his linen shirt rumpled and dark hair tousled by the breeze off the river. He’s too close - always too close. You can smell his cologne, woody and warm. It hits you like a punch to the gut, remembering the way the scent used to cling to your clothes after stolen moments in hotel rooms and quiet corners of the paddock.
Before Singapore.
Your heart twists as a familiar ache blooms in your chest. You miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, you miss the way he’d lean in close after long nights of travel, you miss his shoulder brushing yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You miss his late night talks in Formula 2, you miss dreaming big under fluorescent garage lights.
Missing him changes nothing. Not after the blowout from last year, not after the way Seungcheol’s ambition has rotted his friendship with your brother. Not after the way he dragged it being personal into the mix again, pulling you back into the chaos.
You’re mad at him for stirring it all up again, for not letting the past stay buried. Mad at yourself for the way your pulse quickens looking at him, for the part of you that wants to throw caution to the wind and cross the dock and take what you want.
But you can’t. You won’t. Joshua is your brother, and protecting him means keeping this door shut, no matter how much it kills you.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens like he sees right through you. Maybe he does. “What’s confusing,” he grits out. “Is that you’ve been shutting me out for months even though I’ve been trying. I’ve tried apologizing, reaching out - fucking begging you to talk about Singapore and you won’t let me.”
You cross your arms over your chest as the wind picks up. You feel a chill, both from his words and the wind. The sound of voices carry down the dock, but it’s just the two of you out here, night snapping with tension.
“Because I don’t want you to, Seungcheol.” It’s a lie and you know it, but you continue, “I don’t want the apologies. I don't want to talk about it. Singapore happened. You and Joshua blew up. End of story.”
He steps closer, the dock’s wooden planks groaning under his weight. The soft glow from the boat light cast shadows over his face that sharpen his features, his full lips pressed into a thin line. “My friendship with your brother is separate from my relationship with you.”
“No. It isn’t. You told me to choose because you were incapable of separating me from your drama with him. So I did.”
“Oh yeah? So you’re over me, then? Just like that? You suddenly feel nothing anymore because me and your brother don’t have a friendship anymore? Bullshit.”
The words sting. You feel your throat constrict painfully, trying to swallow past a denial of your feelings but they get stuck. It isn’t nearly as simple as being over him. As if you haven’t spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment spent with him, every whispered conversion in the dim light of a Monaco hotel room. As if you didn’t ache for the what if life that Seungcheol always asked you about.
You’re furious at him for pushing, for not letting you grieve the loss of him in silence - the silence that he forced when he tried to make you choose between him and family. But beneath the anger is the raw, unrelenting fucking want. The want for his touch, his voice, the way he made the chaos of your world feel steady.
You shake your head. “Yes. I’m over you. Happy now?”
The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it’s a lie. For a moment, the air between you stills. The sound of the lapping waves and the distant music fades, the world narrowing to just you and him on the dock.
Then he moves, closing the distance in a single stride. Seungcheol’s hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you in. His lips crash against yours, not gentle but desperate. Demanding. Like he’s been holding back for months and the dam has finally broken.
The kiss tastes like the whiskey he’d had at dinner. You gasp into his mouth, melting into the familiarity of it immediately. His free hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing through you.
Everything tilts. You hear the pounding of your own heart as his mouth slides against yours, the rush of blood in your ears. The woody smell of him wraps around you, intoxicating. You clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting in the linen, though you don’t know if it’s to pull him closer or push him away.
Seungcheol pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. His eyes search yours, dark and stormy. “Tell me you don’t feel anything. Say it again. If you mean it, I’ll stop trying.”
You swallow, the words sticking. Your mouth tingles from the kiss and your heart screams in your chest. “I don’t feel anything.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “I said to mean it, liar.”
He kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. His lips move gently against yours, teeth pulling at your bottom lip softly until you open up for him. He groans, his tongue sweeping in to taste the faint lime on your tongue from your margarita.
Seungcheol is intoxicating. You remember the first time he kissed you, dizzying and hypnotic. It feels that way now as his hands roam, one hand pressing up your back to pull you closer, the other tracing the curve of your hip.
When you break apart again, both of you are breathing hard. He lifts a hand to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Please let me apologize to you. Properly.”
The neon lights from the waterfront are a smear of watercolor across the oil-slick surface of the river. His eyes are dark and searching, holding yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“Please,” he says again. “I’ve been trying for months. Singapore was a mess, I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should have never told you to choose between Josh and I.”
It hurts. You’re torn between the longing to let him back in and the fear of what it would mean. You miss him so much it's a physical ache, a hollow space that gnaws at you in quiet moments. But letting him apologize feels like stepping into quicksand, something you won’t be able to escape from.
“I don’t know how,” you admit. Seungcheol’s face falls, the hope in his eyes dimming. He steps closer but you step back, breaking his hold. The dock feels unsteady beneath you. “I can’t. Not now.”
His hands fall to his sides, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The glow of the lights catch the tension in his jaw, hurt flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t push further, though. He just watches you, silent as ever as you turn, your heart hammering so loud it feels like the entire city can hear it.
Your steps are near frantic as you hurry back toward CASA NEOAS, the lights and open-air cabanas a blur through the tears you refuse to let fall. The buzz of voices wash over you, drowning you as the sounds of laughter and your smiling coworkers greet you, completely at odds with the storm you’ve just escaped.
Inside, Joshua is still at the table, his interest in the dinner no better. His gaze flicks up to you when you reenter, eyebrows raising slily. You just shake your head and slide into your seat, reaching for a glass of water to chug it down. The glass is slick with condensation, the coolness of the water doing nothing to undo the heat of the dock moments ago.
You think nothing will.
-
MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024
POST-QUALIFYING
306.143KM | 62 LAPS
Marina Bay Sands glows like a become, the Supertree Grove a distant silhouette against the night. It’s humid outside, the air clinging to your skin and making your clothes feel heavy. Seungcheol is standing outside on the sidewalk, focused on the phone in his hand. He’s dressed down, less like a Formula 1 superstar and more like the kid who used to steal your skittles.
Stomach fluttering, you walk toward him, adjusting your shirt as it ruffles in the breeze. Seungcheol senses your presence, looking up from his phone. His eyes soften when he sees you, the smile he gives you threatening to do you in right there. No one else smiles at you the way Seungcheol does, which is why you’ve agreed to wander down here at his request.
“Dinner?” He asks, voice low. “Just us?”
You nod, heart kicking up a notch. “Lead the way.”
Seungcheol knows this place better than you do. It’s one of his favorite places to visit even when it’s not racing season. He takes you to a quiet restaurant tucked along the Singapore River, a place with open-air seating and lanterns strung across. The water reflects the lights in shimmering streaks of gold and red, the air heavy with chili crab and pandan leaves from nearby vendors.
You settle into a corner table, letting Seungcheol order a spread of Hainanese chicken rice, satay skewers and tiger prawns. You sip a beer, tilting back in your seat to look at him. He looks tired but relaxed, leaning back in his chair to glance out at the river, eyes soft.
“I could have done better today,” he says eventually, turning to you. “A little frustrating. Josh must be happy with pole position.”
You nod, treading carefully. The growing tension between them has you on edge, hating the way something dangerous has been simmering around the three of you all season. “You were half a second behind. That's nothing here. You’ll make it up tomorrow.”
He shrugs, but he doesn’t let it go. “Yeah. Hopefully tomorrow my own teammate doesn’t box me out again.”
“Cheol…”
“It’s frustrating. I don’t know how we went from living our dream together to barely being able to be in the same room.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air. You feel the familiar tug-of-war to stay loyal to Joshua but offer comfort to Seungcheol. It’s starting to feel like you can’t bridge the gap between them, but every piece of advice you offer them feels like a betrayal one way or the other.
“Maybe talk to him,” you offer. “The two of you are so fucking stubborn. Just talk.”
His eyes darken. “We’ve tried. You know how it goes.”
You want to tell him Joshua’s just protecting himself, that he’s scared of losing what he’s worked so hard for, that he’s carrying the weight of your dad’s legacy too. But saying that feels like crossing a line, like choosing Seungcheol over your brother.
Instead, you reach across the table, your fingers brushing his. “He’ll come around.”
Seungcheol’s hand turns, capturing yours, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The touch sends a shiver up your arm, a reminder of how easily he unravels you. “Whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”
The dinner stretches on, the food growing cold as you talk—about dreams, about fears, about the what-ifs that feel too big to name. But the frustration lingers, a quiet undercurrent. You want to fix things for him and Joshua, to be the sister and the whatever you are to Seungcheol. But every solution feels like a compromise, and you hate it, the way you’re caught between two people you love, the way you can’t fully give yourself to either without betraying the other.
When you leave the restaurant, the Singapore night wraps around you, the air heavy with heat and the distant pulse of music from Clarke Quay. Seungcheol walks you back to the hotel, his hand brushing yours until he finally laces your fingers together. You smile, squeezing his hand back, feeling every callus and rough patch from years of driving.
At the hotel entrance, he stops, turning you to face him. The neon glow from a nearby sign casts his face in shades of blue and pink, his eyes searching yours.
“I don’t care about the rest,” he murmurs. “Josh, the team - it’s secondary. I like this, though. Whatever this is. I like this with you.”
Before you can respond, he leans in, kissing you soft and sure, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the beer you shared. It’s slow and deliberate, his hands framing your face. The world falls away, the hum of Singapore fading until it’s just the two of you kissing in the shadow of the hotel.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the humid air. “See you tomorrow?”
You nod and sneak a soft kiss to his lips again. He groans and tries to steal another but you dart away from him, your laughter trilling and manic as you skip back inside. You leave him standing there smiling at you, the crinkle of his eyes genuine. Real.
It’s not much longer until the season is over. You’ll wait until then to make it real, to fix the bullshit between your brother and Seungcheol. It’s what your father would do.
You vow to do it too.
-
MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024
RACE DAY
306.143KM | 62 LAPS
Heavy rain lashes the ground. You watch the screens with your arms crossed over your chest, heart hammering. The tepid air makes your team polo stick to you, turning the air in the garage heavy with tension and moisture.
You don’t know why they haven’t called off the race. The rain makes the night race all the more difficult, the team radios crackling with barking orders as Joshua tries to maintain his position at the head of the race, Seungcheol right behind him. Seungcheol has fresher tires though, trying to fend off both McLaren’s as they round the last few laps of the race.
A single glance at the pitwall tells you how tense it is. You see Elias arguing with strategists, the engineers debating on how to keep both McLaren’s from passing on fresh tires and better grip. You’ve been here before, and you feel the sense of dread as Seungcheol closes in closer on Joshua just before the call comes through.
“Let Choi overtake. He’s on fresher tires. He has a better chance to hold the lead.”
Your fists clench at your sides, fury bubbling up hot and fast. The garage feels too small, the air too thick, as you stare at the monitors showing Joshua's car slicing through the deluge. He's been the team player, swallowing his pride, and now this?
“The fuck do you mean let him overtake? I fucking protected his lead the last two races guys. Get the fuck out of here with that.”
The garage falls quiet. Your heart races, a mix of pride and dread twisting in your gut. His race engineer asks him to let Seungcheol overtake again, but Joshua refuses, battling the slick road and the shit visibility while Seungcheol rides his ass, two orange McLarens not far behind.
Seungcheol is a shadow in Joshua’s spray. You watch on the screens, breath held as Seungcheol dives for the inside at Turn 10, a risky move when it’s dry and near suicidal when it’s wet. His front wing clips Joshua’s rear tire and it’s all that needs to happen to send Joshua into the barrier.
Time slows. Joshua’s car hits the barrier in a spray of sparks and debris. Everyone in the garage shoots to their feet, hands on their head. You feel a cold tingle sweep over you, your entire body going numb with fear as you watch as red flags appear while your brother’s car goes up in flames, the rain doing nothing to put it out.
Voices on the radio call his name as crews rush to get to him. The other cars on the track stop, the session halted amid the downpour and the disaster that is Joshua’s car. Your world narrows to a single point, hands pressing the headphones closer to your ears as your heart pounds, waiting for Joshua to answer.
The pit wall feels like it’s closing in, the hum of rain on the roof and the wet tires screaming through the track melding into a single, unbearable pulse in your chest. Your stomach is in knots, fingers trembling as you grip your headphones. You can barely breathe, and every instinct in you screams at the impossibility of what just happened.
Joshua’s car is mangled against the wall. You stare and stare and stare until finally, you see him helped out of the wrecked car. The visor on his helmet is cracked and he has to be helped to stay steady as he walks. You press a palm to your mouth, watching as tears sting your eyes in relief, anger, terror. You don’t even know.
The race is called finished. Seungcheol wins by default, but it feels hollow. Drivers carefully start to return to the pit with winners instructed to the air near the podium. You wait in the garage alone, watching the team file out into the rain for a podium as Joshua is escorted to the medical tent.
You don’t move. Can’t move. Everyone leaves you alone, staring at the screen and the replay of the destruction. Each time you see Seungcheol’s front wing clip Joshua’s car, you flinch.
Joshua has been in tons of accidents. It comes with the territory. But you’ve never seen one like that, helmet cracked, care in flames. Worst of all, it had been an overtake attempt by his teammate. His best friend.
Something sour twists in your stomach as you wait for your brother to come back from the medical bay. You finally peel the headphones from your ears, the sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof your only company. The garage seems eerily quiet with half the people out celebrating Seungcheol’s win with the other half waiting for pieces of Joshua’s car to be brought back.
Anger buzzes beneath the surface. Seungcheol is competitive, but the reality of how dangerous he’s willing to play it sinks into you like a knife between the ribs. He was willing to risk a terrible overtake for something like that. You look at the pitwall where you see Elias already talking to an FIA representative. You’d be shocked if Seungcheol wasn’t given a penalty.
Joshua is trembling when he enters the garage. He’s alone, his helmet tucked under his arm. You see the fault line in it, heart flipping. You shoot to your feet and dart over to him, hesitating to make sure he’s okay before he nods and you hug him.
“Fucking christ,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”
“Feels like every bone in my fucking body is broken. Surprisingly, it’s not. I’m under concussion protocol.”
Relief floods you, sharp and fleeting, chased by rage. “Let’s go-”
“No.” You step back, wide eyed. “I want to see him when he comes back.”
“Josh-”
“No.”
The silence in the garage is heavy. You stand next to Joshua, trying not to fidget. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the entrance as he waits for the team to filter back in after the podium and media. You want to say something, to ease the tension coiling in the air, but words feel useless. Joshua’s trembling has stopped, replaced by a quiet, dangerous stillness that has you on edge.
You glance at the monitors. The podium ceremony is in muted colors under the rain. Seungcheol’s face flashes on screen but he doesn’t smile. It’s an awkward ceremony, no champagne sprays and dulled by the dramatic ending.
Joshua watches too, his knuckles white around the helmet tucked under his arm. You know he’s replaying the crash too.
Members of team Mercedes start to filter back in. You watch them with an impending sense of doom, several people stopping dead in their tracks when they see the look on Joshua’s face. No one says anything - not to you, not to him. This is something only the team principal can handle, and Elias is nowhere to be found yet.
When Seungcheol enters, it’s like a bomb goes off. One second Joshua is next to you, the next he’s halfway across the garage, voice raced. “What the fuck was that, Choi?”
Choi. Not Seungcheol. Like they haven’t been on a first name basis with one another since they were in their teens. Joshua launches his helmet at the wall and the entire garage flinches as it cracks loudly against the metal.
Seungcheol’s face hardens and he stops walking as Joshua approaches him. “I didn’t mean to hit you. It-”
“Fuck you!”
The garage feels smaller, the air electric with rage. Seungcheol throws his helmet onto a nearby table, the clatter echoing. “You think I wanted this? I was fighting for the win, same as you! You could’ve let me by like the team said-”
“Fuck the team!” Joshua shouts, stepping closer, his fists balled. “I’ve been playing your wingman for two races, Cheol. Two. I gave up my shot to protect you, and this is how you repay me? By putting me into the fucking wall?”
The argument explodes, their voices overlapping, each word a spark in a powder keg. You feel your pulse hammering, your hands shaking as you watch your brother and his best friend tear into each other. The other mechanics and engineers in the garage freeze, eyes darting between the two drivers.
You step forward just as Elias appears, shouting, “Enough! Both of you in my office now!”
“Fuck that,” Joshua spits.
You grab his arm, pulling lightly. “Josh-”
“Don’t,” Joshua warns, his voice low but sharp, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before returning to Seungcheol. “This is between us.”
Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to you, and something in his expression darkens. His voice drops, cold and deliberate. “No, it’s not just between us. She inserts herself every time. So choose, right now. Me or him?”
Your heart nearly stops. Your palms are slick with sweat, everyone silent. “I- what?”
“Choose,” he seethes. “You can’t play peacekeeper anymore. Choose.”
The garage is deathly silent, the weight of his words suffocating. “Seungcheol, there is no choosing, I’m not a -”
“So you choose Joshua. You always do. That’s fine. The two of you can make me the bad guy, but I’m done with your fucking family.”
The words slice through you, sharp and cruel. Your vision blurs with tears, but the rage surges forward, unstoppable. “What is wrong with you? Is that how bad you want to fucking win?”
“The two of you always make me the bad guy. It’s my fault Joshua refused team orders, it’s my fault he didn’t win, it’s my fault he’s mad, I should say sorry, I should be more reasonable. You two are birds of a fucking feather.”
It feels like you’ve been slapped. You take a step back from him, staring. It feels like he’s a total stranger. Seungcheol has never spoken this way to you before, never voiced that he felt like you were ganging up on him. You immediately feel defensive because Seungcheol is often the aggressor in arguments, he is the one who goes for the throat.
And yet you say nothing. You stare and stare and stare at the man who just the night before, was telling you all of the nonsense didn’t matter. That you were important. That he wanted to make sure he kept you around. And how he’s telling you to choose as though its some sort of fucking powerplay and he can overtake Joshua again by taking his sister.
You turn away from Seungcheol, avoiding your brother's gaze but stepping toward him for protection like when you were kids, seeking his comfort. Seungcheol swears, scoffing, but he doesn’t say another word.
Joshua grabs your arm, his grip tight but grounding. “Let’s go. He’s not worth our time.”
The cold air hits your face as you step into the downpour, but it does nothing to cool the anger burning in your chest. Joshua’s hand stays on your arm, a silent anchor, as you both head toward out, leaving Seungcheol behind.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025
THREE DAYS UNTIL QUALIFYING.
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
Sunlight bends off the pastel shutters and brass balconies of Monte Carlo. The faint tang of the Mediterranean lifts on the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of bouganvillea. You’ve been in Monaco all week, using the excuse of early meetings and sponsor prep to linger here longer.
The truth is simpler: you’ve needed the quiet. Needed the soft press of books and paper in your favorite little shop on the hill, tucked away from the glossy yachts and the press swarms that will start in a few days.
A bell tinkles above the door to the bookshop you’re in. You don’t even look up as you trace the spines of novels both familiar and unfamiliar to you. A group of tourists next to you whisper over postcards and rare first editions, their excitement making your lips twitch in an almost smile.
“Of course you’re here.”
Your spine goes rigid at Seungcheol’s voice. You turn to see him. He’s dressed in a slouchy hoodie, baseball cap pulled low on his head. He leans against a shelf, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He looks good but tired, like the nights between now and Miami have been keeping him up too.
“What are you doing here?” You whisper.
He takes a step closer, a little hesitant. “Can we talk?”
You should say no like you always do. You should walk out, push past him and drown yourself in work until race day swallows you whole. It’s how you’ve managed up until now - until that kiss in Miami alongside the river. Against your better judgement, you nod.
It surprises him. He gives you a fleeting smile before gesturing you to follow. The two of you move through aisles of books, silent for a few minutes. His hand skims the spine of a poetry collection, his fingers reverent. You fight a shiver looking at them.
“I need to explain,” he starts, voice rough. “Whath happened in Singapore. When I made you choose. It’s been gnawing at me and you…”
“I haven’t let you.”
He snorts. “Yeah.”
“I’m letting you now.”
“I thought I’d lost you already,” he admits. He chews his lip, not meeting your eyes as you walk. “The moment I clipped him, I felt like it was over. Knew I fucked it up. It felt like I was always compromising for Joshua with so many things, like I was holding back. Even with you - especially with you. So I thought if I just made you choose, I could make you reject me then instead of sometime later when it would hurt more.
“Seungcheol.” Your voice comes out sharp, but it wavers. Your pulse thrums in your throat. The bookstore suddenly feels too small, too close, the air heavy with all the words you never said. “You can’t just do that. You can’t put me between you and him.”
“I know.” His jaw tightens. His voice drops lower, hoarse. “But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about you. About every moment I’ve bitten my tongue or stepped back because it was easier than pushing against Joshua. That night I wanted - just once - for you to choose what you wanted.”
You close your eyes for a second, but it doesn’t help. You still see the flames licking Joshua’s wreck, the spray of rain, the red flag waving. You still feel the taste of Seungcheol’s mouth in Miami, the way you folded into him like it was inevitable.
The silence between shelves is thick, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every breath, every shuffle of his sneakers against old wood. He waits for you to say something - anything - but your throat is tight, your chest hot. Finally, you find your voice, though it shakes with the weight of it.
“Do you know what that felt like?” you whisper, your hand pressing against the spine of a book just to feel something real. Grounded. “Standing there, watching Joshua’s car go up in flames like that. For a few minutes, I thought he might be dead.”
You bite down hard, but the words push their way out, jagged and ugly. “It felt like you wanted to win more than you wanted your best friend safe. Like the race mattered more than him. And then you told me to choose like it was more important for you to win me than it was for me to choose for myself.”
The words hang in the air, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick answer. His face twists, like each syllable slices straight through him. He opens his mouth, closes it again, fists curling at his sides.
“That’s not what I meant, but I understand.” He kicks a stray piece of dust on a carpet runner. “I was just scared of always being second to Joshua. I thought if you didn’t choose me then, you’d never do it later.”
“You keep using the word choose like it’s a game of choices. It’s not. I don’t have to choose anyone.”
He flinches. You see it, even if he tries to mask it by ducking his head, dragging a hand over his face. For the first time since he walked in, he looks small in front of you. Not a champion. Not Joshua’s best friend. Just Seungcheol, raw and stripped down to the bone, staring at you like you’ve gutted him.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I just… wanted you. And I went about it in the worst way.”
Your fingers tremble as you press a book back into place, needing something to do with your hands, anything to stop the way your chest aches. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
The bookstore feels impossibly small, the air dense with everything you’ve just said. Seungcheol doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, staring down at the faded rug between you like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, raw.
“You’re right,” he sighs. “I did want to win that night. And I did want you. But neither of those things matter. I was selfish and afraid, and I let it twist together with my struggle with Joshua and that wasn’t fair to you. You’re different people.”
You blink, caught off guard. You’re not used to him being vulnerable like this. He hasn’t been since… well, since before Singapore. But you see him trying now, see him genuinely letting you see him. He takes a step closer, not crowding you, but close enough to bridge the gap.
“I hate how I handled it. I hate that I made you feel like you were trapped. That’s not who I want to be to you.”
“Who do you want me to be to you?”
He hesitates. “Anything you’ll give me. Just… not your enemy. Anything but that.”
The silence stretches. It’s fragile and tentative. It makes your heart beat faster, the urge to immediately answer yes warring with the instinct to say no. You’ve been saying no for months now, and it seems to have gotten you nowhere. Which begs the question - who are you protecting?
“Neutral ground,” you say at last, the words steadier than you expect. “We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. Just… neutral.”
Something loosens in his expression, relief washing over him even as his shoulders stay tense, like he’s afraid one wrong move will undo it all. He nods. “Neutral.”
For the first time since the 2024 Singapore Grand Prix, you feel like you can breathe again.
-
CIRCUIT GILLES-VILLENEUVE 2024
PRACTICE
305.27KM | 70 LAPS
Rain opens up in the sky in seconds. One moment, practice is underway with engines roaring down Circuit Gilles Villeneuve and the next, the clouds are cracking open and dumping sheets of rain across the track. Marshals immediately wave everyone in as mechanics scramble to cover equipment and move out of the rain.
You sit tucked beneath one of the flapping canopies of a tent, arms wrapped around yourself against the sudden chill. Around you, voices rise and fall. Joshua is joking with a mechanic as he pulls his helmet off as someone passes around towels.
Seungcheol appears, jogging in the rain. He’s drenched, hair plastered dark against his forehead. His racing suit clings to him and he doesn’t bother shaking himself off, just drops down into the seat next to you with a groan.
“You look like a wet dog,” you tease.
That gets a shake out of him and you scream as water droplets fly from him to you. You shield yourself against him, laughing as rain mists against your legs. He tilts his head toward you, grinning. “Tell me a story. Something to pass the time until they let us back out.”
You blind at him. “A story?”
“Yeah. You’re good at them. Better than just sitting here listening to Joshua argue about tires.”
So you try. You reach back to a memory - not something funny or something from the time that Seungcheol entered your life, but something a bit farther. A memory that Seungcheol wouldn’t have with you.
“When Joshua and I were little,” you start. “My mom used to let us help in the kitchen on Sundays. She’d drag chairs to the counter so we could reach, even though we made a mess of everything. I used to spill flour everywhere and Joshua would try so hard to be serious and organize, but I always ended up convincing him to steal chocolate chips for me.”
You laugh softly, surprising yourself. “She never told him off for it. She just…pretended not to see. And the three of us would end up sitting on the floor, eating half-burned cookies before they cooled.”
The words taper off into the drum of the rain. Seungcheol shifts a little closer, smiling. His head tips toward you, shyly resting on your shoulder. You glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the sheets of rain hide you in your little corner of the world, everyone else faraway and distracted.
“Keep talking,” he murmurs. “I like the sound of your voice.”
So you do. At first, you think he’s faking the heaviness of his head on your shoulder. But then his breathing evens, warm against your arm, and you realize he’s drifted off to sleep, letting your voice lull him into some soft dream.
You hope it doesn’t stop raining.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025
POST RACE
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
It smells faintly of roses and expensive perfume in the lobby of the hotel, the marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of chandeliers. Monaco at night hums beyond the glass doors, laughter spilling in from the harbor, engine purring along the winding streets.
You press the button of the elevator, heels dangling from your hand, bare feet cool against the marble. The celebration of Joshua’s podium stretched late, and you’d slipped out just before the crowd turned rowdy. A part of you is thankful he’s distracted by the friends who had flown in for his birthday - you are far too tired to go into the early morning hours tonight.
Someone clears their throat behind you. You turn to see Seungcheol. You make a surprised sound as you look him up and down. His black dress shirt is rolled at the sleeves, collar open to reveal the line of his throat. His jacket hangs carelessly over his arm, his hair mussed from the humid night air. His eyes catch yours, dark and bright at the same time.
“Hi,” you breathe.
“Hi.”
Seungcheol gestures for you to enter the elevator first when it arrives. You step in, a little light-headed and breathless. He follows you in, leaning against the wall as you hit a number. You glance at him and he grins, telling you top floor. You roll your eyes.
“Congrats on the win, by the way,” you manage after a beat.
His mouth twitches. “Thank you.”
The elevator hums softly as it begins to climb, and for a moment all you hear is the thrum of machinery and the faint echo of music drifting up from the harbor. The air feels thick, charged, almost stifling in the small box of metal and glass.
He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall next to you, head tilted, eyes fixed on you in that deliberate way that makes you squirm. His chest rises and falls slowly, the low light of the elevator catching on the necklace hidden beneath his shirt. The distance between you feels unbearably narrow, the silence deafening.
“You look good,” he notes.
You stare. “Thanks. You do too.”
Seconds tick by. Then he tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Stop me if you want to.”
Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “Stop you from what?”
He leans forward, slow and sure, the kind of movement that leaves you with an out. His breath is warm against your cheek, his hand braced against the railing just beside your hip. You smell his woody cologne, your eyelashes fluttering as it mixes with the softest buzz of the champagne you’d had earlier.
You could turn your head. You could laugh. You could stop him.
You don’t.
The kiss collides between you, soft for only a second before the dam breaks. His mouth is urgent, desperate, all the words neither of you have said spilling out in the way his lips part against yours, in the rough drag of his thumb along your jaw. You match him with equal force, the weeks of tension snapping like overstretched wire.
By the time the elevator dings at your floor, you’re pressed back against the wall, your shoes long forgotten on the floor of the elevator, his hand tangled in your hair. Both of you are breathless, tasting champagne and salt, your mouth aching with the force of his kiss.
Neither of you moves when the doors open. He breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Then, without a word, he catches your hand in his and pulls you with him. Down the hall, past gleaming sconces and thick carpets muffling your footsteps, until you’re inside his room with your back pressed against the door, his mouth on you again.
He breaks away, peppering your jaw with kisses as your fingers tangle in his hair. His teeth drag against your pulse point and you make a breathy sound, hips coming off the door to buck forward into his. He makes a wrecked sound, sucking at the spot beneath your ear.
“You should have stopped me,” he groans. “Tell me to stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Fuck.”
You pull his mouth to yours again. The kiss is hungrier this time, edged with something almost desperate, like both of you know this is reckless but can’t bring yourselves to care. His hands bracket your waist, pulling you flush against him, and heat skitters through your whole body at the press of his chest, the solid warmth of him surrounding you.
When his lips trail down your jaw to your throat again, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin, you shiver. His tongue traces the curve of your pulse, slow and deliberate, and your knees nearly give.
“Cheol,” you whisper, voice breaking on his name.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and rough. His hand slides down, finding the edge of your dress, skimming the bare skin of your thigh. “Let me show you.”
You nod. "Show me."
That's all it takes for the last thread of restraint to snap.
Seungcheol's hands are everywhere at once, mapping the curves of your body like he's been starving for the chance. He tugs at the zipper of your dress with a roughness that borders on frantic, the fabric pooling at your feet. His finger traces the lace of your panties, teasing, before he hooks them under and drags them down your legs.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, voice ragged, like the sight of you is undoing him.
And maybe it is.
He drops to his knees before you, right there against the door, his broad shoulders filling the space between your thighs. The carpet is plush under your bare feet, but you barely notice as he parts your legs with gentle insistence, his breath hot against your core.
"I've thought about this so many times," he confesses, lips brushing your inner thigh, sending sparks racing up your spine. "Tasting you. Making you come undone for me. I never got the chance.”
His tongue traces a path up your thigh, teasing the sensitive skin until you're trembling. When he finally presses his mouth to you, it's with a groan that vibrates through your entire body. Your breathing turns ragged as Seungcheol licks into you, slowly at first, like he’s savoring you. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue in your cunt making you buck forward.
He holds you steady with one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to spread you open further, exposing you completely to his mouth. He hums, sucking your clit gently. You see sparks, dropping your head back against the door hard enough for it to thunk. He laughs, looking up at you through his dark lashes as his tongue slides through your folds.
“Taste so good,” he tells you, voice desperate. He dips his tone back in, teasing your entrance. “Could do this all night.”
"Cheol," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging as he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue.
He moans against you, the sound filthy and desperate, like he's the one being pleasured. You feel the press of his fingers against your thighs, the way his lips seal around you, sucking gently before diving back in with renewed fervor.
He doesn't rush, drawing it out until you're a mess above him, legs shaking, breaths coming in short, needy pants. The first orgasm crashes over you unexpectedly, a wave of heat that leaves you arching against the door, gasping his name.
He doesn't stop, tongue circling your throbbing clit, prolonging your high until it's almost too much. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. “Can you give me another?”
You nod and before you can catch a breath, he's back, this time slipping two fingers inside you while his mouth works your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
Seungceol drives you insane. Always has. But this is something different, your eyes fluttering at the slick slide of his tongue over your cunt, the rhythmic pump of his fingers, the way he hums in approval when you clench around his dingers. You feel the coil in your gut tighten again, faster this time as he devours you.
The second climax hits harder, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. You pull his hair harder, grinding against his face, and he takes it all, fingers thrusting deeper until you're spent, collapsing against the door. He rises then, mouth crashing onto yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands slide up his chest and you push him toward the bed. “My turn.”
Seungcheol watches you, gaze fucked out and lids heavy as you press him toward the bed until he’s falling backward. He props himself up with two hands, watching you with his mouth parted and glistening in your cum as you sink to the ground.
You press Seungcheol’s knees open, dragging your nails up his thighs. He shivers, head falling back slightly, eyes half closed. You pull the zipper down, making sure your fingers press into his hardening cock, teasing. He groans and you grin as you free him from his pants.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip, turned on by just getting to taste you. It makes your desire for him spike. You’ve never wanted anyone this much in your life, and even though you know you’re not supposed to, you do want him. More than anything. Like a covetous, greedy little creature.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a groan. You take him into your mouth without warning, lips stretching around him as you swirl your tongue over the head. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum in satisfaction, taking him deeper.
His hand fists in your hair, not guiding but holding on as you set a rhythm. It’s slow at first, teasing the underside of his cock with your tongue, then faster, hollowing your cheeks. The sounds he makes are obscene, low curses and your name tangled together, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.
"Fuck, just like that," he grits out, eyes locked on yours.
The intensity in his gaze is searing, like he's memorizing every second. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but in control, drawing out his pleasure until his thighs tremble. The tip of his cock presses the back of your throat and you gag but you don’t care, letting the spit leak down the sides of your mouth onto his shaft. He swears, a shiver rippling through him.
He pulls you off suddenly, breathing ragged. "I don’t want to come in your mouth."
With his help, he hauls you onto the bed. You pull at his shirt, the buttons popping as you tear it open. The hard planes of his chest gleam in the low light coming in through the windows. You lean down, nipping at his collarbone while he kicks off his pants, jostling you.
You help him get rid of his shirt and the world tilts as he rolls you over, pressing you into the sheets. They’re crisp and cool against your overheated skin, the weight of Seungcheol pressing you down grounding you. His fingers slip between your thighs again and your breath catches as he presses them in.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit.
“Please don’t tease me.”
He grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing your arousal down his shaft. You open your legs wider as he grasps his cock, pumping. You watch him, feeling delirious. There are a million reasons you shouldn’t be doing this right now, but for the first time in your life it feels like you’re doing what you want.
And you want Seungcheol.
Seungcheol presses his cock to your entrance and you both moan. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and you both gasp at the fullness. He's big, stretching you perfectly, and the sensation is exquisite. It’s a tight fit and overwhelming, but you don’t care. He slides all the way in, pressing his forehead to yours, breath mingling.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel incredible.”
The first thrust is slow, letting you adjust, but soon the pace quickens, driven by the desperation that's consumed you both. He moves with purpose, hips snapping forward, each stroke hitting deep. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back.
It is maddening, having him like this. His movements jostle you up the bed but you don’t care. Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as he fucks into you with a desperation that is echoed by the way you whine his name.
Seungcheol slows suddenly, pulling out. You start to complain and he laughs, huffing, “Turn over.”
You comply rolling over with your knees propping you up as you lay down on the bed, ass up. He positions himself behind you, palming your ass briefly, fingers squeezing. You laugh and wiggle your hips, earning a groan and a soft crack of his hand across your right cheek.
His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in as he slides back in. The angle is deeper and he sets a punishing rhythm. Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, his cock dragging against that spot inside that makes you see white.
"Harder," you plead, pushing back against him as your fists tangle the sheets.
He obliges, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch you further. The other hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. You go nearly catatonic in his hands, feeling the static build as he works you toward another orgasm. You have no thoughts, no worries, no anything. It’s just his breaths against your temple as he bends down, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head softly.
It undoes you. You clench around him suddenly, pulling him in deeper. He slows as you squeeze around him, your breath coming out in broken sounds. Your sounds must do him in, because he shivers and comes shortly after, fucking you through it until he can’t stand it anymore.
Seungcheol pulls out and gently rolls you over. You stare up at him, dizzy and so drunk on him that you barely register a brief kiss to your lips before he sinks back down, mouth trailing lazily down your stomach.
“One more,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. “Can’t help myself.”
“Fuuuck,” you rasp, feeling his tongue press to your aching cunt.
He’s gentler this time, lapping at your oversensitive folds, cleaning you up while building you back up. You look down to see him looking up at you. His eyes are dark and heavy with want, but there’s a softness there too.
The room feels like it’s spinning, the air thick with the quiet sounds of your shared breaths. Your moans are soft, broken, each one pulled from you by the careful swipe of his tongue, the gentle press of his lips. His lips close around your clit again, and this time he sucks, so softly it’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your back arch off the bed, a ragged sound tearing from your throat. He releases you almost immediately, soothing the sensitivity with a slow, broad lick that has you shaking.
“You’re going to kill me,” you pant, hand tangling in his hair.
“I’m making up for lost time,” he mumbles, mouth smearing against your pussy. “You’ll forgive me.”
When your breathing starts to hitch, your moans turning into desperate little gasps, he finally takes pity on you. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing just a little harder, and he hums softly, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You cry out, your body tensing as he licks you through the last of your orgasm.
You go boneless. He presses wet kisses to your thighs, smearing spit and cum. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything but the fact that you want him back pressed close to you, that you just want to be near him again.
Seungcheol’s hands stroke your thighs, soothing the tremors, and he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft and chaste, before crawling back up your body. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you, not caring about the mix of fluids as his tongue tangles with yours.
Somewhere in the room, your phone rings. It pulls you from your thoughts and you break the kiss, lifting your head. Your phone is lighting up by the door, a beacon where it lays on the floor near your dressed. You can’t see the screen, but you know the ringtone.
And the reality of what you’ve just done overtakes everything else.
wc + pairing: 6.7k, luke x daughter of poseidon! reader
synopsis: you’ve been unclaimed for five years. you’ve loved your best friend even longer. the sea used to be your greatest solace, but after percy jackson comes to camp, it’s your cruelest reminder. (based on this ask!)
warnings: best friends to lovers <3, percy/reader sibling dynamic, fluff and angst then fluff again, hurt/comfort, shameless making out. sorry this one is so long but besties to lovers is my lifeblood!!! i get so attached!! designated song is true blue by boygenius:)
i. you said you wanted to feel alive, so we went to the beach
“Ahoy, sailor!”
The familiar voice ricochets across the lake. You turn, leaving glimmers of sun behind you as you stare back at the docks of Camp Half-Blood. An orange blob with a curly mop of hair is beckoning you. You laugh, wave back at him, and plunge into the water. It cools your face after staying above the surface for so long—you just love watching the light reflected off the waves. But the second you’re under the water, the soreness in your muscles, the heat on your face, the exhaustion from treading for so long, are washed away from you. You swim with precision and vigor, relishing the feel of the river cupping your limbs to spur you forward. Not to sound lame, but you fucking love swimming.
But maybe not as much as you love your best friend.
He laughs when your head pops out of the water at the edge of the dock. “Wow, that took you longer than usual,” he teases, brown eyes glinting in the dawn. “You getting sloppy?”
You huff, splashing some water up at him but it barely touches him. “I’m tired, you moron. I’ve been out there for an hour.”
Luke leans down at the edge of the dock, offering you a hand. His face is bemused when you latch onto him, and with a good flex of his bicep he pulls you up. “All right, c’mon,” he grunts.
All your energy evaporates the second your body’s out of the water. You’re far too lazy to be graceful, so you sprawl out onto the dock like a dying fish, letting the sun kiss every inch of you. “Eww,” Luke giggles overtop you, prodding your side with the tip of his shoe. “Get up, you mermaid.”
“Make me, you mailman.”
Your arm drapes over your eyes, and you sigh. There really is nothing better than these moments; droplets of water soaking into your skin after an early morning swim, your best friend right beside you.
He keeps nudging you with your shoe, over and over until your ribs start to hurt. You groan, swatting him away and stretching out your limbs with a groan, letting them pop and relax, until you blearily make your way to your feet.
“You forgot your towel again,” Luke condones, but like always, he’s brought one for you.
He goes through a practiced routine of drying you off, wrapping the towel around your shoulders and down your arms, across your back, scrunching the water out of your hair. It doesn’t matter how cold the water gets—this part always makes you warm.
“Thanks,” you smile as he hands the towel off to you. “Anything interesting happen this morning, O Captain, my captain?”
“Not yet, sailor, sir,” he replies in a stuffy, gruff voice the two of you have joked around with since you were kids. “Just grabbing you for breakfast.”
You giggle, following him past the docks and to the shore. Once you’ve grabbed all your stuff, you both fall in stride and head towards your cabin, your twin five-beaded necklaces hanging over your shirts.
Five years ago, when you got to Camp for the first time, you were as big a loser as any. You were bad at everything—everything—and had no real friends until you accidentally whacked some other friendless loser in the head with an oar when you were about to go canoeing. Luke got mad at you, but his little sister Annabeth was even more furious. He offered to be your partner for the day anyway. You’ve been partners ever since.
Over the years the two of you have grown in status at the camp, more so Luke than you. He’s an excellent cabin leader and by far the greatest swordsman in camp. You, still unclaimed, have found solace in giving younger campers swimming lessons and wading out there on your own till you get sunstroke. (It’s happened a few times. Luke is never pleased, but also refuses to let the Apollo campers take care of you. He nurses you back to health with ice cream and horrible gossip.)
But every night you return to the Hermes cabin with a hollowness in your chest. One bunk emptied, then immediately filled. You’ve had the same one for five years, and the only condolence is that it’s right next to Luke’s, and sometimes you spend hours at night making faces at each other till your laughter endangers other people’s sleep.
Yes, you love the water at Camp Half-Blood, but you love Luke most.
Rumours of a new kid are rustling at camp. You haven’t seen him, but you’re just dying to get in on the gossip. Apparently he slayed a minotaur. Apparently Annabeth has seen him. And apparently he’s unclaimed. You hate to admit it, but this is the most exciting news you’ve heard in weeks!
Your afternoon is spent giving some swimming lessons and taking some Demeter campers canoeing. (Some of them freak out on the water. so it’s a nice challenge to untangle the sea plants they get hooked around their boat.) It feels like you’ve been here forever. A break is in desperate demand right now.
You have no idea what kind of God heard your prayers, but your fellow counsellor has an unimpressed look on her face when she taps you on the shoulder and goes, “Your friend’s calling you.”
The way she says it is almost degrading. You turn to look back at the shore to see the dark curly hair you’d spot a mile away. Next to him is a much shorter orange blob, shuffling awkwardly as Luke attempts to flag you down. Score!
You shoot an apologetic look at her. “Uh … I’ll be right back.” You wince, already disposing of your baggy orange shirt (it’s Luke’s) with your bathing suit underneath.
“No you won’t,” she says dryly. “Just go.”
You flash a smile you hope is loaded with charm, and you’re off into water. As you swim, the only thing on your mind is I really really hope that’s the new kid, and I wonder what Luke’s face looks like right now. (He’s probably grinning, eyes crinkled at the sides as he tries to follow your figure beneath the waves. Maybe he’s doing that cute thing where his head tilts to the side as he watches.)
When you’re close enough to the shore, you come out of the water, wringing your hair. “Hey, guys!” It’s Luke, Chris, and some blonde kid you’re sure is the new one. “What’s up?”
Luke is about to say something, then he frowns. “Where’s my shirt?”
“Left it in the canoe, I’ll go back for it later,” you reply, limply gesturing behind you.
“And where’s your towel?”
“Okay, I did bring one this time!” You counter. “I just gave it to a little Ares kid ‘cause she forgot hers.”
Luke clicks his tongue, shakes his head at you, but of course he’s got one in his hands so what’s the worry? He’s endearingly amused when you take the cloth and dry yourself off, and the new boy, having watched this all raptly, widens his eyes and drawls, “Ohhhh, so you’re his gi—”
“This is Camp’s resident mermaid, Percy.” Chris butts in, adding your name almost as an afterthought.
After you fasten your towel around you, you’re put off by Percy’s scrutinizing stare. “Look, it’s been a pretty weird day so I cannot tell if you’re joking or not.”
“I’m not a mermaid,” you snipe, throwing Chris a dirty look. “People just call me that because I give swimming lessons here.” You stick your hand out to the blonde boy. “Nice to meet you, Percy.”
He gives a polite nod, a little awkward. “Right back at ya.” The two of you study each other as you shake. He’s young, probably about twelve, a smatter of freckles across his face. His eyes look like the lake. Something itches in the back of your brain. There’s a moment where the shake is suspended, neither of you have let go but are no longer actively holding on, and you see it in his face that he’s studying you, too. Huh.
The conversation continues as normal, but you almost start to feel queasy for a second. “We’re trying to find something Percy’s good at,” Luke says with a pat on Percy’s shoulder. “You got any ideas?”
“Yes, please, because I really would like to have a word with my father,” Percy clips. “Is Glory, like, purely a skill thing or can I get some if I tie someone else’s shoes or something?”
“I don’t have shoes,” you add unhelpfully.
“It’s okay, dude,” Luke squeezes Percy’s shoulder. “Camp is great, no matter where you end up.”
Even if you’re like her, he means without saying. Even if you don’t end up anywhere.
You meet Luke’s eyes. This is a kid that wants so badly to meet his father, to ease the ache inside him. You are the absolute worst person for this. One of the longest current unclaimed streaks and your ache remains. To Percy, you’re the biggest example of a failure there is, and Luke is only just now realizing it.
“Maybe try the infirmary?” You pipe, shuffling back and forth on the sand. “You might have a knack for medicine.”
Percy can’t see it, but Luke and Chris send you a shifty look and all you can do is widen your eyes to be like, Help! Don’t make me crush his dreams! I don’t want another kid to hate me!
You swallow. No matter how fast you think, you cannot come to a logical sentence. “I, uh—”
Just then, in another stroke of luck (wow, that’s two more than usual) an Athena counsellor that looks insanely disgruntled is running towards you. “Stolls put spiders in our cabin again,” he heaves once at a stop. “Please get rid of them.”
“Can’t you just squash ‘em?” Percy asks.
“Not the spiders, the twins.”
Chris is already nodding, but Luke looks to you first. He’s anxious, disappointed. You wish you could smooth out the creases in his brow with your thumb. “Don’t worry,” you stretch out a smile. “I’ll chill with Percy. It won’t take you guys too long.”
He’s still hesitant. You’re not sure this is a good call either. But he reaches out, quickly squeezes your shoulder and mutters, “Thank you.” Your skin feels gooey when he touches it.
His signature roguish smile returns as he looks back to Percy. The side of his face is shadowed by the sun so well it makes you jealous. “Don’t give her a hard time, eh?” He reprimands playfully.
Percy smiles a little. “I’ll try not to.”
You are once again reminded just how easy it is to love Luke. How effortlessly he moves into your heart. It happened to you after you slapped him with an oar. It’s already happening to Percy.
You’re sure he won’t like you nearly half as much.
After Luke and Chris leave, Percy resigns to staring out at the campers canoeing on the lake. Maybe now is a good time to admit you’re not good with kids. Luke has tried many times to make you his welcome partner, but you can’t take to the role nearly as well. You’re perpetually antsy. And sweaty.
“So, what cabin are you a part of that lets you do this all day?” Percy asks, squinting against the sun.
Your heart gets heavy. With a sigh, you sit yourself down, and Percy soon follows. “Hermes, actually,” you say as casually as you can.
Percy goes pale as a sheet. “Uh, what?”
“I’m unclaimed,” you clarify. “I don’t … I don’t have a parent.”
There’s always a pitiful pause whenever a camper figures that out. This one is somehow … clunkier. “Oh,” Percy says. “Oh. Okay, that makes sense. For a second I thought—phew.” Then his eyes trail down to the thread hooked around your fingers, the five beads you run your thumb over. “How long have you been here?”
“Five long, blissful years,” you hum dryly.
Water ripples over pebbles on the shore. Every new camper’s ambition is eroded by the truth you represent. Percy’s no different. His brows furrow and his face falls. “And you’ve never been claimed?” He asks, and you can feel the noxious mix of pity, confusion and despair laced beneath it.
You shake your head, watching some Demeter kids splashing each other’s canoes with their oars. “Nope. But it’s not so bad. I like my cabin, you know? I like my life. Doesn’t really matter who your parents are anyway, I think. You do the same activities as everyone else, just on different teams.”
“But doesn’t it make you mad?”
“It used to,” you shrug, “But not anymore. It’s just …” You sigh, rolling a bead against your thumb. “If I’m unclaimed, I’m unclaimed. That’s the way it is. You can’t force the Gods to do anything.”
“That’s what Luke said,” Percy remarks, almost bitterly.
“I’m a rare case though, Percy,” you half-lie to him, nudging him a bit with your shoulder. “You’ll get claimed. It’s your first day. And until then you’re kind of free to be whatever. You don’t have to fit into anything, which is kinda nice, and you can screw around as much as you want and nobody can really get mad at you ‘cause you’re new.” A smile rises on your face. “And I heard you killed a minotaur, so you’ve already got some cool points.”
His face screws up in a grimace, and it makes you laugh. “Oh joy, cool points. Can’t live without those.”
Okay, maybe you’re not bad with kids. Maybe you’re just bad with boring kids. Because this is going decent, right?
“What if I don’t get claimed, though?” Percy asks after a moment, a vulnerable note eclipsing him. It resonates inside your chest. You pause for a moment, heaving a loaded breath.
“Do you fart a lot in your sleep?”
His melancholy pauses. He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “Uh … what? No? I think?”
“Then you can take the bunk above mine if you want. It’s empty now,” you say. “And if you’re never claimed you can come swimming with me, and we can find seashells to put under Luke’s pillow every night until he starts thinking they’ve always been there.”
Percy blinks. “Do you have any friends?”
“Yes, and I’m going to torture him until I die. Cabin eleven is oodles of fun, Percy, you’ll see!”
He looks a little horrified. “Luke said I was going to like you,” he mutters. “I … am not sure if he’s right.”
Oh, well. You’ll take it.
ii. you can't help but become the sun
You can’t sleep, and Luke knows it. His eyes burn into the side of your face as you stare up at your bunk. You sneak him a look. He smiles ruefully. Sweeping his arm up from beneath his covers, a makeshift tent is formed next to him. He nods to you. Before you know it, you’ve abandoned your own bed, taking a single step until you skirt into the pocket of his mattress Luke has carved for you. He lets the sheets fall, cocooning you with him the way he always does.
You’ve been sharing beds on occasion for years. One of you gets cold, has a nightmare, or wants to talk until your mind fades out, the only solution is a place next to each other. Whispers against cheeks, giggles muffled into pillows, necklaces knocking together. You used to be further apart. Now you can’t remember the last time Luke hasn’t latched onto you the second you’re within reach. It warms you a little more each time.
When your head hits his pillow, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, lips pursed in amusement. His face is so wildly nostalgic to you—five years seems like too short a time to have known him. His eyes are pitch-dark and soft with exhaustion, but you can still pick out the trademark Hermes mirth glimmering through. You sometimes forget his scar, probably because you know he wants you to forget it. He’d kill you for thinking this, but you kind of like the way it hugs the curve of his cheek, bunches up when his dimple appears. It makes you sad. It makes you happy. It makes you love him.
“Percy likes you,” he whispers, opening himself up so your chin brushes his shoulder. “That’s a first.”
He’s only wearing a tank top to sleep, so his warmth seeps through his skin when you tap him on the chest. “Shut up!” You hiss back, tapering into a giggle. “Has he picked up on anything yet?”
Luke bites the inside of his cheek, regretfully shaking his head. “Nope. But all that skill stuff is kinda arbitrary anyways. He’s still hung up on kleos, though, so … that’ll come in handy for Capture the Flag.”
“Ah, yes. Using a child’s misguided need for fulfilment as a weapon. A camp classic.”
“Well someone’s gotta be useful for Capture the Flag in this cabin and it sure as hell isn’t you, mermaid,” he barbs back.
Your jaw drops in mock offense and you squeeze a hand around his shoulder to shake him. “I will put you in a headlock right now, Luke, I’ll break your arm—”
“Be quiet!” He giggles as you attempt to wrangle yourself on top of him. “I’ll be nice to you, I’ll be nice, stop!” You get absolutely nowhere before the bed creaks and Luke shoves you back down. Your pulse rattles through your mouth as you laugh silently. “You’re the worst,” he mutters in your ear, raising the hairs on your neck.
“Well Percy likes me, so,” you turn your nose to the sky like a haughty old lady.
“Percy’s a funnier, less annoying version of you,” he pokes your side. “That’s how I knew you’d get along, you weirdo.”
The momentary adrenaline this conversation has brought you is mellowing. “Hey, I’m very—very funny,” you mumble through a yawn.
Luke laughs quietly. “Sure you are.”
He pulls you back to him, arm slung around the dip of your waist. When you make no protest, he seals you against his shoulder again. It’s started to feel a little different, him holding you like this. There’s an uncertainty your body faces about how to respond. His thumb runs over your spine and you decide to relax into him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Your chin knocks against his collarbone and you have the urge to curl yourself against his chest, just to feel him breathe.
“Get some sleep, sailor,” he murmurs, fingers brushing through the roots of your hair. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Your cheeks warm, and you bury yourself even further into the space against his shoulder and his pillow. Gods, there’s something wrong with you, isn’t there?
“Will do, soldier.” The campy voice you do is half hearted at best as you find yourself absorbed in the closest thing to a full home you’ll ever get. In this sleepy hollow with bedsheets and a boy, there is acceptance.
Well, mostly. You think you dream about Luke brushing a kiss along your hairline in your last bit of consciousness. You think you wish it was real. You think you want him to do it again.
iii. when you don't know who you are, you fuck around and find out
The last time your cabin lost a game of Capture the Flag, you’d still been taller than Luke. That’s how long your winning streak has felt. There’s no reason you foresee that changing today. Even when Annabeth drags Percy along with her on whatever surely precarious quest to victory she’s created. It’s unlike her, to bring a newbie along. It’s concerning.
“He’s fine,” Luke drawls to you when your face has been tense for twenty minutes. “Annabeth’s got a plan.” He’s a little winded after clearing out some Ares kids with Chris. You aren’t much use when it comes to weapons—your friends take the lead as you wait from a distance, ready for backup. Thank the Gods they didn’t need it this time. You’re content to just watch, but whenever Luke grins after getting another kid to surrender, veins in his arms raised like rivers on a map, you get a little distracted and you’re not sure why.
You just huff back at him, totally normal when he wipes a sheen of sweat off his jaw. “Annabeth’s gonna use him as cannon fodder,” you mutter back, and Luke hits your arm with an appalled grin.
Annabeth did, in fact, have a plan. So you won. Obviously.
You’re still doubtful Percy wasn’t cannon fodder, though, with how beat up he looks on the shoreline when the rest of your team flocks to the stolen flag to claim victory. He’s slumped down on the rocky shore, a few equally beaten Ares kids straggling away from him.
“So I was right, huh?” Luke hums in your ear, pulling your eyes to him.
He’s revelling in newfound glory, and damn it, you get confused when you look at him when he’s like this. You’re not sure when it happened but you want to tear your heart out of its chest because of how sick it makes you. Some of his curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hair suffering a serious case of helmet-head. But it’s the pride oozing off him, the infectious happiness laced through his smile, that makes you fond of him in a way you’re not sure you should be. He’s beloved for a reason—he looks almost prophetic after winning a match, and he knows it. A glaring difference between the gangly boy you met all those summers ago. If you weren’t his best friend, you’d probably be one of his many admirers, watching his teammates fawn over his talent and wishing you were beside him.
But you are beside him. And you’re his friend. Not an admirer. So everything’s fine.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if we lost,” you retort, knocking your chestplate against his. It’s meant to be a friendly nudge, but Luke leans into it until you swear you feel his heart beating through the metal.
He’s grown into his smile, less boyish and more wry. “You know I never lose, sailor.”
You want to reply, but his eyes are startlingly pretty in the sunlight. That’s normal. Whatever. A heat rises in the apples of your cheeks so you scoff lightly and turn away as soon as possible. You feel Luke’s gaze following as you turn attention elsewhere. Your sternum feels fluttery.
Percy catches your attention again. Gods, he looks beat. He’s talking to Annabeth as she helps him up, and you see the gnarly scrape marring his cheek. You should probably check on him, right?
You’re halfway to the kids when Annabeth shoves Percy backwards into the water. Like, shoves.
“Annabeth!” You’re scowling at her the same way she scowled at you when you first hit Luke with that oar, rushing over to help Percy.
“What is wrong with you?” Percy sputters out lying in the lake, but you’re ankles-deep in the water before you know it. He’s glaring daggers at Annabeth, but she looks relatively unimpressed. What happened during this game?
“Thanks,” Percy mutters as you help him up.
You say something to shrug it off but you can’t remember what, because your eyes are drawn to the scrape on his cheek. You have to blink a few times to get it, but you’re pretty sure it’s dissolving. Vanishing off his skin. “What the hell?”
Everyone on the shore is watching him now, trying to memorize his injuries before they wash away. Percy’s staring down at himself like he’s just been body-swapped. “I don’t understand.”
You’ve never seen anything like this before. The strangest feeling fuels you—your bones feel firmer somehow, like the blood inside your body has weight to it. Like something is happening. A fear pierces your gut.
Annabeth’s eyes have raised, and so have Percy’s. Your mouth goes dry. Right above him is the symbol of a trident, radiating so blue it washes out the sky itself.
The claiming symbol of Poseidon.
“Your dad’s calling,” Annabeth says, a smile itching the corners of her mouth.
Percy looks like he’s going to pass out. You probably do too. “Told you you’d get claimed,” you manage to squeeze the words through the knot in your chest.
You’re smiling until Percy looks at you, then looks up. His face goes white as a sheet. Or, as white as it can bathed in a pale blue glow. “Uh…” He blinks slowly, and your stomach twists. “I think she was talking to you.”
When you look up and see an identical trident looming over your head, you know something’s wrong. It’s made worse when Chiron rings out your and Percy’s name, branding you as children of Poseidon.
Poseidon.
You have a father. And he’s known you all this time. Your ears hollow out like a rush of water in a cavern.
Luke is the first to kneel. The rest of the camp follows. You watch as the entire camp basks in the glory of newcomer Percy Jackson, so quickly claimed by one of the most powerful Gods of Olympus. And you, who has waited five years to earn even a shred of his favour.
This thing you’ve wanted for so long is suddenly the greatest insult in the world. Your best friend can’t even meet your eyes.
iv. i remember who i am when i'm with you
You stare at Percy as he unpacks his things. Waiting to see traces of yourself in his face, traces of your father. Anything that could give you an inkling of what he looks like. Of what you look like. Of how this happened in the first place.
It’s a futile search. Percy’s blue eyes, his freckles, the bridge of his nose, they’re all … nothing. Half of you is half of him, but there’s no indication of which parts. The cabin is cold. You’re not going to sleep well without Luke nearby. You’re not going to sleep well ever again.
You feel nothing but strife, your throat closing in every time you take even a second to think. You don’t want Percy to see you cry. So you do what you always do.
This has to be in the running for most overwhelming day of all time ever. Even when submerged in your favourite place on earth, you can’t get away from your dad. Your dumb stupid dad that has made the things you love and has ruined your life.
You swim hard, and you loathe how good it feels. At least you know why now, but that doesn’t do much to ease you. When you pop up again, the sun has started to sink into the sea. And Gods, you have to give your dad credit. The landscape is so gorgeous you almost forget how long he’s ignored you.
You wonder if this is the last time you’ll find solace in the lake. If eventually, it’ll be nothing but an extension of your father’s neglect.
The water ripples around you. You frown, barely having noticed it when someone taps your shoulder. You turn. “Luke?” You swallow, but why are you surprised?
He’s panting, cheeks splotched with sun as he treads water, droplets worming down his face from his soaking curls. “Been looking for you,” he puffs, “Percy’s worried. Called you from the—from the thingie but don’t think you heard me.”
You assume he means the docks, but you don’t say anything as he takes a deep, grounding breath. “You’ve been out here for hours. Hours. For a second I thought you drowned.”
“Now we know that can’t fucking happen,” you mutter a touch too bitterly, staring down at your legs warped beneath the water.
Luke’s silent as he watches you. “…Have you been crying?”
When you don’t reply, Luke tugs on your wrist. “C’mon, sailor, let’s go.”
“Not tired,” you say, frozen by the hot tears brimming on your lashes.
“I’m not leaving you out here. Come on.” He frowns when you yank your hand away as he tries pulling you again. “You’re gonna get heatstroke.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
He reaches for you again and you try to reject it for a moment, but he’s stronger than you, and he loves you better than even the water could. The second he has you close your resolve falters. He holds you against his shoulder, knees knocking against yours as you tread.
“It’s okay,” he croons when you involuntarily start to cry. For a Poseidon kid, you can’t seem to control your waterworks. “It’s okay, I know.”
His hand cards through your scalp and you relish in the warmth of his bare skin on your cheek. He smells like comfort. You cling to it with all you have, until your nails start to dig into his skin and your eyesight blurs.
“Come back with me and I’ll dry you off, okay?” He kisses the top of your head, the way you dreamed it last night. “I’ll take care of it.”
You’re not sure which it he’s referring to, because it could honestly apply to anything. When you both set off for shore, you’re so distracted by your own misery that Luke’s actually able to keep up with you. He’s up on the dock before you so he can pull you out.
The second you’re out of the water you feel like you’ve been gutted with a lead pipe. All the energy it gave you leaves, and you realize just how right Luke was about spending too much time out there. You can’t feel your legs.
You buckle over almost instantly, but Luke holds you before you can even think of falling. “I’ve got you,” he assures, guiding you down to sit on the dock. Your eyes are too weak to even admire the sunset. Luke drapes a towel over your shoulders, rubbing it over your arms, a welcome familiarity. He takes his time, wringing your hair and drying your back as you gaze blankly ahead. There’s a tenderness to it now. Luke’s ruthless when it comes to a lot of things. When it comes to how he loves, too. But there’s nothing demanding here. He lets your tears fall in silence, undisturbed, the touch of his hands through the cloth a silent promise.
When you’re fairly dry, he fetches something then quickly comes back. “Here.”
It’s his shirt. You only notice you’ve been shivering as he pulls it over your head, lets you fill in the sleeves, gently gathers your hair back. “Thanks,” you say. His fingertips brush your neck as he hooks them around your necklace to rest it over the shirt. You think he does it to remind you you’re still the same. You’ve had five years together. It doesn’t have to end now.
“Why did it take him so long?” You struggle to say, eyes glossed like sea glass. “Why—why now? What did I do?”
Luke puts an arm around you. “I don’t know,” he mumbles honestly.
You sink into his warmth like a wave meets the shore. “Five years, Luke. He ignored me for five years. And he takes Percy right—right away.” It’s hard not to choke between every word. “I just thought I’d never get claimed, and I was fine with that, and now I’m … this!”
Its hard to tell if the dampness of your cheeks are the remnants of saltwater or your tears. “I don’t want this,” you sniffle. “I waited so long … and I just don’t want it.”
Luke rubs your shoulder, lips pursed against your head. He murmurs into your hair, “I know, sailor. It’ll be okay. Promise.”
His voice is reserved. You look up at him. His jaw is resolute, his eyes red-rimmed in a way you hadn’t noticed before. “You’re upset too,” you comment quietly.
He laughs listlessly. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m losing my favourite cabin mate.”
You sniff and try to smile. “Percy?”
He rolls his eyes fondly, and it feels like all you want. He squeezes your shoulders tight and you long desperately to be closer. “I just don’t know what I did wrong,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into him. “Why didn’t he see me until he saw Percy? Am I just … unremarkable or something?”
“No, no. Absolutely not—c’mere.” Luke loops an arm around your waist and manoeuvres you into his arms, cradled on his lap so you can bury your face in his neck. You can’t stop fucking crying, but his patience for you is infinite. “You are by far the most remarkable person I know.” He seals you against his chest, scratching your scalp the way he knows you like. “None of this is you, okay? Your dad’s an idiot. You are—you’re everything. They’re all mindless up there, they don’t know how to love you. They don’t deserve to.”
An edge seeps into his timbre that gives you pause. You feel weak, discarded. It sounds like he’s talking about a different person. But he’s right. He has to be, because he knows you better than you know yourself.
Luke keeps going. You peek at his face when he speaks. Stubborn as ever. “He doesn’t have any fucking right to you. If he wanted that he should’ve claimed you when you got here. You have a life. You … you had a home. And now just because he’s got another kid he kills two birds with one stone? He pretends like this is some Godly intervention? Like he didn’t ignore you the whole time you’ve been here because he couldn’t stand how much you didn’t need him? How much better you are? You’re my …” He struggles, brows furrowed, the sun melting in his eyes. “You’re my best friend, and we’re supposed to be together. He’s not allowed to take that from you.”
Your heart stirs. “Sounds like you’re jealous,” you try to tease.
Luke heaves a sigh, his muscles rippling against your chest. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that he’s got no shirt on. And that he’s pressed against you in a way that makes you question if you should be this close. Beads of water cling to the divots in his skin, and you linger a little too long on one nestled in his collarbone. You swear you think this every time he goes swimming with you: when did he get so … hot? And every time you think it, you want to gouge your heart out with a spoon.
“Can you blame me?” A melancholy smile plays on his face. “I liked having you all to myself.”
Tears spring to your eyes all over again. “I liked that too.”
It’s a whisper that sends you forward, Luke bringing his forehead to your own, and you want to live in the warmth that coils through you. His nose catches against yours when he laughs, but he doesn’t move. You take a moment to savour it. You think he does too.
He wipes a tear off your face as you say, “I’m still yours.”
“Yeah?” Luke hums a bit, his hand sliding up your waist in a most unfriendly manner. “How?”
You catch the glimmer in his eyes, that plucky smile he’s had since fourteen. Something shifts.
“What are you asking me, Luke?” You can’t fight the smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“I dunno, what do you want me to want you to ask you—”
“My Gods, you’re a pain in the ass.”
He groans, throws his head back, and kisses you like you aren’t the most annoying person in the world.
It’s so cliché, but for a brief moment your strife is well worth it. You yank him closer before he pulls away. It’s a little unsure, the two of you so used to toeing the line, but soon you’ve given in and your hands are in his hair, mouths parting, and it’s messy and wanting and everything you need.
Luke slips his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, palms flattening against your sun-beaten skin. It feels so good, better because the shirt is already his, a whine scratching your throat as he moves up so his thumbs graze the skin beneath the tie in your bathing suit.
“Oh, sailor,” he coos against your mouth. You want to retaliate but it’s lost when he squeezes your thighs, warming you in all the right places. It’s hard to understand this is even happening—it feels like you’re underwater, a blissful fuzziness growing in your head entirely at his mercy.
He razes kisses down your still-damp neck, catching pearls of water on his tongue. You cling to his shoulders, raking your hands down his back just so you can feel more of him. Luke’s dropped down to your collarbone at this point, tugging the neck of your shirt down as his teeth graze the bone. “You’re my best friend,” he mutters over your skin. “Still mine. Always mine.”
“Mmhm,” is all you can say back, the husk in his voice making your eyes screw shut. He teases a spot so sensitive you groan and laugh at the same time. The regret is immediate, but you feel a chuckle pass his lips, too. “Luke,” you purse a smile. He dots kisses back up your neck until you start returning the favour.
You kiss his jaw, a few spots on his neck, feeling the flex of his muscle all around you as he squeezes the fat of your hips. You finally sweep up the water in the hollow of his collarbones, and his grunt of your name makes you, frankly, delirious.
He brings your mouth back to his, skin sticking to each other. It’s harder to kiss as fervently when you’re both giggling against each other’s tongues, running fingers along the planes of each other’s bodies trying to see which places feel new and which are known from memory. It’s a fifty-fifty split, and you love it.
Somewhere along the way he peeled off your shirt because it was clinging in places you knew he wanted, but now you’re panting and giggling into his hair, his nose pressed into your neck, both of you melded together with salt and sun. “You really know how to cheer a girl up, mailman,” you grin.
His lips fix to your skin. “Really? You’re still gonna call me that right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Like it better when you call me captain,” he murmurs, nose grazing along your pulse.
You swallow, “That doesn’t work unless we’re doing the whole sailor-ship bit.”
“We’re always doing the sailor-ship bit.”
“I seriously can’t believe I’m in love with you.”
He sighs warmly at the words. “You have no idea how much I’ve been dying for you to say that. Even though I knew you would.”
You roll your eyes as he presses his forehead to yours, and you’re more glad than ever that his face is the one you love so much. It’s a pretty great face.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says tenderly. “You’re too incredible for Poseidon. You’re worth more than that.”
He still looks gorgeous blurred by your tears. You listen to the beat of his heart and the waves rolling. “More than any water anywhere?”
“More than the fucking Styx, sailor. I’ll promise you that.”
That night, Luke stays with you and Percy in your cold chapel of a cabin. You exchange stories until Percy falls asleep in his bed, curled up like a sea otter. “He’s a drooler,” Luke notes fondly, eyes flicking to yours. “Like you.”
You shove his chest playfully until he wraps his arms around you and anchors you to sleep, like every night before. This time, as you drift off, he kisses your forehead again. Once because he loves you, and twice to make sure you know it’s real.
(Sakusa Kiyoomi x Reader | Hurt/Comfort | Soft Angst with Fluff Ending)
6 months into dating. Reader knows Sakusa’s boundaries—but lately, she’s starting to worry… maybe he doesn’t want heranymore.
You weren’t mad. Not even a little.
Sakusa had always been clear from the start—sanitizing before meals, disinfecting after coming home, no sharing drinks, a healthy stash of alcohol sprays in every bag. It was never cruel. Never mean. It was just… him.
And you loved him. Genuinely. You even made it a point to carry extra sanitizing wipes in case he forgot. He liked that. He once called you thoughtful for it.
So no. You weren’t mad.
But somewhere between month five and six… something shifted.
Maybe it was the way his brows furrowed—not at you, but just in general—when you touched your face then reached for his hand.
Or maybe it was the one time you hugged him after a long commute, and he didn’t hug back until after a quick “Did you sanitize already?”
You had, by the way. You always did. But you didn’t say anything that time. You just smiled. Said “Sorry, forgot” and backed off.
That’s when it started.
You began sanitizing more.
Like, way more.
After you touched your phone. After you handed him something. After brushing your bangs away. After literally touching a pillow. The scent of alcohol clung to your fingertips like second skin. You kept a mini bottle in your pocket and a backup in your purse. Your hands started to sting sometimes—dry and a little red—but it was worth it.
Because you weren’t dirty. You weren’t gross. And maybe if you kept proving that, he wouldn’t get tired of you.
Right?
Sakusa noticed the shift on a Thursday.
He came over after practice, sweaty and tired, expecting to crash on your couch like usual. But instead, you were standing by the door with a cloth, wiping down the doorknob after he touched it—twice.
He blinked.
“Didn’t I already sanitize before coming in?”
You flinched a little. “I just thought—I mean, better safe than sorry, right?”
He hummed, walked past, and figured maybe it was nothing. You liked cleaning sometimes.
Until dinner.
You had already sanitized your hands once. Then twice. Then again after touching your water glass. Your wrist twitched every time you reached for something, as if some invisible voice whispered “He’s watching. Don’t mess up.”
By the time he reached across the table to touch your hand, you instinctively pulled back, grabbing your alcohol spray and rubbing your palms like your life depended on it.
“Y/N.”
You froze.
Slowly, you looked up. He wasn’t frowning. He wasn’t upset. But he was concerned.
“…Are you okay?”
Your chest squeezed tight.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” you replied, too quickly.
He didn’t push. But he kept looking at you like he wanted to. Like he already knew something was unraveling.
Later, after you changed into your pajamas and curled up on the couch beside him—just close enough to be near, but not enough to touch—he spoke.
Softly.
“You’ve been acting different lately.”
You blinked.
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
Silence.
His hand hovered above your knee, hesitant. “Talk to me.”
Your throat tightened. You looked away, staring at your hands.
“They’re dry,” you said quietly. “From the alcohol.”
He waited.
And you hated that you were tearing up already. Because it felt so silly. Because you didn’t even know when the thought started—but now it was all-consuming.
“I just…” Your voice cracked. “I don’t want to be gross to you.”
Sakusa stilled.
“I know you have your reasons,” you rushed to say. “I’m not judging that—I respect it, I really do. But sometimes when you pause before touching me, or when you double check if I’ve sanitized, I can’t help but think maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not clean enough. And if I’m not clean enough, you’ll… get tired of me. Or disgusted. Or—”
“Y/N.”
His voice cut through the spiral.
You looked up, teary-eyed. Like a small, cornered animal. Heart thudding.
Then his hand gently cupped your cheek, and for the first time in days, you didn’t flinch. You leaned in, barely breathing.
“You are not dirty. You are not gross. And I would never leave you over something like that.”
“But—”
“I pause because I’m anxious, not because of you. I double check because it’s a habit—not because I doubt you.” His voice was calm, firm, but gentle. “I know you take care. I know you try. And I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t enough.”
You blinked hard, a tear slipping down.
“I just don’t want to be someone you’re tolerating,” you whispered. “I want to be someone you want.”
He leaned in and kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate. Then he pulled your alcohol bottle from the table and gently set it aside.
“I don’t want you bathing in sanitizer to earn my love. You already have it.”
You buried your face in his chest.
And for the first time all week, you didn’t reach for the alcohol first. You reached for him.
(Sorry I haven’t been that active lately—university’s been on my back like a 30-pound backpack, and I’ve still got two more weeks to carry it before I can finally taste freedom 😭😭😭.)
✷ who are we to fight the alchemy ft. oscar piastri !
📚 જ⁀➴ you're in his ear and he's behind the wheel, that's how it's always been since he moved to mclaren. oscar isn't sure when it hit him, but he knows that between the routine strategy briefs, radio check-ins, and talk about science he doesn't understand, it couldn't have happened all at once. ( 3.4k / proofread and edited )
pairings ✷ oscar piastri x fem!race-engineer!reader
contents ✷ all races are based off the 2025 season / for the sake of the ending pretend oscar won hungary this year / the interactions may not be race accurate / unestablished relationship / tension? not sure if i'd call it that but i'll add it anyway / i dont really know what to add this is just short and fluffy
authors note ✷ i am in love with you oscar piastri (this was requested!)
i recommend listening to. . . the alchemy by taylor swift . . .whilst reading for the best experience
masterlist / navigation
WHEN OSCAR first met you, he was brand new — nothing eye-catching, just another rookie that was still trying to figure out where the coffee machine was.
You were trying to balance five conversations at once, half-listening enough to catch the awkward hello and curt nod he sent your way as he passed. It was hesitant, and you could tell that deep down, he probably hoped nobody would pay any mind to it, but you did. Even with the chatter in your ears, you made room to look over at him and say, “Good morning.” With a smile on your lips, voice friendly because you were well aware of how easily the weight of being the ‘new kid’ can tug at someone.
You had already met by then. You got to know each other very briefly, just skimming over names and barely getting past what made him drop Alpine to sign at McLaren when they were taking his measurements and moulding him into a seat.
Oscar wasn't special then. He isn't even sure if he's special now.
But somehow, through the two long years of car build debates, telemetry reviews, and quick exchanges over the radio that don't even scratch the surface of real conversation, you’ve become something close to a constant. Your voice steadies his nerves before a race. Your presence lingers even once the headset is off and you're not telling him to box for a tire change or mentioning the gap between his car and the next.
Oscar couldn't say exactly when the shift occurred, but he knew it had to have been recently.
Maybe it was after qualifying in Miami, when his pace said he could've had front row seats, but rhythm betrayed him and he ended up starting fourth, and you made it a point to stay on the radio a little longer than usual just to tell him, “We’ll sort it. One lap at a time, Oscar.” It wasn't much, but it stuck like glue. You were frustratingly calm, certainty lacing your tongue. You were always one corner ahead of him, and no matter how many times he messed up, he had an inkling you'd be there.
It could've been in Monaco, when he let a joke slip under his breath somewhere in the middle of the briefing, and you laughed. Not one of those polite laughs you give when someone makes a bad pun and you're trying to be nice, but a proper laugh. Like he'd surprised you, even if it were just a little. There were times when Oscar peeled the layers back, just to test the waters, and you sometimes replied by shedding some of your professional mask, too.
Oscar tries to tell himself that it's just the job, how the proximity must be getting to him. He sees you every weekend, and it's only natural to feel close to someone who's always quiet in his ear when the silence stretches before lights out. That it's not wrong to admire you when you're one of the few people able to keep composed on the rare occasion that he does happen to slip up and lose his cool. It's not common, but it happens, and you're always there. He tells himself that at the end of the day, it doesn't mean anything. Not really.
But then there are the moments in between, when he catches you looking his way across the garage before he gets in the car, and instead of looking away, you nod from where you stand. Or when your voice cuts through the roar of the crowd and growls of the engine, and he swears he hears something a little more than strategy in the way you give him orders.
It builds quietly, like the low static that hums when he flips to a particular radio station that doesn't reach. It's the kind of thing that's never quite loud enough to give a name, but it's not quiet enough to just ignore.
But you're you, all blood-boiling silence and professionalism, because you didn't come far to lose your everything over an HR violation. And Oscar is himself, known for valuing his privacy and sticking to the shell that surrounds him because he has an image to uphold, and he knows the kind of danger he'd be putting you in if he made any kind of move.
So, ignoring it, it is.
The humidity in Miami is a monster in its own. It clings to everything from your skin to the cockpit surrounding him. Sweat’s already trailing down Oscar’s spine, soaking his fireproofs, and he’s barely even halfway through the race. The sun beats down mercilessly on the track, radiating heat back up through the car, and the tires are, to put it mildly, cooking.
He’s still leading. Still perfect. But you can hear it, the slight shifts in his usually controlled breathing, the tension in the radio silence between corners. He’s gripping a little tighter. Fighting the car more than he would ever like to admit.
You speak clearly into the comms, tone composed but edged with a quiet sort of urgency he picks up immediately. “Tyre temps are on the rise, Oscar. Let the rears breathe on exit. Keep it smooth.”
There’s no verbal confirmation, but you don’t need one. You watch him adjust almost instantly. He softens the throttle and eases the rear back into line, like his instincts and your voice are one in the same. You and Oscar have been on the same wavelength all season, and it shows.
A few laps later, he comes out of Turn 14 too hot, but he catches the rear as it snaps, corrects it like second nature, smooth and sharp all at once. A mistake there could have easily cost him the lead. But it didn’t. It’s clean. Controlled.
You don’t say much. Just a low hum into the mic, barely louder than the static. “Nice hands.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. He doesn’t respond right away, but you imagine the flicker of a grin beneath his helmet, even as he barrels down the next straight at 300 kilometers an hour.
Eventually, his voice comes through quietly, like he’s trying not to let it show that your praise affects him. “You watching me that close?”
There’s a softness in his tone that tells you he’s not teasing, simply curious.
You hesitate for half a second, eyes locked on the timing screens. Then you let the answer out, clear and simple, “Always.”
Static buzzes faintly. He doesn’t say anything else. Not because he doesn’t want to, or because he doesn’t have a remark on the tip of his tongue, but because he knows he doesn’t need to.
You both ride the rest of the lap in silence, the kind that purrs with something just beneath the surface. It’s not tension, not yet, but there's something unspoken there. It’s the kind of silence that says I see you. The kind that lasts a little longer than a race lap.
Monte Carlo is beautiful in the way a knife might be eye-catching. It’s sharp. Brutal. Unforgiving. There’s no room for error, no margin for breathing. The walls are too close, the corners are too tight, and the line between success and utmost disaster is hair-thin.
Oscar’s in the zone, threading the car through the streets like he’s memorized every brick of the circuit. But at Portier, he gets a fraction too close, and you note the smallest brush of carbon against concrete. Not enough to damage the car, but enough to make your breath stutter.
It’s not the slim contact that bothers you; it’s what it means on this particular circuit. How little it takes for something to go completely wrong.
You flick on the comms immediately, voice calm despite the spike of adrenaline in your chest. “Car is alright. Don’t let it shake you.”
There’s a breath on the other end. One swift and sharp exhale, like he’s trying to wipe the fog from his jumbled brain. “Yep,” he replies. “Just wanted to give the wall a little kiss.” He jokes, a lame attempt at clearing the air.
The tension breaks just a fraction, and you let out a quiet laugh. It’s more relief than humor, but it carries through the headset. “Didn’t know you were feeling romantic today,” you tease back jokingly.
There’s a short pause, and he searches his head for a response. Then: “Only for the car,” he says. There's a vague shift in his tone, and you can note something low and charged beneath the words. A little too slow to answer, words picked out a little too carefully.
You smile at your screen. You hear it, the subtle change in frequency. The weight sitting heavily under the light-hearted back and forth.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Neither of you says anything for a few seconds, letting the moment stretch between radio calls and apexes. He keeps driving. Sharper than before now, more careful and more precise. You watch closer than ever, and not just his telemetry.
When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet unlike the city around him and the growl of the car, “Thanks for the catch.”
You don’t ask if he means the call or something else entirely. You just answer, steady as ever because that’s what you’re supposed to be, “‘Course.”
Barcelona’s always tricky. The tire degradation creeps in like a slow leak, just enough to throw a car off line by millimeters, and the dirty air from chasing packs hangs thick like a cloud that just won’t clear. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t reward the brave with much and punishes the unsure. Every lap wears down more than just rubber. It chips at confidence like a hammer and nibbles at control like hungry mice.
But Oscar’s been up front since lap one. Pole on Saturday. Calm and composed on Sunday. Confidence doesn’t roar in him; always humble. But it still simmers, low, steady, and hot in his veins.
Still, by lap 41, you can see the balance starting to go. The rear grip is fading. Sector times are missing their marks just barely. The car’s still fast, but it’s not quite untouchable anymore. “Oscar, rear tire drop-off is beginning to show. Let’s start thinking about plan C,” You announce through the comms, tone brisk and clipped.
There’s a short stint of silence. Oscar comes back, not exactly snappy, but firm because he knows he's right. “Don’t think we need to panic yet.” You glance toward the data, jaw tight. He is right, but only barely. One more lap in this window, and he might fall into DRS range for Lando, and that would change everything.
You cut through once again, “Oscar, staying out much longer will cost you more than you think. The car's still quick, but you’re sliding. Let’s protect track position.”
He doesn’t respond right away. The car sails through Sector 2.
Then, with a stingy exhale: “Does Plan C keep me ahead?”
“Plan C gives you control,” you say evenly. “You pit now, you cover the undercut and keep clean air. You wait, and you risk playing defense.”
Another deep breath. You can almost hear the way his jaw clenches as he takes a right-hander.
Then he speaks, but not into the void, “Alright. Box this lap. I’m trusting you.”
“Copy,” You reply quickly, voice muffled through the radio as you confirm plan C. You watch the pit crew scramble into position as he dives into the lane, his car gliding with that same razor-sharp intent. The stop is clean, just over 2.2 seconds. No mistakes.
Back on track, he rejoins just ahead of the traffic, still in control of the race. A few corners later, you speak again, this time without the clipped edge of strategy. “Good call, Oscar. You’ll thank me later.”
There’s a long pause. Then a breath of a laugh, just barely audible over the engine and static, “I usually do,” he jokes. You can’t help the smile that rises. It’s nothing he can see, but you know he feels it.
And even though you’ve got tire data, gap times, and a thousand other things to monitor, you take one second to just listen to the hum of his car through your headset. Still fast. Still flying.
Still his race to win.
Silverstone came cold, wet, and rainy. The kind of miserable English summer weather that made the track slick and tension thicker than ever. Oscar had been leading comfortably before the safety car was deployed. Now, with the field bunched up again and tires barely clinging to heat, his rhythm was off, and it showed. You could hear it in the silence. It was the kind that buzzed, even through the comms. His breathing was uneven, fingers tapping a frantic pattern against the steering wheel.
You leaned a little closer to the mic, your voice clear but soft, threading through the static like a lifeline. “You’re doing great, Oscar. Just breathe and stay sharp, yeah? You’ve got this.”
There was a brief pause, long enough that you weren’t sure he’d respond. Then a static-laced exhale, like he’d forgotten to breathe until you reminded him.
“Copy,” he said finally, voice a touch rougher than before. “Breathing now.”
You huffed out a laugh, a soft, involuntary sound he barely caught — but it was enough. Enough for a smile to tug at the corners of his lips under the helmet. He always smiled when you laughed.
For a second, it felt like things might settle. That maybe he’d keep it calm.
But Oscar was Oscar. A little too hot-blooded for his own good sometimes. He barely heeded your advice, riding too close to the car in front, brake-checking when he thought he saw Lando twitch. It earned him a ten-second penalty. One that felt so much heavier than it sounded. You didn’t say anything over the radio as he served it, simply watched the gap stretch, and the win slipped through his fingers.
He tapped the steering wheel again, harder this time. You could practically feel the frustration radiating off him through the telemetry.
When he finally crossed the line in P2, the pit wall didn’t erupt. At least not for him. There were polite congratulations, a few claps, but it wasn’t what he wanted. You waited a beat before clicking into the comms again, giving him the space to swallow the disappointment.
“Second still puts you on the podium,” you said gently. “Not the worst of all places to be.”
Oscar didn’t answer right away. Then, “Still not what I wanted.”
Not that he could see it, but you smiled faintly at your screen, “No. But you still earned it. We’ll get the next one, ‘kay?”
This time, the pause felt less heavy. And when he replied, low and a little reluctant, there was the most minuscule trace of warmth.
“Yeah. We will.”
Spa is the longest track on the calendar, home to some of Formula 1’s most legendary corners like Eau Rouge, Blanchimont, and La Source. It’s also where chaos and brilliance often go hand in hand. Weather, strategy, and gut instinct all come into play; the track rewards boldness.
Luckily for you and the rest of the team, Oscar wasn’t stupid. He knew when to take a risk and when to hold his line.
You watched him line up the move going into turn eight — the car ahead leaving a sliver of space on the inside, just enough to tempt him. Oscar didn’t really need much of an invitation. He dove down, perfectly late on the brakes, and made it stick with ice in his veins and just enough finesse to keep it clean. You know better than anyone why they call him an assassin.
You were grinning before his front wing even cleared the car. “Good stuff, Oscar. Very clean, beautifully done.” The words left your mouth on instinct, but the excitement in your tone transferred through the radio, static and all. You didn’t care. He nailed it.
There was a pause, no longer than a heartbeat, but enough to be noticeable. Then his voice came in, a little breathless, mostly amused. “You sound happier than me,” he murmured in response. You could hear the prideful smile he was trying to humbly bite back, his voice full of the kind of subtle triumph that didn’t need shouting to be known.
You leaned back slightly, still watching the timing screens light up with the sector splits.
“Well,” you replied, a teasing warmth in your voice, “some of us don’t get to drive the cars, remember?”
There was a sharp huff from his end, an amused sound that wasn’t exactly a laugh, but close enough to one. You could imagine him grinning in his helmet, gloved fingers light on the wheel now that the tension of the overtake had long passed.
“You sure you picked the right side of the garage?” he asked, and it caught you off guard. It wasn’t flirtatious by any means, just easy, like it was a familiar conversation and he wasn’t driving a car at two hundred kilometers an hour.
You let out a small laugh, more of a sigh, shaking your head. “No one ever lets me touch the fun buttons,” you joked. “I’d crash before the formation lap.”
“Would’ve been entertaining,” he quipped. “For someone.”
You rolled your eyes almost affectionately, adjusting the headset sitting comfortably on your head like it might keep your obvious smile from seeping into your voice again. “Just focus. Still a lot of race left, Piastri.”
“Copy,” he said curtly, voice a little softer this time. Not just agreement, but a touch of appreciation that didn’t need to be spelled out over the radio sprinkled into his usual monotone.
Hungary was brutal. A high-downforce circuit in the heat of summer; narrow, technical, and completely and irrevocably unforgiving. But more than that, the whole race felt like a pissing contest between Oscar and Lando. Trading sector times. Defensive lines turning borderline petty. Elbows out, and no one giving even an inch.
You'd been quiet for most of it aside from occasionally telling him the gap between him and the next car or short, easy-going orders that he complied with like always, giving him space to focus, but the strategy window was slowly but surely closing, and traffic ahead meant you needed to make the call.
“Box this lap—box, box,” you said into the comms, voice calm but still firm.
There was a pause, but he eventually cut in with a hesitant: “Are you sure?” Oscar asked, nowhere close to biting, but definitely challenging. Like he was testing the trust he’d handed over to you. His voice had that clipped edge to it, the one he only used when he was fighting himself just as much as the guy behind him in the mirrors.
You didn’t hesitate. “Wouldn’t call you in if I wasn’t,” you said, level. “I’ve got you.”
Three seconds of silence followed, which in race terms was quite a long time. And then you heard him click into the pit limiter without any more argument. The stop was clean with fast hands and no drama. The moment he rejoined, you were watching the delta like a hawk, chewing your bottom lip as he sliced through the next few corners.
And then, like magic, the undercut worked. Clean air, hot tires, and when Lando exited a lap later, Oscar was ahead. He exhaled hard through the radio, breathless from effort and adrenaline. “Good call,” he simply said before adding a slick, “Kinda love it when you’re right.”
A smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t bother hiding it. “'Kinda’?” you echoed dryly. “You owe me a coffee for that, minimum.”
Oscar let out something between a scoff and a laugh, brief but still genuine. “That negotiable?” He asked.
“Nope,” you replied, popping the ‘p’. “I take oat milk, thanks.”
He didn’t answer, too busy threading the car through a tightening midfield pack. But the moment lingered. A small, painstakingly quiet understanding between two people on the same frequency. You turned your attention back to the screens, tire temperatures and lap deltas all filling your keen vision, completely unaware that Oscar was still thinking about your voice, your call, and the coffee you half-demanded.
He made a mental note right then. Before the end of summer break, he'd make it happen. And not just the promised coffee.
