i wanted to apologize for the long unexpected break. i have been so busy with work and especially since i am in my second year of pa school and about to graduate. i’ve also been taking some time to work on my star wars blog as well:)
before i left, i had been receiving a lot of hate and i just logged out. it became something that was toxic and not worth it for me at the time. however, i came back to very kind and sweet messages and i very much appreciate it!
i promise to make a full return soon. expect something this week:)
also guys since i’m making a return im thinking of an alexandra fic based on labios mordidos by kali where the reader steals alexandra from charlessssss🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️🧍🏻♀️
you swore you would never come back to this place. not to the noise. not to the politics. not to the ghosts of your past.
but when red bull calls, you don’t hesitate.
you tell yourself it’s for the team. for the legacy. for the championship you never got to defend. it’s most definitely not for him.
not for max verstappen, standing in the garage like he’s been waiting for you to return since the day you left. he looks at you the same way he always has— like you’re something to conquer. or something he lost and can't help but want back.
and maybe the real problem isn’t that you hate each other. maybe it’s that you never learned how to stop.
(a/n) : omg hello babes! this is my slow return. i appreciate all the messages and love i have received while i was away. i have just been going through a lot recently and needed some time to get myself together before my return. idk how much i will be posting this week but i will try my best to get a few more pieces up. hope you all love this as much as i love you!
fc : bella hadid!
liked by username045, username3, lando and 1,500,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : it has been confirmed that none other than ex red bull driver and world champion, yn ln, will be taking christian horner's spot as red bull team principal. now, if you do not know the history between her and max- it is time to catch up BABYYYY. this season about to be messy. max was already asked about yn's return and seemed to be less than impressed.
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username007 : that’s not dislike that’s unresolved feelings btw
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username775 : can anyone catch me up here??
↳ username110 : max and yn used to be teammates and had like a brocedes level rivalry if not worse, they could not STAND each other. they had a crash, yn got seriously injured and was forced into retirement and max was fine. but honestly i choose to believe they hate each other so bad because they are in love with each other. there were rumors that they were dating and the 'hate each other' act was to hide it. because if you watch old interviews, there is so much TENSION. and honestly after yn's crash, max became even more max than he already was. like mans turned into a monster. to say their history is complicated is an understatement.
liked and pinned by f1gossipgirls
mclarenfan4 : oh we taking that constructors and drivers peacefully thank you
username002 : this is either going to win us the title or implode spectacularly. i feel like a ferrari fan
liked by f1gossipgirls
username11 : mans is SICK to his stomach.
username78 : imagine showing up to work and your ex rival/situationship is your new boss.
username005 : max already fighting for his life and the season hasn’t started
↳ username101 : that man was blinking like he saw a ghost
username11110 : the interview had me on the floor
↳ username424 : the way he paused before saying her NAMEEE
You’re twenty. Too young, they say. Too sharp. Too emotional. Too much.
You’ve just stepped off the top step of the podium, champagne still drying in your hair, trophy heavy in your hands. The cameras loved it — the smirk, the wink, the deliberate glance down the grid toward the garage. Toward him.
Max Verstappen stands with his helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight, eyes tracking you like you’ve just committed a crime. You beat him by three tenths. You defend the win like it’s war.
And in the media pen, when the interviewer asks how it feels to beat your teammate again, you lean back in your chair and say, sweetly: “I don’t see teammates. I see competition.”
You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. You can feel the way the air shifts. It’s an hour later when your driver's room door slams open. You don’t even jump.
“You’re unbelievable,” he snaps.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, still in team kit, scrolling through your phone like he’s a mild inconvenience.
“Hi, Maxie.”
“Don’t.”
He paces once. Twice. Stops in front of you.
“You embarrassed the team.”
You laugh. It’s sharp. “I won the race.”
“You don’t have to act like I’m beneath you.”
“Then stop driving like you are.”
Silence. Thick and volatile. He steps closer.
“You think you’re better than me?”
You stand now, nose almost brushing his. “No. I know I am.”
It’s cruel. You know it’s cruel. You say it anyway. His hands flex at his sides.
“One day,” he says lowly, “you’re going to push too far.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you’ll still be behind me, Verstappen.”
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you both do.
The shove is small but intentional. Your back hits the wall. His hands catch your arms like he didn’t mean to hold you — but he doesn’t let go. You’re breathing too hard.
“I fucking hate you,” he says.
“Good.”
Your mouth crashes into his before either of you can take it back.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and anger and months of unfinished sentences. It’s hands fisting into fabric and the taste of champagne and pride and resentment.
You pull away first. Because you always do.
“Get out,” you tell him.
He stares at you like he wants to say something else. He doesn’t. The door closes.
The next morning, You don’t speak. As always.
present day
The phone rings at 2:17 a.m. You stare at it for a long time before answering.
“YN, we need you.”
The voice is clinical. Urgent. All too familiar.
Red Bull is spiraling. Sponsors nervous. Structure fractured. Christian Horner is gone.
There’s a pause.
“Team principal.”
Your laugh is hollow. “You’re joking.”
“Absolutely not. I don't have time to joke, YN.”
And suddenly you’re not in your quiet penthouse anymore. You’re back in the cockpit. The smell of fuel. The vibration through your spine. The corner that never straightened the way it should have— The flash of white. The crunch of carbon fiber. Silence.
Your hands start shaking. You swallow.
“You’re asking a retired driver. Must be desperate."
“I'm asking a World Champion.”
A beat.
“And I'm asking the only person he’s ever truly listened to.”
Him. Of course.
Your mind betrays you with the memory of his mouth on yours. Of the way he used to look at you like you were something he had to defeat or devour.
You close your eyes.
“Send the contract.”
—
The Red Bull conference room hasn’t changed. Same long table. Same muted lighting. Same air of calculation. Engineers line the walls. Strategy team at the far end.
And at the head of the table—him. Older now. Sharper. Colder. Max Verstappen doesn’t stand when you walk in. But Isack Hadjar does. Immediately. His chair nearly scrapes the floor.
“It’s an honor,” isack blurts, eyes bright. “I used to watch your championship season on repeat.”
Your lips soften despite yourself. “Don’t make me feel old.”
He grins like you just handed him the world. Max doesn’t smile. He watches. Assessing.
You take the seat at the head of the table without asking permission.
“Let’s be clear,” you begin. “I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to win.”
Slides appear. Data. Projections. Weaknesses. You cut through it all.
“Our corner entry is too conservative. We’re bleeding tenths on exit. I want the rear stability adjusted before Imola.”
One of the senior engineers hesitates. “That’s risky.”
“So is losing.”
Silence. You glance at max.
“Thoughts?”
His jaw ticks. “It’ll make the car unpredictable.”
“Only if you’re not precise.”
It’s a challenge. The room feels it. His eyes narrow.
“I’m precise.”
“Then you better prove it to me.”
Isack is practically vibrating.
“This is going to be insane,” he mutters under his breath.
The meeting ends with a mix of awe and tension. Chairs scrape. Voices murmur. Isack lingers.
“Seriously,” he says quietly, “this is the coolest thing that could have happened to this team.”
You smile at him gently. “Focus on your lap times, Hadjar.”
He nods eagerly and disappears with the others. The door clicks shut. And it’s just you and Max. The air shifts instantly. He stands slowly.
“Team principal,” he says flatly.
“My senior driver.”
He steps closer to the table.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Your pulse spikes. “Why? Afraid that you'll lose control of your team?"
“This isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
A beat.
“You left,” he says, and there’s something under it now. Something less controlled. “You don’t get to just come back.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t leave by choice.”
“You could have fought.”
“I almost died.”
The words land heavy. He looks away first. Silence stretches.
“Why did you take the job?” He asks quietly.
You hold his gaze.
“Because I’m not done winning.”
That’s not the full truth. He knows it. He steps closer until the edge of the table presses into your hips. Too close. Just like eight years ago.
“Don’t play games with me,” he murmurs.
“Then stop reacting to me like this.”
His hand twitches like he’s debating reaching for you. He doesn’t.
“This won’t end well,” he says.
You tilt your head.
“It never does with us.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second. There it is. The ghost of twenty years old. Champagne. Anger. Bitterness. Unfinished.
He steps back first this time.
“You’re my boss,” he says, like it tastes wrong.
“And you’re still my biggest problem.”
A flicker of something almost like a smile touches his lips.
“Good,” he says softly. “I was worried you’d gone soft.”
You don’t breathe until he leaves the room. And when the door closes, you realize the real problem isn’t the team. It’s that nothing between you has ever been simple. And it still isn’t.
You learn very quickly that winning a championship is easier than rebuilding an empire. The paddock is loud. Not physically — not yet. Testing has not even begun — but online, in interviews, in whispered phone calls between sponsors and executives.
“She has no management experience.”
“Her and Max won't be able to get along.”
“She retired. That means she couldn’t handle it.”
You read none of it. You hear all of it.
Inside, the atmosphere is split clean down the middle. Half the staff look at you like you are salvation. The other half look at you like you are a risk assessment.
You strip the strategy department down within days. Two senior analysts are reassigned. You bring in a younger data engineer who had been buried in simulation work. You demand shorter debriefs. Sharper communication. Fewer politics.
You do not raise your voice. That unsettles them more.
In the design office, you stand over schematics with sleeves rolled up, pointing at the rear suspension geometry.
“We are sacrificing rotation for comfort,” you say calmly. “Comfort does not win championships.”
An older engineer shifts. “Instability doesn’t either.”
You meet his eyes. “Instability in the wrong hands doesn’t.”
A pointed silence. Everyone knows who the right hands are.
The first official media day is brutal. Cameras flash as you step to the podium, composed in navy tailoring that still feels foreign compared to race suits.
A reporter clears his throat.
“You’re the youngest team principal on the grid. What makes you think you’re ready?”
You smile faintly.
“I’ve raced against most of the grid. I’ve beaten some of them. I understand pressure. I understand failure. And I understand this team.”
Another question.
“Isn’t there concern about your personal history with your lead driver?”
There it is.
You don’t blink.
“My personal history is irrelevant. Performance is not.”
Across the media pen, you see him. Max is being asked the same questions. He leans back in his chair, expression flat.
“What do you think about her appointment?”
A pause.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says evenly. “She’s a world champion. That doesn’t disappear.”
The room stills slightly.
Another reporter pushes. “But you seemed less than impressed when it was announced.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m impressed by results. Let her work.”
He stands before they can dig further. He does not look at you. But he did not let them question you. And that is louder than praise.
The factory becomes your battlefield. You arrive before sunrise. Leave long after the lights in the simulator room go dark. In the corridors, you catch fragments of conversation that cut off when you approach.
“She’s changing too much too fast.”
“It’s reckless.”
“Maybe this is temporary.”
And then there are others —
“You see her in the sim? She still knows exactly what the car needs.”
“She caught that brake bias issue before telemetry did.”
“Max is sharper already.”
The split grows visible. You can feel it in meetings. In how some people avoid eye contact. In how others straighten when you enter a room. And in how he watches. Always watching.
It happens on a Thursday afternoon. The final aerodynamic package before testing is locked in — conservative, stable, safe.
You stare at the data projected across the wall. Then you shake your head.
“No.”
The room freezes.
“We are scrapping the secondary floor concept. I want the aggressive spec.”
An audible inhale from the head of aero.
“That hasn’t been validated at high speed tracks.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” you reply. “It needs to outperform.”
“It could destabilize rear traction.”
“It will increase downforce in medium speed corners. That’s where we’re bleeding lap time.”
Silence. You make the call. Within an hour, the entire factory knows. Within two, so does he.
Your office door opens without a knock. Of course it does.
You do not look up immediately. “You could try knocking.”
“You changed the floor.”
His voice is controlled, but only barely.
You close the file in front of you and finally meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “That spec isn’t stable.”
“It’s faster.”
“It’s unpredictable.”
“It’s responsive.”
His jaw ticks. “You’re gambling.”
You stand slowly, circling the desk.
“I am optimizing.”
“You’re not the one driving it.”
The words land harder than he means them to. You stop a foot away from him.
“No,” you say evenly. “I’m the one responsible if you don’t win.”
His eyes darken. “This isn’t about ego.”
“It never is with you.”
He takes a step closer.
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“I think,” you say quietly, “that you don’t like not being the one making the final call.”
Silence thickens.
He is close enough that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow from years ago. Close enough that you remember what it felt like to stand like this before.
“This car needs to be drivable,” he insists.
“It needs to be dominant.”
“And if it spins?”
“Then you adapt.”
His eyes flash. “You’re asking for perfection.”
“I’m expecting it.”
A charged beat.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m your teammate again.”
“And you don’t get to pretend you haven’t always driven better when someone pushes you.”
That stops him.
His gaze sharpens, searching your face.
“You think this makes me better?”
“I know it does.”
The air shifts. Not soft. Not warm. But electric.
He steps closer again, until the edge of your desk presses against the back of your thighs. There is less than a breath of space between you now.
“You’re not in the car,” he says lowly. “You don’t feel it.”
Your pulse stutters — not from fear. From proximity.
“I don’t need to feel it,” you reply, voice steady. “I know you.”
A flicker. Something unguarded. Gone just as quickly.
“You’re wrong,” he mutters.
You turn, reaching for your tablet, pulling up telemetry overlays from last season.
“You overcorrect under pressure in high-speed entries,” you say calmly. “This package forces commitment. It eliminates your hesitation.”
“I don’t hesitate.”
You slide the data toward him.
“You did. Three times in Suzuka. Twice in Silverstone.”
He stares at the screen. Then, quietly:
“…That was wind.”
“It was doubt.”
His eyes lift slowly to yours. You don’t look away. He studies you for a long moment — weighing, calculating, remembering. Finally, he exhales through his nose.
“If this backfires—”
“It won’t.”
“That’s not certainty.”
“That’s trust.”
Another pause.
He shakes his head slightly, but there is no anger left in it now.
“Everyone’s saying you’re changing too much.”
“I am.”
“They think it’s reckless.”
You tilt your head. “Do you?”
His gaze softens — just barely.
“No.”
The admission hangs between you.
“They don’t know you like I do,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“That’s not an advantage,” you say quietly.
“It is.”
For a second, neither of you move.
There is no kiss. No touch. Just heat and unfinished history and the shared understanding that you have always brought out something sharper in each other. He steps back first.
“When testing starts,” he says, regaining composure, “I’ll drive it your way.”
You nod once.
“And when it’s faster?”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Then I’ll tell the press it was my idea.”
You almost smile.
“Of course you will.”
He reaches the door, then pauses without turning around.
“They’re wrong about you,” he says.
Before you can respond, he leaves. The door clicks shut.
Outside your office, the factory continues buzzing — divided, doubtful, restless. Inside, you allow yourself one slow breath. He does not like that you are here. He does not like that you challenge him. But when it matters — He stands beside you. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
The car is a monster. Not temperamental. Not fragile. Not theoretical. A monster.
From the moment testing began, the numbers spoke for themselves. The aggressive floor spec you forced through the factory transformed the rear stability under load. Medium speed corners — once your weakness — are now your advantage. High speed sections look effortless.
The paddock shifts quickly when something works. Doubt turns into admiration. Admiration turns into fear.
You stand on the pit wall in as Max threads the car between barriers like it was built around him. The timing screens glow purple sector after purple sector.
The engineers behind you exchange looks that say it without words: She was right.
When he crosses the line first, you do not celebrate wildly. You remove your headset calmly, nod once, and allow yourself a small breath.
He climbs from the cockpit and does not look at you immediately. He looks at the car. Then he looks at you. There is something unspoken there — acknowledgment, maybe. You do not let it linger.
The press cannot help themselves.
“He’s too aggressive.”
“Is this sustainable?”
“Are you concerned about how hard he’s pushing?”
You sit straight backed under the lights.
“If you want safe sport,” you say coolly, “go watch golf.”
There is a ripple through the room.
A reporter presses further. “He nearly lost the rear in Turn Three. Isn’t that risky?”
You fold your hands.
“He didn’t lose it.”
Across the media room, Max hears every word. Later, when they ask him about your comment, he shrugs.
“She’s right.”
He does not elaborate. He does not need to.
Publicly, you are composed. Strategic. Loyal. Privately, you are ruthless.
After the last win, you stand in the engineering office reviewing footage. He walks in without announcement.
“You wanted to see me.”
You gesture to the screen.
“Turn Three.”
He exhales lightly. “I won.”
“You nearly overcooked entry.”
“I had it.”
“You got greedy.”
His eyes narrow.
“I wasn’t greedy.”
“You were chasing an extra tenth.”
“That’s my job.”
“Not when it compromises exit speed.”
He hates it. He hates that you can see it. He hates that you are right.
“You don’t trust me,” he says quietly.
“I trust you to push,” you reply. “I don’t trust you to stop.”
Silence. His jaw tightens. Then, reluctantly:
“…I’ll adjust it.”
He hates that he listens. But he does.
-
Success does not soften you. If anything, it sharpens you both. You refuse to let him get comfortable. After a dominant win, you greet him in debrief with a raised brow.
“You missed apex in Six.”
“I was managing tires.”
“You were showing off.”
A flicker of annoyance.
“You enjoyed it.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
He steps closer to the table.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
The engineers pretend not to hear. You defend him to the world and challenge him in private. He pretends he resents it. But he drives better. Cleaner. Sharper. The championship lead grows. And naturally so does the tension. Especially when Kelly appears in the garage.
At first, she likes you. She has no reason not to.
You are professional. Polite. Distant in the right ways. You give her a courteous smile in the paddock, compliment her dress once.
She thanks you for giving him a car that can win.
“That’s all that matters,” she says lightly.
You nod. “It always has.”
She knows you and Max had history. Everyone does. Rivals. Teammates. Complicated. But she assumes it is contained. Ancient. Dead.
At first, she only notices small things. He watches your interviews back at night. He replays them. Analyzes them. When reporters question your authority, his shoulders stiffen. When someone implies your success is tied to him, he bristles.
“You talk about her a lot,” Kelly says one evening, seated across from him at dinner.
Max doesn’t look up from his plate.
“She is Team Principal.”
Kelly tilts her head.
“I feel like that is not all she is to you. There is history, Max."
He doesn’t answer. And that silence says more than anything else could.
You begin to notice it too. Not from her. From him. The way he lingers in your office doorway a second longer than necessary.
The way his tone changes when you go colder. Because you do go colder.
You realize it in Spain. You are standing on the pit wall when he wins again, flawless this time, surgical in execution.
He removes his helmet and looks toward you instinctively. You do not meet his gaze.
You are suddenly aware — painfully aware — that you are proud of him in a way that is no longer purely professional.
It unsettles you. So in debrief, you are sharper than usual.
“You lifted slightly in Nine.”
He frowns. “It was optimal.”
“You could have carried more speed.”
“You’re nitpicking.”
“Yes.”
He studies you.
“You’re different,” he says quietly once the room empties.
“I’m consistent.”
“No. You’re colder.”
You turn away, stacking papers.
“You’re imagining things.”
He steps closer.
“I know when you’re pushing me.”
“And?”
“And you’re doing it harder now.”
Your fingers still on the desk.
“That’s my job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The air tightens. You do not give him anything.
“Focus on the next race,” you say evenly. “The walls don’t forgive mistakes.”
His eyes search your face.
“You’re trying to prove something.”
“Always.”
He exhales slowly.
“You don’t have to compete with me anymore.”
The words hit deeper than intended. You lift your chin.
“I never competed with you.”
A lie. He knows it. And instead of softening, he leans into it. If you are colder, he becomes sharper. If you withhold, he provokes. During qualifying in Monaco, he delivers a lap that borders on violent precision.
On the radio, he says calmly, “Good call on the setup.”
You answer, equally calm, “Don’t overdrive the exit tomorrow.”
A pause.
“…I won’t.”
He listens. He always listens.
Kelly watches the changes accumulate. He is more distracted. More intense. He brings up your strategy decisions mid-conversation.
“She adjusted the brake migration for sector two.”
Kelly sets down her glass.
“You admire her.”
“She knows what she’s doing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He rubs a hand across his jaw.
“She pushes me.”
Kelly’s voice is soft but steady.
“I see that.”
A beat.
“And you like it.”
He doesn’t answer. Again.
The distance you try to create only makes everything more volatile. You challenge him harder in meetings. You interrupt him mid-sentence. You refuse to let praise linger. After another dominant win, he corners you in the corridor.
“Why are you acting like I’m underperforming?”
“You’re capable of more.”
“I’m leading the championship.”
“You’re capable of more.”
He steps closer, voice lowering.
“Is this about the car?”
“It’s about you.”
Silence.
He studies you carefully now.
“You’re scared of something.”
The accusation lands.
“I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are.”
Your pulse betrays you. Like it always used to.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You defend me to the world, then freeze me out when it’s just us.”
“That’s called professionalism.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You take a step back.
“It’s nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing. And he knows it. He always has. He straightens slightly, expression sharpening.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want distance, I’ll give you distance.”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he drives harder. Smarter. He brings you victories like offerings. And every time you hand him data and corrections and clinical praise, the tension coils tighter.
Because success has only amplified what was already there. Unfinished. Unspoken. And becoming impossible to ignore.
The season settled into sharp rhythm. Win. Pressure. Scrutiny. Repeat. But beneath the success, beneath the polished press conferences and controlled debriefs, something far more dangerous begins to surface.
Not scandal. Not collapse. Temptation.
It happens the first time the car betrays you. Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just enough.
A mistimed yellow flag. Traffic in the final sector. A compromised lap. P3 instead of pole. The garage is tense. Engineers defensive. Media already circling. You keep your voice even during debrief.
“We recover tomorrow.”
Max says nothing. He leaves before the meeting properly ends. You know that silence. You feel it like a shift in air pressure.
Hours later, the paddock is quieter. The motorhome corridors are nearly empty as you step into the elevator, reviewing telemetry on your tablet.
The doors begin to close. A hand stops them. He steps inside. The doors shut. The space is too small. Too quiet. You do not look up.
“Rough session,” you say evenly.
No response. Then— His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Sudden. Not violent. But not gentle. You look up sharply.
His eyes are darker than usual, frustration bleeding into something more personal.
“You think you can just walk back in like nothing happened?” he asks.
The words aren’t about qualifying. They never are. Your pulse stutters, but your voice stays level.
“Nothing happened.”
A humorless laugh.
“You don’t get to act like this is normal.”
You pull slightly against his grip.
“Let go.”
He doesn’t.
“You left,” he says, low and tight. “You vanished. And now you’re here like it’s just another season.”
The elevator hums upward. Your throat tightens.
“You think you’re the only one who almost died?” you fire back.
The words hit harder than intended. His hand loosens slightly. For a second, the anger fractures. There is something raw beneath it.
“You shut me out,” he says quietly.
“I was trying to survive.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Neither of you move immediately. Then he releases you. Steps back. Composure snapping into place like armor.
“Tomorrow,” he says flatly, “we win.”
You step past him.
“Yes,” you reply. “We do.”
-
It happens again.
Rain falls without apology. The race is paused. Cars lined along pit lane. Chaos suspended in gray mist.
You stand under the narrow awning near the garage entrance, headset hanging around your neck, watching droplets streak down the halo of his car.
He joins you without invitation. Close. Too close.
The awning barely covers both of you. Your shoulders nearly brush. The scent of rain and fuel fills the space.
“Track will not be forgiving when it restarts,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
Lightning flashes in the distance. Silence settles between you. Not angry. Not sharp. Just heavy.
You can feel the heat radiating from him despite the cold air. You tell yourself to step away. You don’t.
A drop of rain slides from your hairline down your cheek.
Before you can react— His fingers brush your face. Barely there. A reflex. Wiping the water away. The contact is fleeting. But devastating.
He freezes. You freeze. The world feels suspended. His thumb lingers a fraction too long. Then he pulls his hand back like he’s touched something forbidden.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.
“It’s fine.”
But it isn’t. The tension crackles. The race resumes moments later. He drives like a man trying to outrun something. You stand on the pit wall pretending your pulse isn’t racing.
He defends aggressively. Brakes impossibly late. Holds the inside in a move the commentators call reckless. You call it necessary.
He crosses the line first. The garage explodes. Cheers. Applause. Relief. You remain composed. Until your office door slams open.
He storms in, helmet still on, gloves half removed, breathing hard like he hasn’t fully left the car. The door shuts behind him. The noise outside fades.
“What are you doing?” you ask, though you already know.
He steps toward you. Still charged with adrenaline. Visor lifted. Eyes bright and wild.
“Tell me,” he demands.
You cross your arms lightly.
“Tell you what?”
His chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Tell me you’re proud of me.”
The vulnerability in it is sharper than any argument. For a moment, you see him at twenty again. Angry. Desperate. Needing acknowledgment more than victory.
Your throat tightens. You take a slow step forward. Close enough that you can see the fine tremor in his hands.
“I always am,” you whisper.
The words land between you like something sacred. His breath catches. For a fraction of a second, it feels like he might close the distance. Like he might forget everything else — titles, contracts, optics, consequences. Instead, he pulls off his helmet and sets it down on your desk with deliberate control.
“Good,” he says quietly.
But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, finally, he steps back. Professionalism sliding back into place.
“You made the right call on the tires,” he adds.
“You drove it perfectly.”
A beat. And then he’s gone. The door closes softly this time. You stand there alone, heart still racing, fully aware that each almost moment is pushing the boundary further. You tell yourself you are in control. But control has never been what existed between you. Only tension. Only restraint. And it is wearing thinner with every race.
liked by username45, username009, username11 and 2,900,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : rumor has it that kelly piquet and max verstappen have reportedly broken things off. many believing that it has to do with a certain team principal/ex teammate 👀
The tension does not explode. It erodes. Slowly. Quietly. Relentlessly.
At first, Kelly tries to be understanding. She tells herself it is stress. Championship pressure. Long factory hours.
But stress does not make someone stare at interview clips at midnight. Stress does not make someone bristle when your name is criticized. Stress does not make someone distant in bed.
It happens after Spa. Another win. Another dominant performance. Another post race interview where he defends you without hesitation.
“She knows what she’s doing,” he says when a reporter questions your aggressive mid race strategy call. “That’s why she’s in charge.”
That night, the apartment is quiet. Kelly stands by the kitchen counter, arms folded.
“You’re in love with her.”
Max stills.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He runs a hand through his hair, already irritated. “She’s my boss.”
“No,” Kelly says steadily. “She’s never just been that, Max."
He looks away.
“You light up when you talk about her,” she continues. “You fight harder when she’s watching. You get defensive when people question her. You barely look at me when you come home from a race.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Because he doesn’t know how to articulate the truth. That it is not simple. That it is not new. That it did not start this season.
Kelly’s voice softens, but there is steel beneath it.
“I deserve someone who isn’t still fighting ghosts.”
He exhales slowly. “Kelly—”
“You don’t even deny it.”
That is what breaks it. Not anger. Not betrayal. Absence. She nods once, almost to herself.
“I hope you figure it out,” she says quietly.
Then she leaves. And he is alone with the silence.
The apartment feels different without her. Too quiet. Too honest. He sits on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing. And then memory does what it does best. You backed against his hotel room wall after a tense race. Your arms draped around his neck, pulling him in closer. His lips leaving kisses down yours. The petty comments linger in his brain.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No. I know I am.”
He remembers the way you used to look at him — like a challenge. Like a threat. Like something you wanted to conquer and couldn’t quite manage to let go of.
He remembers the crash. The hospital. The way he never showed up publicly. The way he told himself distance was strength. He remembers the elevator. The rain. The office.
“I always was.”
He tries to sleep. He cannot. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Hears you. Feels the brush of your cheek under his thumb. The way you stand too close when you argue. The way your voice drops when you are trying not to feel something.
At 2:47 a.m., he stops pretending. At 3:02 a.m., he is at your door.
You are awake. Of course you are. Laptop open. Telemetry from the last race glowing on the screen. Coffee cold beside your hand. When the knock comes, sharp and impatient, your brows knit together.
You check the time. 3:02 a.m. You open the door. And there he is. Max.
Just him. Tension radiating off his body like heat from asphalt. You stare at him.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
His jaw tightens.
“She left.”
The words land heavily.
Your stomach drops.
“…Kelly?”
He nods once. Silence hangs between you.
“That’s not something you tell your team principal at three in the morning,” you say carefully.
He laughs once, humorless.
“Stop hiding behind that.”
Your pulse quickens.
“You can’t just show up here.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not my problem.”
He steps closer, forcing you to either retreat or hold your ground. You hold it.
“It is your problem,” he says quietly. “You made it my problem.”
Your eyes flash.
“I didn’t ask you to feel anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The door is still open. You close it. That is the first mistake. The space becomes smaller. More dangerous.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You pull away every time it gets close. You push me harder when it’s not about the car.”
“You’re projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
His voice rises.
“You walked back into my life like nothing happened.”
“You think it was easy for me?” you snap. “You think I wanted to see you every day and pretend I don’t remember everything?”
He steps forward until your back brushes the wall.
“Then stop pretending.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re my driver.”
“And you’re lying.”
Silence. Charged. Volatile. He searches your face like he’s looking for permission. You should tell him to leave. You should step away. You don’t.
“You were the only person who ever pushed me,” he says, voice rough. “The only one who ever matched me.”
“That’s not love,” you whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s worse.”
The air feels thin. His hand comes up — slow this time. Gives you time to stop him. You don’t. His fingers brush your jaw. And that is it. Years of restraint snap. The kiss is not soft. It is overdue. It is frustration and grief and unfinished sentences crashing together.
You grip his shirt like you’re trying to ground yourself. He backs you further into the wall, one hand braced beside your head.
There is nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It is everything you both refused to name. When you finally pull back, breathless, your forehead rests against his.
“This is a mistake,” you murmur.
“Probably.”
You kiss him again anyway. It is messy and desperate and far too intense for something that was supposed to stay buried. He lifts you slightly, and you laugh against his mouth despite yourself. The sound breaks something open. Not just tension. Fear. Vulnerability. Eventually, the anger fades into something slower. Softer. You end up tangled together on your bed, breathing evening out, silence no longer hostile.
-
Sunlight creeps through the blinds. You wake first. He is still there. Arm draped over your waist. Face unguarded in sleep. For a moment, you simply stare. Trying to understand how you got here.
His eyes open slowly. And for once, there is no armor in them. Just honesty. You both stay quiet. Processing. Finally, he exhales.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were young,” he says, voice low and steady. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
Your throat tightens.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I tried to hate you,” he continues. “It was easier.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t want to.”
Silence settles, but it is different this time. You reach for him first. Pull him closer. Rest your forehead against his.
“We can’t let this ruin the team,” you murmur.
“It won’t.”
“That’s not a promise you can make.”
“It is.”
You study him for a long moment. Then you nod slightly. He holds you tighter. For once, there is no fight in it. No rivalry. No unfinished tension. Just two people who finally stopped running. And outside your apartment, the world — the press, the paddock, the championship — waits. Unaware that everything just changed.
You are careful. Careful with doors. Careful with glances. Careful with how long your hand lingers at the small of his back when no one is looking.
Only a few people know. Your chief strategist — because she walked in on a hug that was decidedly not professional and simply sighed, “About time.”
Your performance engineer — because he is observant and loyal and pretends not to notice when Max disappears into your office after hours.
The rest of the world still believes you barely tolerate each other. It makes it easier. And harder.
And here we are, one race left. Two championships on the line. The Drivers’. The Constructors’. Both currently in McLaren hands. Mathematically, it is possible. Realistically, it is brutal. But the car is a beast. And the man driving it is sharper than he has ever been.
You stand in your office the morning of the race, reviewing final simulations for the hundredth time. The numbers are solid. The strategy is aggressive. The margins are razor thin.
A soft knock at your door.
You don’t look up immediately.
“Come in.”
The door shuts quietly.
You feel him before you see him. Max leans against the door for a second, still in partial race kit, balaclava hanging loose around his neck.
“You’re supposed to be in the garage,” you say lightly.
“I know.”
You finally meet his eyes. They are steady. Focused. Not nervous. But alive.
“You’ve run the simulations twelve times,” he says, glancing at your screen.
“Fourteen.”
A small smirk.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you completely,” you reply calmly. “I don’t trust probability.”
He steps closer to your desk.
“You know I can do this.”
“I know.”
“And the car?”
“Is perfect.”
The weight of the moment presses in. If he wins, you take everything. If he loses, it will still be a monumental season — but not the one you both want. He walks around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. For once, there is no teasing. No edge. Just honesty.
“Good luck,” you say softly.
He studies your face for a second.
Then, quietly:
“That’s it?”
You arch a brow.
“You want a motivational speech?”
“I want something better.”
You stand slowly.
“Max—”
He cuts you off gently, stepping closer.
“No one’s around.”
He leans down and kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Steady. Certain.
Your hands slide into his racesuit instinctively, pulling him closer for a brief, heated second before you remind yourself where you are. He deepens it slightly anyway, and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you against his mouth.
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmur.
“I’m about to win my fifth championship,” he replies softly against your lips. “I can afford one distraction.”
The office door suddenly swings open.
“Oh my God—”
You both break apart instantly. Standing frozen in the doorway is Isack. He looks between you. Once. Twice. Eyes widening to cartoonish proportions.
“…I KNEW IT.”
You stare at him.
“Knock,” you say sharply.
He is already grinning so hard it hurts.
“This is the best day of my life,” he announces dramatically. “And the race hasn’t even started.”
Max exhales, half amused, half resigned.
“If you tell anyone—”
“I would never,” Isack says, immediately crossing his heart. “But also this explains literally everything.”
You can’t help it. You giggle. Max looks at you. You look at him. And for a brief second, the enormity of everything — the risk, the secrecy, the history — feels lighter.
“Go win,” you tell him.
He nods once. Then he leaves.
It is ruthless. Strategic. Unforgiving. McLaren fights hard. Their pace is strong. Their pit stops flawless. But your strategy is sharper. You undercut at exactly the right window. You switch to the aggressive tire compound when others hesitate. On the radio, your voice remains calm.
“Don’t overdrive Turn Three,” you remind him mid-race.
A small pause.
“…I won’t.”
He doesn’t.
With ten laps to go, he makes the move. Late braking. Perfect placement. Clinical exit. The overtake that secures everything. The garage erupts. You don’t. Not yet. You wait. Five laps. Four. Three. When he crosses the line first, the world explodes.
Cheering. Headsets thrown into the air. Engineers hugging. You close your eyes for one second.
He climbs out of the car, helmet coming off slowly. The cameras swarm. Commentators shouting.
“Unbelievable turnaround.”
“Red Bull snatch both titles from McLaren!”
He scans the chaos. Looking for one person. You step forward from the edge of the garage. For a split second, you hesitate. Then he walks straight to you. Not the mechanics. Not the cameras. You.
He pulls you into him before you can overthink it. The kiss is public. Unmistakable. The paddock collectively loses its mind. Gasps. Shouts. Flashes going wild.
For a heartbeat, everything else disappears. When you pull back, breathless and laughing, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You were right,” he murmurs.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
You smile up at him.
“Of course I was.”
The press is scrambling. Because they genuinely thought you hated each other. The narrative collapses in real time. From rivals. To tension. To this.
Isack appears behind you both, absolutely vibrating with joy.
“I am never shutting up about this,” he declares.
You laugh, wiping a tear from your cheek. Max keeps one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
“World Champion,” you tease softly.
“Team Principal,” he replies.
Against doubt. Against scrutiny. Against history. You built the car. He drove it to perfection. And somewhere between rivalry and redemption, you both finally chose each other. The season ends not with silence. But with victory. And this time— Neither of you walks away.
hola mis corazones 👾
this feels very surreal and so close to my heart because soon we are celebrating two huge things together — my birthday and somehow reaching 4,000 of you 🤍🥂 i truly don’t have the words to explain how thankful i am for every follow, every read, every comment, and every message you send me. this space started as something so small and turned into something that feels so fun, creative, and full of love because of ALL of you.
to say thank you, i wanted to make the entire month of february a celebration (!!!) i’ll be posting different stories and smaus on certain days all throughout the month — little gifts from me to you. thank you for supporting my ideas, my writing, and just being so great to me. i’m so grateful for this community and i’m so excited to celebrate together!!!!!! love you all forever and always
sincerely,
chef xx
⋆˚࿔ february 2nd
max verstappen x !retired driver/team principal reader (smau + written)
you and max verstappen had history —unspoken, electric, unfinished—before your accident forced you to retire. now you’re back in the paddock as his team principal. (this is angsty as hell)
feel like a fool - f1 grid
you and your partner split up and you write songs to get through it, these songs make them realize what they did and how bad they want you back.
⋆˚࿔ february 3rd
lando norris x !driver reader x alex albon
you, lando and alex have all been inseparable since your 2019 rookie season. the three of you do everything together. however, things change when you and lando start dating and suddenly alex pushes himself out of the picture.
⋆˚࿔ february 5th
oscar piastri x räikkönen reader
you have spent your first few years on the grid with the same icy composure as your father, kimi räikkönen— until oscar joins f1 and suddenly the paddock sees a completely different side of you that only oscar has ever known. "emotionless" does not apply when you are around the person you're madly in love with.
⋆˚࿔ february 7th
yuki tsunoda x !model reader
when yuki tsunoda vanished from the grid, the paddock whispered — then moved on. no goodbye, no posts, just silence. somewhere in italy, he learned how to live without being recognized. until the night you’re stood up for dinner, and the man who made your dish knows far too much about f1. and when the world later spots you, laughing beside him in candlelit streets, it suddenly remembers the driver it forgot.
⋆˚࿔ february 9th
alex albon x reader x lily muni he
alex and lily go exploring on their summer break, never expecting to fall in love with their tour guide...but crazier things have happened.
⋆˚࿔ february 11th
daniel ricciardo x !piastri driver reader
everyone in the paddock knows it — except you. daniel ricciardo has been in love with you for years, and he’s learned to want you quietly. patiently. as a friend, if that’s all you'll ever give him. the grid nudges, teases, plots. your family joins in — especially nicole, who sees everything. oscar pretends not to notice. pretends not to care. and you? you’re just a shy driver trying to ignore the way daniel looks at you like you are the win he has been chasing his whole life.
⋆˚࿔ february 14th
valentine's day with the f1 grid 💘💌🌹
how does your partner prefer to spend the day of love?
franco colapinto x !hamilton reader
being lewis hamilton’s fiercely protected little sister and quietly dating franco colapinto for the last five months has been easy—until ollie bearman catches a heated moment in franco’s driver room and the secret spreads through the paddock like gossip gasoline.
⋆˚࿔ february 16th
kimi antonelli x !olympic figure skater reader
kimi goes to the olympics expecting to cheer, to observe, to stay quietly in the stands. instead, he meets you — an olympic gold medalist chasing history, young and impossibly composed under pressure he understands too well. it starts as late-night conversations and shared nerves, something soft and unplanned. months later, the world blinks — because kimi antonelli isn’t just the prodigy in the car this time. he’s in the stands. your wag. and he’s never looked prouder.
⋆˚࿔ february 18th
george russell x !antonelli reader x carmen mundt
you start showing up at the garage between flights and court dates, all sharp smiles and quiet confidence — kimi's older sister, successful, untouchable. george notices first. then carmen. admiration turns into curiosity, curiosity into something warmer, something that lingers. when george needs a lawyer, he chooses you — and somewhere between contracts, dinners, and stolen moments, the lines blur. suddenly, it isn’t just professional.
⋆˚࿔ february 20th
lewis hamilton x !assistant reader
you’ve mastered the art of standing beside lewis hamilton without crossing the line. assistant. confidant. constant. the internet ships it and you both laugh it off — professional, careful, unspoken. what no one knows is that you’ve both been in love for years, too afraid to make the other uncomfortable or push professional boundaries. until one heated moment breaks the balance… and suddenly, pretending becomes impossible.
⋆˚࿔ february 22nd
oscar piastri x !engineer reader x nolan siegel
you and oscar have been madly in love for years, but everything changes when nolan siegel shows up in vegas and immediately bonds with both of you. after celebrating nolan’s 21st together, boundaries blur and a new kind of love begins to form.
⋆˚࿔ february 24th
charles leclerc x !dog trainer reader x alexandra saint mleux
you’re hired to quietly handle and protect leo during race weekends, sneaking him into the paddock before anyone notices. but as the shy pup grows attached to you, charles and alexandra find themselves doing the exact same thing.
⋆˚࿔ february 26th
carlos sainz x !leclerc popstar reader x rebecca donaldson
you’ve been away on tour for months, but your return to the paddock reignites carlos’ long-suppressed feelings, even though he’s happy with rebecca. what he doesn’t see is that rebecca has been quietly captivated by you all along.
⋆˚࿔ february 27th
ollie bearman x reader/kimi antonelli x reader
the internet decides you and ollie are real long before either of you say a word. soft launches. lingering looks. timing that feels too intentional to be coincidence. until he’s seen — very publicly — with someone else, and the narrative shatters overnight. you don’t explain. you don’t spiral online. you disappear from him completely. and then you reappear beside kimi antonelli — his best friend, his ex teammate, his mistake made flesh. the world loses its mind and no one knows whether this is revenge, healing…or the start of something far more dangerous.
⋆˚࿔ february 28th
lewis hamilton x !wolff reader x nico rosberg
2016 is a war, and the mercedes garage feels like the front line. you’re toto wolff’s eldest daughter — too close, too present, and far too aware of the way nico rosberg and lewis hamilton look at you when the other isn’t watching. loyalty fractures. tempers flare. every victory feels personal. they try to win on track, and then they try to win you — in completely different ways, equally consuming. lines blur in the pressure, the jealousy, the hunger to claim something in a season where nothing is shared. and one night, in the middle of the championship that breaks them both, it all collapses into something reckless, toxic, and unforgettable.
also working on a !leclerc reader x jannik sinner fic rn...lmk if yall want it 😬
you’ve grown up in the paddock, so being loved here feels as natural as breathing. mechanics greet you with hugs, drivers tease you like a little sister, and the fans look at you like you’re part of the legend they’ve only ever watched on screens. lewis hamilton’s daughter. model. engineering student. somehow still you in the middle of it all.
the 2025 season feels different. new colors. new beginnings. your father in ferrari red, smiling wider than he has in years. and then there’s isack — rookie nerves hidden behind excitement, eyes lighting up every time he stands next to your dad. he follows lewis like a shadow, hero-struck and unapologetic about it.
you try not to notice how easy it is to laugh with isack. how natural it feels to sit beside him during free hours in the paddock, to walk with him, to belong with him. but somewhere along the way, it starts feeling like too much. so you pull back. a step at a time. and you don’t see the way isack’s smile falters when you do.
your father does, though. lewis notices everything — especially when his daughter is avoiding her own heart. so he does what any world champion, global icon, and painfully obvious dad would do: he interferes. family dinners suddenly include an extra seat. casual invites turn into broncos games, trips, shared moments that feel a little too intentional. and while Isack thinks he’s just incredibly lucky to be included, lewis is already planning the moment you both finally stop running.
fc : dinadenoire on ig
(a/n) : hi guys!!!! first post in like a week and a half (so sorry! between work and school im so SLEEPY) (also big surprise coming soon for my bday month!!!!!!) my bb @starriss sent me this idea and i couldn't resist PLUS i have been wanting to make another isack x hamilton reader bc my first one was not the best. hope yall love 💋
The paddock always knows when you arrive. It’s subtle at first—the way conversations stutter, the way heads turn just a fraction quicker than usual. Then the cameras notice. The shutters start clicking faster, louder. Someone calls your name, and then another voice joins it, and another, until the sound follows you like a tide as you step through the gates at Albert Park.
Red corset cinched at the waist. Heels steady against the concrete. Hair loose, effortless, like you didn’t spend an extra ten minutes making sure it fell just right.
“YN—over here!”
You smile without breaking stride. You’ve learned how to do that. Learned how to exist in this space without shrinking, without apologizing.
A few drivers peel off from their conversations as you pass. A quick hug from Lando. A grin and a kiss on the cheek from Charles. George raises a hand and calls out something about finally being back. You greet them all easily, warmly—like this isn’t a world that has watched you grow up, like you aren’t one of its constants.
Ahead of you, the Ferrari garage is already buzzing. And right at the front of it, arms folded, sunglasses perched low on his nose, is your dad.
Lewis doesn’t move when he sees you—he just smiles. Wide and soft and proud in a way that still makes your chest ache a little, no matter how old you get. When you reach him, he opens his arms and you step into them without hesitation.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “You good?”
“Always,” you say, squeezing him once before pulling back. “You?”
He nods, glancing briefly at the car behind him, the red still unfamiliar but thrilling all the same. “Feels right.”
You believe him.
He takes you through the garage slowly, one hand resting at the small of your back as he introduces you around—engineers, mechanics, some people you’ve known forever and a few new faces who look at you with quiet reverence. You listen, ask questions, make jokes. You belong here just as much as he does.
From a little further back, near the edge of the neighboring garage, Isack Hadjar watches.
He doesn’t mean to stare. He really doesn’t. But it’s hard not to.
You move through the space like you’ve always been part of it—like the noise, the pressure, the legacy doesn’t weigh on you at all. Like being Lewis Hamilton’s daughter is just another fact, not a headline.
He’s met your dad already. Shaken his hand. Nearly short-circuited when Lewis smiled at him and asked how he was settling in. That alone had been enough to make this weekend feel unreal.
And now you’re here.
Isack stays quiet, hands tucked into the pockets of his team gear, eyes following you with something dangerously close to awe.
Eventually, you peel away toward hospitality, slipping into a seat beside Alexandra. She lights up the second she sees you.
“There you are,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “I swear, every camera in Melbourne just turned at once.”
You laugh. “I was hoping to sneak in unnoticed.”
“Impossible,” she replies fondly.
The two of you talk easily—about travel, about fashion, about how strange it feels seeing you in Ferrari red this year. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Safe.
Later, when you drift back toward the garage, you spot your dad mid-conversation with a young driver in a VCARB suit. He’s listening intently, head tilted, hands animated as he speaks back.
Then he sees you.
“YN,” Lewis calls, beckoning you over. “Come here.”
The driver beside him straightens instantly.
“This,” Lewis says, resting a hand on your shoulder, “is my daughter.”
Your smile is immediate. Warm. Curious.
“And this is Isack,” your dad continues. “Rookie this year. Very fast.”
Isack swallows. “Hi,” he says, voice steady despite the way his heart is trying to escape his chest.
“Hi,” you reply, eyes bright. There’s something about him—something earnest and sweet that makes your lips curve just a little more. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” he says, then winces internally because likewise feels painfully formal, but it’s too late to take it back.
You don’t seem to mind. If anything, you look… amused.
“He’s been very polite,” Lewis adds with a grin. “Even when I tease him.”
Isack laughs nervously. “You started it.”
You laugh too, soft and genuine, and for a second he forgets where he is.
“Well,” you say, glancing between them, “I won’t steal him. Good luck this weekend, Isack.”
“Thank you,” he says quickly. “I—yeah. Thanks.”
You give him one last smile before stepping away, and Isack stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching you disappear back into the crowd.
That night, your hotel room is quiet.
You’ve kicked off your shoes, curled up in one of the armchairs with a mug of tea balanced between your hands, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Melbourne hums faintly outside the window.
There’s a knock at the door.
You frown slightly, setting your phone down as you stand. When you open it, Isack is there.
He looks… distressed. Hair a little messier than earlier. Shoulders tense. Like he’s been pacing for a while.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he replies, then immediately grimaces. “Sorry. I—this is really random. I just—do you know where your dad is?”
You think for a moment. “Probably the gym. Or out on a run. That’s kind of his thing.”
“Right,” Isack says, nodding, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He hesitates. “I’m just… nervous. And I thought maybe he’d—never mind. Sorry to bother you.”
You tilt your head, studying him.
“I don’t have very good advice,” you say honestly. “But I do have tea. And a lot of funny stories about him.”
He looks at you, surprised.
“…Really?”
You smile. “If you want.”
There’s a beat. Then he nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Inside, he relaxes almost instantly. You talk—about racing, about school, about how intimidating your dad can be when he’s focused. You tell him about the time Lewis got lost on a run and refused to admit it. He laughs, shoulders loosening, nerves fading. By the time he leaves, he’s smiling again.
Race day comes quickly.
Before heading out, your dad pulls you into a quiet corner. He presses his forehead to yours for a moment, a habit from when you were younger.
“Wish me luck?” he asks.
“Always,” you say. “Go show them.”
He smiles and squeezes your hands once before letting you go.
You watch the race from the garage with Anthony, your grandfather steady beside you. When the formation lap begins, everything feels normal—until it doesn’t.
Isack’s car jolts.
You gasp before you can stop yourself. “Oh my god.”
The crash happens in an instant. You’re on your feet, heart in your throat, as the cameras swarm. Anthony stands too, jaw set, eyes sharp.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I’ll be back,” he says, already moving.
Later, he returns, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’s shaken, but he’s okay.”
You nod, but you can’t sit still.
You excuse yourself quietly and make your way down the paddock, past garages and security, until you’re standing outside a familiar door. You knock lightly.
“Go away,” comes Isack’s muffled voice. “Please.”
“It’s me,” you say gently.
The door opens immediately.
Inside, Isack sinks onto the couch, head in his hands. You sit beside him without asking, close enough that your shoulders touch.
“I feel like I failed,” he says, voice cracking. “First race. Formation lap. I didn’t even get to race.”
You listen. Let him speak.
When he’s done, you turn to him. “You didn’t fail,” you say quietly. “You showed up. You got here. One moment doesn’t erase that.”
He looks at you, eyes glassy. “What if it does?”
“It doesn’t,” you say firmly. “And it won’t.”
Something steadies in him at that.
Later, back in the Ferrari garage, you spot him talking with your dad. Lewis’s hand rests briefly on his shoulder, his expression kind and serious.
Isack looks up and sees you watching. You smile. And he gives you the biggest smile back.
Miami feels like a big change. Not the hum of engines or the clipped focus of the circuit—but heat, music, color. The paddock feels looser here, sun bleached and buzzing, like everyone has collectively decided to exhale for a moment.
You’re sitting in the Mercedes garage, legs tucked beneath you, a notebook balanced on your knee. The silver and black feels familiar in a way Ferrari red still doesn’t—not yet, at least.
Bono leans over your shoulder, pointing at your page.
“See here,” he says, tapping the diagram. “If you think about the load transfer this way, it makes more sense.”
You hum thoughtfully, scribbling a note. “So the instability I’m seeing isn’t actually the suspension—it’s how the energy’s being redistributed?”
“Exactly,” Bono replies, pleased. “You’ve got a good instinct for this.”
Across from you, Kimi Antonelli is spinning slowly in his chair, entirely uninvited and deeply committed to being a menace.
“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “Do we think she’s going to notice or are we letting this continue indefinitely?”
You don’t even look up. “Notice what.”
Kimi grins. Bono clears his throat and pretends to be deeply fascinated by a monitor.
Before Kimi can elaborate, a familiar presence appears at the edge of the garage.
Isack.
He’s holding a cardboard cup and a small paper bag like they’re precious cargo. His eyes find you immediately, softening as he walks over.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I brought you this.”
You look up, surprised—and then smile when you see the order. Exactly right. Down to the milk.
“You remembered,” you say.
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “You only mentioned it once.”
You take it from him, fingers brushing, and that tiny contact sends something warm and dangerous through your chest.
“Thank you,” you say, genuinely.
“No problem,” he replies, lingering for half a second longer than necessary before nodding at Bono and Kimi. “Good luck with… whatever this is.”
Homework,” Kimi supplies cheerfully.
Isack laughs and disappears back toward his garage.
The second he’s gone, Kimi swivels toward you fully.
“He likes you,” he says flatly. “Obviously.”
You choke slightly on your coffee. “No, he doesn’t.”
“He brings you coffee,” Kimi continues, counting on his fingers. “Remembers your order. Finds you in other garages. Asks about you constantly. Looks like a kicked puppy when you’re not around.”
Bono makes a very deliberate show of adjusting his headset.
“Kimi,” you warn.
“What?” he shrugs. “I’m right.”
“You’re not,” you insist, even as your pulse betrays you. “He’s just nice.”
Kimi raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
Across the paddock later, your dad is leaning against a table, listening as Isack talks.
“…and then she explained it in a way that actually made sense,” Isack is saying, animated. “Like, she doesn’t make you feel stupid for asking questions. She just—she gets it.”
Lewis watches him with careful neutrality, the way only a father can.
“YN?” he asks casually.
Isack nods quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. I talk about her a lot.”
Lewis smiles into his water bottle.
“I’ve noticed.”
Isack flushes slightly but doesn’t deny it. He just smiles too, softer now, like the thought of you alone is enough to steady him.
Lewis doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He’s already cataloging it—every look, every question, every unconscious pull toward you.
Qualifying comes and goes in a blur of heat and tension.
That evening, there’s a knock at your hotel room door.
Isack stands there, hair still damp from a shower, holding his laptop.
“Hey,” he says. “I was wondering if you still wanted help studying? Or—I can leave. I just—”
“No,” you interrupt quickly. “Stay. Please.”
You spread your notes out across the bed, the two of you leaning over them shoulder to shoulder. He asks questions—real ones. Thoughtful ones. When you explain your research, he listens like it matters.
Like you matter.
Later, room service arrives. You eat perched on the edge of the bed, laughing quietly, before carrying your plates out onto the balcony.
The Miami skyline glows below you.
“So,” Isack says, setting his fork aside. “What exactly is it you’re researching?”
You blink. “You really want to know?”
“Of course.”
No one ever does.
You talk for a long time. About systems. About data. About the future. He listens without interrupting, eyes focused, absorbing every word.
“That’s incredible,” he says when you finish. “You’re incredible.”
Your chest tightens. When he finally leaves, you lie awake staring at the ceiling. The truth settles heavy and undeniable in your chest. You’re falling for him. And suddenly, all you want to do is run.
The first thing Isack notices is your absence. Not just from one race—those happen. People get busy. Lives exist outside the paddock. But then it becomes two races. Then three. No familiar figure tucked into the garage. No quiet wave from across hospitality. No late-night texts asking how practice went.
Your replies grow slower. Shorter. Sometimes nonexistent. He tells himself you’re busy. That you warned him school was intense. That this is normal. Still, it sits heavy in his chest.
During a lull in the Canadian paddock, he finds himself beside Lewis. They’re watching mechanics work, the air sharp with fuel and focus.
“Hey,” Isack says carefully. “Is… um. Is YN coming this weekend?”
Lewis glances at him, face perfectly neutral.
“She’s been busy with school,” he says lightly. “You know how she is.”
Isack nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
“She’ll be here,” Lewis adds. “Don’t worry.”
Isack smiles, relief flickering briefly through him.
What he doesn’t know—what Lewis doesn’t say—is that he knows exactly where you’ve been. Avoiding him. Avoiding yourself.
Lewis knows the signs. He always has. The way you disappear when something matters too much. The way you bury your feelings under responsibility and reason and self-control. He both hates and loves that he can read you so easily.
The moment he gets confirmation that you’ve arrived in Montreal, he’s at your hotel door.
“Get dressed,” he says when you open it, already smiling. “We’re going to brunch.”
“Dad—”
“No excuses,” he interrupts gently. “I already booked us a private room.”
You sigh, knowing better than to fight it.
The café is quiet and sunlit, tucked away from the chaos. The private room feels like a cocoon. Lewis waits until your food arrives before speaking.
“So,” he says, casually stirring his coffee. “You’ve been busy.”
You nod. “School.”
“Mmhmm.”
You can feel it—the way he’s circling, patient and deliberate.
“You haven’t been around much,” he continues. “People miss you.”
“I miss them too,” you reply carefully.
Lewis studies you for a long moment. Then he nods, letting it go.
“Alright,” he says. “Eat. Tell me about your classes.”
Relief washes over you, mingled with guilt. You talk about assignments, deadlines, stress. He listens. He always does.
In the paddock later, you finally feel like yourself again.
You’re sitting with Alexandra, Kika, Carmen, and Rebecca, legs crossed, sunglasses perched atop your head. The conversation is easy—travel plans, outfits, inside jokes.
It’s warm. Normal.
“God, it’s so good to have you back,” Carmen says, nudging you. “We missed you.”
“I missed you too,” you admit.
Before you can say more, Kimi and Ollie appear like coordinated and perfectly timed chaos.
“Can we borrow her?” Ollie asks politely.
“No,” Kika says instantly.
“Please?” Kimi adds. “It’s important.”
Alexandra laughs. “Go. But bring her back alive.”
They drag you a few steps away.
“Where have you been,” Kimi demands, arms crossed.
“You ghosted the paddock,” Ollie adds. “That’s illegal.”
You laugh. “I didn’t ghost anyone. I’ve been busy.”
Isack leaves the car frustrated, helmet still on, shoulders tense. That night, he hesitates for a long time before texting you.
hey
would you maybe want to watch some race reruns together?
i miss you
Your chest tightens. You stare at the message, thumb hovering. Every instinct tells you to retreat. You don’t.
yeah
i can come by
His reply is instant.
When you arrive, the lights are low. The race replay is already queued up. Your favorite snacks sit neatly on the table like he’s been planning this all along.
You don’t say much. You don’t need to.
You curl into his side, head resting on his shoulder. He feeds you snacks absentmindedly, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he moves too fast.
Your phone buzzes.
dad: where are you?
You hesitate, then type honestly.
with isack
Somewhere across the city, Lewis Hamilton smiles to himself. These idiots, he thinks fondly.
By the time you reach Budapest, things have settled into something almost normal. Almost.
You and Isack have found your rhythm again—texts returned, smiles shared, late-night conversations slipping back into place like muscle memory. But there’s an undercurrent now. Something unspoken that hums between you every time your eyes meet, every time your fingers brush.
You both feel it. You both pretend you don’t.
Sunday morning finds you in your dad’s motorhome, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the air calm in that pre-race way that always feels suspended in time.
A deck of Uno cards is spread across the table.
“This is ridiculous,” you say, staring at your hand. “There’s no way you have four plus-twos.”
Lewis grins unapologetically. “Skill issue.”
Isack laughs, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure this game is rigged.”
You glance at him. He looks relaxed, hair a little messy, shoulders loose—but his eyes flick to you more often than he probably realizes.
Lewis notices everything.
“So,” he says casually, laying down a card. “Summer break’s coming up.”
Isack nods. “Yeah.”
“You got any plans?” Lewis asks.
Isack shrugs. “Not really. Probably just training. Maybe a little travel.”
Lewis hums, like he’s considering something.
“Well,” he says, almost offhand, “YN and I are heading to the Maldives. Just us and a few close family friends.”
You pause mid-shuffle.
Isack looks up sharply.
Lewis continues, entirely too calm. “You should come.”
The room goes quiet.
Isack blinks. Once. Twice. “I—sorry?”
You look at your dad. Then at Isack. Then shrug, like this is no big deal at all.
“If you want,” you add lightly.
Isack’s brain short-circuits.
Vacation. Maldives. Lewis Hamilton. You.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “I mean—yeah. If that’s okay.”
Lewis smiles, satisfied, and places his last card down.
“Uno.”
Later, as Lewis gets ready for the race, you linger by the door, arms crossed.
“Can I ask you something,” you say.
“Mm?” he replies, adjusting his suit.
“Why did you invite Isack?”
Lewis glances at you, eyes warm. “He’s a good kid.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course.”
He grins. “Wish me luck.”
“Always,” you say, pulling him into a quick hug.
After the race, true to form, Lewis disappears almost immediately.
You find out why when a driver informs you your car has been… reassigned.
“He already left?” you ask, incredulous.
“Yes,” the driver replies. “But he sent another car for you two.”
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Unbelievable.”
Isack, beside you, just smiles. “I think it’s kind of nice.”
At the airport, it only gets worse.
“Mr. Hamilton already departed,” a staff member tells you. “But there’s a jet waiting for you.”
You laugh quietly. “Of course there is.”
The jet is quiet and dim, the kind of luxury that feels unreal. You sit beside Isack, talking softly—about nothing, about everything.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
Your head tips onto his shoulder. He freezes for a moment, then relaxes, careful not to move.
By the time you wake, his head is resting against yours.
Neither of you pulls away.
Somewhere ahead, the Maldives wait. And Lewis Hamilton is chuckling to himself right about now.
The Maldives feels unreal in the way only places like this do. Everything is too blue. Too warm. Too quiet. The air smells like salt and sunscreen and something expensive you can’t name. Your villa opens directly onto the water, glass doors pulled wide so the sound of the ocean never really leaves.
Lewis is in his element. You should have known something was up the moment he handed you both a printed itinerary over breakfast, sunglasses already on, grin far too innocent.
“Couples snorkeling?” you read aloud, blinking.
Isack chokes on his coffee.
“Sunset paddleboarding,” you continue. “Private boat excursion. Couples massage—Dad?”
Lewis is already standing. “Have fun!” he says cheerfully, patting Isack on the shoulder before disappearing down the boardwalk.
You stare after him. “He did this on purpose.”
Isack laughs, a little breathless. “I think so.”
The snorkeling is… intimate.
Too close. Too many accidental brushes of hands underwater, the quiet awareness of each other amplified by the stillness. Isack keeps glancing over at you through his mask like he can’t quite believe you’re there, sunlight breaking across your hair.
Later, on the paddleboards, he insists on steadying you even though you absolutely do not need help.
“Just in case,” he says.
You catch him staring at you more than once throughout the day. Not in a way that feels invasive—just soft, distracted, like his thoughts keep drifting back to you no matter how hard he tries to focus.
Every time you notice, your chest tightens.
At dinner, Lewis watches the two of you over the rim of his glass, eyes bright with mischief.
“So,” he says casually. “You two having fun?”
“Yes,” you say quickly.
“Very,” Isack adds, just as fast.
Lewis hums. “Good. You both deserve it.”
The teasing is constant. Gentle comments. Raised eyebrows. Little smiles exchanged when he thinks you’re not looking.
By the third night, it’s impossible not to feel it.
The moment comes on the beach.
It’s late. The sand is cool beneath your feet, the sky clear and endless. You sit side by side, knees almost touching, the ocean lapping quietly nearby.
Isack exhales. “I’m really glad I came.”
“Me too,” you say softly.
There’s a pause. He looks at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression shifts—vulnerable, hopeful, terrified.
“I—” he starts.
Your heart jumps.
But then he stops.
You swallow. “What?”
He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… happy.”
You nod, even though you know that wasn’t all of it. The silence settles back in, heavy but warm. Later, as you walk back toward the villa, your hand brushes his. Neither of you pulls away. And somewhere behind you, your father is already patting himself on the back.
Coming back from summer break always feels strange. Like the world snaps back into focus too quickly—routines resuming, expectations settling heavily on shoulders that haven’t quite adjusted yet. Zandvoort is loud, different colors bleeding into every corner of the circuit, the air buzzing with anticipation.
You’re back where you belong.
You find yourself pacing more than usual during the race, heart hammering every time Isack’s car flashes past on the screen. He’s driving brilliantly—clean, confident, hungry.
When the checkered flag waves and his name flashes P3, you forget how to breathe.
Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it.
“Oh my god—”
The crowd goes wild. You don’t remember how you get down there—only the blur of movement, the press of bodies, the rush of adrenaline. Isack spots you immediately.
He doesn’t hesitate. He drops his helmet, grabs you by the waist, and lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you around as you laugh breathlessly, hands clutching at his shoulders.
“We did it,” he says, laughing, eyes bright and almost disbelieving.
“You did it,” you correct, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
He sets you down slowly, hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
Across the chaos, Lewis watches—pride blooming despite the frustration of his own race. When Isack turns and spots him, Lewis opens his arms.
Isack steps into the hug without thinking.
“Well done,” Lewis says firmly. “That was special.”
That night, Lewis insists on celebrating. The dinner is warm and intimate—family, a few close friends, other drivers, laughter flowing easily despite the disappointment of the day. Lewis moves through the room like a proud host, making sure Isack is at the center of it all.
You sit beside him, close but careful, knees brushing beneath the table.
Later, outside under soft lights, Isack steps closer.
“Today meant a lot,” he says quietly. “Having you here.”
You look at him, heart aching. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
The moment stretches. He leans in slightly. Almost. Then footsteps. You pull back, laughing softly to hide the disappointment. Inside, Lewis catches your eye from across the room, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Soon, he thinks.
The air is crisp and clean, the mountains stretching endlessly in every direction, snow dusting the peaks like something out of a postcard. You arrive wrapped in layers, cheeks already cold, heart light in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.
Lewis is in his element.
He laughs louder here. Moves easier. The weight of the season seems to lift from his shoulders the second you step off the plane.
Isack follows close behind, eyes wide, taking everything in.
“This is insane,” he says softly, looking up at the mountains. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“You get used to it,” Lewis replies with a grin. “Or at least, you learn to appreciate it.”
Skiing happens the next morning.
Lewis is infuriatingly good at it, carving down the slope like he’s been doing this his whole life. Isack is… determined.
You help him adjust his gloves, laughing when he nearly tips over before even pushing off.
“Relax,” you say gently, hands steadying him. “I’ve got you.”
He looks at you then—really looks at you—and nods.
On the slopes, there are moments where it’s just the three of you, the world quiet except for the crunch of snow beneath skis. Lewis keeps glancing back, making sure you’re both okay, occasionally shouting teasing encouragement.
“Careful, Isack!” he calls. “I need you in one piece!”
Later, in the lodge, you sit shoulder to shoulder, sipping something warm, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“You were good,” you tell Isack.
He laughs. “That’s generous.”
“I’m serious.”
Your eyes meet. The moment lingers.
Lewis clears his throat loudly. “Alright, lovebirds. Broncos game tonight.”
You groan. “You planned this.”
“Absolutely,” he replies cheerfully.
The suite at the stadium is packed, the energy electric. You take your seats, bundled up, the field glowing under the lights.
At the start of the second quarter, Lewis stands.
“I’ll be right back,” he says casually.
You watch him leave, then roll your eyes. “He’s doing it on purpose.”
Isack chuckles. “I know nothing about football,” he admits quietly. “But I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
You laugh, leaning closer. “Okay. So—offense tries to get the ball down the field…”
You explain patiently, animated, hands moving as you talk. He listens intently, asking questions, nodding along like it matters deeply.
“It’s actually kind of cool,” he says. “Very strategic.”
You smile. “See?”
By the time Lewis returns, you’re laughing, pressed close, entirely absorbed in each other.
Lewis pauses at the entrance, watching, satisfaction evident.
The trip is filled with moments like that.
Early mornings. Shared coffees. Quiet laughter. Long glances that say everything and nothing at once.
You wake up that morning feeling oddly calm. Nervous, yes—but grounded. The kind of calm that comes after years of late nights, equations scribbled into margins, coffee gone cold beside you while you chased an answer that refused to come easily. Today is the end of something enormous. You don’t quite let yourself think about what comes next.
You certainly don’t expect anyone to be there.
The ceremony hall is buzzing when you arrive, families filling rows with cameras and flowers and quiet pride. You spot classmates waving, take your seat, smooth your gown, breathe. When your name is called, you stand. The walk across the stage feels unreal—applause echoing, lights bright, your heart pounding. You accept your degree with a smile that’s half disbelief, half triumph.
And then you look out into the crowd. Your breath catches. Lewis is standing.
Not just standing—beaming. The proudest smile you have ever seen on anyone, anywhere, holding a bouquet so massive it borders on absurd. Your mother is beside him, eyes shining, hands clasped to her mouth. And then—your heart stutters— Isack.
He’s there. Standing just behind them, a little shy, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, eyes fixed entirely on you like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
For a second, everything blurs. When the ceremony ends, you barely make it down the steps before you’re enveloped.
Lewis pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the air out of you. “You did it,” he says thickly. “I’m so proud of you.”
Your mum kisses your cheek, laughing and crying at the same time. And then Isack steps forward. He hesitates—just a fraction—before pulling you into his arms. It’s warm and steady and grounding, like everything he’s ever been to you.
“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into your hair. “You have no idea.”
You laugh softly, overwhelmed. “What are you doing here?”
Lewis grins over your shoulder. “Surprise.”
You don’t even have time to process before you’re being ushered into a car.
The venue they take you to is… breathtaking.
Lights strung everywhere. Music low and perfect. Tables overflowing with flowers. And people—everyone. Drivers you’ve grown up around. Friends from school. WAGs laughing and hugging you. Family members you didn’t even know were in town. Celebrities you recognize distantly, all there for you.
Lewis watches your face light up like it’s his greatest accomplishment yet.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“You deserve it,” he replies simply.
Isack never leaves your side.
You introduce him to people with quiet pride, his hand resting lightly at your back, eyes always finding yours in a crowded room. When the noise becomes too much, he notices. When you need water, it’s already there.
Eventually, you slip outside together, the cool air a welcome contrast.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Just… a lot.”
He smiles, then reaches into his pocket.
“There’s one more thing.”
He slides a small Tiffany blue box into your hands.
Your eyes widen instantly. “Isack—”
“You’ve been looking at it for months,” he says softly. “I noticed.”
You open it with trembling fingers.
The bracelet inside is perfect. Elegant. Exactly the one you’ve quietly admired, never daring to buy for yourself.
You look up at him, stunned. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he replies, smiling. “Come here.”
You lightly smack his shoulder, laughing through the emotion. “You’re unbelievable.”
He laughs too, then gently fastens it around your wrist. His fingers linger. Your eyes meet.
The world seems to narrow.
You lean in first.
The kiss is soft at first—hesitant, reverent—like you’re both afraid to rush something that’s been building for so long. Then it deepens, warmth blooming through your chest as his hand cups your cheek.
And then—
“YES!”
You break apart, laughing.
Lewis stands a few feet away, clapping enthusiastically.
“Finally,” he says. “I have been orchestrating this for months.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face.
Isack laughs, shaking his head. “You planned all of this?”
Lewis grins. “Every single detail.”
He walks away still laughing, calling back, “Don’t mind me!”
Isack turns back to you, eyes soft, and kisses you again. And again.
This time, there’s nothing holding you back. You’ve graduated. You’ve fallen in love. And for once, you let yourself have it all.
A few weeks later, life feels… steady. Not quiet—never quiet, not with travel schedules and debriefs and the constant hum of F1—but steady in a way that makes your chest feel warm instead of tight. The kind of steady that comes from knowing where you stand. From waking up and not questioning whether the person beside you wants to be there.
You and Isack are going steady now. Not whispered about, not danced around. Real. Obvious. Happy.
He stays over when he can. You’ve fallen into routines without meaning to—him making coffee exactly how you like it, you stealing his hoodies even though they absolutely drown you, the way his hand always finds the small of your back in public like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been his place.
And somehow, despite everything, it feels easy.
The call comes on a quiet afternoon. You’re sitting cross legged on the couch, laptop open, half watching a replay from the last race while tweaking a model you’ve been working on for weeks. Isack is pacing the living room, phone pressed to his ear, nodding silently. You’re not really listening—calls like this happen all the time—but then you hear his breathing change.
It goes shallow. Sharp.
You look up just as he stops moving.
“Okay,” he says, voice careful. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The call ends.
For a second, he just stands there.
You’re on your feet immediately. “Isack?”
He turns to you, eyes wide, shining, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loudly it’ll disappear.
“I got it,” he says.
Your heart stutters. “Got what?”
“The second Red Bull seat.” His voice breaks on the words. “Next season. It’s—It’s confirmed.”
You gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “Isack—”
He barely gets a second before you’re launching yourself at him. He laughs as he catches you, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you cling to him, both of you laughing and talking at the same time, words tumbling over each other.
“I’m so proud of you,” you breathe, forehead pressed to his. “I knew it. I knew you were ready.”
He shakes his head, still in disbelief. “I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”
You cup his face gently. “It will.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something tender and reverent in his expression. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”
Your throat tightens. “You would. You did this.”
He leans in and kisses you—slow, grounding, full of gratitude and relief—and for a moment, the world feels perfectly aligned.
And then your phone buzzes.
You frown, pulling it from the table. The number on the screen makes your breath catch.
You answer. “Hello?”
“Hey,” comes the familiar voice. Warm. Proud. Smiling even through the phone. “Got a minute?”
You smile automatically. “Always.”
“We’d like to offer you a position with Red Bull Racing,” the voice continues. “Race engineering department.”
Your heart drops.
“I—” You sit down hard on the couch. “I’m sorry, I just—could you repeat that?”
A soft chuckle on the other end. “We’d like you with us next season.”
You blink, eyes filling instantly. “I didn’t apply anywhere else.”
“We know,” he says. “Max and a few others spoke very highly of you. Said you wanted to build your career on merit, not assumptions. Hence why you didn't apply to Ferrari."
“There’s more,” the voice adds, almost gently. “We’d like you to be Isack’s race engineer.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush.
You look up at Isack, who’s watching your face with growing confusion and concern.
“Yes,” you say, voice shaking. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”
When the call ends, you just sit there for a second, stunned.
Isack kneels in front of you instantly. “What happened?”
You laugh through tears. “I’m going to Red Bull.”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“As an engineer,” you continue, voice breaking. “Your engineer.”
For a moment, he looks like his brain has completely short-circuited.
Then he laughs—bright, disbelieving, joyful—and pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair.
“We’re—” He pulls back, eyes shining. “We’re doing this together.”
You nod, tears spilling freely now. “Together.”
Later that night, curled up in bed, legs tangled, you prop your phone between you and tap a familiar name.
Lewis answers on the second ring.
“Well?” he says, eyebrow raised knowingly. “Judging by the energy, I’m assuming I need champagne.”
Isack grins like a kid. “I got the seat.”
Lewis whoops so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “I knew it!”
“And,” you add softly, “I’m going to Red Bull too.”
His expression softens instantly. Pride radiates from him. “Of course you are.”
Isack leans closer to the screen. “She’s going to be my race engineer.”
Lewis presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “I’ve truly outdone myself.”
You laugh. “You absolutely meddled.”
“And I’d do it again,” he says, smiling. “I’m so proud of both of you.”
When the call ends, you settle back against Isack, his arm wrapping around you automatically.
The future feels big. Fast. A little terrifying. But it also feels right.
You tilt your head up to him. “Ready for this?”
He kisses your forehead. “As long as it’s with you.”
You don’t just hope things will work out. You know they will.
