Stray Kids: one shots, series, masterlist, reccomendations ֶָ֢ ·͜·
One shots
Untie. (s) On Bangchan’s birthday, Hyunjin gifts him the best birthday gift he could present to him, and that gift is you.
pay me // s.cb you're having the worst month of your life: you got dumped by your ex, lost your job and now your car has broken down. luckily, the mechanic knows a way for you to repay him.
B00Bs l.k not boobs in general; he’s more of a personality first, body second kind of guy. he loves your boobs, because he loves you.
raspberry sour // b.c after having a few too many drinks at your boyfriend's party you decide to sleep it off in his room. but your alcohol-riddled brain takes a wrong turn and you end up in chan's bed instead. don't worry, though; he will take good care of you.
track 01 — come over (feat. seungmin) the one where seungmin has more to offer than the answers to your finals
Pillow prince // b.c Summary: chan is tired and misses you so much it hurts. he thought he could wait another few weeks till the world tour ends before he could finally meet you again. but things happen and he finds himself needing you stronger than ever.
MINI SKIRT; YANG JEONGIN synopsis. jeongin is trying to remain the sane secure boyfriend, but you decided to wear the worlds most shortest skirt to dinner and he can't stand the way jisung is looking at you.
➵ 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃’𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 b.c
SUMMARY. you’ve been friends with hannah bang since forever, meaning that you would spend some time at her house and her at yours. your parents weren’t home so you decided to have a sleepover at the bang’s house but you got sick and couldn’t go with them to a family party. you decide to chill out and ended up in chan’s room, falling asleep as you were remembering some memories. but he came home unexpectedly…
just love me for me hj. synopsis: Hyunjin is tired of all the failed dates. He’s tired of people only wanting him for his looks or for his wealth. He just wants someone to love him for him. Hyunjin fails to see that person has been by his side all along.
Troublemaker bc. lf. x reader Summary: You live to tease your two friends during dance practice. Chan seems to finally had enough of your flirting and wants to give you a taste of your own medicine in his own way.
The Club bc. Synopsis: Friends to lovers such a cute trope... in theory. You go to the club with your two best friends and the clueless man you love, your roommate Chan. Will you be able to stand watching him hook up with yet another flawless girl that you could never compare to or are you finally at the end of your rope.
Kinkuary 17 Han Jisung — anonymous sex // restraint summary: Y/N has always wondered what it would be like to have sex with a total stranger and agrees to meet up with a stranger off the internet, like a total dumbass.
STILL STRESSED? — BANG CHAN ¡📍summary: being chan's best friend = being the happiest person on earth, he always do everything to make you happy, so you decide to do the same when he's beyond stressed.
i saw you and i knew | jeongin | summary- it had been 5 years since you last saw jeongin, your longtime crush. now you both have ended up in the same college away from your hometowns. it’s got to be more than a coincidence, right?
Summary: You’re Max Verstappen’s assistant, hardworking, hyper-organised, and the only person who can tell him to shut up without getting fired. He’s a world champion, a headline magnet, and a shameless womaniser. It’s strictly professional… until he starts to realise that you’re the only thing in his world he can’t afford to lose.
A/N: this is very tony x pepper coded (spot the dialogue)
5.8k words / Masterlist
Max Verstappen could not find his passport.
Or his wallet.
Or somehow his jacket.
And somehow this was your fault.
“I swear I left it on the counter,” he mutters, already halfway through tearing apart his living room.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh into the phone. “You left it at the hotel in Paris. I shipped it to your flat the next day. I’d bet it’s currently on your kitchen table under a takeout menu from that terrible Italian place you insist on ordering from.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture him standing there, mouth slightly open, blinking at the exact place you described.
You wait.
He exhales through his nose. “Found it.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re kind of scary,” he admits, but it’s warm, teasing.
“I’m efficient,” you correct. “And clearly the only reason you’ve ever made it through airport security.”
There’s a pause. Then he laughs full-bodied and genuine.
“What would I do without you?”
“It’s a scary thought.”
“You don’t think I could manage on my own?” he says, mock-offended.
“I don’t think you could tie your shoes without my help.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”
“Is it?”
You can hear the smile in his voice before he speaks again. “Touché.”
Working for Max Verstappen wasn’t in your five-year plan. Or your backup plan. Or your blackout-drunk in Ibiza plan.
But somehow you’re here, personal assistant, calendar wizard, social media wrangler, part-time therapist, and full-time fire extinguisher. On any given day you’re organising press conferences, rejecting offers from another gin brand who want Max to be their new face, and reminding him that ignoring the stewards is generally frowned upon.
You’re the one who handles all the chaos that surrounds Max, the media, the meetings, the endless parade of appearances and dinners and fake smiles. You schedule his life down to the minute, including what time he should eat, when to leave for press, and how to avoid women with Instagram bios that say “F1 obsessed.”
He’s a womaniser, flirtatious to the point of reckless. Models. Influencers. There’s always someone, always something, and it’s usually half-dressed and hanging off his arm before you’ve even finished your first espresso. You’re the one who fields the follow-up texts. The ones that say “Can you tell Max I left my earrings in his hotel room?” or “I think we really had a connection.”
You delete them. Like you delete everything that doesn’t fit neatly into the carefully managed image you’ve built around him.
Because that’s your job.
To clean up the mess.
To stay calm.
To stay separate.
He, predictably, doesn’t appreciate it. Not really.
He’s a handful. Several, really.
And you’re very, very good at handling him.
Which is probably why he won’t let you go.
“You know you’re not my prisoner,” you tell him one evening as you both recover from a brutal double-header. You’re sunburnt, jet-lagged, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications from a fire you put out six hours ago..
He’s sprawled across the sofa in his Monaco apartment, arms behind his head, still in Red Bull merch, hair slightly damp from the shower. “You say that but every time I try to hire someone else, they run screaming.”
“What’s that got to do with me? That’s because you ask if they know how to make tequila sunrises mid-interview.”
He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s a fair question.”
“You don’t even drink tequila sunrises.”
He cracks one eye open. “No, but you do.”
You pause, turning your head slightly. “Wait. Are you… screening assistants for their compatibility with me?”
“Maybe.” He turns fully now, propping himself up on one elbow, suddenly more alert. “Got to keep the standards high. Wouldn’t want to hire anyone who can’t handle the real boss.”
You blink. “Me?”
Max grins. “Obviously.”
You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back he adds quieter, almost absentmindedly, like the words slip past his usual filter: “There’s no replacement for you anyway.”
Something in your chest stutters but you don’t let it show. You school your face into practiced neutrality while your pulse leaps. Max of course doesn’t even notice. He’s already found the remote, casually flipping through channels like he hasn’t just lobbed a live emotional grenade across the room.
You lean back into the cushions hiding the smallest of smiles.
“Damn right there isn’t,” you murmur.
He doesn’t hear you.
The thing is Max isn’t dumb. People sometimes think he is, because he’s flippant and flirty. Because he plays the part of the Dutch lion with the messy hair, the lazy grin, the couldn’t-care-less attitude. He shrugs off press drama and forgets half his scheduled meetings.
But Max? Max sees everything.
He just doesn’t always let on and the way he treats you is proof.
You get the best hotel rooms. You’re the only one who can yell at him without consequence. You have access to all his passwords (except one, which is suspicious and probably his gaming PC). He listens to you in ways he doesn’t listen to anyone else.
It’s not romantic.
It’s just… Max.
And it drives you mad.
Because you know how he is with women. Beautiful, disposable women who orbit around him like moths to fire. Girls who laugh too hard at his jokes, who post his watch on their story, who mistake proximity for permanence.
They see the world champion, not the man who carries stress in his shoulders like cement. Not the man who forgets to eat on race days unless you shove a protein bar into his hand with a death glare. Not the man who texts you from airports he doesn’t remember flying to just to ask if he packed socks.
Yet when he talks to you? There’s this something in his voice. A softness. An unspoken trust. Like you're not just his assistant. Like you're something else.
But he never says it and you’re smart enough not to ask.
You’re fixing his tie.
Again.
“Max,” you say with the patience of a teacher and the soul of a martyr, “this isn’t a hard skill to learn you know.”
He’s smirking, of course. Standing in the middle of his Monaco apartment, one hand buried in his pocket, the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“But that’s why I have you,” he says, not even looking up.
You tug the knot tighter than necessary. Not tight enough to actually choke him but it’s a close call.
“You can’t rely on me for everything.”
“Can and will.”
Now he does glance down, eyes amused and warm, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in that lazy, infuriating way he’s perfected over the years.
You sigh, stepping back to assess your handiwork. The tie is perfect. Centered, crisp, symmetrical. Because of course it is. You did it.
You grab the printed event invite off the kitchen island and slap it lightly into his chest. “Charity gala. Black tie. Actual grown-up behavior required. And Max?”
He raises a brow.
“You’ll need to show up on time.”
He gives a lazy shrug, fingers closing over the invite without even looking at it. “You coming with me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, already moving toward the kitchen to clean up the mess he left behind.
“But you plan everything,” he says behind you.
When you turn he’s closer than he was a moment ago. His voice drops, soft and low, the air between you suddenly weighted and still.
“Wouldn’t be the same without you.”
It’s infuriating.
And disarming.
And very Max.
He just grins, all teeth and trouble.
By the time you arrive at the gala you’re already regretting your decision to come.
Not because of the event itself your dress is beautiful, the champagne is cold, and the venue is glittering in a way that makes everyone feel more important than they actually are. You’ve already charmed two sponsors Max will absolutely forget by morning, and your heels haven’t started to blister yet.
No. The problem, as always, is Max.
He’s magnetic in the way that only men who know they are can be. All ease and confidence, effortlessly weaving through the crowd with his trademark smirk and too-expensive suit, stopping to offer shoulder squeezes and half-hugs to women whose names he definitely doesn’t know. Flirting like it’s part of his job description.
But every few minutes he glances back at you.
Like he’s waiting for something.
Approval? Amusement? Jealousy?
You’re not sure, and you hate that you’re even wondering.
You’re posted up by the bar when he finds you again. He appears at your side like he always does quietly, confidently, like he belongs there.
“You haven’t danced,” he says, offering his hand without preamble.
You arch a brow, sipping your drink. “Neither have you.”
“Well,” he says, head tilting just slightly, “let’s fix that.”
You hesitate. His hand stays out and his expression shifts. An echo of sincerity that rarely surfaces in public.
So you take it.
The music is slow. Old-school. Something classic that wraps around you both like silk.
Suddenly he’s closer than he’s been all night. One hand on your waist, the other holding yours gently, like he's afraid to startle you. You’ve touched Max a hundred times, fixing his mic, dragging him by the sleeve, slapping his arm when he says something stupid.
But this?
This is different.
His thumb brushes across your knuckles not by accident.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
Your heart stutters. You glance up at him too fast, too unguarded and that’s when you feel it. That terrifying tilt in the air between you, the way something shifts out of place and threatens to become something else entirely.
So you do what you always do when things start to feel like something they’re not supposed to.
You break it.
“It’s just a dance,” he says lightly, forcing your gaze to him.
Max doesn’t let go. Not entirely, but you feel the change the slight pause, the faintest shift in pressure at your back, the way his fingers curl.
You keep talking. Rambling now, trying to plug the leak in your chest.
“No it’s not just a dance. You don’t understand, because you’re… you. And everyone knows who you are, how you are, with women… and that’s fine, that’s completely fine. But me… I’m your assistant Max. You’re my boss. I’m supposed to be on the schedule. Not on the dance floor with you.”
He’s silent. Really silent. That rare kind of Max Verstappen quiet where even his breathing seems to slow. Where you know, you know, he’s listening and trying to understand.
“You’re not just dancing with your boss.” His voice is lower now. “You’re dancing with me.”
You stare up at him. Your brows furrow. Your stomach flips.
“Exactly,” you whisper. “That’s worse.”
A beat. Then he chuckles, dry and quiet. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you say, the word leaving your mouth with more force than intended. You step back before he can stop you, before the moment pulls you in too deep.
His expression flickers like you’ve genuinely hurt him and maybe, in a way, you did. But you don’t say anything else. You walk away instead.
Because if you don’t…
You might stay.
And you’re not sure what that would mean.
Back in Monaco a few days later things go back to normal.
Almost.
The routine is still the same, early meetings, sponsor calls, team briefings, the endless churn of a season that never truly pauses but he isn’t. Max is quieter, less reactive, less Max. His usual flirtations have faded into something far more restrained, almost cautious, as if he’s holding something back without fully knowing what it is.
And you? You’re working harder than ever not to notice.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That you prefer it this way, less tangled, less confusing, less like something you don’t know how to name, but there’s a heaviness to it now, a tension that lingers in the spaces where his jokes used to live.
You can’t help but wonder if you broke something.
By the time you arrive in Zandvoort the chaos swallows everything else.
The Dutch fans are out in full force, loud, loyal, relentless. There’s orange smoke in the air, Max's name on banners and caps, entire families dressed in matching team merch. It’s overwhelming in the way all home races are, but this one more than most. The pressure is different here. He is different here.
You see it in the way he moves through the paddock head high, expression exact, every step calculated like he’s walking a tightrope in front of the world. He’s calm, but not relaxed. Controlled, but not comfortable. You know him well enough to recognise the strain in his shoulders and the slight twitch in his jaw when another camera gets shoved too close.
You keep your head down, buried in logistics: finalising his press schedule, adjusting sponsor timings, scanning incoming weather reports, and fielding yet another round of phone calls from people who can’t take no for an answer. You’re on your third Red Bull and halfway through reworking the team’s outbound travel manifest when someone taps your shoulder.
You expect an intern. Maybe a member of security.
You do not expect Charles Leclerc.
He’s standing just behind you, hands casually in his pockets, the grin on his face irritatingly sun-warmed and relaxed. He looks far too at ease for a man who just stepped off a media gauntlet.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking over your screen before settling on your face. “You look more stressed than usual.”
You offer him a polite, practiced smile the kind you keep in your back pocket for drivers who aren’t yours. “That’s because I’m currently doing the work of three people while also trying to stop a certain driver from throwing jabs at Max in front of a live mic.”
Charles chuckles. “You should transfer to Ferrari. Our drama is internalized.”
“Tempting,” you say, your voice dry.
He laughs again, leaning against the wall beside you, arms folding as he studies you. “You know, I never see you relax.” There’s a beat, just long enough for your guard to slip half an inch. “We should change that.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
You weren’t expecting that. Not from him, not today. It’s not that you’ve never been flirted with in the paddock God knows the ratio alone makes that inevitable, but this is Charles and for once you're the one caught off guard.
Before you can find a response another voice cuts through.
“She’s busy.”
You turn and immediately regret it.
Max is standing behind you, arms folded, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. He’s close not quite in your space, but close enough to make a point and he’s staring at Charles like he's considering whether to shove him into the nearest wall.
“Am I?” you say, your tone frostier than you intended.
Max doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain locked on Charles, his stance radiating a quiet, simmering challenge.
Charles raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin unfading but softer now, more cautious. “Okay, okay,” he says with a small laugh. “Message received.”
He pats your shoulder lingering just for a moment and walks away. You feel Max track his every step until he disappears around the corner. Then you turn to him.
“Seriously?”
“What?” he replies, tone flat.
“‘She’s busy’? Really?” You cross your arms. “Do I work for you, or do you own me now?”
He shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “You do work for me.”
You stare at him. “Right. And I also have free will. Which means I get to decide who I talk to without your permission Max.”
He doesn’t flinch, but something shifts in his jaw. “Charles knows what he’s doing.”
“So do I.”
You let the words hang there, heavy and deliberate.
He doesn’t respond.
You take a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Say it.”
His brow twitches. “Say what?”
“That you didn’t like him flirting with me.”
He scoffs, defensive now. “I didn’t like him distracting you.”
You tilt your head. “Try again.”
Max opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, blinking hard like the sun’s too bright or the conversation too dangerous.
Right there in the silence, in the refusal, you get your answer.
He won’t say it.
Because if he does, everything changes and neither of you are really ready for that.
Not yet.
Later that evening you don’t come to his hotel room to go over press notes in person.
You almost always do. Even when you’re tired, even when he’s late, even when you both pretend it’s strictly business and not the quietest part of his day.
This time you email them.
Just a PDF. No notes in the body of the message. No dry comment about the journalist who always misspells everyone’s names. Not even your usual "please read this before tomorrow, don’t make me chase you" line.
He stares at the attachment, unread, the cursor hovering over it like maybe if he waits long enough you’ll show up after all.
You don’t.
He frowns and picks up his phone.
Calls you.
It rings until voicemail.
He tries again.
Still nothing.
He lowers the phone, jaw tight, thumb hovering over your name as if the third call will fix it.
It won’t. Because this is how you operate when you’re pissed, professional, polite, perfectly distant. You don’t yell or sulk you just shift into autopilot and stop giving him anything extra.
No reminders. No soft glances. No quiet sarcasm that only he gets.
Just the job.
Max, for all his victories, all his trophies, all his press-trained composure feels like he’s losing.
You don’t speak to Max the entire next morning.
Not really.
You respond when necessary because you have to, but it’s short and clipped, eyes on your tablet or phone or anyone but him. You’re professional.
And he hates it.
You can tell by the way he keeps glancing over during meetings, like he’s waiting for a joke or a sideways comment that never comes. His knee bounces through the strategy debrief. He forgets his water bottle. He asks a question someone already answered ten minutes ago.
After the final media round-up, you hand him a neatly typed itinerary and don’t wait for a thank you. You’re already halfway out of the hospitality tent when you throw over your shoulder, “Flight’s at seven. Be packed on time.”
“Wait.”
He sounds... hesitant like the word caught on the way out. You turn slowly, folding your arms ready to remind him that you still have fifty unread emails and no patience left but he looks genuinely uncomfortable which is uncommon.
“I was out of line yesterday,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like it physically pains him to admit it.
You raise an eyebrow but say nothing.
“I know I don’t have the right to tell you who you can and can’t talk to. I just—Charles is…” He exhales sharply, searching for the right words like they owe him money. “He flirts with everyone. I didn’t think he should be doing it with you.”
You blink once. Then again. “Why?”
Max falters. His eyes drop for a second and when they lift again there’s something unguarded in them.
“Because you’re not…” He trails off, swallowing like the sentence got stuck somewhere between his mouth and his chest. “You’re not like them.”
You study him carefully, resisting the urge to cross your arms tighter. “What am I like then?”
He shrugs, helpless in a way that’s rare for him. “You know me.”
You look at him for a long time, long enough to feel the edges of your frustration begin to soften because he means it. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with it.
You let out a slow breath. “Let’s just forget it.”
Max doesn’t move. He looks like he wants to say more but as always he stops just short. You shake your head and walk away, the tension lingering behind you like smoke.
You’re not sure if he’s convinced.
You’re not sure you are either.
That night alone in your hotel room you lie in bed longer than you mean to, scrolling aimlessly on your laptop rereading emails you’ve already answered. At some point you check your phone one last time before you put it on charge.
There’s a new message from Max.
Just a photo.
Your favourite snack the one brand you always complain you can’t find here sitting neatly on your desk in his motorhome.
You stare at the screen for far longer than necessary.
You forgot to put it on a plate. I taught you better.
His reply comes immediately.
Thought I’d leave you something to scold me about otherwise I might miss it.
You don’t sleep well after that, but when you do drift off, you dream of him.
You should’ve known. The moment Max mentioned “just a small thing” on his yacht between races, you should’ve known.
You should’ve blocked off the date in his calendar, faked a scheduling conflict, pretended the boat had mechanical issues. Hell you should’ve burned the entire Monaco marina to the ground.
Instead you nodded because you were tired. Because it was late and he looked at you with that grin, the one he wears right before doing something reckless and deeply annoying.
And now?
Now you’re standing on the top deck of his floating monument to excess while EDM thunders through your skull, champagne pours into the sea, and someone truly is trying to light a cigar with a firework.
This isn’t a party.
It’s a disaster.
And you're part of it.
“Max!” you shout, pushing through a crowd of strangers, models, vaguely European tech bros, influencers who’ve filtered their faces into the same perfection.
Someone offers you a suspicious looking drink. You give them a look so cold it could freeze the Mediterranean.
You find him eventually near the bar of course. Halfway through a bottle of something so gold it probably shouldn’t be drinkable, laughing with unbridled energy.
He sees you.
And he smirks.
Bad sign.
“You’re here!” he calls over the music, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
“How drunk are you?”
He grins wider. “I’m celebrating.”
You glare. “What are you celebrating exactly? Your complete inability to respect any boundary I set?”
His smile falters. Just slightly.
You’ve been firm with him before snippy, tired, annoyed but you’ve never snapped. Not until now.
“I asked for one thing,” you continue, voice low but lethal. “No big party. No cameras. No press. No footage that I have to spend the next week cleaning up or spinning into something palatable for your sponsors.”
He tries to laugh it off. “Come on, it’s not that bad—”
“Max someone is filming an OnlyFans collab on your stairs!”
Max blinks.
“And I just got a message from your sponsor liaison asking if you’ve officially pivoted to a career in nightclub management.”
“Okay,” he says, straightening. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll fix it.”
You laugh and it’s not nice. “You won’t. You never do. You apologise make a joke promise to do better and then you forget by morning.”
He frowns. “Don’t be dramatic—”
“Dramatic?” You stare at him, stunned. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to spend my life putting out fires you set? Cancelling meetings because you’re too hungover to stand? Rearranging entire weekends because you feel like playing captain on your floating ego trip?”
He opens his mouth, but you’re not done. Not even close.
“I have spent years of my life making yours easier. Cleaner. Simpler. And you keep acting like the world owes you something just for showing up.”
His expression shifts. Defensive. Confused. Hurt.
“I’m done Max.”
He stills. Completely. “What?”
“I quit.”
The words come out steadier than you expect, but the air around them changes like something’s been dislodged in the center of your universe.
Max laughs once short and disbelieving. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
That silences him. You watch as the fight drains out of his expression.
“I—” he starts, then stops. His eyes search your face like maybe there’s a version of this where you're bluffing.
You say it again.
“I’m done.”
Then you see it like you’ve pulled a single thread and suddenly the whole fabric of his world is unraveling at the seams.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice thinner now. He’s not posturing anymore. He’s barely holding it together. “You always say that when you’re mad.”
“I’ve never said that before.”
He swallows hard. “So what—this is it?”
You shrug, even as your throat burns. “You’ll be fine. You always are. You’ll hire someone else. Someone who won’t push back every time you act like the rules don’t apply to you.”
“No,” he says, quickly. Too quickly. “No I won’t.”
“Max—”
“I can’t do this without you.”
The air stills.
His voice is different now quiet and hoarse, almost boyish in its honesty.
“You think I’d function without you?” he says, stepping toward you there’s nothing arrogant in the way he moves. Just desperation. “You think I’d remember to eat? To breathe?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
“You talk to me like I’m a person,” he continues, “not a headline. Not a paycheck. You don’t care what they think. You care what I see. What I feel. You make me show up. Not just on the track but here.”
He’s close now. The party hums behind you like a distant world you’re no longer part of.
“I know I act like I don’t notice but I do.” His jaw tics. “I see everything you do. Every crisis you fix. Every time you deal with the shit I create and still somehow look at me like I’m worth something.”
You blink too fast. Look away. You can’t cry not here. Not in front of him.
Max reaches out but he doesn’t touch you, won’t, but his hand hovers like he wants to, as if he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“Please don’t go.”
His voice is barely audible now. Just you and him and the ache you’ve been ignoring for far too long.
“I can’t lose you,” he says. “Not you.”
You don’t quit.
Not that night.
Not the next day either.
There are at least seven different moments where you almost do. Like when you’re up until 3 a.m. fielding calls from media, sponsors, and one very irate PR rep who uses the phrase "brand suicide" twice, or when you’re forced to sort through tagged Instagram stories showing Max grinning next to a man who brought an albino snake to the yacht.
But you don’t quit.
The press coverage is messy, but it’s manageable. The headlines are brutal, but you’ve weathered worse. Damage control becomes your entire personality for 48 hours straight.
Max shows up to a sponsor event. On time. Wearing the suit you picked. Sober. Hair styled.
When he’s asked about the party, about the chaos, about the videos that went viral he doesn’t deflect or smirk, he doesn’t make a joke about being “young” or “Dutch.”
He just says, clear and steady. “It got out of hand. I’ve learned from it.”
You almost drop your phone.
The next time you see him he’s slouched on a couch in the motorhome wearing sunglasses indoors like a hungover rockstar and holding a cup of something hot with all the enthusiasm of a man gripping poison.
“You’re not fired,” you say, setting his briefing packet on the table beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “I should be.”
“You’re not.”
This time he does glance at you. Over the rim of his sunglasses, his eyes meet yours.
“Why’d you stay?” he asks.
There’s no sarcasm or deflection just the honest question. A little lost.
You pause. There are a hundred reasons you could give. Because the whole team needs you. Because you love your job. Because walking away felt a lot more impossible than staying.
But none of them are the truth.
You hesitate, then answer quietly. “Because you matter to me.”
Max stares at you for a long beat and then—
He smiles, it’s not his usual smirk. Not cocky or smug or teasing. It’s soft a little unsteady around the edges.
It stays that way for the rest of the week.
No more parties, no more headlines, no chaos. He listens more and shows up to everything early which is frankly unsettling. He still pushes your buttons. Still forgets to charge his phone. Still asks if the catering crew can “just once” serve stroopwafels for breakfast, but it’s different.
You’re not sure what it means, only that for now you’re still here and so is he.
It’s been a week since the yacht party. Seven days since you nearly walked away from Max Verstappen. From your job. From whatever fragile, unspoken thing has been humming beneath the surface between you for far too long.
He’s been… different. Not in some dramatic, overnight transformation way he’s still Max, still occasionally infuriating, still drinks Red Bull for breakfast like it’s water and forgets his lanyard at least once a day but something has shifted.
No more brushing off your reminders with a smirk. No more groaning when you hand him briefing notes. He shows up early. He wears what you recommend out without comment. He sits in strategy meetings and asks questions instead of zoning out halfway through.
Most notably he doesn’t flirt.
Not with models.
Not with heiresses.
Not even with the stewardess who accidentally-on-purpose dropped her hotel key into his lap.
It’s unsettling. What’s worse is the way he looks at you now. Like he’s waiting. Watching. Like he’s afraid to push, but even more afraid to be shut out again.
He doesn’t crowd your space, doesn’t bait you into conversation the way he used to but every time you’re near walking past him in the garage, passing him his schedule in the motorhome, adjusting his earpiece before media he’s there, tracking you like he’s trying to memorise you in case you do disappear.
You don’t make it easy because the truth is, you’re still mad. Not in the white-hot yelling kind of way. That’s passed. This is quieter. More dangerous. You’re mad because he made you care too much because you think he might actually mean it the apology, the softness, the please don’t go, and now you don’t know what to do with that hope.
Worse still: you’re scared.
Because if he keeps this up, if he keeps acting like someone who could be serious, someone who could make space for you, not just as the person who organises his life, but as something more then you just might let your guard down.
Max doesn’t always understand half the things you do. He doesn’t know how you manage four calendars, so many time zones, and still remember to order his mum’s birthday flowers with a handwritten card in Dutch. He doesn’t know how you can sit through hours of briefings, bookings, and back-to-back calls and still have the presence of mind to pull him aside and remind him to breathe.
He knows this… he almost lost you, and it scared the hell out of him. That moment on the yacht when you said “I quit” with your voice steady and your eyes too bright it stuck in his ribs like shrapnel. He’s never seen you walk away from anything. Not a mistake. Not a crisis. Not him.
Something about it broke the rules he’s been pretending don’t exist.
He doesn’t know what to call this thing between you. The pull. The ache. The way he can feel you in the room before you speak, but he knows he can’t afford to lose it.
It’s the paddock walk in Sao Paulo and media is swirling like sharks. Max is flanked by his Red Bull team, walking with quiet confidence as cameras flash and fans scream from every barrier. You're behind him, checking notes, earbuds in, filtering out chaos like always.
One of them nods toward you as he walks alongside Max. “She’s very good. Efficient. Not a lot of assistants that can handle as much.”
Max just nods, focused ahead.
The guy smirks. “So… what is she to you anyway?”
Max stumbles. Just slightly. Blinks.
The man doesn’t notice. Keeps talking. “Girlfriend? Or is this like a long con assistant-with-benefits situation?”
Max stops walking.
The team slows.
The man looks confused. “What—did I say something?”
“She’s not a long con,” Max says, his voice flat.
The man raises his eyebrows. “So… girlfriend?”
Max opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
Because he doesn’t know how to answer. Because you’re not his girlfriend. You’re not just his assistant.
You’re not just anything.
You’re everything.
You notice it later, in the way Max is quiet through the entire strategy meeting. How he doesn’t argue when the tyre compound is changed last-minute. How he nods absently through the briefings but keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. His knee bounces under the table not like he’s impatient, like he’s unraveling.
Afterwards you’re packing up your things halfway through sending a message to the press team when he clears his throat.
“Can I talk to you?”
You glance up. “Now?”
He nods.
You follow him down the corridor, past media personnel and catering carts, until he slips into a small side room off the hospitality unit, quiet, air-conditioned, the faint scent of stale coffee and printer paper hanging in the air. He closes the door behind you, doesn’t turn around right away.
You wait with your arms crossed. Guard up.
He paces once. Twice. Then stops.
“I froze,” he says, suddenly. “Earlier.”
You blink. “What?”
“When that guy asked what you are to me.”
You don’t answer just lower your arms slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I should’ve said something… but I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“You don’t have to explain anything Max. I work for you. That’s the end of it.”
He turns toward you. Takes a step closer. His voice drops. “Is it?”
You hate him a little in that moment. For asking. For hesitating.
For almost being ready and still not getting there.
You shake your head, tight and slow. “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.”
He doesn’t move. Just looks at you, jaw clenched, hands at his sides like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.
You turn to leave and then his hand wraps gently around your wrist. Not pulling. Holding you there.
“Don’t walk away.”
You look down at where his fingers touch your skin then up at his face. His eyes are wide open.
“I need you,” he says. “I’m trying. I want to try.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy enough to buckle your knees.
You pull your hand free softly.
“I know Max.”
Then you leave, because if he doesn’t know what you are to him yet…
He’s not ready.
You’re not going to fall for someone who’s still figuring out if he can catch you.
you say good morning, when it's midnight ⟢ OP81 series
main masterlist | fic playlist
PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader
SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is officially the series masterlist for 'you say good morning, when its midnight'! again, this is inspired by the song 'jet lag' by simple plan. hope you guys will like this one.
synopsis: what happens when you—the girl who has everything—finally realize you were never going to get the only thing you truly wanted?
warning: slight swearing, inaccurate timeline, stalker-ish behavior (really depends on how you perceive it), maybe ooc (SLIGHTLY cuz i’m just thinking how they’d act in a certain situation 😭)
note: it’s the amazing one sided chasing trope! 👏🏻 i waited for times like this!! so happy that i finally got an idea of how i wanted this to turn out, this was LONG Y’ALL. i also wanna say that some situations ARE kind off giving weird behavior like it’s giving obsesssion 😣 but honestly i fw it in fiction, FICTION cuz in real life this ain’t cute… ngl i wrote this for myself since i did not see any stories with this trope but i was like i’ll share it cuz why nottttt
this will be the final fic i post before i go on a short hiatus cuz of college, we have finals coming up aughhhh i’ll probably still be active but not posting for a while…
always remember that everyone is fictional and are for entertainment purposes only! enjoy!!
let me know your thoughts and comments (if you have any)
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2015
It was 2015.
You wore white silk to the paddock that day, even though it was sweltering. It clung to your skin like memory, and your mother had told you it looked like something someone much older would wear. You didn’t care. It was delicate and serious, like you.
The Monaco Grand Prix was always more spectacle than sport. Yachts glittered in the harbor, the wealthy elite wore linen, and cameras followed your every blink — not because of you, but because of your last name. Baudelaire. Your family had sponsored half the grid in some form for decades and the other half wanted in.
But you weren’t there for the men who smiled at your father or the ones who tried to guess your nail color.
You were there for him.
Carlos Sainz. The guy who was newly promoted to Formula One. Eyes like fire smothered in honey. He wasn’t the golden boy but there was something about Carlos. Quiet. Tactical. Good under pressure.
You remembered meeting him once before, years ago at a sponsor dinner in Madrid. You were sixteen, clumsy with your wine glass, and he had smiled at you as you stuttered over your name. He didn’t remember that day.
But you did.
Now you stood outside the Toro Rosso hospitality tent with your VIP pass, trying not to look like a lost puppy. Your assistant had offered to “deliver a message” instead, but you declined. You were determined. You were a Baudelaire.
You had to do it yourself.
He stepped out in his fire suit, zipper down to his chest, heat clinging to his curls. His brow was slightly furrowed from qualifying, where he’d just missed Q3. His engineer stood nearby, distracted.
You cleared your throat. “Carlos.”
He turned, and when he looked at you, you could almost pretend he knew who you were.
“Hi.” His voice was polite, a little tired. “Can I help you?”
You smiled. Not your press smile. Your real one, the one that made your stomach twist because it felt too soft.
“I just wanted to say,” you began, heart rattling in your ribs, “I think you’re brilliant. And I… I like you a lot.”
His eyes widened.
You rushed ahead. “I’ve liked you since you were in Formula Renault. Since Madrid. I know this is crazy. I just thought—”
He exhaled slowly. “You’re sweet. Really. But I’m not interested in… that. Not right now.”
Not right now.
You laughed a little. “Because of the race?”
“No,” he said gently. “Because I’m focused on my career. I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I’m flattered, though. Thank you.”
The worst part wasn’t the rejection. It was how kind he was about it. As if he didn’t want to hurt you. As if he thought that would make it better.
You nodded, smiled again and walked away before your face could fall apart.
That night, in the hotel bathtub, you replayed every word he’d said. Every inflection. Every pause. And you made a promise that this wasn’t over.
Maybe next year, he’d see.
Barcelona, Spanish Grand Prix 2016
The paddock in Barcelona smelled like heat and home.
You always said Madrid was your real home, but Barcelona made you feel closer to him — to the part of him that came alive behind the wheel. You’d timed your arrival on purpose. It was qualifying day. You could feel the adrenaline all over your body.
A year had passed. A long, precise year of silence and self-restraint. You hadn’t reached out. You hadn’t cornered him at any after-parties. You’d let it all go quiet. Your family had renewed their Toro Rosso sponsorship, and you’d made sure your name came up in boardrooms.
Now, you were back. Older, sharper. Your hair was different — shorter. You wore red this time.
Not because it was Ferrari red though, but because it was brave.
You found him near the pit wall, running through data with his engineer. The track noise was so loud it should have drowned out your heartbeat, but somehow it didn’t. You waited until his eyes drifted, until he noticed you standing just beyond the ropes, behind the branded banners.
He blinked once. Then again when he finally sees you clearly.
Recognition.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away either.
You walked up like it hadn’t taken you weeks to build the courage.
“Hi,” you said, voice calm.
“Hey,” he replied, mildly surprised. “You again.”
That stung a little, but you didn’t flinch. “I wanted to say good luck. Home race. That’s got to mean something.”
“It does.” His tone was unreadable. Tired, maybe. Slightly distracted. “Thanks.”
You nodded, pretending you came all this way just for that. Yet you didn’t turn to leave.
He noticed.
“I thought we… talked about this,” he said, softer this time.
“I know,” you said. “But I’ve had a year to think, and I’m not embarrassed anymore. I don’t regret telling you. And if I keep regretting things I feel, I’ll just spend my life swallowing them.”
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away like you’d just told him something personal about yourself. Maybe you had.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I still feel the same.”
You smiled. You didn’t cry. You never cried in front of him. “That’s okay. I just wanted to be honest.”
And then you added, before you could stop yourself, “Next year, if I feel the same… maybe I’ll tell you again.”
That made him smile, a little. “You’re stubborn.”
“You drive fast in cars for a living,” you replied, “and I’m the reckless one?”
His laugh was brief, but real.
You walked away before the ache could settle too deep in your chest, before you could second-guess the confession for a second year in a row. But you didn’t delete the photo your assistant snapped from across the paddock. The one where Carlos is watching you leave with a strange, unreadable look on his face.
You kept it. You looked at it sometimes.
You told yourself that it’s just one more year.
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2017
Monaco.
The shimmering streets, the elegant yachts, and the race that held the weight of years of history. Everything about this place screamed success, glamour, and achievement. And you… you wanted to be part of it all. Not just because it was Monaco, but because you needed him to finally see you.
Carlos was with Renault now. It wasn’t Toro Rosso anymore, it wasn’t the underdog team. It was a step up. So you did as well.
You weren’t just watching from the sidelines anymore. This year, you were in it. You had used your family’s connections to sponsor the Renault team. The deal had been a big one — a lucrative one. It wasn’t just a small gesture, but a powerful one. You wanted to prove that you could do more than be a girl with a crush. You wanted to show him that you were capable, that you weren’t just another face in the crowd.
But Carlos didn’t see it like that. At least, that’s how it felt. He didn’t seem to notice the way your eyes followed him, how your presence had shifted from a passive observer to someone who was deeply invested in his career.
The paddock buzzed with the usual noise. Mechanics rushed around, engineers discussed strategy, and the air smelled faintly of fresh rubber and gasoline. You stood at the edge of the action, not far from where Carlos was talking to his team, though he didn’t notice you at first. He was distracted, focused, his mind locked on the task at hand.
When he finally looked up, his eyes met yours across the bustling paddock, and for a moment, it was like the world slowed down. You were standing in front of the Renault team’s private area, and he was near his car, helmet in hand. The weight of it all seemed too much. You had invested so much in this team. In him to finally look at you.
He nodded briefly when he saw you, the faintest trace of recognition crossing his face.
You stepped forward, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “Hey, Carlos,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Hey,” he greeted you with the same polite but distant tone that had become all too familiar. “You’re here for the weekend?”
“Yeah,” you said, trying to smile. “I wanted to stop by and check in. You know, show my support.” You gestured vaguely toward the team, your sponsorship deal visible in the Renault branding around the garage. “Big deal this year.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s a good opportunity.”
There was an awkward silence. You both stood there, neither knowing what to say next. You could feel the weight of the moment, the space between you widening with every passing second. The whole reason you were here — the reason you’d pushed so hard to sponsor his team — was to make him see you. To make him realize you weren’t just some fleeting thing. That you had always been here, supporting him.
But Carlos wasn’t giving you anything. He was polite, yes. He was kind, even. But there was no recognition of your feelings. No softening of his usually stoic expression.
You took a deep breath, letting the frustration that had been simmering inside you spill out. “Carlos, I… I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Not just because of the sponsorship or the business side of it, but because I care. I’ve cared for a long time.”
He looked at you, as if the words were unexpected. The briefest flicker of something crossing his eyes, but he quickly masked it. “I know you care,” he said, voice quiet, careful. “And I appreciate it. But I told you last year, and I’m not going to change my mind.”
Your heart sank, and the words that followed felt almost robotic. “I know. You don’t have to. I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t feel this way.”
He took a step back, and for a brief, heart-wrenching second, you thought he might reach out, say something that might change everything. But he didn’t. He only glanced back at the team, the sound of a mechanic calling his name pulling his attention away from you.
“I have to go,” he said, his tone colder now. “Good luck with everything.”
“Good luck to you too,” you echoed, the words falling flat.
Carlos turned away from you, walking back to the team. You stood frozen, staring at his retreating figure. The ache in your chest felt almost unbearable. You had invested everything you had into this and yet, he hadn’t even acknowledged the depth of what you were offering.
You didn’t leave. You didn’t know how to. You watched him disappear into the Renault garage, a part of you still clinging to the hope that maybe… just maybe he would turn around, that something would change.
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Spanish Grand Prix 2018
The sun blazed down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, casting a golden glow over the paddock, but you barely noticed the warmth. The race, the engines, the anticipation of the Spanish Grand Prix — it was all irrelevant compared to the single point of your focus.
Carlos.
This was the year. You could feel it in the air, that undeniable certainty that your efforts, your persistence, would finally pay off. You had always been there for him, always quietly supporting, but now… now you were starting to make a real impact. Renault had a new look this year, and with it, Carlos had begun to shine, earning attention from fans and critics alike.
While the world celebrated his potential, you found yourself locked in a battle of your own. A battle to finally break through that wall he had so carefully constructed.
You had increased your presence around the paddock this year, a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone in the wealthy elite you moved in. Your sponsorships, your family's influence, your overt support. It was becoming too apparent to ignore. You weren’t just a quiet admirer anymore. No, you were making changes, and that made Carlos uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.
The tension was palpable. You could see it in the way he avoided you at events, the way his smile grew tighter whenever you spoke to him. But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t back down now. He was the only thing that mattered, and you knew that if you kept trying, eventually, he would see you for who you really were.
It was the evening of the Spanish Grand Prix, and the after-party was in full swing. Champagne flowed freely, the laughter of your friends and family filled the air, and the buzz of Renault’s successful weekend hung in the air like a sweet perfume. Yet, Carlos didn’t seem to be enjoying it. You noticed that he kept glancing at you from across the room, his expression tight and unreadable.
You weren’t drunk, but you had a slight buzz from the champagne, the alcohol giving you the courage to push forward. You walked across the room, each step an attempt to close the distance between you and him.
Carlos didn’t even wait for you to speak before he cut in. “You’re still here, huh?” His voice was tight.
You smiled, undeterred by the coldness of his tone. “I’m always here for you, Carlos. Always.” You made sure to hold his gaze, watching as he shifted uncomfortably under your stare.
“I don’t think you get it,” he said, taking a step back, his hand instinctively reaching up to adjust his tie. “I told you this isn’t going to happen. I’m not interested, and I’ve made that pretty clear.”
You stepped forward again, the cool air of the venue doing little to chill the heat rising in your chest. “Carlos, I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been here all along, supporting you, standing by you, and I’m not backing down now. Not when you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
The words were tumbling out now, quicker than you could stop them, but you didn’t care. You were beyond trying to play the games anymore. It had been years of waiting, of hoping, of enduring rejection after rejection You wouldn’t be pushed away now.
Carlos sighed heavily, his eyes flickering with annoyance. “This is getting ridiculous. I’ve told you, I’m not interested. You’re not some charity case for me to ‘save’ or whatever it is you think I owe you. You’re just making it worse for both of us.”
You flinched, the sting of his words cutting through you more than you were willing to admit. But you refused to back down. “You don’t owe me anything, Carlos,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I don’t need you to save me. I just need you to see me.”
The words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, just a flicker of time. Carlos looked at you differently. His expression softened, just for a second.
But it was gone before you could see it. He turned away, his hand brushing through his hair as he looked towards a group of people across the room. “I can’t do this. Not here. Not now.”
You watched him go, the ache in your chest intensifying, but you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. It was becoming clear that you were chasing something he would never be able to give. Still, the determination burned brighter in you than ever.
—————
The whispers had started.
In the circles you moved in, people who knew of your family’s influence and your long standing connection to Carlos, the rumor mill was starting to churn.
“She’s obsessed with him,” they’d say behind your back. “Why won’t she just let it go?” They spoke of you as though you were a tragic figure, a woman who couldn’t let go of an unrequited love.
They didn’t understand. No one understood. To them, it was a story of desperation. To you, it was a story of love. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t obsessed. You were just… in love.
Carlos was starting to notice the rumors too. The way his family looked at him with concern, the uncomfortable conversations between him and his friends. They all knew about your feelings for him. They all saw the tension in the air, yet no one would address it directly.
And Carlos? He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even truly frustrated, not yet. But he was uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that he began to distance himself even further. He was more curt with you, his responses shorter, and his gaze more guarded. Every interaction became a minefield. But still, you couldn’t stop yourself.
You couldn’t stop loving him.
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2019
The world of Formula 1 had descended on Monaco, and so had the wealth and glitter of its glamorous parties. The yachts were moored in the harbor, their lights flickering like constellations in the night sky, while the sound of engines roared around the circuit.
Monaco. The perfect setting for a perfect disaster.
Carlos was… different. He was now a part of McLaren. The man you’d spent years chasing, the man whose every move you’d studied and admired from afar, was also publicly seen with another woman. The rumors had started trickling in from the usual sources. Friends of friends and whispers between the wealthy elite. They said she was a journalist, someone intelligent and glamorous. Yet you could hardly see her, her face a blur behind the veil of panic rising in your chest.
At first, you tried to ignore it. After all, Carlos had made it perfectly clear — time and time again — that he wasn’t interested. But seeing him with someone else, hearing the way people talked about them in hushed voices, was different. It was a stark, undeniable reminder that your feelings were unreciprocated, and the sinking weight of that truth hit you harder than ever.
You told yourself you wouldn’t let it bother you. But when you saw them together, laughing, talking, so casually enjoying each other’s company, it was all you could do to keep from breaking down right there. And that’s when the panic set in.
The party at the Monte Carlo casino was in full swing, a celebration of the sport, its drivers and its guests. You had barely noticed the laughter around you as you made your way through the crowd. All you could see was Carlos and her. His arm draped around her, his smile easy and effortless.
It stung.
You could hear the whispers, the murmurs about you. "Poor thing, still trying to win him over." "It’s getting embarrassing, isn’t it?" “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that…”
You couldn’t stand it anymore. You couldn’t just stand there and let him slip through your fingers, especially not when the world was starting to see him with someone else.
You found yourself slipping through the crowd, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, your vision narrowing on the only thing that mattered — Carlos. When you finally reached him, you didn’t even think. You blurted out the first thing that came to mind, your words almost frantic, “What’s going on, Carlos? Why her? Why are you doing this?”
Carlos’s expression faltered for a moment, the smile faltering as his eyes met yours, wide and a little surprised. But then, the flicker of annoyance crossed his face, and before you could say anything more, he gave a tight laugh. “Are you really doing this now, Y/N? Here? At a public party?”
The girl next to him looked between the two of you, confused, but she seemed to quickly pick up on the tension in the air. Carlos stiffened, his posture suddenly more guarded as he reached for her hand and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I think you should leave,” he said, his voice sharp.
Before you could respond, Carlos turned to her with a strained smile, excusing himself from the conversation. He moved swiftly, tugging you gently by the elbow as he led you away from the crowd, dragging you towards a quieter corner of the venue, away from prying eyes.
His grip on your arm was firm, his body tense, and for the first time in years, you could see the raw frustration in his eyes. The moment you were out of earshot from everyone else, Carlos spun on you, his expression dark. He was angry — but more than that, he was tired.
“Stop,” he said, his voice dangerously low. The words didn’t come out softly. “Stop following me around. Stop showing up at my races, stop making a scene every time you think I’m not looking. I’m not interested in you, and I never will be. You’ve had years of me making that clear, yet you still—” He paused, running a hand through his hair, as though trying to control the anger bubbling in his chest. “Dios mío, Y/N, ¿por qué no entiendes? Why can’t you just let it go?”
Your eyes stung as you looked up at him, the tears threatening to spill over, but you bit your lip, refusing to let them fall. “Carlos, I—” You started to speak, but he cut you off.
“No, basta! I’m not doing this with you anymore.” His words slipped, the frustration evident as his grip tightened on your arm. “You’re making me look bad. You’re making us look bad. And I’m tired of it.”
You stared at him, stunned by his sudden harshness. You had never seen him this angry, this done with you. But the pain coursing through your chest made you want to say anything, anything to make it stop. “But I love you,” you whispered, the words finally slipping out in a broken breath. “I always have.”
Carlos’s face tightened at your confession, his eyes darkening with a mix of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place. “That’s the problem, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve always loved me. But I’ve never felt the same. I don’t know how many more ways I can tell you that.”
The words hit you like a slap, the weight of them crushing you, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You had known, in some corner of your mind, that this day would come — but hearing it from him while seeing the exhaustion and frustration in his eyes, broke something deep inside you.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out. You had never truly meant to make things so complicated, but in the end, that’s all you seemed to be. Complicated.
Carlos looked at you one last time. “Just stop,” he said, his voice quiet but final. “You need to stop, and find someone else.”
He turned, walking away without another word. The sound of his footsteps echoed in your chest, leaving you standing there alone, the sting of rejection more real than ever before.
Monaco, Yacht Party for Equestrian Sports 2020
Monaco. The place you once thought would be the scene of something magical for you and Carlos — a place where he’d finally see that you were enough. But by now, it had only become a reminder of your failures. The gold watches, the sparkling yachts, the residents whispering — they all knew your story by now.
No one said it out loud, but everyone knew. Those citizens, the people who had always stayed under the radar, now casually referred to your name in hushed tones. The way you had tried to win Carlos’s attention, the way you’d been persistent year after year, and how it had all culminated in your repeated rejection. It was almost normal now, a part of the social scene. People didn’t even flinch anymore when they saw you trying, only to fail once again.
This year, you’d tried to find peace with the fact that Carlos would never be yours. You tried to move forward, even if it meant acknowledging that you’d have to bury your feelings deeper than before.
Still, there was something about him, something you couldn’t seem to shake. His presence, the way he moved in the room, always so confident, always so… unattainable.
It was on one of those nights that you found yourself on the deck of a yacht in Monaco, attending a private event for equestrian sports. Your family had sent you to represent the Baudelaire name, the power and prestige that came with it. You stood on the edge of the yacht, watching the waves glisten under the lights, trying to keep your composure. The glint of the Mediterranean reflected in your eyes, but your thoughts were elsewhere. They were with Carlos, and the silence he had built between the two of you over the years.
The yacht was filled with the usual faces: aristocrats, businessmen, athletes. Your family’s friends, your friends, all mingling. It was the perfect environment for distractions. Yet, you couldn’t seem to pull your gaze away from him.
Carlos was here too, of course. Still driving for McLaren, he was now considered a darling of the F1 world. His new success only made your pain worse. He was with her — a different girl this time, another glamorous woman with dark hair, laughing and talking easily with him. The smile that spread across his face when he looked at her was like a knife through your heart.
You told yourself you’d been strong before. You told yourself it didn’t matter anymore. But it did.
You stood there for a long moment, watching him interact with her, trying not to let the jealousy and hurt rise up inside you. He wouldn’t even notice you, not now. He never had.
You tried to convince yourself that maybe you were better off giving up. Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been chasing nothing all these years. Yet no matter how much you tried to convince yourself, a part of you couldn’t let go of the what if.
And that’s when you saw him look your way. Just for a brief second. His eyes caught yours, and you felt your heart skip in your chest. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d come over. Maybe he’d finally speak to you like he used to. But instead, he did the one thing that shattered whatever hope you had left. He looked away. So easily. So dismissively.
He had completely ignored you.
And that’s when it hits.
That you could never make him see you.
Trying to regain your composure, you turned your attention to the side, where a man was approaching you. He was tall, with a lean build, dressed in a crisp white suit that somehow made him stand out from the crowd. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his smile was warm but not too familiar. He wasn’t a face you recognized, but his approach was friendly and confident.
He stopped in front of you, offering a polite smile. “Excuse me, are you Y/N Baudelaire?”
You blinked in surprise, nodding quickly. “Yes, I am. And you are…?”
“My name’s Edouard Schmitz,” he replied, his voice carrying a pleasant Swiss accent. “I’m an Olympic equestrian. I’ve heard a lot about your family. It’s an honor to meet you.”
His name wasn’t one you recognized immediately, but his casual ease was refreshing. Also, he didn’t seem to be interested in what the rest of the world was gossiping about. Just that simple introduction was enough to make you feel a flicker of relief.
“Oh, thank you,” you responded, your words smooth, almost rehearsed. Media training kicked in. “It’s an honor to meet you as well. My family’s name is something we all take very seriously.”
Edouard chuckled, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “I’ve always admired the Baudelaire family. The way you’ve managed to maintain both influence and class in such a public world is something few can do.”
You gave a polite smile, nodding as the conversation continued, talking about the sport, your family’s influence in equestrian events, and the dynamics between sports and media. It was the same rehearsed speech, but this time, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of relief. Edouard was genuinely interested in the topics you discussed, and for once you didn’t feel like an outsider.
As the conversation flowed, you couldn’t help but glance over at Carlos. He was still across the deck, talking to the same woman, laughing and sharing a moment. He didn’t even look in your direction again.
And as you looked, you saw his eyes flicker over briefly — just a small glance in your direction. Your heart stuttered in your chest. But it didn’t last long. He looked back at the woman he was talking to, his smile never faltering, as if he hadn’t seen you at all.
You sighed inwardly, trying to brush it off. But there was no denying that the hurt was deeper now, sharper than it had ever been. He had never cared about you the way you had hoped. And now, it was obvious.
You forced yourself to focus on Edouard, continuing the conversation with him, but as he spoke about his upcoming competitions, you couldn’t help but feel your gaze once again drifting back to Carlos. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. He was avoiding you.
It hurt more than you’d ever thought possible.
—————
One Week Later, Baudelaire Family Dinner
The week after the yacht party in Monaco, you tried to bury the discomfort that had settled deep in your chest. Life moved on, and so did you. But it didn’t make the ache any easier to handle. It lingered quietly in the back of your mind, each fleeting moment where you thought you might be free from Carlos’s indifference only bringing more pain.
Tonight, your family had invited some important guests over for dinner, an intimate gathering to discuss business. This dinner felt different, your father had been talking excitedly about sponsoring a new equestrian athlete. His voice had carried a hint of pride when he mentioned how this young talent was quickly making a name for himself in the sport.
The dinner was set in the large dining room of your family’s estate, with gilded chandeliers casting a warm glow over the long table. You sat across from your father, distracted by the distant clinking of fine china and the soft murmur of conversations around you.
Just as you lifted your glass of water to your lips, the door opened, and in walked your father’s guests — Edouard Schmitz, the young equestrian who had introduced himself to you last week, and his manager.
You blinked in surprise, your eyes widening as you caught sight of him. Edouard was dressed in a simple but well-tailored black suit, a stark contrast to the lavishness of the dinner table, but it suited him. The moment your gaze met his, your heart skipped — it felt as though the world had shrunk, and you were once again at that yacht party, but this time in a more familiar space.
“Edouard?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the name leaving your lips before you realized what you were doing.
Your father’s voice rang out from the head of the table, amused. “Ah, you know each other?”
You nodded quickly. “Yes, we spoke briefly at the yacht event you sent me to last week. I didn’t know he was the one we’ll be sponsoring, though.”
Edouard smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up at the recognition. “It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.”
Your father, clearly pleased to see the two of you interacting, gestured for Edouard and his manager to take a seat. “I’ll have my assistant bring over the details of the sponsorship after dinner. Let’s eat first.”
You nodded politely, a quiet smile tugging at your lips as Edouard slid into the chair next to you. The table began to settle into a comfortable pace as plates of exquisite food were brought out, and conversation flowed around you.
As the evening went on, you found yourself leaning more into the conversation with Edouard. You spoke about his equestrian career and how your family’s involvement had brought him to the table. The more you spoke with him, the more you felt like you could finally breathe a little easier. He wasn’t part of the world of endless gossip about Carlos Sainz. He didn’t know about your feelings for him, or your failed attempts to capture his attention. Edouard was a stranger, yet he wasn’t judging you.
“So, what did you think of the event last week?” Edouard asked, his voice casual but curious. “The yacht party? The atmosphere was a little… exclusive, don’t you think?”
You chuckled softly, feeling a rare spark of lightness in your chest. “It’s like that every time. Monaco and its world of excess. You get used to it, but it’s never quite comfortable.”
“I can imagine. It’s a strange world, but I think I’ll get used to it soon. I’ve been trying to meet more people in the industry.”
Your smile softened as you nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. It can feel very lonely in this world sometimes.”
Edouard raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening. “You seem to know that feeling well,” he said thoughtfully. “Is it because of the expectations? The pressure to always be someone?”
You blinked, not expecting such a perceptive comment. But Edouard had always been a little different from the rest, hadn’t he? His words weren’t just idle small talk.
“I guess I’ve always had to live up to a lot of expectations,” you said quietly. “But sometimes, it feels like no one really sees me for who I am. It’s always about the family, the legacy, the connections. But what about me? What I want? Who I am?”
Edouard was silent for a moment. Then gave a small, empathetic smile. “I understand. It’s not easy. Especially when you’re constantly surrounded by people who only see what you can give, not who you are.”
You stared at him, swallowing down the lump that had formed in your throat. He wasn’t just another person filling the air with empty chatter. There was something honest about him that made it easier to be real.
As the evening wore on, the conversation between you and Edouard flowed naturally. Your father and his manager were deep in their discussion at the other end of the table, and you were thankful for the peace. It felt like you could finally take a breath without constantly worrying about whether your every word was being scrutinized.
By the time dinner was winding down, you felt lighter. A little less alone.
You leaned back in your chair, feeling the warmth of the room and the comfort of a connection you hadn’t expected. There was something about Edouard’s presence that made you forget, for just a moment, about the painful and unrelenting chase for Carlos’s attention. He was different. And in that difference, you found a sense of relief.
As you continued to talk with Edouard, you realized something for the first time in a long while. You didn’t feel like the girl who had been chasing after someone who could never see you. You felt like you were finally being seen for who you were. You were Y/N Baudelaire, not just a shadow of someone else’s life.
And that realization, gave you a glimmer of hope that maybe you could be more than the person you thought you had to be.
Monza, Italian Grand Prix 2021
You were supposed to be at the Italian Grand Prix that weekend.
You’d made plans weeks ago, carefully selecting your outfit with the signature Baudelaire style. A crisp cream suit, hair done in soft waves, heels that clicked whenever you took a step when walking in the paddock with calculated poise. You had even confirmed your guest pass with Ferrari’s hospitality coordinator. Everything was in place.
Until your mother walked into your bedroom the night before your flight.
Her tone was clipped, but not apologetic — your family rarely said sorry when they disrupted your life. “The Zurich liaison fell through. We need you to attend the FEI Nations Cup this weekend. It’s last-minute, I know, but you’ll fly out tonight. There’s no one else to send.”
You didn’t argue. That was your role, after all. The dutiful daughter of a legacy family. The quiet pillar everyone leaned on when plans fell apart. So, with a nod and the practiced stillness of someone who had long surrendered to the script of her life, you exchanged your Grand Prix itinerary for a hastily packed travel bag and a late-night flight to Switzerland.
You didn’t even ask who you were being sent to support.
—————
Switzerland, FEI Nations Cup
The air here was different. It was clearer, much quieter. Less screaming engines, more controlled breathing. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcoming. You stood at the sidelines, wrapped in a tailored wool coat and a scarf with the Baudelaire crest embroidered discreetly into the fabric.
Your eyes followed the horse in the arena — a tall bay with a confident gait and a rider that leaned into the turns with striking ease.
It wasn’t until after the final jump, when the rider slowed and took off his helmet, that your stomach lurched.
Edouard Schmitz.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t see you at first, not among the subtle crowd of attendees and trainers and coordinators. You stayed quiet, hands in your coat pockets, unsure what you were supposed to do. But then, as he circled back near the edge of the arena, his eyes met yours.
He waved at you. Broadly. Boyishly.
You blinked, stunned by the warm recognition, and instinctively raised a hand and waved back.
A few heads turned.
The whispers began almost instantly. Muted and sharp. A woman behind you leaned closer to her friend.
“Isn’t that the girl who used to follow that F1 Ferrari Driver around?”
You felt the blood drain from your face, but kept your chin lifted, the smile still faintly on your lips. You didn’t look away from Edouard, and when he dismounted and started toward the edge of the field, you took a slow step back — retreating to the shadows of the tent, unsure of what this was becoming.
—————
Monza, Italian Grand Prix, Scuderia Ferrari Garage
The race was over. P6. Not ideal, but not terrible.
Carlos pulled off his gloves, unzipped his suit halfway, and ducked into the garage. Sweat slicked his curls to his forehead, and the adrenaline still buzzed in his veins. Normally, he’d glance to the left — right by the entrance to the hospitality suite — where you’d usually be.
Y/N.
Always standing there, back straight, lips pressed in that unreadable smile. Sometimes you’d wave. Sometimes you’d just watch him with eyes that said far more than you ever spoke aloud. There was something ritualistic about it — seeing you after a race, like you were part of the routine now, as regular as tire changes.
But today?
Nothing.
He walked deeper into the garage, nodding absently at a few engineers. Still nothing. He craned his neck slightly, pretending to stretch it. Still no sign of your pale coat or those silent eyes watching him like they always did.
He wiped his face with a towel.
That was… new.
He didn’t know why it stuck in his mind. He didn’t even like the attention. He had never asked for it, never encouraged it.
So why did it suddenly feel wrong that you weren’t there?
Monaco, La Condamine 2022
Monaco was small. Ridiculously small.
There was no hiding here — no slipping away unnoticed or quietly ignoring someone at a gala or a yacht party without it becoming the next whisper passed along champagne glasses and over expensive hors d’oeuvres.
Yet somehow, you had vanished.
Carlos leaned against the open railing of the rooftop venue, his drink untouched in one hand while the other thumbed absently at his bracelet. His eyes drifted to the harbor below. The kind of view people flew across the world to see. It used to impress him more.
Now, it just felt… still.
You used to be around. Always. Whether it was a race weekend, a press event, or a sponsor’s yacht party, Y/N Baudelaire had this way of appearing everywhere. A cream-colored ghost in designer clothing. Silent. Composed. Eyes trained only on him.
And sure, for years, he found it annoying. Unsettling, even. Your attention. Your persistence. The way you’d confess so seriously it left him with a mouthful of guilt and no soft way to say “no.”
But now? Now you were nowhere.
He hadn’t seen you all season. Not in the paddock. Not in the VIP suites. Not even in Monaco — where you lived, for God’s sake.
The last time he’d seen you was… what? That yacht party? From months ago? You hadn’t even tried to approach him then. You had just talked with some tall guy in a suit. Carlos remembered glancing once. Maybe twice. Enough to notice you not noticing him for the first time in years.
—————
The sponsor dinner was dull. One of those formal events Ferrari sent him to out of obligation. He shakes hands, takes photos, and pretends to be interested in the newest generation of electric motors or luxury watch collabs. Carlos could turn on the charm when needed, but tonight he was unusually quiet.
Mostly because of what he overheard.
“—none of the Baudelaires or any of their people showed up this year as well. Unusual, right?” a woman whispered near the canapé table, glass of white wine in hand. “My mother said the whole family’s focused on equestrian right now. Something about returning to their roots.”
“Oh! Didn’t you hear?” another leaned in, lowering her voice. “Someone spotted the daughter at an FEI Nations Cup, apparently waving at some male equestrian. A rising star. Swiss, I think.”
Carlos froze.
The sponsor across from him was still speaking — something about renewable energy and brand partnerships — but the words blurred.
“She was waving?” another woman giggled. “Maybe she’s finally found someone new to obsess over.”
They all laughed.
Carlos’s jaw tightened as he brought his glass to his lips and took a slow sip.
Good. He told himself. That was good.
You deserved to move on. To find someone who liked you back. Someone who didn’t reject you year after year. If this guy — this equestrian — made you stop looking at Carlos, then maybe that was what you needed.
But… why didn’t it feel good?
Why did it make his chest pinch?
He blinked slowly and finally refocused on the sponsor in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can you repeat that last part?”
—————
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium Grand Prix
It was early in the morning. Carlos had his sunglasses on, coffee in hand, already suited up in his Ferrari gear, but the usual rhythm of race day preparation didn’t settle him.
He kept scanning.
Not for his engineers. Not for his car.
For… you.
The paddock was missing something — or someone — again. The season was already halfway through and Y/N Baudelaire still hadn’t made an appearance.
He hated how he noticed that.
“‘Lo,” came a familiar voice as Max Verstappen strolled by in his Red Bull jacket, looking as relaxed as if they were just meeting at a park.
Carlos turned, greeting him with a quick smirk. “Max.”
“Big weekend,” Max said, nodding toward the garages. “Feels tense already.”
Carlos nodded. “Always is.”
A pause hung between them — casual, unbothered. Then Carlos while sipping his espresso, tilted his head just slightly.
“Your sister still riding?”
Max raised a brow. “Victoria? Yeah. Equestrian’s still her thing.”
Carlos feigned nonchalance, his tone light. “She ever compete at those FEI events?”
Max thinks about it. “Uh, yeah. Not recently though, she’s been more into coaching. Why?”
Carlos shrugged, staring off toward the media pens. “Just heard someone mention a Swiss guy the Baudelaires are sponsoring now. Edouard… Schmitz?”
Max furrowed his brow. “Oh, him. Yeah, name sounds familiar. He’s kind of new, I think. Young. Only seen him in headlines once or twice. Nothing major. He rides clean, I guess.”
Carlos nodded slowly, keeping his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.
Then Max tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”
Carlos shrugged again. “Just heard something at an event. You know how people talk.”
Max smirked knowingly. “Yeah, especially when it’s about her.”
Carlos’s fingers twitched on his coffee cup. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… come on. The whole Baudelaire thing. It’s a circus in our circle. You don’t just randomly hear a name like Schmitz next to hers unless it means something.”
Carlos forced a chuckle, even as something in his chest bristled. “Maybe she’s just sponsoring talent.”
“Sure,” Max said, already glancing at his phone. “Or maybe she’s finally got someone else to stalk.” He smirks at his joke.
Carlos didn’t respond.
He just stood there, coffee now cold in his hand, sunglasses reflecting the glint of the paddock around him. It was loud, fast, full of everything he knew how to control.
Except for this.
Except for you.
—————
Brussels Stephex Masters, Belgium
The smell of horse sweat and summer soil had long become familiar to you. Not pleasant, not unpleasant — just present. A background scent to the whirlwind of mornings that bled into afternoons and into moonlit dinners filled with rich old men and businesswomen who looked you over with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
You were tired.
Not the kind of tiredness that a nap could solve, no, you were soul-tired. Every few days, you were in a different country, wearing linen or tailored jackets or satin blouses, shaking hands, speaking in that clipped, polite tone your family were known for. Your mother said it was “a good way to build reputation.” Your father told you it was “time to learn how to inherit.” You smiled, nodded, obeyed.
But deep down you knew.
They were just trying to distract you.
Trying to pry you away from Grand Prix weekends, from the paddocks you once bled into for him. Like if you didn’t see him, you’d forget what he looked like when he was angry, when he cursed in Spanish, when he looked past you like you were nothing but a nuisance on his side.
You didn't forget.
You just got busy.
Too busy.
These days, you thought you saw Edouard more than you saw your own parents.
The Swiss equestrian had slowly carved a space into you, and maybe even in your life. It wasn’t romantic. It was warm. He was like the brother you always wished you had.
Edouard talked. A lot. About his horses, the pressure, the solitude of the sport. He never asked too much. Never pried into why your voice got small when people mentioned Spain, or how your eyes sometimes darted to your phone during race weekends, only to turn off the screen without doing anything.
He didn't bring up the past, didn’t know the whispers of the Baudelaire who once chased a Sainz across a decade.
And you were grateful.
He never looked at you like you were pathetic.
He looked at you like you were capable. Which was exactly what you needed.
At a press event in Belgium, you stood beside him at the stables while a photographer from a Swiss luxury magazine asked both of you to pose near the horse Edouard had just competed with. His white competition shirt was still half-unbuttoned, and there was straw stuck to your shoes, but you smiled. Poised. The media training from your childhood kicks in like muscle memory.
Edouard leaned over slightly after the flash. “I think this is the fifth country I’ve seen you in this month.”
You chuckled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re counting?”
“Well,” he said with a grin, “it’s hard not to notice when someone is practically my co-pilot at every event.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. My family just happens to sponsor you.”
“But they don’t have to,” he pointed out. “They could’ve pulled out anytime. They didn’t. You didn’t.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made you smile.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced toward the nearby arena. Watching another rider take their turn, the pounding of hooves echoed like a heartbeat.
Côte d’Azur, Baudelaire Hotel Expansion Gala 2023
The newly built Baudelaire Hotel & Spa rose like a crystal jewel along the coastline, its pale stone walls washed golden by the late afternoon sun. Spotlights bathed the front entrance. A long navy carpet stretched out beneath a towering marquee printed with your family’s crest.
You had stepped out of the car with effortless poise, years of training ensuring your expression was serene, your posture immaculate, your every movement fluid.
But this time, you weren't alone.
“Look ahead, N/N.” Edouard said beside you in a low murmur, his tone somewhere between teasing and grounding. “Ignore the vultures.”
You managed a soft laugh, delicate and dry. “It’s just cameras.”
He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the cluster of photographers stationed behind velvet ropes. “In London, they’re cameras. In here? They’re bloodhounds with fashion degrees.”
Still, you didn’t let go of his arm.
Not because you had to. Because you wanted to. Because it was easier this way — to walk in with someone who knew the weight of pressure. Edouard wasn’t here for show. He was invited, yes — by your father, no less — but he hadn’t changed since your first yacht conversation. He didn’t flinch under society’s gaze. He didn't ask for you to act any type of certain way.
And that, more than anything, had made you relieved for the first time in months.
As you passed through the ballroom entrance, the event swallowed you in warmth and opulence. Massive chandeliers dripped crystal light. Waiters in white gloves glided by with trays of Dom Pérignon and fig tarts. Somewhere in the distance, a string quartet played a reimagined Coldplay song that you could recognize instantly.
But the buzz wasn’t for the architecture or the champagne.
“Isn’t that Edouard Schmitz?”
“That’s Y/N Baudelaire, obviously — but together?”
“I thought she was still obsessed with that F1 driver.”
“Please. That was, what, two years ago?”
“Well, she’s sponsoring him now. Maybe she finally got over it.”
The whispers slithered through the crowd like puffs of smoke. But you didn’t hear them. Not really.
Your mother was nowhere in sight. Your father had already been whisked off by board members and property developers. That left you and Edouard standing beneath a domed skylight, surrounded by power, wealth, and polite falseness.
“You alright?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Better than I expected,” you said truthfully, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from your ivory gown. “I thought I’d be hyperventilating by now.”
“Don’t worry,” Edouard said with a soft smile. “If you faint, I promise to catch you before the tabloids do.”
You nudged him gently. “I’d rather you take me somewhere less chandelier-heavy.”
So you both wandered.
Down newly carpeted hallways, past suites not yet filled, through quiet terraces half-furnished. The hotel was days from its official launch — still in soft opening, still fragile. But beautiful, in that half-formed way most beginnings are.
Both of you laughed. About nothing and everything. He told you a story about a competition in Italy where his horse had accidentally kicked a Rolex sponsor’s luggage. You told him about the time your heels got stuck in a Formula 1 paddock grate and how you almost cried because Carlos saw.
Except you didn’t mention Carlos by name.
You didn’t need to.
You hadn’t thought of him tonight.
Not particularly.
—————
High above, on one of the glass balconies overlooking the lobby.
Carlos Sainz stood with a drink in hand and a scowl barely hidden. He was supposed to be here for a brief appearance, some light mingling before heading back to his apartment.
But then he saw you.
You stepped into view like a spotlight had been switched on when you entered. The lighting caught your hair just right — soft, classic, tucked behind one ear. You looked like every story he had once tried not to believe.
And you weren't alone.
That guy, the equestrian. The one people had been whispering about for months. The one he’d asked Max about under the guise of “just curious.”
You and him weren’t touching each other, but you didn’t didn’t need to.
Carlos watched you laugh at something Edouard said. A soft, real laugh — the kind you used to have around him. You looked lighter. Brighter. Both. Different in a way he couldn’t name, but didn’t like.
You weren’t scanning the room anymore.
Not looking for him.
Not watching the door in case he walked through it.
You didn’t even glance his way.
He waited.
Waited for you to look up. To sense him. To find his eyes like you always used to — like you could feel when he entered a room.
You never did.
You walked away with Edouard, turning the corner toward the private gallery wing. Smiling. Relaxed.
And Carlos stood there, glass untouched in his hand, the faint burn of a new feeling licking at the back of his throat.
—————
You excuse yourself from Edouard with a polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you murmur, touching his sleeve lightly. He nods, still deep in conversation with a businesswoman in a black velvet blazer and dazzling diamond studs. You don’t know her name, but she seems familiar with horses.
You smooth the fabric of your gown, steadying your breath as you follow the quiet pull toward your family’s voices, echoing faintly down the corridor. They’re gathered near one of the smaller reception salons, the door slightly ajar. As you step inside, a flash of orange and black catches your eye—recognizable even from across the room.
McLaren.
Your father is laughing warmly, his voice rich with the ease he uses only when he’s already won something. The man beside him is the CEO of McLaren Racing—tall, neat, composed, with a practiced smile and the posture of someone who’d sat at more than a few tables with royalty and billionaires.
“Ah,” your father says, spotting you immediately. “Here she is. My daughter—Y/N Baudelaire.” He gestures with his glass, pride thick in his voice. “The one who brilliantly gave us the idea of getting into motorsports sponsorship. Honestly, it was never our thing,” he chuckles, “but because of her interest before, it made us realize what we were missing out on.”
You smile, demure and polite. “It was just a suggestion,” you say lightly, but your father waves you off.
“Don’t be modest. That sponsorship in 2015 all the way to 2019? All her. She practically handpicked the teams. Back then, it was all about Toro Rosso and Renault, wasn’t it?” He says the last part with a knowing grin, and something tightens just behind your ribs.
You nod carefully. “They were doing exciting things.”
The McLaren CEO turns to you with a smile. “I’ve heard about that, actually. Your family’s name also came up during our review of past minor sponsors and event partners. You’ve got a sharp eye, Miss Baudelaire.”
You give a small nod of thanks, unsure what to say. The moment feels both surreal and inevitable. You’d spent years orbiting this world, your heart practically staked to a starting grid, and now… here you were, being acknowledged not as a fan or a follower, but as someone who belonged at the table.
“We’re currently reviewing our roster for 2023,” he continues, looking toward your father. “And we’re very interested in potential partnerships that reflect a deeper heritage and elegance. You know, the values your family name is synonymous with”
Your father chuckles. “Well, that’s flattering to hear. We’d love to continue this conversation. Let’s set up a formal meeting soon—my assistant will be in touch.”
“Absolutely,” the CEO says, extending a hand. “I’ll look forward to it.”
You shake his hand too then watch as he walks away through the tall ballroom doors, his tailored suit blending into the crowd.
Silence settles for a beat as you stand beside your family. Your mother is already checking her phone. Your father swirls the last of his wine in his glass, his mind clearly already jumping ahead to meetings and projections.
“Well,” he says, turning to you. “You might have just opened a very valuable door tonight.”
You don’t answer right away. Your eyes flick briefly toward the hall, where you know Edouard is still waiting, where a very different kind of future isn’t negotiated through handshake deals or sealed with corporate smiles.
“Thank you,” you say simply, because that’s what’s expected.
The world kept moving. Though this time, you’re the one with the power to choose what direction it turns.
—————
Carlos hadn’t expected to stay this long.
He’d told himself he’d leave after one drink. But somehow, the murmurs of Monaco’s elite, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the strategic presence of a few familiar faces from McLaren’s team had kept him rooted. Or maybe it was the subtle weight in his chest every time he scanned the room, knowing what he was looking for but pretending he wasn’t.
He'd seen you earlier. In an ivory gown, back turned to him, talking animatedly to that guy. The one he’d only ever heard mentioned in whispers. The equestrian.
He hadn't needed anyone to confirm it. He recognized him from a handful of online articles, tagged photos, and one annoyingly crisp press release involving Baudelaire legacy and equestrian sponsorships.
So when Carlos turned the corner near the main hallway and nearly collided into someone, his jaw set the second he saw who it was.
“Oh—sorry,” Edouard Schmitz said, stepping back with a polite smile, clearly not recognizing him.
Carlos looked him up and down. Clean-cut. Expensive, but understated suit. That easygoing confidence that came from being well-liked, well-connected—or just oblivious. Probably all three.
“It’s fine,” Carlos replied shortly, the edge in his voice a little too sharp for a minor bump. He looks at Edouard.
“You're Edouard Schmitz, right?” Carlos asked, tone casual but clipped, as if the name tasted sour.
Edouard straightened. “Yes. Have we met?”
Carlos’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t a smile. “No, but I’ve heard of you. Recently.”
There was a pause. Carlos was just lingering, and staring.
Edouard gave a cautious half-laugh. “Alright… I suppose that's a good thing?”
Carlos shrugged, expression unreadable. “Depends who you ask.”
Before Edouard could respond, a familiar voice chimed in behind them.
“Hey—I’m back.”
Carlos turned his head just in time to see you.
Y/N.
You approached casually, like you had no idea what your presence did to the air in Carlos’s lungs. Your eyes flitted between the two men. You opened your mouth to greet Edouard but faltered slightly when your gaze landed on Carlos.
It hits you like a gust of cold wind.
He was right there.
And he was looking at you. Not with surprise, not with hurt, but with that calm, unreadable look you used to crave from him. The look you used to try to decipher like a puzzle you thought you could solve if you just stayed long enough.
“Carlos,” you said quietly, your voice instinctively polite.
“Y/N,” he said back, his gaze sliding from you to Edouard and then back again.
He had no idea what this was between them. Or maybe he did. But it didn’t stop the way his stomach curled into something he couldn’t name.
“I didn’t know you two were—friends,” Carlos added after a beat, voice carefully composed, but his Spanish accent curled sharply around the word friends.
Edouard gave a friendly smile. “Ah, yes. We’ve been working together for a while now.”
Carlos just nodded once. “Right. Working.”
You narrowed your eyes, almost imperceptibly. You knew that tone. That old, subtle condescension masked as charm. The way Carlos could bite without showing teeth.
But you said nothing. Not yet.
Carlos glanced at Edouard one more time. “Well, enjoy the party. Both of you.”
And then he walked away.You watched him walk away, back straight, hands casually in his pockets like that entire interaction hadn’t just knocked the wind out of you.
Carlos had always had that talent.
There was a pause before Edouard broke the silence. “You okay?”
You blinked, snapping out of whatever haze you’d been in. “Yeah. Sorry. I just didn’t expect to see him here.”
“Friend of yours?”
You gave him a polite, practiced smile—the one you used in every sponsor dinner, boardroom meeting, and polished event. “Something like that.”
Edouard didn’t press. That was one of the reasons you considered him trustworthy. He never pushed when he sensed your reluctance.
“I’ll go get us something to drink,” he offered, already scanning for the waitstaff. “Champagne?”
“Please.”
As he left, your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the mask cracking in the safe space he gave you. You turned to look in the direction Carlos had gone. He was nowhere to be seen now, probably disappeared into some corner of the hotel with other associates or wealthy acquaintances who hadn’t spent the last few years falling apart in his silence.
You exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t said anything cruel. He hadn’t said anything meaningful either.
And somehow… that stung more.
—————
Carlos started walking towards the empty balcony, champagne flute untouched in his hand, and cursed under his breath again.
“Joder…”
When he gets there, the sea air felt sharp against his skin, but it wasn’t cooling him down. Not when his blood was still running hot, mind still replaying the way you had walked up to that guy with the kind of ease and casual grace that Carlos hadn’t seen from you in years.
He leaned on the railing, staring at the horizon but not really seeing it.
Why the hell had he even said anything? Why had he stopped? Why not just walk past, nod, smile, and be done with it?
Because it wasn’t just some guy.
It was you. And you looked… content.
You looked like someone who had finally started to move on. Like someone who didn’t flinch at the sight of him anymore. Someone who had finally stopped waiting.
And for the life of him, Carlos didn’t know why that made his chest feel like it had cracked open.
He took a long breath. He told himself it didn’t matter. That maybe now you had someone else to obsess over—good. Maybe you’d leave him alone. Maybe all the whispers, the rumors, the wide-eyed glances from people who remembered the girl who used to chase Carlos Sainz, would finally end.
Maybe now he could breathe again.
Then why did it feel like he couldn’t?
His grip tightened around the stem of the champagne flute.
You looked happy.
He hated that he noticed.
And worse—he hated that maybe, it wasn’t about you chasing him anymore.
It was about him being left behind.
—————
Later That Night, Private Lounge Area
Carlos sat low on the leather couch, jaw tense, knee bouncing slightly. A few scattered guests still lingered in the event’s private lounge, but it was quiet and private enough for him to speak.
Across from him, Lando stirred the ice in his drink with his pinky and raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been acting weird since the balcony,” Lando said, voice casual.
Carlos didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looked into his glass like it might offer him something solid—something grounded. But it didn’t. Just the quiet swirl of something sparkling and bitter.
“She’s different,” Carlos muttered finally.
Lando squinted. “Who?”
Carlos didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Lando groaned. “Oh my God. Y/N?”
Carlos shot him a look. “You saw her.”
“Yeah, I saw her,” Lando said slowly. “She looked great, by the way. Real polished. Elegant. Like the whole hotel was built just to match her dress. Why?”
Carlos set his drink down with a soft clink.
“She’s not the same.”
Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Mate. What are you trying to say?”
“I mean—” Carlos’s voice lowered. “Didn’t you notice? How… off she was?”
Lando gave him a long, blank stare. “Off. Like… off how?”
Carlos exhaled sharply, frustrated he couldn’t find the right word. “I don’t know. Just… not like herself.”
“Not like the version of her who used to wait outside every motorhome just to give you a good luck note?” Lando asked dryly.
Carlos glared at him.
“I’m just saying,” Lando went on, shrugging, “maybe she’s not off. Maybe she’s just… not that into you anymore.”
Carlos flinched. Just slightly.
“She didn’t even look at me, mate,” he murmured.
Lando stares at him. “So? Maybe she didn’t see you.”
“No,” Carlos said immediately. “She did. She looked right at me.”
“Okay, so she saw you and didn’t fall apart. Again, I repeat uhh… so?”
Carlos didn’t answer. His silence was louder than any explanation he could have given.
Lando sat back with a quiet scoff. “Right. So this isn’t about her being off. This is about her not looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.”
Carlos’s head snapped toward him. “It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
“I just—” Carlos rubbed his jaw. “It’s weird, alright? After all those years—after everything—now she’s just acting like none of it happened.”
“Because maybe that’s a sign, mate,” Lando said, a bit more gently now. “That maybe she’s just… done. You ever think about that?”
Carlos didn’t reply.
Lando shook his head, grinning slightly as he leaned back. “It’s almost funny. You used to be the one who didn’t care. Now look at you—pouting in a velvet lounge because she brought another guy to a hotel opening.”
Carlos’s gaze darkened. “I’m not pouting.”
“You’re brooding, then.”
“I’m just wondering if she’s really with that Edouard guy.”
Lando snorted. “Yeah. Because that’s definitely your business.”
Carlos went quiet again.
And Lando—watching him carefully, watching that flicker of something just beneath Carlos’s tightly wound expression—sighed.
“You didn’t like her, remember?” he said softly. “You had your chance. Hell, you had years. And she waited. But now?”
He paused, lifting his glass to his lips.
“She’s not yours to worry about anymore.”
Carlos didn’t say a word.
—————
FP1 Day, Grand Prix Weekend
The paddock buzzed with its usual storm of movement—engineers shouting over radios, fans leaning against barriers, photographers flashing away with their lenses. Carlos adjusted his gloves as he walked through the Ferrari garage, the sharp red of his race suit catching in the sun.
It was supposed to be a normal free practice day.
But then he saw you.
At first, just the back of you—calm and poised as you strolled past hospitality, hands tucked in the sleeves of a crisp white blazer, sunglasses perched in your hair. A lanyard with a discreet VIP tag hung from your neck. The way you moved was different now. Lighter, quieter, like you belonged here.
Carlos stopped in his tracks.
“Y/N,” he murmured, barely audible.
Something in him lifted. Something fluttered, stupidly, in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair quickly, then again when it didn’t fall the way he wanted. His reflection in a passing screen caught his eye, and he straightened up—subtle, not too obvious.
Just breathe.
He started walking your way. Slowly. Casually. He didn’t know why his palms were sweating in his gloves.
As you turned around to scan the paddock, he timed it perfectly. Pretending to notice you only at the last second.
“Oh,” Carlos said, eyebrows raised. “Hey.”
You smiled.
Not the way you used to—not that warm, dopey grin that looked like it couldn’t help itself around him.
This was polite.
“Hey,” you said back.
Carlos cleared his throat, folding his arms lightly across his chest. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Here to support me again?”
He smiled, trying to sound playful.
But you just tilted your head a bit, almost apologetic.
“Oh. No, not exactly.” You scratched the back of your head and shrugged casually. “My family’s in talks with McLaren about a potential partnership. I just came to walk them over.”
Carlos freezes for a second.
“McLaren?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to convince them for years, actually. Guess they finally decided it’s worth the PR.”
He tried to smile. He did.
But it faltered, just slightly. “Right. That’s… good. Makes sense.”
Carlos couldn’t help but remember how, back then, you used to ramble about his team’s brand appeal—it didn’t matter which one, you sponsored every single one of them. You had charts. You had ideas. You had him in mind.
And now?
Now you weren’t here for him at all.
You gave him another soft smile. “Well, I should go. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”
You took a step back, then paused, offering one last look.
“I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.”
The way you said it was smooth, unbothered. The way people say goodbye to acquaintances—people they used to know.
And you were gone.
Carlos watched as you slipped through the paddock crowd, walking further and further away.
He realized then, painfully and with full clarity that it wasn't your real smile. That wasn’t the one that used to be his.
And maybe—just maybe—he missed it.
—————
Paddock, McLaren Motorhome Lounge
The chrome-and-orange lounge was sleek and minimal—everything McLaren liked to be. You sat tucked into one of the corner sofas, legs crossed, a flute of sparkling water resting untouched on the table beside you. From the glass wall, you could see your father in one of the meeting rooms, talking animatedly with McLaren’s sponsorship team. You’d offered to attend, but he insisted you didn’t need to. You had assistants for that now.
Besides, you didn’t really want to sit through another negotiation meeting. Not today. Not here.
The room was cool and quiet until the door slid open.
A figure in a white and papaya team shirt strolled in—curly brown hair bouncing slightly, face vaguely flushed like he’d just come in from a debrief. You recognized him instantly.
Lando Norris.
You’d never spoken to him before, but you knew him. You’d known of him then, back when—
"Hey," you said casually, voice steady, not expecting him to stop.
But he did.
He looked over, then smiled slightly, as if recognizing you immediately. “Oh—you're Y/N, right?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just waiting. Our team's meeting with McLaren about the partnership thing.”
“Oh, right! That’s today?” Lando lit up as he stepped toward you, hands in his pockets. “I completely forgot about that. That’s so cool of you guys. Really.”
You shrugged, offering a small smile. “It wasn’t easy convincing them, but I’m glad they’re finally open to motorsport. They used to only care about horses.”
Lando grinned. “Well, you’ve definitely upgraded in my opinion. Cars are faster.”
You laughed softly, and the two of you eased into light conversation. He cracked a joke about Carlos still hogging the mirror in drivers' briefings, and you pretended not to flinch.
Eventually, he glanced at the clock. “Alright, I gotta head back to hospitality before my PR manager has an aneurysm. It was nice talking to you, Y/N.”
“You too, Lando.”
He gave a little wave and walked off.
—————
Hallway Near McLaren Hospitality
Lando was humming under his breath as he walked down their hallway, tapping through unread messages on his phone. His pace was easy, unbothered, until—
“Lando.”
He jumped so hard his phone nearly slipped from his hands.
“Bloody hell, man!” he spun around. “What are you—why are you lurking like that?”
Carlos stood half in shadow, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting there a while. He looked composed—well, as composed as someone who clearly wasn’t. He was in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped halfway with the fireproof top clinging to his waist, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I saw you,” Carlos said coolly, “in the McLaren lounge.”
Lando looked at him, wary. “Okay…”
“You were talking to her,” Carlos added, as if Lando needed the clarification.
“Oh. Y/N?” Lando nodded. “Yeah, she was there waiting for the sponsor meeting. She said hey. I said hey back. Not exactly Breaking News, mate.”
Carlos didn’t smile.
“What’d you two talk about?” he asked, too casually.
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
Carlos shrugged, trying to make it seem nonchalant. “Just curious.”
Lando squinted. “You’re curious about what Y/N and I talked about? Since when?”
Carlos was quiet.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Wait, wait. Are you seriously… jealous?”
Carlos replies immediately. “No.”
“You are!” Lando pointed at him. “You absolutely are. What the hell, man? I thought you were the one who wanted her gone.”
Carlos exhaled sharply. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You acted like it. Don’t give me that ‘I never said that’ bull.” Lando crossed his arms, mocking Carlos’s defensive stance. “Back then? She was showing up to every Grand Prix, being nice, giving you—what was that thing? That custom leather suit? You hated it. Said it made you uncomfortable.”
Carlos stared past Lando, jaw clenched.
“She’s different now,” Carlos said. “I don’t know. It’s like she finally… stopped trying. And now I can't stop looking for her.”
Lando let that hang in the air before deadpanning, “Wow. That is so poetic, Carlos. You miss her now that she’s not obsessed with you. Groundbreaking.”
Carlos didn’t rise to the jab.
“Anyway,” Lando continued, less teasing now, “we just chatted. Nothing flirty. She’s chill. Like, scary calm. Girlboss energy. Honestly, I kinda get it now—why she made people nervous. She’s not chasing anyone. She doesn’t need to.”
The silence stretched as Lando scrolled absently on his phone, already losing interest in the conversation. Carlos just sat there, still, letting Lando’s words settle like a rock in his chest.
You’re not chasing anyone.
Not even him.
Carlos leaned back, rubbing the edge of his jaw, lost in thought.
He didn’t know what to say.
All he knew was that he missed it.
Not just the attention — but your warmth. The way you used to look at him like he could do anything.
✦ amnesia - ex!reader
summary: it has been a while since oscar and his girlfriend broke up, but some days he wishes he could wake up with amnesia. he misses her, he misses them, he loves her, but she doesn't love him.
million dollar woman - millionaire!reader
summary: she knew he was an f1 driver, he knew she did something in an office. money was never talked about, it just existed - what oscar didn't know was that she was arguably much richer than he is
forgotten birthday | gf!reader
summary: she knew oscar had a busy schedule, but her boyfriend of so many years forgetting her birthday still hurt more than she cared to admit. unless, had he?
✦ courage | best friend!reader
summary: in their small beat up town you had two options. get out or stay stuck in the same vicious cycle fell into - drugs, alcohol and partying. oscar knew what he wanted to do, her however, he wasn't too sure.
✦ haunted | catholic!oscar
summary: ever since he left for univeristy, he stopped going to church. but when things got shit there is only one place you can go to. the pretty cathedral in the town centre called his name, or did it? was it the cathedral or was it the voice?
high school sweethearts | uni!oscar
summary: step one, you must accept that i'm a little out my mind. she was the weird girl, insane even - no body liked her, but oscar did.
new years dream | uni!oscar x singer!reader
summary: oscar couldn't count how long he'd spent loving his best friend, but she was her and he was him. there was no way she could love him. on a night out on new years he finds her, he sees her and he wishes the words didn't dry up on his tongue.
sports car | zak's daughter!reader
summary: she wants him. she wants him and his sports car, and she doesn't care how scandlous it gets if she'll get a ride on him and the car
✦ silver spoon | gf!reader
summary: she was raised in fear, never knowing whether the next words spewed at her would be words of love or hatred. he was raised with the light left on and words of praise. they say opposites attract, but not in every scenario.
✦ kiss of death | uni!oscar
summary: each valentine's day she gets her heart broken, each valentines all oscar can do is watch. until this year, this year he swears he'll tell her.
✦ good luck babe | ex bestfriend!reader
summary: he told her that her life would end up this way, he told her she wouldn't be happy and now all he can do is sit there and say i told you so.
timezone | ex!reader
summary: oscar fucked up, he let the love of his life slip out of his hands and enough is enough. he needs her back.
a loyal heart | redcoat!oscar
summary: following lando's story in redcoat, this follows oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.
something like love | driver!reader
summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.
SMAU
professor piastri? - teacher!reader
summary: oscar has a partner? she's a teacher? how did that even happen
home race - trilangual!reader
summary: oscar has a habit of claiming every race of his as his own, now that his girlfriend speaks so many languages and she's teaching him, surely he can add more right?
SERIES
secret sister smau - norris!reader
summary: lando never wanted the world to know about his sister, for her safety and also because he knows how much of a menace she is. on her 21st birthday he makes a birthday post for her letting the world know she exists - what he doesn't prepare for is his teammate catching feelings.
part one | part two | part three - completed
✦ chicago | single mum!reader
summary: he fell in love with chicago, she told him she was all alone, but she wasn't - that was the problem
part one | part two | part three | part four - completed
skyfall | spy!reader
summary: the two of them work for two different associations, they run into eachother more times than they would like to, what happens when tensions start to clash
part one | part two | part three - completed
no time to die | spy!reader - sequel to skyfall
part one | part two | part three - completed
✦ free now | author!reader
summary: she was an author with no inspiration and a deadline. he was a formula one driver looking for a break. when those two hearts cross, you'd think it would make a fairytale story
Series Summary: Your daughter runs off while you were in the middle of grocery shopping because she spotted Max, her favourite driver. Meeting you, Max wants to know everything about you and your six year old. So of course he finds excuses to keep meeting you, starting with inviting you to the Dutch Grand Prix.
total wc: 33.1k
Note: feel free to request a drabble or chapter idea for this story.
#lbf fic talks -> writing process, answering asks about the story, and pretty much anything related to this fic series.
summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k
folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.
DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)
Melbourne, 2015
The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.
That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.
You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.
"They're still open?"
You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."
"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."
He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.
"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."
He hesitates. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."
He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."
I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.
"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.
"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.
"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"
"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"
"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.
"Cryptic."
You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."
"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."
You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."
He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Scared?"
"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"
There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.
"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."
"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."
If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."
"Let's call it intuition."
He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."
"Your father?"
He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.
"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"
"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"
You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."
"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."
You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."
His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"
"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."
You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.
The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.
"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.
You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.
Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.
Singapore, 2015
The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.
It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.
At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.
He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."
You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."
"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."
You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.
"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."
Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.
"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."
The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.
"Tell me," you prompt softly.
He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"
You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."
Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.
"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."
Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"
Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.
Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.
Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.
"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."
Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."
As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"
You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.
"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."
"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.
You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.
Barcelona, 2016
The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.
You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.
The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.
Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.
"Papa?"
He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"
"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.
Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"
"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."
He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"
Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."
"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.
"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.
Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.
"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."
"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."
Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.
"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."
"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.
"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."
You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.
When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.
"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.
"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."
"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."
"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.
"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."
"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."
He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"
"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.
"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.
The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.
As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.
"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.
You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.
"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."
He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."
"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.
"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.
"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.
"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.
"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."
The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.
"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."
Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.
It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."
"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.
"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."
You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.
Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.
"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"
"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.
"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."
The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.
"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"
"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"
"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"
The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.
"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."
You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.
As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"
You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.
Germany, 2016
The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.
You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.
The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.
"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."
"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.
His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."
The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.
"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.
"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.
His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.
You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.
A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.
Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.
"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.
Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.
Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.
"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"
"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.
"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."
"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."
"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"
Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.
"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."
The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.
Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.
Monaco, May 2017
Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.
"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."
"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."
Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"
"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."
He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"
"Scared, Verstappen?"
"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.
You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"
"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"
A door opens down the hall.
Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"
"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."
"Everything okay?"
"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"
A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."
"Night, Papa!"
You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.
"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"
You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."
"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"
"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"
"Not helping!"
"Then probably murder you-"
"Still not helping!"
"And Lewis would hide the body-"
"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."
You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"
"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"
"He won't."
"But if he does-"
"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."
"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"
You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."
He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."
Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.
"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."
"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."
He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.
Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."
"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"
He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."
But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.
"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.
"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.
Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.
"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.
"I was just-"
"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"
"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"
"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"
"It's not a game-"
"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"
Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"
"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."
"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.
Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"
The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.
"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."
Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.
Monza, 2017
The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.
"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."
He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.
"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"
"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.
You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"
"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."
"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"
"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."
The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"
Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.
"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."
You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.
"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."
You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.
You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.
"Little Wolff?"
Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.
"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."
"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."
A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.
"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"
You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."
"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."
You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."
Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.
"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."
"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.
Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"
You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.
"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."
You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.
But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.
Monaco, Summer 2018
The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.
"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.
"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.
"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."
"You're literally younger than me."
"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"
You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…
"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."
Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.
"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."
Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"
"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."
"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."
"I did not!"
"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"
You shove him playfully. "I hate you."
"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."
"You're not even in F1 yet."
"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."
"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"
"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."
You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.
"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.
"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.
Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.
"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.
"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.
Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.
"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.
You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"
He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."
You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.
The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.
It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him
But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.
"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.
"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.
"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."
You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.
Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.
"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."
"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.
"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."
"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.
"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."
"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"
"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."
"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."
Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."
"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.
"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"
"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"
"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."
You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."
"You're being ridiculous."
"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."
Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."
"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."
Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."
"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."
You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.
"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.
"Go to hell, Verstappen."
Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.
"I hate him," you whisper.
"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."
The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.
"Would you care to explain these?"
Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.
"Papa, I-"
"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."
Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.
"It wasn't-"
"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"
Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."
"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"
You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.
"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."
You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.
"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."
"I'm twenty one!"
"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"
The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.
"No, sir."
"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.
"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."
"Nothing is going on," you mutter.
"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."
Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"
You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.
"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.
Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.
"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."
After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."
"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.
"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."
"Not you too."
"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."
"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.
"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."
You pause at the door. "For what?"
"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."
You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.
"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."
The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.
Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.
The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"
"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"
He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."
Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."
"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."
"Good. Maybe he should."
You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."
Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."
Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.
"YN? What were you thinking?"
"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.
Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."
"Of course. Take care of her."
The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."
"I know," you whisper.
"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"
"It's not about Max."
"Isn't it?"
You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."
"What do you mean?"
"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."
Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."
"Will you help me convince Papa?"
"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."
You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."
As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.
But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.
You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."
"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."
"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."
"Out of where?"
"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."
Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."
"You have?"
He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."
"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.
"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."
"You're not mad?"
He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."
Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."
Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."
"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."
As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.
Austria, 2020
The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.
"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"
You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"
"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."
Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.
"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.
"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."
"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."
Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."
You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."
"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"
"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.
"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."
"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.
You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.
Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.
He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.
You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.
"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"
You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."
Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."
You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.
Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.
Barcelona, 2020
The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.
Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.
"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."
"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."
"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."
You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"
He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."
The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.
The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.
As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.
"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."
"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."
"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."
"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."
He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."
"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.
His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."
The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.
"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.
You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."
The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.
"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"
"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."
"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"
"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."
"Max…"
"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."
"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."
"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."
When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.
You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."
"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"
"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."
"It wouldn't be like before-"
"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."
"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.
"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."
"YN, please-"
"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."
At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."
The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.
Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.
Monaco, 2020
The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.
You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.
"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.
"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."
"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."
The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.
"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.
You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"
"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."
"Max…"
"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."
You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."
"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"
"That was a mistake."
"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."
The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.
"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"
"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."
"Max, please-"
"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."
You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"
"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."
"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."
"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."
When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."
You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."
"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."
"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"
"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."
You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.
"If anyone finds out…" you start.
"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."
And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.
"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."
When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.
Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.
Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.
Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.
You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.
"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."
He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"
"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."
"We managed before."
"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."
He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."
"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"
"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."
"And you still want this?"
He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"
You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."
"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."
"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."
"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."
You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."
"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."
The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"
"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."
"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."
He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.
The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.
"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.
"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."
You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.
Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.
The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.
But tonight is just for the two of you.
You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.
"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.
He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."
You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."
He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."
"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"
"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.
"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.
"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.
"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."
You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.
"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.
He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"
"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."
He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.
On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.
"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.
"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."
He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."
"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."
He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.
"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.
"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"
"Mm?"
"The cake…"
"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."
Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"For what?"
"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."
You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."
He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."
"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"
"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."
You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."
His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"
"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."
He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"
"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.
The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.
Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.
Monaco, 2021
You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.
He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just… ready. The car feels good, testing went well."
"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."
"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"
Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.
"Hey Lan-"
"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"
Your heart stops. "What?"
"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."
You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"
"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."
Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.
"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."
"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"
You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."
"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."
"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.
"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."
Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"
Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."
"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.
He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."
You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.
When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"
"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.
"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.
You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."
"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."
Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"
Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.
"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."
"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.
"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"
You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."
"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."
If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.
As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.
Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.
Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"
But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.
"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"
You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."
Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"
Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.
"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."
Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.
Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.
Silverstone, 2021
The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.
"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.
"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.
The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.
It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.
The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.
"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"
You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"
"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"
Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."
"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."
He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."
"Christian?" you suggest.
"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"
You both realize it at the same time.
"No," Max says.
"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."
"YN, he's the last person-"
"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."
He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.
Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.
"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"
"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."
There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."
There's a pause. "We?"
You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."
The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.
"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.
"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."
He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."
Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"
"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"
"Since last year."
He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."
The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.
When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.
"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.
Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."
He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"
"Promise."
The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.
"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"
"Lewis-"
"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"
"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."
"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"
"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"
"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"
"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"
Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."
"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."
"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"
"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."
"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."
You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."
"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."
"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.
"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."
"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."
Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"
"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."
"And what is that?"
"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."
Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."
"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."
He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.
Silverstone, 2021. Race day
Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.
The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.
"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"
He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Please. What you did last night-"
"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."
"You know why we couldn't-"
"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"
"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."
"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."
"It's not a little romance-"
"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."
"I told you last night - I love him."
"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."
"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"
"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."
"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."
Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."
"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."
He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.
The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.
Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.
Lap one. Copse Corner.
The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.
The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.
You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.
"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"
Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.
"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"
You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.
"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"
"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."
"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"
"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."
"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."
The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.
Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.
It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.
Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.
The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.
"YN? You shouldn't-"
"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."
GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."
You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.
"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.
His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.
"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."
"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."
"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.
"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"
"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."
"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."
"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."
"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"
"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."
"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"
"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."
You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"
"Time?"
"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"
He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"
"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."
"You're sure?"
"Are you?"
He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."
"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"
"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."
You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"
"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."
"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.
"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."
You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.
"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."
"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.
"Promise me something else?"
"Anything."
"No more late-night drives for a while?"
He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."
"Max..."
"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."
You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"
"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.
At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.
"Max?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."
His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."
You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.
You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.
Abu Dhabi, 2021
The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.
The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.
"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."
"Talk to me."
You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"
"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"
"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."
"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"
You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.
"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."
Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."
"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.
"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."
"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."
You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.
"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."
Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"
"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."
"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"
"Always."
Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.
"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.
He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."
"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"
"Then why are you here?"
You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."
He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."
"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."
"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."
"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."
"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"
"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"
"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."
Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."
You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.
"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.
"I know."
"And I still think you're crazy."
"Probably."
"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"
You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."
"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."
"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."
"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."
"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."
Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."
"You noticed?"
"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."
You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.
"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."
He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."
"Hey!"
"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"
"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.
"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."
An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.
When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.
"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.
The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.
When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.
Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.
You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.
"Lew," your voice breaks.
He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.
"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.
"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."
You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.
Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.
Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.
"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.
"I was with Lewis."
His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."
"Max, don't."
"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"
"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"
"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"
"Are you seriously doing this right now?"
"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"
The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."
"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."
"They're my family!"
"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."
"That's not-"
"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."
"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"
"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"
Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."
"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."
Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."
"Max…"
"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."
You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.
"I love you," you whisper.
"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."
As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.
Dark fic + - Minors DNI- if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS
Summary: Lando brings home a girl that he thinks will be perfect for him, Max and Oscar but things between the three never necessarily run easily.
Themes/warnings: Smut 18+ (future parts), reverse harem, kidnapping, drugging, pre-existing relationshipish - mean!Max x nonchalant!Oscar x overexcitable!Lando
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Word count: 1.9k
The three sort feel into the arrangement. How? Lando.
He noticed them all wanting a girl one night and then that one experience kind of continued with other women. But more recently he's wanted something more serious.
However, Max thinks it's a bad idea for a more permanent woman in their lives and Oscar has made no attempt to even comment. Leaving Lando on his mission to convince Max and Max on his mission to unconvince Lando.
"He's not going to give up." Oscar comments after Max asks where the Brit is.
"He's still chasing some poor girl for us?" Max scoffs rolling his eyes as he sits down in his sim and Oscar, as usual, doesn't comment.
He's not sure about the idea. He's not exactly opposed to it. They're giving opportunity for more and more for the public to find out about their...arrangement and that would be PR apocalypse for the teams and even F1 as a brand.
3 drivers all practically acting as predators to corner and fuck women? Not exactly the golden angel child image they'd rather they all have. Even if Max and Lando have already failed them in that department anyway.
What's made even worse is Oscar knows Lando has a plan specifically aimed to cater mainly towards Max. Himself and Oscar aren't so much less picky, but he knows Oscar won't be hard to convince and both him and Lando know it, in fact Oscar has no doubt that he'll be pulled in to convince Max as soon as Lando has found a girl he thinks is adequate for the task.
"I don't think there's a specific girl. He's still on the hunt for one he thinks you'd approve of."
"Yeah, I wish him luck with that." Max scoffs while logging in to join Redline for a race.
Oscar decides to go hit the gym to keep himself occupied and out of the way.
-
Y/n had no idea what she was getting herself into. She was just wondering around Monaco after being turned away from a casino when she failed to show ID.
She'd left it at the hotel and her friends weren't willing to miss an opportunity to be some millionaire's arm candy for the night. Not that it was likely to happen, maybe one could snag an old man with a yacht and pull the rest with her.
Then a glimmering dark green Porsche pulled up and a dimple smile framed with curly hair immediately had her attention.
She's not stupid, she came to Monaco aware of the residence, specifically the residence of a motorsport career.
He took her to a restaurant for a spontaneous meal and then she found herself back in the luxury car agreeing to go home with him.
Walking into the apartment there's already lights on, which is odd. She never imagined F1 drivers to have roommates. But maybe it's because it's lonely, maybe he has friends visiting.
"There's just a couple people I need to introduce you to. Oscar? Max?!" Lando calls out making y/n eyes bulge. Much like she knows Lando, she knows of his teammate and rival.
There's a string of curse words and what sounds like a smack of a controller from somewhere else in the apartment as a body saunters into the entryway.
Oscar.
"Y/n, Oscar. Oscar, this is y/n." Lando smiles visibly trying to tame a blinding smile.
There's something she's missing and she knows it, but she can't figure out what. Oscar seems to eye her with a passive expression before managing a polite smile and shaking her hand.
"Does Lando bring a lot of strays in?" Y/n jokes trying to break the tension before more curse words are heard and footsteps nearing.
Seeing Max, he's taller than either of the McLaren drivers. Dressed in shorts and a graphic t-shirt that looks like a Christmas present only a mum would by and get a buzz out of.
"Max...this is y/n. Y/n, this is Max."
Max looks at y/n with a lack of interest before looking at Lando.
"This is your plan?" Max questions as if she's not there while Oscar smirks a little in amusement since he saw this coming. He's also amused that Max really thought Lando wouldn't follow through on this.
"Be nice. She's our guest." Lando states making her gaze tear from where it's been trained on Max back to the man who brought her.
"And for all of us, right?" Oscar hums being able to see from her reaction that she is definitely uninformed on that.
"What is going on?" Y/n laughs beginning to feel nervous as she tries to back up.
"Probably best to get one who actually wants to be here." Max comments then looking behind y/n with a new sparkle of amusement behind his eyes. "Really? You're going to-"
Y/n screams as a cloth stinking of chemicals covers her mouth and nose, one disadvantage. Lando may not look like the biggest man but she can't compete with an athletes muscle and while it takes longer than he expects. She expect feels the world dull around her and slowly she slides to the floor, the last thing she sees being the three men surrounding her looking down on her before she's out.
"You did't think this through very hard did you?' Max questions before pointing at Oscar and Lando. "I don't want this coming back to me. Whatever you need to do, do it."
Max marches off leaving Oscar to sigh looking at his teammate.
"Did you really need to knock her out?-and how exactly do you think she's not going to be tracked down and found easily?"
"I managed to throw her bag out the car before we were anywhere near here." Lando shrugs before he smiles. "She'll wake up and think it was just some bad drink, just you wait. I took her on a date, you're going to love her."
"I'm sure you believe that." Oscar hums still remaining the neutral party, he really wasn't expecting Lando to drug and kidnap whichever girl he decided to pursue as theirs. But for some reason such a moral grey area doesn't strike him like he's expecting it to. "She's staying in your room."
"But she's staying with your approval?" Lando smirks clearly taking the victory where he can get it as he moves to pick her up but the deadweight and floppy limbs prove to be more of a challenge. "Help me then."
Oscar complies purely out of self interest of not hearing Max complain there's an unconscious woman lying in the entry way.
-
"You are out of your mind." Max states pointing a finger at Lando whole Oscar somewhat mediates the conversation of the woman Lando brought back for them. "Oscar, he's kidnapped a woman. You have to understand how stupid this is."
Lando looks at his teammate desperate for back up but actually on this point. Max has the sense.
"She's going to wake up and she's not going to be happy. Do you really think she's going to stay here willingly and then fall in love with us?" Oscar questions earning an unappreciative glare.
"She'll come around-if the two of you work with me." Lando states earning a scoff and eye roll from the Dutchman.
In truth, Max isn't that angry about the fact there's a woman in the apartment intended for them to share long term. He's just not a believer that this is a good idea. He's no against it, but it was a risk without the fucked up illegal part. Now they're neck deep in possibly being arrested, even if him and Oscar didn't take her, they didn't stop Lando and they've continued to not stop him.
"Come on...at least try and get to know her before you decade she's not worth your time. Both of you."
Max looks at Oscar before rolling his eyes again.
"Fine." Max huffs as Oscar silently nods in agreement.
There's no denying that Lando picked a woman who seemed sweet and generally Lando is a pretty good judge of character. There's no harm in at least trying.
"But if I see tears I'm paying her off and dropping her at the airport. with a flight to wherever I can buy her a ticket to first." Max states then standing up. "I'm going to bed."
-
Lando hasn't been able to stop smiling as he watches y/n sleep.
"You have made sure you didn't put her in a coma or something?" Oscar asks from the doorway slightly concerned by the fact she's breathing but hasn't moved even in a twitch since they put her on the bed.
"She'll wake up soon. Won't feel great but she'll be awake." Lando states then sighing. "I know it's wrong, but I saw her walking on the street and it was like I just knew."
Oscar wouldn't necessarily describe Lando as a die hard romantic who believes in love at first sight, but he's maybe a bit overexcited by the slightest fleeting thought that he sometimes latches onto.
"You should get some sleep. I think you'll need it for when she's awake." Oscar suggests making Lando hum before he watches the Aussie back away from the doorway and disappears leaving Lando to sigh softly before he lies down with her, wrapping his arms around her and deciding to sleep.
Once he is asleep Max can't help himself from looking in on the door since Oscar left the door open.
"Already warming up to the soft spot?" Oscar smirks earning a scoff.
"I'm just making sure he's not crossing lines." Max states moving away and closing the door as if to make a point. "And you should not be supporting this."
"You know he wouldn't cross those lines." Oscar points out knowing Lando has already crossed a few lines kidnapping and drugging her. "I'm not supporting him...But if he thinks it might lead to something good then who am I to say no?"
"The voice of good reason." Max whispers as if it should be obvious as to the Aussie why he should be against it. "I thought I could trust you to be smart."
Max taps his head with his finger while Oscar watches him disappear into his own bedroom then shaking his head as he glances back at Lando's door waiting for a moment to see if he hears anything and when he doesn't, he retreats into his own space.
It's a couple hours later that chaos ensues dragging him from the depth of a very deep sleep, a female voice in loud distress is accompanied by Lando attempting what he assumes is meant to be a soothing and comforting voice.
Oscar stands up dragging his body from the bed and moving into the living room watching Max lean with low effort speed, dodging a pillow.
"I want to go home." Y/n practically howls making Oscar and Max wince while Lando is smacked with another flying object, this time a remote. "You can't keep me here."
"Losing patience, Lando." Max states while Oscar sighs taking root beside the Dutchman. "It's been 20 minutes and she hit her head when she ran out his room and fell over."
"Have you checked her head?"
"Lando's responsibility." Max shrugs then turning away uninterested now Oscar is there for back up. Presumably only staying not he chance y/n was going to escape past Lando and needed caught.
It's been three days since the unfortunate misunderstanding with Charles and you haven't heard from him at all since.
You were overthinking the whole situation that happened on Sunday and couldn't come to any proper conclusion. At the same time, you were sad because he thought you would bring someone else into your bed, even though it wasn't your shared bed anymore, but you couldn't believe that he thought so little of you after all the years you'd spent together.
And yet on the other hand, you were thinking like any woman, you were glad that he was jealous and that the very thought of someone replacing him bothered him because that only meant he wasn't over you and that he still wanted to make things right between you two. Basically, you were torn between your brain and your heart once again and it was just a matter of what would prevail between the two this time.
Even though deep down you knew you couldn't fight yourself. You broke up over some disagreements that when you look at things more closely weren't worth destroying your relationship and your little family. You were both stubborn, he was a little too possessive, you were lacking in understanding, parenting, you spent most of your time alone with Lou and everything came together and exploded.
Now that you look back on the whole year you spent without him, you know that as hard as it is sometimes to be with him, it's ten times harder to be without him. You realize that you both made a rash decision, but then again maybe it had to happen only to make you realize how much you need each other in every way possible.
It's Wednesday night and while you're preparing tonight's dinner and tomorrow's lunch, Lou is sitting at the dining room table drawing. Soon your cooking is interrupted by the ringing of your phone on the kitchen island. A strange feeling comes over you as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and look at your phone only to see Charles' name on the screen.
You want to answer the phone, but you don't want the conversation to end in an argument so before you pick up the phone, you take a deep breath and try to calm down and strengthen your voice so it doesn't sound shaky.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me." He says it in a completely normal, calm tone and you're grateful for that.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Umm, I'm leaving tomorrow for the race so I was wondering if you could put Lou on the facetime so I can see her since I won't be able to have her for the weekend?" He asks.
"Sure, just let me switch to facetime."
Once you did, Charles face appeared on the screen and he smiled when he saw yours too. You tried to hide the blush on your face and quickly walked over to Lou putting the phone in front of her.
"Baby, daddy wants to talk to you" You said setting the phone in front of her and leaving them alone to talk.
Since the kitchen and dining room were connected, you went back into the kitchen and could hear everything the two of them were saying. You didn't want to eavesdrop, but you kinda did.
"Hey, daddy!" Lou exclaimed excitedly.
"Mon ange, what are you doing?"
"I'm drawing and-and mommy is cooking" She says.
"Yeah? What are you drawing?"
"I'm drawing you in a red car. See" She says putting up the paper in front of the camera for him to see.
"Good job, baby. It looks great!"
"It's for you, I will give it to you when you come get me" She says forgetting that she won't be spending the weekend with him.
"Thank you, baby, but unfortunately we won't be together this weekend because papa has to work, but we'll see each other next week, okay?"
"Oh.." She pouts.
"Don't be sad, we'll see each other very soon, okay? I miss you so much and I'm thinking of you all the time."
Your heart is completely softened by his words and the immeasurable amount of love he has for your daughter.
"I miss you too, daddy"
"Okay, baby. I'll talk to you soon, I love you."
"Bye, I love you too." She says waving her hand as he blows her a kiss.
You watch her from afar and see how her mood immediately changed when she heard that she wouldn't be seeing him. Shaken by emotions, you move closer to her and squat down next to her.
"What's wrong, bug?" You ask her.
She doesn't look at you but frowns looking down at drawing on the paper in front of her.
"I miss papa" She says, hear eyes filled with tears.
"Can I tell you a little secret?" You say and she nods. "I miss papa too." You whisper making her look at you.
"Would you like to watch him race this weekend?"
"You mean on the TV?" She asks.
"No, I mean how about we go and see him?" You suggest and her eyes light up.
"Really?!"
"Would you like that?"
"Yes, yes! And I can give him this!" She says excitedly and you chuckle at how sweet she is.
"Then we have a deal. Now, finish up your drawing and go wash your hands because dinner is almost ready okay?"
"Okay, mommy. Thank you"
Nothing can compare to the happiness you feel when you see your daughter happy. Both you and Charles would do anything for her, and that's why you decided to quickly run upstairs to your bedroom, turn the hoodie right side out.
When a print of an F1 car was visible on the black hoodie, you took a picture of it and sent it to Charles without any additional explanation, because you knew that everything would be clear as a day to him once he saw it.
After just a few minutes, your phone vibrated in your hands.
'Been looking for it for a while now..' Charles' message said.
'I really fucked up this time, didn't I?' He added.
'You kinda did.' You replied.
'I'm so sorry, y/n..'
'You're lucky your daughter adores you so much and you better send a plane for the two of us so we can make it to the race on time.'
Summary : Lando's little sister finally comes to his races but she's secretly talking to one of the drivers.
Chapters
The Drivers : Being Lando Norris' sister made it surprising that it was one of your only visits to the paddock. Ollie made sure to introduce you to all the drivers and show you about.
Dinner : Lando takes you out to dinner with some of the other drivers and he picks up on your nervous habit.
Ice Cream : Ollie takes you around the paddock for ice cream
Panic : Carlos is out ill and while Lando worries about him Ollie appears at your hotel room stressing because he now has to race
Quiet Dates - Ollie takes you on that first date because he won the bet. Takes you to a small cafe so your anxiety doesn't get the best of you and you can enjoy it
Race Day - Ollie's finally racing in Formula One, and you're there to calm his nerves and be with him
Boyfriend Duties - Ollie takes his boyfriend duties of looking after you very seriously. However, this causes you both to come clean to Lando about your relationship.
Bonus
He Won - Lando finally won his first ever Grand Prix
Synopsis: at some point of playing ‘never have I ever’, you make a bet that you could make all eight of your best friends cum within 10-15 minutes…and well, you did.
WC: 3.7k (I have issues)
Tags: PURE SMUT, afab!reader, softdom!chan, dom!minho, dom!changbin, softdom!hyunjin, sub!jisung, sub!felix, dom!seungmin, switch!jeongin, switch!reader, piv, unprotected sex (wrap the eggplant yall), same hole double penetration, ass smacking, squirting, begging, overstimulation, hair pulling, spitting, oral (f. receiving), lwk gangbang, praise (pretty, good girl), degradation (slut, whore), light dacryphilia, breeding kink, creampie, biting(?), grinding, pet names (baby, babe, princess, hun, darling, kitten, bun, etc), marking/hickey, probably forgetting some…sorry :P
a/n: this is so smutty i am so sorry…but yw 🫠
You don’t remember how exactly you ended up in this position…something about a bet, yet here you are, half-naked spread out on the floor with eight pairs of eyes burning into your body.
8 minutes earlier
“Never have I ever,” Minho pauses in thought, “nutted before my partner.”
“What the actual fuck Minho.” Seungmin grimaces, though he takes a swig of soju. “What?!” Minho shrugs defensively, “It makes the game more interesting.”
“That’s a fucking lie though.” Jisung snorts as he also takes a shot of soju. “And how would you know that?” You ask with a sly smirk.
“I’ve seen him watch porn,” He deadpans, which sends everyone into a fit of laughter.
“You wanna bet Ji?” Minho challenges.
“Y’all seriously aren’t about to jerk off right here…right?” Chan looks at them in disgust and then at the white shag carpet underneath them, “Why, you wanna join?” Minho pokes.
“I bet none of y’all virgins can stop yourselves from cumming as soon as someone touches you.”
“You wanna make that bet.” Changbin chimes in. You groan at them which catches their attention, “Do you have something to say princess?” Jisung raised his brows teasingly. You groan yet again at the nickname before saying, “I bet I could make all y’all cum in fifteen, maybe ten minutes.”
“You really wanna do this?” Hyunjin lifts your chin with his finger. “Hmm,” you hum, “if you guys cum before I do, a hundred…from each of you.”
“That’s eight hundred bucks!” Jeongin blurts out, you nod slyly. “And if we win?” Felix tilts his head. “Y’all can decide on that.” you state.
You move to get up, dragging your hoodie over your body and exposing your oversized shirt underneath. You turn around looking at the eight boys. “Are we doing this or not?”
Everyone unanimously agrees. It went so fast, the soju from the previous rounds probably getting to everybody’s heads and letting you carelessly make these decisions.
“Oh and rules-“ “RULES?!” Minho, Seungmin and Jisung cried out. “Guys it’s her body, she can make rules.” Felix interrupts their protests. “Thanks Lix,” You smile before continuing, “no touching…well to be more clear no touching me or yourselves…but I can touch you.”
“What?!” They all exclaimed in disappointment.
“It makes the game more interesting.” You shrug, spewing Minho’s previous words at them, the said boy shoots you a playful glare.
You glanced over at the digital clock that hung from the wall. 12:48.
Present
And well, that’s how you ended up here.
Your hand trails down your body stopping at your soaked panties before circling over your clit, toes curling at the feeling.
You stare up at the eight boys, their eyes dazed on your leaking cunt that stains your panties. You let out a moan as you hook your fingers around the material and slip it down your legs, exposing your now bare glistening cunt. You let a finger plunge into your heat, biting your lip. You lock eyes with Changbin, his knuckles gripping at his sweatpants, the outline of his cock bulging through the material. You bite your lip as you stare at his bulge.
The sound of a small whine prompts you to look over at another flustered and painfully hard boy. Jisung looks at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his lower lip is caught between his teeth. “Please, Y/N.”
“Well since you asked so nicely.” You coo, pulling your fingers out of your cunt and crawling ever so slowly towards the round cheeked boy. As you settle by his side, you purposefully arch your back and push your ass out so that the guys sitting criss crossed on the floor behind me have a nice view. You trail your fingers up his knee and towards his thigh
He shivered under your touch as you made your fingers dance along his inner thigh. A desperate whimper left his mouth as you pulled back teasingly and went back to your original spot on the shag carpet.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathed out, “you’re ethereal.” His usually perfectly sculpted face contoured into a needy look- yet through his desperation he still looked as beautiful as ever. You moan softly as his praise. “Oh, does our little slut like to be praised?” Minho said to your right, you turned to him and bit your lip, your legs instinctively closing as his degradation surged throughout your body. “Fuck and degration too.” Seungmin hums as your eyes trail to him.
The hot touch of a hand on your lower hips snapped you out of the trace that Seungmin had basically pulled you into. You look towards your right, and there Minho is, smirking as his hand squeezes at the curve of your ass. “Hey!” You slapped his hand away, “No touching!”
“You never said what would happen if we did though, kitten.” The stupid pet name had you squeezing your legs together even more, “Aw, such a filthy slut for us.”
“Shit he’s right,” Felix breathed out, “what happens if we do touch you?” Shit, you didn’t think this far ahead- fuck you don’t even remember what the prize of the bet was…or if there even was one. Why are you guys even doing this again? “Fuck,” Chan groans gently, “does this pretty little cunt of yours want to be filled, love?” You feel his rough hands cup your bare cunt, jerking at the sudden touch. “Y/N?” Jeongin’s soft voice cracked as he whined out your name. You hummed in response as you fought the urge to grind against Chan’s large hand. “Can we touch you now? Please.”
“Oh God,” You throw your head back with a moan as Chan teasingly slips a finger inside your glistening pussy, “fuck yes! Please Innie!”
With that Jeongin springs up to his feet and quickly makes his way towards you. At the corner of your eye, you see the other five move from their spot to get closer to you. “Fuck,” you moan, feeling Changbin’s hands run under your tshirt, lightly teasing your pebbled nipples, “why did we do this again?” A small chuckle resonated from Seungmin’s sweet lips, “Because you wanted to win a bet, right pup?”
You bite down on your lower lip, Jisung’s lips attaching themselves to your clit next to where Chan’s fingers are plummeted inside. Felix helps you out of your shirt as Hyunjin and Changbin each take one of your breasts into their mouth. It all happened so quickly and at the same time, you feel your climax nearing faster than ever. And just like that your release is stolen from you as the four boys pull away from your body. You whine out desperately, “I swear to fucking God if y’all do that again I’m leaving and finishing by myself!” You threaten, sitting up onto your knees.
“Okay, okay princess.” Jisung purrs as he tilts your head up by hooking his knuckle under your chin.
You whimper as he nears your face, “This okay?” you gulp and nod quickly and to that he just clicks his tongue, pulling back slightly. “Words babe.”
“Yes.” you sigh breathlessly, Jisung attaches his lips to yours ever so roughly, a pair of soft hands grab at your hips, placing you down onto their lap. Your legs slotted against your chest being held by the man whom you’re laying on, while the said man leaves butterfly kisses along the nape of your neck.
Chan slipped his fingers out of your cunt prompting you to whine but the feeling of something warm and wet poking at your clit causes the whine to turn into a gasp, Jisung takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.
Your thighs instinctively clench around the head that’s propped between them.
“So sweet.”
Jeongin muttered against your folds before slotting his tongue alongside it yet again. “Holy fuck Innie!” you throw your head back, lips detaching from Jisung’s, with an erotic moan, your head now resting on the shoulder of the man behind you. At this angle you catch a glimpse at the the man- fucking hell.
He sinks his teeth into your neck, though the action seems so rough he doesn’t bite down to the point where it hurts. “Fuck, keep her making those faces.” Felix bites his lip, his hand rubbing himself through his shorts. You whine, shutting your eyes as Jeongin continues to assault your throbbing cunt as Changbin moves into massage your breasts. “Look at you,” Minho purred into your ear as he started grinding his hardened cock against your ass, “being so obedient and submissive for everyone, just like the little slut you are.” You moan out at the overwhelming mixture of sensations; Hyunjin nibbling at your nipple, Jeongin’s tongue running up and down your folds, and Minho breathing dirty words into your ear while peppering your shoulder with kisses and love bites.
The cat eyed boy sneakily brings his hand to your cunt and smacks it slightly, not too hard but enough that it stung a little. “Fuck you,” you groan out as Minho massages your core, his fingers dipping further down towards where Jeongin’s face is buried. “No,” Minho tsked, “I’ll do the fucking.”
“Don’t be too rough on her Min.” Chan spoke, you glance over to him and he had his hand shoved down his pants. “She likes it.” Seungmin said confidently, “Right, whore?” You do nothing but whimper at his words meanwhile your body starts to shake slightly. “Answer with words pup.”
“God, fuck yes! I love it- please don’t stop.” You can feel Jeongin smirk against your heat.
Your eyes wandered to the boy next to Seungmin, his eyes stuck on mine as his pretty face scrunched up, his shorts rustling while his hand too was shoved inside, and his freckled cheeks flushed so very red. “Lix,” you gesture for him to move closer, almost immediately the freckled boy quickly rushed down from his spot on the couch and next to you on the floor. He looks at you with pleading eyes, “take it off.”
You grab at the hem of his shirt, he swiftly pulls it over his head awaiting your next instruction. You were about to ask him something but the feeling of a harsh bite on your inner thigh caused you to squeak out instead. Your head whips down to see Hyunjin licking at the skin he just bit. They’re moving so quickly you can barely keep up with who’s doing what.
“Can we fuck you already?” A voice said from your left, your head instinctively turning towards the source. Seungmin stared at you with prying eyes. “Kim Seungmin!” Chan lightly smacked his shoulder, “Let her choose, remember?” The oldest shakes his head at the younger. “Min,” You whimper from the stimulation. “Yeah?” Both Seungmin and Minho responded. “Lee.” Seungmin pouted as Minho leaned in closer, hooking his chin on your shoulder.
Though your senses are so overloaded, you snake your hands down the space between your bodies, shifting your hips up to grab at his hardened cock. Minho’s brows furrow as you stroke his clothed dick. “Desperate are we?” He smirks, “You want all eight of us tonight? Or just a few?” Chan questions, he’s so thoughtful and that makes your heart hammer in your chest. “All.”
”Fuck.” Each boy’s voice sounds throughout the room, they all stare at you with lust-filled eyes.
Your hand that’s still wrapped around Minho’s cock, begins pumping it. Minho hisses at the feeling, precum leaking from the tip. You tease his slit before shifting your hips in his lap. Lifting your hips, you grind down on his cock, your arousal coating his shaft.
“Oh, fucking hell.” Minho throws his head back erratically as his tip pokes at your clit, he could feel as you throbbed against him. He wanted nothing more than to slip inside you already. Unbeknownst to Minho, you gesture with your head for Hyunjin to move closer.
The taller boy obeys, moving into your space, sealing your lips against his. Hyunjin’s hands moved to your hips, gently- yet quickly- pushing you down onto Minho’s cock. Both you and Minho moan out as you clench around his girth.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so well, yeah slut.” Minho grunts before he slams his hips into you roughly, not even allowing you to adjust. “Min, not too rough.” Chan warned as you dug your nails into Hyunjin’s shoulder as he continued kissing you.
“Yeah, she’s still got all of us!” Jeongin whined from Chan’s left. You clench at Jeongin’s words, the thought of you having all eight of them tonight makes you spiral towards your climax. “Not yet kitten. Hold it off.” Minho snarled into your ear, his cock continuously hitting your gspot.
“Hyune.” You whined, reaching down to pump his cock, jerking him towards your pussy that is getting pounded into by Minho. “Shit, you want me too darling?” Hyunjin smirked, his eyes gazing down towards where you and Minho are connected, where you’re pulling him towards.
You hastily nod, nothing but whimpers and moans spilling out from your mouth. Hyunjin shoots Minho a look over your shoulder, the latter smirks at him, taking your thighs and pushing them farther back to give space to Hyunjin.
Hyunjin’s tip pokes at your entrance before he pushes in. The stretch didn’t hurt too bad, but it was enough for tears to prickle in your eyes. As Hyunjin and Minho fucked into you, tears finally fell, cascading down your cheeks from the mixture pleasure and pain.
“Aw, don’t cry bun.” You hear Changbin coo. The built man moving over to you, kissing the tear stains on your cheeks. “They making you feel that good?” He gives a sly raise of his brow, his bottom lips jutting out. “F-Fuck Binnie.” You moan, you can feel both Minho and Hyunjin twitching inside you.
A harsh slap stings on your ass as Minho rubs at the now red spot. “I’m so close princess, can I fill you up?” Hyunjin grunts against your neck. “Yes, God, please, Hyune.” Your body begins to shake as Hyunjin spills into you, Minho following close after at the feeling of your clenching and Hyunjin’s cum coating his cock.
Jisung pushes Changbin out of his way before helping you up off of Minho and Hyunjin’s sweaty bodies, greedily taking you towards the sofa, sitting down and playing you on his lap. Jisung’s cock slips in with ease after being stretched out by Minho and Hyunjin.
You melt into Jisung touch as his hands guide you to roll your hips. His hands make their way towards your ass, spreading your cheeks apart revealing your swollen cunt to the boys behind you.
“Fuck you’re so warm baby.” Jisung groans into your ear. Suddenly another pair of hands are on you, massaging at your hips before rutting his cock between your ass. “Can I have a turn hun?” You hear Felix hum behind you.
You turn your head and give him a weak smile as a go ahead. With that Felix slips his cock alongside Jisung’s, both boys moaning at the feeling. Having almost orgasmed earlier, you feel it build up quicker than last time. Your thighs began quaking as Jisung bucked his hips and Felix thrusted into you.
Your hands shoot up to Felix’s blonde hair, tugging at it when the two boys hit your gspot directly. Felix released a low whimper, “Darling please, I won’t- last long if you do that.” He stumbled over his words, his freckled cheeks a deep pink hue.
You decide to tease the boy, clenching down on his (and Jisung’s) cock, pulling at his hair. You feel as he twitched inside of you before unexpectedly releasing. The freckled boy’s face scrunched up in pleasure as he leaned his forehead against yours as Jisung thrusted into you a few more times before emptying himself into you as well.
“Holy shit.” Felix shook, biting his lower lip before slowing his thrusts, robbing you from your orgasm again. “Save it for me, yeah love?” You heard Chan chuckle to your right. You turn to look at him, flinching when Felix and Jisung ease out of your clenching cunt.
Jeongin helps you off of the other’s bodies. He holds you up when your legs threaten to give out on you. Holding you by the waist, his pretty brown eyes flicker down to your lips, hesitant to lean in. You chuckle before cupping his cheeks and pulling his lips towards yours.
Jeongin groans into the kiss as he grinds his clothed erection into your hips. He pulls away, an embarrassed flush taking over his cheeks. You chuckle before setting him on the sofa like the other had been previously positioned.
Throwing your legs around his lap, you straddled the flustered boy under you. “This okay Innie?” You asked, even though you’ve already crossed that friendship line with him having already eaten you out, you still wanted to make sure he was okay with this.
“Oh fuck yeah I’m okay.” Jeongin grinned, his hands immediately roaming your breasts, squeezing and massaging at the flesh. You hastily undo the zipper of his jeans before tugging his cock out of the slacks. Jeongin hissed at your touch.
Suddenly a hot sting spread through your ass. You whimpered at the slight pain, turning over to see Seungmin glaring down at you. “Bend.” Jeongin stared up at the elder and you in a daze. You leaned as much as you could onto Jeongin before another slap landed on your ass.
A moan echoing from your mouth. With you moaning into his ear, Jeongin grew impatient, grabbing his cock before pressing inside of you. The mixture of the slaps and Jeongin’s cock filling you up made your back arch.
Before you could even begin to process what was happening, Seungmin rammed his cock inside your sopping cunt. You practically scream from the sudden intrusion, nails digging into Jeongin’s shoulders.
The two youngest boys out of your friends absolutely railed you, both stopping whenever your moans would pitch and you would start squeezing their cocks uncontrollably. “Minnie, Innie- let me please, I’m so close.” You cried, that knot in your stomach so tight that it almost hurt.
“You think you deserve it, after driving us all into this stupid bet, you whore?” Seungmin snarled, grabbing your hair and pulling your head backwards, “Open.” You oblige, parting your lips, lolling your tongue out as you understood what the man was hinting at. Seungmin let a drop of saliva fall from his mouth and into yours before harshly pushing your head back towards Jeongin’s neck.
The two boys continued using your cunt until they were spurting out warm ropes into you. Yet again you were robbed from your orgasm as the two roughly filled up your cunt.
“Fuck, you did so well pup.” Seungmin panted against the nape of your neck, leaving a small kiss there before slipping out of your pussy. When you pulled away from Jeongin’s sweaty body, he stared up at you with a wide grin and a dazed look, he looked absolutely fucked out.
Changbin helps you off the boys before pushing Jeongin off the couch and getting comfortable in that same spot, pulling you onto his lap. “You wanna take a breather?” Chan asked, crouching down to your seated level. “No…just…please, I’m so close.”
Changbin chuckled from behind you, guiding you to straddle him in reverse. You sink onto Changbin’s thick cock, the built man’s hands flying to your tits, holding and squeezing them as they bounce with your movements.
You peer through your eyelashes, raising your brow at Chan, insinuating for him to hurry up and fuck you. The oldest of the eight chuckles before slipping his cock out of his pants. “Gonna fill you up so good, yeah baby?” He says before sliding right inside your stretched out pussy.
“Holy mother of fuck!” You cursed, the stretch of Changbin was already overwhelming- but now adding on Chan’s way above average length…you don’t think you’ll be able to walk tomorrow.
Changbin thrusted harshly from underneath you, roughly pinching at your nipples. “Fuck bun, your squeezing us so much, might just bust right now.”
You loll your head back into his shoulder, “Bin…fuck- Binnie please.” You beg, your arms moving to tug at his wavy hair.
“Shit,” he huffed, his cock twitching inside you as he fastened his speed. Chan just watched as Changbin rammed into your cunt alongside his. The intense feeling of Changbin railing into you from underneath had you reeling, though the sudden circling of your clit made your orgasm finally hit you.
Liquid squirting out of you as you cried out, before Changbin released inside of you, Chan now picking up his pace, edging towards his climax.
“I know love, I’m sorry…just a few more.” Chan cooed as you whimpered from the overstimulation, he continued railing into you, not stopping when Changbin had pulled out of you.
Chan nuzzled his face into your neck, leaving kisses and sucking at the skin there. “Almost there love, gonna fill you up so good, yeah. You’ve been such a good girl for us.” His praise had you crying out, squeezing around his cock. At that Chan finally came, filling you up with his warm release.
Chan slowly eased out of you before gently moving you to lay on the less dirty part of the couch.
“Imma go get the towels.” A voice you’re not even sure who’s said. “I’ll get her some water.” Another stated.
Sometime later, Felix returned with some damp warm towels. As he wiped your lower region, you flinched at the sensitivity. “I’m sorry darling, almost done.”
A sudden hand gently raised your head from the back, supporting you to sit up. “You okay? We didn’t go too rough on you, right?” Seungmin asked as Minho handed you a glass of water. You took the glass with an appreciative smile.
“You guys were fine- oh.”
“Oh?” Hyunjin smiled in confusion. “The time.” You said pointing at the digital clock. 1:03. Exactly fifteen minutes.
“I win.” Some of the boys groaned while some chuckled, a bet is a bet after all.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ pair. music professor! chris x fem! reader | genre. teacher/student, chris’ pov, age gap, smut, dark romance, angst | warnings. power imbalance, obsession, flawed characters, profanity, unprotected sex, use of pet names, dirty talk, graphic sexual content — mdni ! | word count. 8.1k
𐙚˙⋆.˚ synopsis. I’m too weak to let you be, to walk away from you. It’s a twisted, distorted thing, what’s going on inside me. I see no end to it, no relief. Only suffering. I did this to you, my heart, and I cannot apologize. I don’t want to. I’m jealous, I’m jealous, I’m wretched.
I watch you.
That’s a new dress. You walk different in it, your hips sway like you want everyone to notice, and they fucking have. I have. It’s hard not to when you’re so oblivious to your wanting, but I know you, I know what you want. There’s a scarf wrapped around your hair, and the boots you wear make you almost as tall as me, bring you up to my shoulders. I’m jealous of your calves, how they get to carry you all throughout the day, how they lay down with you at night. Your eyes, how they stare at you from every reflection, attached to you, able to see every inch of you from up close.
I’m jealous of your hands, how they brush through your hair as you sit down on the chair across from my desk, the chair you’ve been sitting at for three semesters now, the best view I get to have of you. The only time I’m able to be so close to you without anyone’s suspicion, the only time you’re required to answer to me and all my questions. I have so many of those, but I want to start with your skin. Is it as soft as it looks? When the air blows your way, how would you feel under my palm, shivering, a million tiny goosebumps rising on the surface?
You’re talking to the girl that trails you like a lost puppy, not quite a friend, always around you, yet suddenly I’m glad, because you laugh at something she said, a sound so clear, so light, it lifts the furniture and cures the wood, it builds the room and covers the cracks, pure fucking magic, until all is right again, until I am left with a gaping wound where that beautiful sound nests when it’s gone from the air. It suspends in my head and I let it. I can’t take my eyes off you. You command everything.
Satie is in your hand, what we’re studying, the copy I gave you, my personal one, with all my marks and annotations. You treat the pages carefully, aware of my watching you, yet you don’t turn to me once. You won’t look at me at all. A beast rattles inside me, begging to grab you, to hold you, to never let go. I haven’t seen you in private for weeks and I’m mad with desire, the urge to bury into your sweet cunt and wrap my hand around your warm throat, feel the pulse there, see the gasp of your mouth, the red of your tongue, your eyes on me, me, me, afraid of what I can do, of the power you give me over you, your attention, the hollow ache in my chest; I’m angry at you for being happy without me while I’m being tormented by your absence, no matter how small, no matter how big, and you still won’t fucking look at me.
(Y/N). I think of your name how I think of God. This mythical creature that has the ability to save me. Will you? (Y/N). Look at me. Look at me.
“I am tired of always dying with a broken heart.” I speak this from memory and stare directly at the boy who’s been tailing you lately. A mediocre student, unremarkable. Nothing at all.
You can’t possibly entertain him, I’ve already told you this. He doesn’t see you, couldn’t possibly. He’ll fuck you once—even at merely the thought of this I bristle, I want to crack his fucking head open—and move onto the next pretty thing, blind to you, to what you are, to all you have yet to become. It’s unbearable to me that no one seems to realize how incredible you are; your mind, vast in all directions, insightful, and your music compositions, profound and disturbing, the little I’ve taught you and all that you’ve taught me, the way you hold the pen between your fingers, how you curl around your notebook, the way your eyes skim the pages I’ve toiled over for five years, six more prior to becoming a professor, all leading to the beginning of this school year, how you walked in my class and brought me to my knees.
“So dramatic,” someone in the back mumbles. Someone else giggles, a girl I had last year. Mundane.
I wait for your reaction, but it never comes. You stare pointedly down at my book and ignore me. You’re gonna force me to get your attention some way else. You’re punishing me for something, and I’ve no fucking clue what. You want this. Me. Begging for you. Risking everything. My God, look at your wrists, so goddamn delicate, so small. I picture wrapping my hand around them how I did the first time I stopped you from leaving, I picture myself shaking you, demanding to know what’s wrong, making you see how you make my heart bleed.
I need to know you’re okay. I need you to look at me.
“Satie was an absurdly spiritual composer for his time,” I explain, leaning against my desk, crossing my ankles, my arms over my chest. One glance at everyone else, then I stop at you. I speak to you. Let me in. Let me see you, (Y/N). “A very solitary man that was capable of inventing his own religion in order to break further from society. A character like that would be a tad dramatic, albeit entirely genius, yes?”
“How do we study this guy? There’s nothing to learn from his techniques!” Your friend shook her head, slamming the book in front of her shut. “Child’s play. Overly simplistic. Only two noteworthy compositions in an entire career. Seriously, does anyone know anything besides Gymnopedies by him?”
“Gnossiennes,” another deadpanned. “Your point is shallow. He changed the tides. Music before the work you mention was entirely different from what it was after. Debussy, Poulenc, Ravel—all legendary figures that were deeply impressed by his so-called simplified style.”
A few heads nod in agreement. You remain still as ever, unmovable. What is in that brilliant little brain of yours? Why won’t you share with me? I know you best of all, I’d understand anything. Tell me. Tell me how a girl ruined an already troubled man, and we’re studying it a hundred and thirty-one years later. Tell me about obsession that rules over the mind, of the living digging graves of the dead and hugging their bones, of loneliness so haggard it chokes the air from my fucking lungs. Let me in, and I’ll point at you, my Suzanne Valadon.
“He fell in love once,” barely a sound, barely anything, yet it’s all I hear. I focus on your voice, the lull of it. Your castrating words, my baby. You’re here. You’re burning alive.
“He did.” I jump at the opportunity to talk to you in public. I’d give my blackened soul to hold your hand, to walk you to class. They’ll paint me a monster, but I’d be yours, I wouldn’t care. They’d whisper scandal, unethical, but I’d have stood next to you, defending what I feel for you, knowing very well they’ve only seen a sliver of my monstrous need for you.
This is not enough for me, but I can’t ask for any more of it.
“They tie many meanings to us, meanings that forsaken them, per their request. Satie loved Suzanne, but only because she was the only woman that ever paid him any attention. He wanted to possess her, so that he’d never be alone. It was a selfish love, barely a love at all, more like a torn house looking for an exorcist.”
There you go. Come on. Fight with me on this. Let me hear your voice, wash over me.
“You cannot fault a man, a man of music no less, for the way he loves. We are wicked by nature, we do not possess the softness you do. Even then, Valadon was a painter, as wildly eccentric as him. She refused to be put in a box. She saw only a mirror, and in that way, she saw herself. You could say her love was narcissistic.”
“Bonjour, Biqui, bonjour!” I hear somewhere from the side, but I only see you. I'm tuned in to you, your opinion about what I have to say.
I only ever care about what you think. When I grade your papers, my hands tremble to touch something so precious as your mind. I am the weakest man when it comes to you, I cave in like a house of cards. Pick me up and shuffle me. Toss me across the table, face down. Only use me, let me feel you. Visions of my cock entering you render me blind. Your voice, then. My name on your mouth as I push all the way in, right there on your desk, lights off, door locked. I can’t see no one but you, (Y/N), I’m tortured by the memories.
Can I see you after this? Will you stay? Will you let me lock the door again?
Your eyes scorch me. They light me on fire and leave me to die, I can’t bear the heat of them. How have I wronged you? What did I do to get your hate? And if this is it, then give me all of it, let it be the last thing before an afterlife wandering through a black forest, cursed with only the echo of you. I love you insane, battered and bruised. I love you with a dying breath, a horrible ending.
“Perhaps,” you say and it takes all of my willpower not to crawl to you. “Perhaps they deserved each other, in all their terrible love. Him obsessed, her always leaving. She got married to a banker. He wrote a twenty-eight second, four bar song, after all the portraits and love notes.”
You’re humiliating me. This. What I feel for you. You haven’t been in my office in days, you’ve become a stranger to your soul, and now you come back and shame me. You’ve found someone else. Who is he? Have I seen him? I’ll fucking end him. I’ll kill him, I swear. Don’t fucking test me. You don’t want to see that part of me, you don’t want to see what I’m capable of doing for you.
“‘Her whole being, lovely eyes, gentle hands,’” You pin me down, you stab into me. “We enter the Romantic Era, page two hundred and seventy-nine. Known characteristics of this movement: a greater emphasis on melody to sustain interest, a focus on the nocturnal, the ghostly, and terrifying…”
I go the entire lecture desperately trying not to stare at your face, that beautiful openness you offered me now tightly shut, entirely passive. How do I survive this, even as I know I am a grown man and should not think this way. I cannot, for the life of me, remember who I was before you walked in this room, what I was doing, why, there was no reason; you, you, you, I was waiting, maybe, an empty train station, and you the flying bullet train, cutting oxygen supply as you passed in front of me, making your stop slowly then all at once, sighing into me, giving me back my life or a semblance of it.
I assign passages and give examples, muscle memory on the piano; I grill the fucking kid that has a crush on you, I make his life miserable, and I think, that’s it, that’s right. You do it to me. You do it to me so easily. This is how it is to love her, man. You’re not made for it, but I am. I’ve survived, and she’ll acknowledge it. I’ll make her.
I sound childish to myself, petty. Truth is, you’re mine. You’re fucking mine. You can’t do this to me.
You jot down notes, you burn through the board, you raise your hand and say all the correct answers, picture perfect student, and I’m as good as dead to you. I’ve been inside you, baby, you can’t forget that. I’ve felt your warm slick clamp around my cock, I’ve had your mouth on my neck moaning my name. You can’t get rid of me. I can’t rid myself of you.
I dismiss the class at eleven sharp, and call you to me. A minute, I say, about the extra credit, even as your friend eyes me, even as the boy glares at me, even as rumors have started to circulate. She’s fucking the teacher, it’s obvious. She’s with him all the time. Except you’re not, not even close, not nearly as much as I want you to be. If I had it my way, I’d hold you to me so tight you’d become an extension of me, unable to escape me whenever you feel like.
I wait until everyone exits, then inconspicuously close the door half way, grab your arm and drag you all the way to the other side of the room. You don’t put up a fight, but your dress has risen on your hips, and I’m suddenly furious. I pull at it and trap you against me and the wall. The lack of reaction sickens me. How is it possible I’ve lost you already?
“What the fuck have I done to you that was so bad, huh?” I speak low so only you can hear, but I’m boiling inside, I’m as dangerous as I’m hurt.
I want to fuck you senseless. Dead. I want to kill you. I want to bury inside you so deep I can’t ever get out. Your breathing pattern changes, you must see it on my face. I don’t feel like being fucked with right now. You’re scared of me, but not really. I would never hurt you. It’s all fantasies, all obsession. I can’t bear the thought of losing you is all, but I need to know what’s going on. This has cost me, it will cost me even more.
I grab you by the hair, tug softly at the ends, and your chin lifts. I trace it. Your eyes widen a fraction but you don’t give in, not yet. I press my erection against you, I breathe like a wild animal. You’re so small in my arms, I could do whatever I want with you. You’d let me. You have already. I just need to find that girl in you again, pull her out.
“I won’t be the teacher’s slut,” you spit out, your lips cherry red and begging to be kissed.
“Too fucking late, isn’t it?”
You try to push me away but I keep you there, your wrists above your head, your face close to mine. I’m lost on you, my mouth goes for the soft skin of your earlobe, I suck on it and feel you melt, I move to your neck and you let me, you’re rubbing your thighs together, you’re begging for friction. I have to close the door. I have to close the door and make sure I’m quick. Classes are still in session on this side of the building. I can’t let myself get sloppy. I’m not gonna risk losing this.
I bite on your neck and you gasp. I’m hard for you. My free hand reaches under your dress, cups you over the thin fabric of your underwear. Wet, goddamn soaked. A string of curses escapes me, as I glance back at the door.
“Stay here, don’t fucking move.”
I take four long strides and lock the damned thing separating us and them, though I know I still have to be quick with you. I held you back in front of the entire class. It’s already been a considerable amount of time for a simple back and forth.
“I can come back later,” you say as I near you again. “After hours.”
In my office, where it’s private and secluded. Where no one will interrupt us or hear us. What you’re suggesting is more sane than what I want to do right now. The logical part of my brain wants to agree. The rest of me lifts your dress and shoves two fingers where I know you want them the most. You writhe against me, and hook your thigh around my hip, opening. That’s it. I knew that’s all you needed. It’d been too long, that was all. I just had to show you how good it is again.
There’s my good girl. Fucking yourself on my digits, your cunt throbbing for my cock.
“I need you, please, please, please, please…”
I cup your breast in my palm, free your nipple with my teeth and bite on it. You hiss, and say my name. I almost finish in my pants, hearing that filthy mouth mutter my name, but your hands are quicker, they’re unzipping and pulling me out, red veins popping, leaking precum, hard as a fucking rock. I want to tear you apart, I want you to feel me for days after.
You jump in my arms and I lift you up. You guide me inside, and I slip into you so easily. A well rehearsed game between us, how fast we can fuck, the thrill of getting caught too great, the adrenaline rushing through my veins pistoling through you, and I pump, I fuck your little soaking cunt until you’re a blabbering mess, until all you can moan is yes yes yes, just like that, right there, right there, and I know where that is, I got you, I’ll take care of you, I’ve done it so many times before.
Where did you think of going? No one can give this to you better than me. You love my cock. There’s no other girl that will do it for me like you do. I tell you this, my forehead dropping to meet yours, your mouth seeking mine. I kiss you, my tongue tasting the strawberry bubblegum you were chewing on earlier, my dick impossibly hard. You’re milking me dry, you’re so horny, I never want to stop, (Y/N).
“I’ll never get sick of how your body responds to me, baby. Come on. I know you’re close.”
You get so whiny when you’re on the verge, your voice raspy from all the hard breathing, and I meet you thrust to thrust, I fuck into you with all I have until I shoot inside you, until my arms give out and I have to lay you on the closest desk, and still I don’t stop, I keep going until I feel your cream, until I reach between us and shove it all inside you, three fingers this time, then kneel down and taste us. You’re so far gone by that point, and I’m distantly aware that we’ve overstayed our time.
I can’t bring myself to care. I want you. I want you so much, my heart is screaming at me. I need to eat you out until you’re coming apart for me again. My hand shoots up and grabs your throat to pull you to sit up, rough, how you like it. Your face is flushed, your hair a mess. I’m proud I got you looking this way. My seed will be inside you for days, you won’t be able to wash it out. I lift your dress once more, your smooth, swollen cunt fucked nice and raw, before I give it a stern slap and bring your underwear over your other leg, dressing you.
We smell like sex. I know we’re not careful anymore. I can’t bring myself to care. Sometimes it happens, it’s a good enough excuse. This, between us. Especially between us. We’re two consenting adults. There was no way to escape you. There was nothing I could’ve done. You grew roots inside me and have been growing ever since.
“Come visit me tonight,” I tell you as I walk you to the door. I unlock briskly, and look outside, left then right.
No one within earshot.
“Perhaps we should…” I look at you. Whatever’s in my gaze, makes you pause. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t get a reputation, Chris. I won’t.”
“Two minutes ago you told me to call you a good-for-nothing fucking whore as I fucked you dumb. I think we’re past lying to ourselves, yeah, baby?”
You blush and look down. “I just…”
“Do I need to put you on all fours?”
“That’s not fair. You can’t wave sex in my face and get me to stay.”
I retreat like a wounded dog at your feet. “Is that what I’m doing?” I ask you honestly, Heaven and Hell fighting inside me. Yes, one side says while the other soothes, you’ve done only what you know. You’ve been desperate, clinging onto whatever scraps she throws at you.
You kiss me suddenly, your hand resting on the nape of my neck, pulling me down. I move away a burned man. The door is wide open. You study my reaction and sigh. I can’t help but feel this was some sort of test and I just failed terribly.
I have more to lose than you, a regrettable and bitter realization. If the board takes this entirely the wrong way, I could get fired and my license suspended. The power imbalance is too much. If I can’t teach, I won’t be able to see you how I want to. You’ll be here and I’ll be God knows where. You want to protect me. I haven’t been doing the same. I’ve been taking and taking, I’ve been the selfish one.
“Go,” I whisper. “Leave.”
“Chris…we can still—”
“For fuck’s sake, do what you’re told for once!”
You run away from me faster than you ever have before. And for once, I don’t feel like stopping you. My body is another story. My hands tremble at my sides, my fists clenched so tight I’m afraid to move.
I want to hit something. Anything. I want you back here, telling me it’s okay, no one will know, not if we’re careful, not if we keep our distance otherwise. How I say yes, yes, as long as I get to have you like this, as long as I can get lost in you, and how I lay you down, how I never once thought of the consequences then.
Night comes, and we’re back to this. You, knocking softly on my door, and me, forever answering to your summoning, forever bound by the chains that lead only to you. The hallways are dark, the rest of the faculty having locked up long before, probably enjoying dinner in the common room, wondering once again where I am, why I never join them, how I’m no better than the rest, despite teaching Music Theory at one of the oldest universities at my twenty-nine years. I’ve earned my time of solitude. I don’t need to answer to anyone.
Anyone but you, (Y/N).
I hug you to me, and pull you inside, locking behind us. You’re tender in my hands, so impossibly soft, and I feel your melancholy mood, your glistening eyes, full of unshed tears. I wipe at them, I kiss them until they’re mine, I pacify you by whispering your name, very very quietly, my baby girl, so I can convince you that this is real, that you will never lose me, that I have nowhere else to go but you. That I would choose you over and over, that I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you doubt this singular truth.
How I regret meeting you under these circumstances, and if I had it my way, we’d be moving in together by now, we’d be browsing for a couch and a dining table. You laugh at that and call me silly. I don’t care. I got you to laugh, I shook the dreaded uncertainty away. I would do anything for you, my heart.
I sit you down in my chair and get on my knees. Your hand reaches out and I keep mine at your hips, afraid of all the things I want to do to you, with you. Your skirt is black, it reaches just above your knee; all that expanse of naked skin, smooth and unbearable. I rest my head on your lap, the stubble of my jaw rubbing against it, and you shiver, your breath turning quick, excited to have me so close to your core.
“Did you shower?” I ask you, getting hard at the thought of you walking around all day with my scent on every inch of you.
I feel you shake your head, and I smile, kissing the side of your thigh, fingers roaming down down down, the curve of your calf, down down down, your ankle, the delicate bone there. I stretch your leg and kiss all that I can. I smell your arousal, I’m so close to where I wanna be. You exhale a small breath, and I look at you. Your eyes have gone dark, wanting. My baby. I know you. I got you.
“Take your jacket off, let me see you.”
You comply, and I give you time. I make space in my desk, I turn off the lamp, I drench you in absence. All the while my need grows savage, my stomach knots. I feel like a fucking teenager, so eager to slip into warm pussy and never come out. Your warm pussy. For me, only yours.
When I turn around again, you’re taking off your skirt. No underwear. My body goes taunt, I all but fucking growl, as I grab you and smash our mouths together. My fucking girl, mine mine mine, you exist only for me, I’m going to fuck you so good, I’m going to eat you alive.
“I did it for you,” you mumble on my skin, shy, and I put you on the desk, open your legs wide. “I’ve never done it before.”
I dive right into the heat of you. Wet and sweet and slightly musky. So filthy. I love you, every part of me beats this. I love you like this, I love you, I love you. I suck your clit in my mouth, nibble it, bite it. You gasp and moan and move, your fingers in my hair, pushing me away, pulling me closer. You’re a tide, I’m at your mercy. My tongue slips in your hole, and I get to fuck you like this too. I’m so lucky. I’m so fucking privileged that it’s you under me. No one will ever compare again.
You’ve ruined me for everyone else.
What we do after this—you come, violent and thrashing, and I drink every last drop, a thirsty beast at your feet, under trance, under powerful spells and your smell, your smell, baby, your juices. I’m parched. I can’t get enough, I’m greedy, I ache all over; I pull you up and I kiss you. I kiss you and I die. You want to get down, you say, you want me in your mouth. You’re so impatient, so hungry, my love. I deny you nothing.
I grab your hair into a makeshift ponytail and let you undress me. Your fingers, working my buttons, lowering, stroking—I close my eyes, the picture of you etched behind my eyelids—I see you, stuffed with cock, slurped cunt satiated; you’re orgasmic, baby, I contemplate shoving your face on my carpet and taking you from behind, tight and ready for me. I groan, fuck your face until I see white, slapping your red cheeks, spitting in your mouth and shoving myself back in there. You’ve unlocked something primal in me and you’re enabling it, because you love having sex like this, you love being told what to do, you love being manhandled.
At the sight of you crying, I bust. You swallow everything. “Fuck, baby, god fucking damn me…” as I get on your level and wipe your face, lick the salt off your tears, bruise your lips. I take you in my arms and you fall against me, exhausted. I lay you down slowly, an angel being consumed by sin, me the devil, the defiler, and for a moment I’m ashamed; I took you a sophomore, music only your minor, literature your true passion, where your loyalty lied, and I changed your entire plan. I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to keep seeing you, to hear more of what you have to say, to witness it first hand, mere steps from you, so close I could touch, so close I could reach you.
The piano lessons I gave you in those first months, the stolen touches, glimpses of your profile as you learned the keys, as I explained the five finger scale, and then your first song, your second, the way you kept getting better and better, the fastest student I’ve ever had, your ability to write music with no idea how to play it. Teaching you was falling in love with you. It couldn’t have happened any other way. As I stare at you underneath me, hair fanning around your fucked out face, all I wanna do is lay next to you and fall asleep.
Watching you sleep. Being next to you, trusting me with your eyes closed—I can’t have it like this. You’ve never stayed the night. I’ve never let you. It’s my responsibility to keep you safe from what I’ve dragged you into. It can only go so far until I stop it. I do it with my heart breaking, an open cage. This emotion slams into me, like I’m holding you back from some amazing thing somewhere else, anywhere else, like you could have more; all this could ever be is this dark room with the lock in place, the piano on the side, quiet, in the dead of nothing. You’re attached to a ghost, you love no one.
I’m jealous of your shadow, how it follows you around unbothered, with no shame. My head would hang, a pariah paraded, they’d throw stones, scream names. It’d be all they see, all they’d talk about—see this girl, she’d disappear every evening, and after class, yeah, so many people saw her, she’d chase after him like a lost puppy, what a strange thing—but it was me chasing, it’s me lost, the sick dog begging at your doorstep, the stranger, the disturbing.
“Chris?”
I dig my nails in your hips and lift you up, flip you around, press on your back, your ass flush against my hardening length. I refuse to let you see the monster. I’m too weak to let you be, to walk away from you. It’s a twisted, distorted thing, what’s going on inside me. I see no end to it, no relief. Only suffering. I did this to you, my heart, and I cannot apologize. I don’t want to. I’m jealous, I’m jealous, I’m wretched.
You reach and grab me from behind, rubbing your slick, coating me in your wetness. I’m in shambles, baby, and can’t you tell? You hold me by the balls. I can’t see anything but you. I’m dying. You’re killing me. I enter you, dripping, bleeding. You whimper, backing up to meet me, and I bottom out. Being inside you like this, I’m burning in the last circle of hell. There’s nothing as agonizing, no form of torture more severe.
It’s here, like this, when I can truly lose myself entirely, where I can let go of any inhibitions; I am not a professor or a member of fuck all, or even a person, I’m nowhere near a man, surely, instead almost completely animal, because I fuck you, I’m getting what I want, I pistol into you, a mad thing, a predator, and I lean my body to cover yours, my mouth breathing hot over your ear, and you’re whining, you’re sobbing onto the carpet, where I’ve taken you over and over and over again, my perfect fucking girl, perfect little whore, how you fucking like it, yeah, just like this, helpless, desperate—yes, yes, please, please, God—I’m going to fucking ruin you, (Y/N), feel this fucking cock, so fucking full of me, baby—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come, Chris, don’t stop, please, please, please—
“Stop begging,” I groan into your skin, biting your shoulder, lifting you entire as I shove myself in you. “Stop fucking begging. Clamp me. Drain me, baby, come on.”
“I can’t, I can’t—”
I’m digging into you, I’m scavenging, exorcizing. This is the roughest I’ve ever had you, and you’re taking it all so well. I’m swelling with pride, I feel so deeply for how your body receives me that I can’t hold out any longer. You let me come inside every time. I know you’re on the pill, but my mind races, primal instincts and caveman thoughts—you, swollen with my child, naked, always naked, as I slowly make love to you, staring into the face of my truth, my only right, the only thing I can never regret—you’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts.
“I love the way your come drips down my thighs,” you say breathless, lost in your lust. I’m still moving inside you, still so fucking horny for you. “I sound insane.”
I collapse next to you, but keep your back tight against my chest, lifting your leg to keep fucking into your warmth, unable to stop. Sweat runs down my brow. I’m never not impossibly hard for you. No matter how many times I have you, no matter how aggressive I am, how brutal—you take it all, you fucking amazing girl. My death.
“Tell me,” I rasp. “I could do this all night, (Y/N). Say the fucking word.”
You tilt your neck and kiss me. I salvage your mouth, run my tongue over the roof of it, and your hole engulfs me. Your pussy tightens, refuses to let go.
“Keep fucking me,” you whisper, avoiding my eyes, embarrassed. “I’m so close, Chris.”
“Tell me what you need, baby. Let me hear you.”
You mewl, and turn away from me. I quicken my pace again, this position allowing me to get deeper, and I do, I ram into you hard and fast, just how you like it, and your voice propels me, it drives me crazy, it wraps my arm around your neck and chokes.
“Your cock…I need it so bad, I crave it every night…please, Chris, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop…”
“That’s my fucking girl. Come on, baby, come on…”
I need to fucking taste you, I can’t wait any longer. I slip out of you, your wail of protest loud enough that I have to slap my palm over your mouth, slap your fucking face for disobeying the one rule I’ve set for you.
And then I dive right into your raw cunt. I slurp and lick and lap, so wet I have to reach down and stroke my dick, the sound of you so fucking filthy it’s pornographic. I growl and spit on my palm, masturbating to the sight in front of me. You climax with a gasp, and I persevere through all of it, keeping you still, but desperate for a last dip.
Once, twice, I slam back inside, and scramble to come on your stomach, thick spurts shooting out, my vision blurry, my chest heavy. A fucking mirage, covered in my cum, spent and destroyed. I love you. I love you.
“I’m goddamned obsessed with you,” I confess, falling back on my heels, breathing ruggedly, running a hand through my hair. You’re a mess all over. My fucking cumdoll. “I am a ruined man, (Y/N). I can’t think of nothing else except this. How I can spend the most amount of my time inside you.”
You laugh, and bite your lip, closing your legs on me. I slap them open, stare at what I created, a visceral feeling tearing through me. I want to cut you down, slip myself inside you, wear your skin as mine. I’m the insane one, not you. You were made to want, while my wishes condemn me.
“You’re never fucking leaving me,” I’m not proud to admit this toxic, acid thought. “I won’t survive it if you do. You’re stuck, do you understand? I’m not going to apologize, and I’ll never mention it again, but,” I rub my thumb on the inside of your thigh, braving a glance at your spent face. You’re scared, you love me. You’re afraid of the fact. “What we have… it’s not fucking normal, (Y/N). I can barely explain it myself. I need to fucking possess you, baby; I have terrible, god-forsaken thoughts of—of crawling inside your bones and carving a place for me there, a place I can never escape.”
I kiss your wet cheeks and wrap myself around you. I rest my head on your stomach, and close my burning eyes; I listen to your heartbeat, your deep breathing. You’re falling asleep, but still, your fingers reach down and soothe my demons away. I’m so devastated by you, (Y/N). I have ruined my entire life to have you. It is the highest form of happiness, the worst imaginable punishment. I need you like I need my own breath.
I drift off with my cock erect, and tears running down my face. It will never be easy, will it? Being close to you.
It shakes the very fucking foundation of me.
They find out eventually, as we always knew they would.
The board of trustees propose a meeting, a formality, really, since I’m well aware of the rules of the school, and the ethical standpoint of these kinds of things. I’m the big bad monster that seduced you, and you hold no power over me. What do they fucking know, as I stare each of them in the eye and accept their decision. What do they fucking know. You haven’t come to class in four days. Are you okay? Are you embarrassed of us?
“Seeing as you are both adults, I’m sure we can end this unfortunate event amicably. Miss (Y/L/N) will willingly withdraw from your class, and you will be taking an extensive absence of leave for the rest of the semester. The council’s vote was unanimous on this—as a brilliant established member of the university, and a graduate of it, as such, we find it a grave disadvantage to us to let you go. Therefore, an exception has been made. Do you agree with this?”
I have no choice. I pray for whoever tipped off the Chancellor that I never find them. A severe thought crosses my mind—they’ve taken you from me. How will I be able to see you now? What will become of us if we are found disregarding their rules again? Surely death. I couldn’t possibly bear a different kind of separation, one where I lose you beyond just the classroom. It’s unimaginable and it fills me with a freezing dread, a pure horror that I feel down to my fucking core.
“Will you guarantee that this will be kept under wraps? (Y/N)—Miss (Y/L/N) is an exceptional student, one that does not deserve the public outrage something like this would cause her,” I keep my face straight, my expression contained. “It was a mishap, a lack of judgment on my part, nothing more. She remains a brilliant girl, and I wish for nothing more than to see her excel and graduate with utmost respect.”
“Of course. This is a private matter. But, Mr. Bahng, if we receive a similar document again… you understand our position, surely?”
One last time. I need to see you one last time.
“Certainly. Thank you for your time.”
Your phone sends me straight to voicemail. I’m not brave enough to try your dorm room, not with all those girls in there and their judgy eyes, and you refuse to step foot in my class even though you still have two lectures before we’re both to leave. They must’ve told you it was better to stay away for a bit, as to not make it so obvious, and yet I cannot for the life of me see the logic behind you being so far away from me, where I can’t reach you.
I’ve told you this. It won’t end well if I lose you.
I am over myself. I look for you everywhere. I see you in everything, in my dreams, to what little I manage to sleep, in the corners of my office, all the places I’ve had you writhing underneath me, your seat in the very front now occupied by that stupid boy—they all seem to know. Not for certain, but it’s in the glint of their eyes, the silences your voice would fill with such certainty it would steal my fucking breath away.
I ignore them all. I DON’T HAVE YOU, I want to scream at them. My worst nightmare came true, and I can only remember your sweet laugh as I’d bite on your neck, your honey exclamation—oh, it tickles!—as I did it over and over again. I can only remember the warmth of your cunt, the vivid smell of it, and your heart, the fluttering of it against my chest, how I held you to me, and you were safe from all of them, how we should’ve stayed in that office and never unlocked the door.
Leave a message after the tone. Beep.
“Answer your fucking phone, (Y/N). You’re driving me crazy.”
A day later, there you are, getting coffee, a book in your hand, your entire face smiling, so kind it messes with my head, the inner workings of my chest cavity.
I watch you from afar, notice how absentminded you look, how ignorant I must’ve been those past few days thinking this all hasn’t meant a thing to you, because it’s always been in the little things your face makes. Your tells, the things that give you away. How you listen without having heard a thing, how you play with your hair when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed them all, my love, and I can tell right now, that you’re thinking of me.
I think of approaching you, of showing myself to you, but it’s too soon. I can’t walk up to you in public, not on campus. I weigh the risk, the consequences—they’re the same, they haven’t changed, because to me this was always the outcome, this was always the end of us.
I call your name in my grief. Only to myself, a gentle summoning, just so I can pretend your name still belongs in my mouth. It does. It always will.
You do not see me. Or, if you do, you pretend not to. I can’t be sure which hurts more. You shatter me.
I try again the next day, a Saturday. As soon as we’re out of school grounds, a good distance away, I pinch the fabric of your jacket, jilting you. You turn around terrified—this is how I feel, I want to yell and shake you.
Alone, lost, in a labyrinth where I cannot find myself, I cannot find you. Endless loops, unbearable darkness.
“We can’t do this,” you say immediately, flinching away from me. From me. I’m ugly then, I’m dangerous, I can’t seem to control my temper. “I told you we can’t do this.”
I lunge for you, I grab your face in my hands, and force your ruinous eyes to look into my blind ones. I’ve seen nothing since that night we slept together. I’ve been walking around without knowing what day it is, without direction.
“I’ve called you,” I rasp. “Where’s your goddamn phone?”
“I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Oh, my baby. You’re sick with grief, aren’t you? Just like me. Your eyes are raw underneath all that black liner.
Still, I ask, “Why?”
You place your hands on top of mine, and remove them slowly. I cherish even your rejection. At least you’re here, in front of me, corporeal and talking to me.
“I got off easy,” you admit, head dropping in regret. “I didn’t know what they did to you, I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“I can’t be near you. They sent me on ‘vacation’.”
You nod, and it takes every last bit of willpower to not smash you into my chest and keep you there, safe and sound.
“It will never be the same between us, will it?” You sound so eternally sad. I want to fix it. Fix all of it.
But I can’t. And it eats me alive.
“It will not.” In admitting this, I lose a piece of myself. My heart wails.
Look at me again, (Y/N). Meet me halfway and I’ll always choose you. Nothing has changed for me. Meet my eyes, see that I love you. That I’ve loved you from the beginning, that I was made to love you, that nothing ever existed before you, and that I cannot see in front of me.
“Then, we should end it.”
No. No.
“If we end it once and for all here—”
“I won’t,” I say, keeping my hands to myself, biting down my anger, the pain rising up to choke me. “End it? What does that—I’ve buried myself in you, (Y/N). You’re in me like my own fucking spirit. End it? This will never end. We can never end.”
I got you crying now. As much as it tugs at me, I’m glad of your tears. They show you care, that you don’t really believe the bullshit words coming out of your mouth. I won’t hear any of it, I fucking won’t. You reach for any part of me to hold, fingers lifting in desperate attempt, and I pull you to me by the nape of your neck, our bodies crushing, the wave coming up to meet the shore.
I’ll remain astute as you come and go. You don’t have any choice but to return. It’s where you belong. With me, I whisper in your hair. Stay with me.
“To what end?” You mumble, your voice broken with emotion.
I bring my other arm around you, hold you close against me. “Ours. Until I’m dead. There’s no one else for me, baby. You. It’s always gonna be you.”
You won’t hear any of it. “I can’t ask you to do this for me, Chris.”
I silence you, kiss your forehead, your eyelids. “This is for me. I’m the fucking— I’m the selfish son of a bitch that can’t quit you. If it happens again, I’ll resign,” I made a promise to myself then. “I’ll resign and wait for you to graduate. Once you do, we’ll leave this damned place and go wherever you want. I’ll take care of you, you know that right?”
You nod, and I feel your fists bunching the material of my shirt, as if being this impossibly close isn’t enough for you. As if you’d wear my own clothes if you could, coexist in this body of mine. That’s all I’ve been asking for, you know. To somehow become one entity, to never have to part from you.
Why were our souls split? Not ours, I think bitterly. Ours should’ve never parted. What a cataclysmic event it must’ve been.
“I’ll rent an apartment, I’ll leave campus,” I whisper my plans to you, as we walk along the maple trees wrapped in each other’s arms. “It’ll be ours, you can come whenever you please. You’ll have your own key.”
“I’ll buy my stupid couch and a matching coffee table,” you laugh softly, and I’m ready. I’m sure about this.
I need you to be happy like this, to not have a care in the world. I’ll make it happen, I fucking swear it to you, my heart.
“And the island chairs, and ridiculous knick knacks that I won’t have a say over?”
Your unadulterated giggles set me on fire. “All of them, yes! It’ll be out of an IKEA catalog.”
All I want, all I want—my very soul beats this. A life with you. Beyond the class. It’s always been beyond it.
I say this to you that evening, as I make love to you in a borrowed bed, my name coming from your lips still the sweetest sound I’ve ever had the privilege to hear. My heart’s song, the greatest one. The rise and fall of your breath. My own. Its unique composition.
I love you. I love you so much my chest bleeds open with the truth of it. I’ll gladly run dry at your feet.
“You’re everything, (Y/N). You’re everything.”
Nothing will ever take you from me. Not even death itself. Especially death.
