Howdie! 🤠 I'm C8, 20's something year old writer, educated and chaotic✨
Welcome to my cove! I'm currently writing F1 fanfiction — but I have also dabbled in a little ACOTAR as well on my Wattpad.
You can find all of my writing on Wattpad and AO3, which are linked below. Unless otherwise noted, all my series are currently ongoing. So if you have a prompt or idea, or just have thoughts about the ongoing works, feel free to send it my way — I love hearing what you’re excited about!
🌍 timezone: EDT (US)
💌 requests status: Please see the below timeline before submitting!
🔞 age note: this blog contains explicit content. 18+ due to mature themes, even if you’re not blocked.
🌷anon emoji directory
a running list of the lovely little creatures who drop into my inbox wearing masks 🎭 pick an emoji, send it in, and that’s you forever (unless you say otherwise). taken emojis are listed below!
Note: Submit emoji requests in your next anon ask!
‼️ lastly, a reminder: some of my fics will be requests, not personal views, and are inspired by current events. they do NOT reflect reality. I don’t comment on real-life driver drama, WAG gossip, or paddock politics and i will not be sharing my personal opinions.
this space is for fictional chaos, fun, and emotional destruction, not hate.
I won’t be answering asks about when the next update is coming. I promise I’m still writing, but those messages can be a bit overwhelming — and the time I’d spend replying is time I’d rather spend creating more for you!
Thank you for understanding and for all your support <3
Hi hi! Hope you’re looking after yourself and doing okay! saw your life updates and don’t want to put any pressure on you to write while everything is so intense and scary where you are.
Would you be comfortable recommending any fics that you’ve read and enjoyed? Your characters are so well written and have so much depth I’d love to read some fics that you’ve enjoyed while we wait (take as long as you need 💖) for the next update!
Hi Anon!
I am safe and sound which is all one can ask for these days. I'm sure you'll be happy to see the latest update on BoB, but I get this story is not fast moving.
I don't usually do rec lists as i'm definitely a picky reader myself, so I had to dig through my likes. But I've listed two fics I've really enjoyed lately for Max in the meantime!
Tumblr Recs
System Failure - by @cressidagrey
I have no words for this one, just ... chef's kiss. Such an interesting story line and unlike anything I've come across on Tumblr so far. So well written and I just love this author's work in general she's an incredible wordsmith.
AO3 Recs
How To Be a Cat Sitter for Your Neighbor; A Memoir - By SizePrincessNico
This story isn't finished (sad), and while I don't usually reccomend unfinished fics because I know fans hate that, this one is SO good. Such a cute comfort fic, hopefully the author will update it one day because it's such a good idea and is beautifully written!
omg heyyy i just read burn out bright on ao3 and redownloaded tumblr just to tell you how amazing your writing is!!! genuinely haven’t read something with so much care and love put into it. i just stalked your tumblr (sorry😅) and it’s so devastating to hear what’s been happening. i really hope things at your job are somewhat better now! thank you for taking the time out of your day to do this!!! you are so appreciated!!! can’t wait for the next bob update but take your time and take care of yourself!!!🩷🩷🩷
Thanks for the kind words Anon 🩷
I am definitely a slow write by nature, but it's my hope that the amount of thought and time I put into my writing comes across on the page. Lizzie's story has been so much fun to write so it's been hard to have to put it on the back burner, but I'm hoping to slowly be able to work on BoB once again.
Everyone has been so kind and understanding, I appreciate all y'alls support for both the story and me!
Hi! This is going to be a loonggg question lol. I just wanted to say I found Lizzie really compelling, even when she made choices that were uncomfortable or hard to root for. I was especially struck by how her trauma, abandonment, and grief don’t translate into her being a “good” or morally clean character. She feels very human instead.
I was wondering if you’d be willing to share a bit about your process when writing her. How did you think about the line between understanding her pain and still letting her make deeply flawed decisions? Were there specific moments or ideas that guided you toward letting her seek love in ways that are destructive rather than redemptive?
I’m really interested in how you approached writing a protagonist who isn’t meant to be idealized but understood:))))
Thank you!
I love your writing so much!!
Hi Anon!
Sorry for the delay in answering this, but thanks for such a heartfelt question. It brings me such joy that people are so invested in Lizzie's story and character development.
I think all authors pull a little bit of themselves into all their characters. Lizzie's reality is certainly way different than my own (as well as some of her choices or situations she finds herself in) but I find myself trying to put myself in her hers when I was 21 in order to examine what someone her age and with her past pain might do. Lizzie is definitely a super morally grey character, she acts selfishly and does not want to learn lessons because that requires work. It's easier to be petulant and go running back to familiar comforts versus living through the physical and mental pain she often finds herself in, but one has to ask themselves if she has ever had the opportunity to feel truly safe and heard before. So when she find a piece of that somewhere, she latches on no matter how bad it is for her.
Seeking out these kind of love and comfort is destructive to not only her but those around her, yet I think it's really important for her journey to let her make these mistakes in order for her to (hopefully) learn something from it, as we all do in life. She's certainly not perfect! But that's why I love her so much, she has the potential to be great. She just doesn't see it yet, or hasn't connected with someone who could help her see that (wink wink.)
Thanks for sticking around! I hope you continue to enjoy the story <3
it’s been a year daddy pls update the max fic 🙏🙏🙏🙏
Sorry, Daddy has been fighting the forces of fascism, but ask and you shall receive! (it's because I've been waiting to answer this till I posted lmao)
Book One - Light the Spark
Chapter Twenty: No One Noticed (Part I)
Now, I'm looking to the sky to save me. Looking for a sign of life. Looking for something to help me burn out bright
In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.
✦ starring: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)
✦ Warnings: ....Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also - +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language and profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and substance abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.
✦ Word count: ~168K total (ongoing multi-part series)
✦ Author’s Note: Long time no see :') I know it has been a very long time since I've updated this story. Life has a way of getting away from you, especially when the world is burning and your country is slowly falling part. But I have managed to pull myself from the depths of depression to at least polish up and get some of this out for y'all. A second part of this chapter will be coming out as it was just too long to fit onto one chapter for reading. Okay so… this chapter hurt a little to write but I have really enjoyed exploring Lizzie's past and how her traumas are informing the very bad decisions she is making in the present. We finally start peeling back the layers of lizzie’s childhood and it’s messy in the quiet way family things usually are. Nobody is openly cruel, nobody is screaming, but there are a lot of small moments that stick with a kid longer than anyone realizes. And yes… the parallels between past and present in this chapter are very much intentional. There is so much foreshadowing going on, I'm curious to know if anyone of y'all picked up on that! Max will be featured in the next chapter so do not fret if you're like 'Girl where is he??' I KNOW but he will be returning soon. As always, thank you for reading and screaming about these characters with me and thanks for your patience with me on this journey <3
✦Tags: #original female character #Enemies to Lovers #Competition #Angst, #Eventual Smut #Slow Burn #Daddy Issues #References to Depression #Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD #Burn Scars #Car Accidents #SMUT #Drunk confessions #Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings #Drinking to Cope #Implied/Referenced Grooming #Age Difference #Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole #Female Formula 1 Driver #Jealousy #Cheating #Secret Relationship, #Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning #Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms #Drunk Sex, #Identity Reveal #When Will These Two Morons Kiss? #The sexual tension between these two is crazy #Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink #Lizzie hating her scars, #Protective Toto Wolff #Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual #because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father #secondary romantic plots, #but we all know where this is going #Hurt/Comfort #Gender and Power Dynamics, #Feminist Themes #this one has character development! I hope.
Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!
✦ Rules ✦ BoB Masterlist ✦ AO3 Work ✦ Next → ✦
⋆♫⋆It's getting old (I'd kinda like it if you'd call me), All alone ('cause I'm so over bein' lonely), May have lost it (I need a virtual connection), I have lost it (be my video obsession)⋆♫⋆
Vienna General Hospital
Vienna, Austria
January 28, 2019
- 𓅂 -
The room smelled like champagne and warm lights, too sweet and heavy in Lizzie’s small nose.
The noise of the party pressed in from every direction. Glasses clinked too close to her ears. Someone laughed loudly in Italian somewhere behind her. A man she didn’t know bent down to pinch her cheek and call her "piccolina," then someone else lifted her up, spun her once for the cameras, and set her back down again like she was something to be passed around before the speeches started.
Her shiny mary janes were starting to hurt. She leaned her weight from one foot to the other and tried not to yawn.
Her mom appeared in front of her suddenly, the red Ferrari jacket bright even under the dim party lights. Helen knelt, smoothing Lizzie’s hair back from her face with warm fingers that smelled faintly of perfume and champagne.
"Tired, Pippi?"
Lizzie nodded, leaning instinctively into the touch despite how overstimulating it felt.
"Go find Gran if you want a break," Helen said, already glancing over Lizzie’s shoulder toward someone calling her name. "She’ll take you somewhere quiet."
Lizzie turned and spotted her grandmother across the room. Gran held out her hand immediately, as if she’d been watching the whole time. Lizzie slipped her smaller hand into it and felt the steady squeeze in return. The noise of the room softened as they moved toward the edges of the crowd.
From there she could see everything more clearly.
Her father stood by himself near the wall, shoulders stiff, drink untouched in his hand. People moved around him but not toward him. He wasn’t looking at Mum. He wasn’t looking at Michael Schumacher either, even though Uncle Michael stood across the room near the bar, shifting awkwardly like he didn’t know where to put himself.
Lizzie watched them both the way children watched storms, quietly and without asking too many questions.
Someone tapped a glass for attention. The room settled as people raised their drinks.
Jean Todt stepped forward with a small smile, one hand lifting his glass. His French‑accented Italian carried easily across the room.
“Cinque anni,” he said, looking toward Helen. “Five seasons with Ferrari. And every one of them unforgettable.”
Lizzie watched her mom from across the room. Helen stood with Rob beside her, fingers loosely curled around his hand as the team gathered closer. The red of her jacket seemed brighter under all the attention.
“When Helen stepped for Michael in 1999 after his injury,” Todt continued, “some people said Ferrari was taking a risk. Some people called me crazy. A woman driver, in Formula One! They said.” He smiled faintly. “They clearly did not know l’arpia yet.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“She has been fierce ever since. Stubborn. Impossible to work with most times.” More laughter. “But she has also been brave, loyal, and faster than many men who believed otherwise. Ferrari has been proud to have had her with us.”
He raised his glass slightly higher.
“To Helen, our Regina. May her next journey be just as exciting.”
The room echoed the toast. Glasses lifted. Applause followed.
Helen smiled, but Lizzie could see something else there too—something softer and sadder tucked behind the bright expression. As the crowd broke apart again, people stepped forward to shake her hand, clap her on the shoulder, speak rapidly in Italian.
Rob stayed tucked easily at her side while she made her way through them. Mechanics ruffled his hair or squeezed his shoulder.
“Quando corri in America, eh?” one man joked, nudging him lightly.
Another laughed. “We will look for your name in the karting news, Beto.”
“Già bello come la mamma,” someone else said warmly. Already handsome like his mother.
Rob straightened under the praise, trying not to smile too widely but failing anyway.
Across the room, Lizzie’s eyes drifted back to her father. David had moved toward the bar now, his back turned slightly to the crowd. No one stood with him. A few people passed nearby but none stopped to speak. Even at her age, Lizzie could tell something about him made people careful.
Lizzie squeezed Gran’s fingers and leaned up on her toes, whispering in Gaelic so the loud room wouldn’t hear her.
“Gran… why is Mom quitting Ferrari?”
Gran looked down at her, the lines around her eyes softening. She bent a little so their heads were close together.
“Ah, Bairn,” Gran murmured quietly. “Things don’t last forever.”
Lizzie frowned at that, watching across the room as Helen laughed again at something someone said. Rob was still tucked at her side, people stopping them every few steps.
“But she likes racing,” Lizzie said stubbornly. "She and Uncle Michael are so good."
Gran hesitated, her thumb rubbing slowly over the back of Lizzie’s hand.
“Sometimes liking something isn’t enough,” she said gently. “Your Ma is ready to move on. And your Da has… other plans for what comes next. Don't worry yer head over it."
Lizzie didn’t fully understand, but she knew enough to glance toward the bar.
Her father stood there alone, the amber drink in his hand untouched. People moved around him in wide, careful arcs, like they weren’t sure whether they were meant to approach. He wasn’t watching Mum now. He was watching Rob.
Two mechanics were clapping Rob on the back, laughing about karting again. Rob stood taller under the attention, trying to act like he was used to it.
Lizzie saw something strange cross her father’s face then, something tight and hard that made her stomach twist. Almost… jealous. As if he didn’t like that everyone was looking at Rob the way they used to look at Mom.
For a moment his eyes lifted and met Lizzie’s across the room.
She straightened immediately, hopeful, waiting.
But he only held the look for a second before glancing away, turning back toward the bar like he hadn’t meant to see her at all.
Lizzie leaned a little further into Gran’s coat, the wool scratching her cheek.
Across the room, Mom was still smiling for people, Rob glowing beside her as more hands reached for him.
Lizzie wondered, just for a second, what it might feel like if her Da came over and took her hand instead. Walked her around the room the way Mom was doing with Rob.
People might smile at her then. Might say she looked like him.
He didn’t come.
So Lizzie stayed where she was, holding Gran’s hand, watching the circle of people close around her mom and brother while the party lights glittered off the champagne glasses. Her stomach ached.
She wanted to go home.
"Ready, Bairn?"
Lizzie startled awake as the plane jostled.
God, I hate flying.
The thought landed sharp and uncharitable in Lizzie's head as she closed her eyes in frustration. Flying had never bothered her before.
Of course it didn't, the other little voice in her head shot back, Mercedes was bumping you into first class every other flight last year.
Well, she couldn't argue with that. It had been nice, lounging in a wide seat and sipping on free champagne, being quietly looked after without ever having to ask. There had been structure then. Support. Toto making sure she was where she needed to be, shielded from the small, stupid frictions of life so she could focus on driving.
But that was gone now, and dwelling wouldn’t bring it back.
Now, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and something doughy the flight attendant had called a roll but looked more like a dense meteorite. A baby wailed sporadically two rows back. A pair of teenagers argued in hushed German about a shared pair of earbuds. The man in the aisle seat kept claiming the armrest like it was sovereign territory, jabbing her with an oblivious elbow every few minutes as he scrolled through his phone.
It should have annoyed her less than it did. Instead, it all simply pressed into her like painfully white noise. Lizzie had truly forgotten how cramped coach felt, that was until her knee knocked the tray table for the third time, a dull thud that made the flimsy plastic shudder.
“God damnit—” slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it, the word bitten off mid‑syllable as she sucked in a sharp breath. She glanced instinctively to her left, catching the wide, curious eyes of a little boy in the window seat behind her, his feet not yet touching the floor.
She forced her face into something neutral, almost apologetic, and mouthed a quick sorry before turning back in on herself. He probably didn't know what Formula One was, probably was too young to know who she was anyways. But the awareness lingered anyway, prickling beneath her skin. The knowledge that she couldn’t just exist unfiltered anymore. Every sound, every expression, every small lapse in composure felt suddenly observable, catalogued.
She sighed, internalizing the irritation like she did everything else, and winced as she adjusted her legs for the fourth (maybe fifth) time. There was no use trying to find a position that didn’t make her hip go numb. It was pointless.
Coach on a budget airline to Vienna was still coach, and she wasn’t about to spend another two hundred euros upgrading just because she missed the days of private jets and hot meals. Rob had left her a lot when he passed, enough that she technically didn’t have to think twice about things like this, but two full seasons of Formula 2 had a way of bleeding money quietly and relentlessly. Flights, testing, extra sim time she’d paid for herself, trainers, physios. It added up.
She flicked briefly to her banking app, more out of habit than panic, and watched the numbers load. Still fine. Still shrinking. She let out a small breath through her nose and closed it again, telling herself she just needed to get through the next few weeks. Her first McLaren cheque would clear soon. Hopefully.
She put her phone down with a resounding thud and opened her laptop, letting the cold glow wash over her face, grounding her as she pulled up her itinerary McLaren's marketing director had sent for next week.
McLaren – Week of Jan 27 Itinerary (To be Finalized)
Monday – Woking: brand strategy workshop (Coca-Cola, Dell)
Tuesday – London: media training in morning / F1TV segment
Wednesday – Woking: sim session (TBC length – Zak to confirm)
Thursday – Barcelona: pre-season filming day (weather contingent)
Friday – London: sponsor dinner (Hugo Boss)
She dragged her finger slowly down the screen, her expression flattening when she reached the only line that mattered.
Wednesday – Woking: sim session (TBC length).
TBC. Always TBC. Always the thing she needed most ending up the thing no one seemed that bothered to confirm. Her nail tapped against the keyboard, sharp and annoyed. Three sponsor-heavy events. One interview. One maybe-sim session if Zak didn’t decide she was more useful smiling in front of a camera than learning the limits of the car she hadn’t even touched yet.
She suspected, not for the first time, that Carlos’s schedule already had confirmed sim hours neatly slotted in. No qualifiers, no maybes. The thought irritated her more than she liked to admit, a familiar, sour edge of comparison she tried not to dwell on and failed anyway. She closed her eyes, pressing her thumb lightly into the hinge of her brow until the pressure there eased, if only barely.
She wasn’t officially racing yet, not until Barcelona. But she wanted laps. She needed laps. Sim time, real time, anything that reminded her she was a driver and not another glossy McLaren marketing asset.
Her nerves started to prickle again, buzzing beneath her skin.
She reached for her phone.
George still hadn’t sent another dog selfie since he'd begun testing work for Williams. Alex hadn’t followed up on the chaotic meme thread from last night. Nothing from Maya, even though her classes weren't in session yet. Even Sorcha, who never shut up, had been quiet.
She refreshed the messages anyway. Still nothing.
She exhaled, turning the phone over in her palm. The matte case was warm from her grip.
And that was when the notification dropped down.
Calendar alert: Mom – birthday
A sharp, cold ache opened behind her ribs, quick as a gasp.
The little banner stayed on the screen for a moment too long, bright with confetti and soft colors, completely at odds with the way her stomach had plummeted.
She always meant to turn those reminders off. She always thought she would. She never did.
Her thumb shook before she steadied it, unlocking her phone and scrolling—automatically, reluctantly—to M.
Mom – Mobile
Mom Work (old)
Her thumb hovered.
Gran had said, during the sleepy warmth of Christmas morning tea, that Helen was having “a bit of a spell again.” Said it like it was weather.
She’s tired, Bairn. A little ... withdrawn is all. She misses ye.
Ye cannae ring her, if you're feeling up to it.
Lizzie hadn’t believed it then. She didn’t believe it now.
She didn’t know what her mother missed.
Did Helen miss Rob, her favorite? The responsible one, the sunshine one? It wasn't hard for a yes to appear in her mind. But Lizzie knew, knew in that quiet deep-down way, that Helen didn’t miss her. Couldn't.
Her Da had reacted when she left. Violently, loudly. His anger had rattled windows. How dare you disobey me. How dare you walk out on this family when we need you. He’d been red-faced and shaking, right until she'd downloaded the ticket Niki sent her and then slammed the door behind her. Then the rage had evaporated into something worse, silence. Cold, punishing silence from a man who'd lost and his pride and joy and whose ego had been wounded by the child he'd never seemed to notice much about before.
But her mom hadn’t raged. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t done anything at all.
Just that soft, distant look out the window whe she left. Calm. Detached. Almost… relieved.
She hadn't even looked her in the eye.
And Lizzie had understood, for the first time in her life, that her mother wasn’t going to fight for her. Not like she would’ve fought for Rob.
Helen had always been warm in public, magnetic and glowing, the kind of woman people adored instinctively. She knew every paddock mechanic’s name, remembered birthdays, hugged people like she meant it. Even if it was for show sometimes.
She’d hugged Lizzie, too. Smiled at her. Tucked strands of hair behind her ears when she was small.
That felt like it was for show too.
Rob had gotten Helen’s charisma, her fearlessness. Lizzie had inherited Helen’s talent for driving, maybe, but also David’s quietness, his temperament, the part of him that watched rooms instead of filling them. And his anger.
Helen never quite knew what to do with that version of her.
Lizzie’s vision blurred slightly. She blinked hard until her eyes cleared. Calling would be pointless. Worse, embarrassing. Like prodding a bruise. She locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the tray table, her fingers trembling just enough that she curled them into a fist.
Her mother wouldn’t notice the silence. Helen barely noticed when Lizzie was in the same room that last summer three years go anyways.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ll be beginning our descent into Vienna shortly. Please ensure your seatbacks and tray tables are in their upright positions.”
The cabin shifted around her as the plane tilted, the city rising slowly beneath them, grey and distant beyond the window.
Vienna.
The word settled into her chest with quiet weight, dragging her attention back to the reason she’d put herself on this flight in the first place.
Niki.
Lizzie straightened, pulling her backpack onto her lap. The zipper brushed her wrist, cold metal against cold skin, anchoring her in the moment. She hadn’t let herself think too hard about what she was walking into, not really. About the hospital smell, the winter air, the version of Niki waiting on the other side. Smaller. Weaker. Too thin. A man who had once filled every room he entered now reduced to something that might break if she looked too closely.
She hated that she was already bracing herself for disappointment, hated that she knew she wouldn’t like what she was about to see. But worse than that was the fear that he would see her, really see her, and recognize how close she was to cracking under the weight of everything pressing in on her.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not with Niki.
So she drew in a steadying breath and schooled her expression into something neutral, something passable. Whatever she was feeling didn’t matter. Niki didn’t need to see how much she was unraveling. Whatever she was feeling didn’t matter.
Niki didn’t need to see how much she was unraveling, how much of a disappointment she'd grown to be lately.
She would put on a normal face.
She always did.
- 𓅂 -
The cold hit her first when she walked through the doors of the hospital complex.
Not the sharp, bracing bite Lizzie expected from winter in Vienna, but something heavier, damp and metallic, that seeped through her coat as she stepped through the revolving doors. The glass whispered shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the street, and the sudden quiet pressed in on her chest.
She slowed without meaning to.
Ahead of her, a young man with dark hair was being wheeled quickly down the intake corridor, a nurse murmuring something low and comforting at his side. His face was twisted with pain, tears streaking unchecked down his cheeks as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders shaking despite his obvious effort to keep himself together.
The sight hit her hard and without warning.
Her breath caught, sharp and painful, and for a split second the hallway blurred, not with motion but with memory. Her pulse spiked violently, heat flooding her chest as if someone had struck a match beneath her ribs. The edges of her vision narrowed, sound dropping away until all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears and the echo of another hospital in Spa, another corridor, another young man wheeled past her on a steel table while she stood frozen and useless, her feet rooted to the floor.
She looked away too quickly, nails pressing into her palm until she felt the familiar pull of scar tissue across her knuckles. The burn scars were mostly hidden beneath her glove, but the sensation was always there, tight and hypersensitive, as if her body remembered fire even when her mind tried not to. She flexed her hand once. Then again.
You’re fine, she told herself. You’re just visiting.
The words didn’t stick.
The floors gleamed too brightly beneath the overhead lights. The hum above her was constant, electric, needling at her nerves. Somewhere down the corridor a metal trolley rattled across tile, the sound sharp and echoing. Lizzie flinched before she could stop herself, throat tightening as she forced her feet to keep moving.
“Name?” the receptionist asked without looking up, accent think and fingers already hovering over the keyboard.
“Em... es ist McKean,” Lizzie said, and the sound of her broken German echoing more than it should have in her own ears. “Elizabeth McKean.”
The typing paused.
The receptionist finally glanced up, her eyes flicking over Lizzie’s face, and her gloved hands, just long enough. Recognition sparked there, brief and contained, before professionalism slid neatly back into place.
“Visiting?” she asked in English, tone neutral again.
Another beat. Another look. Then a nod, already moving on.
Lizzie shifted her weight, heat crawling up the back of her neck. She hated how exposed she felt standing there, hated the way even that fleeting awareness made her want to fold inward and take up less space.
While she waited to be cleared, her gaze drifted to the muted television mounted in the corner. A news channel scrolled endlessly—markets, weather systems, people speaking with far too much urgency about things that suddenly felt irrelevant. She focused instead on her breathing, counting the way she used to after races that went badly.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Her chest still felt too tight.
Two nurses passed behind her, murmuring softly in German, their shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. The sound echoed strangely in the open corridor, and for a split second, unwanted and vivid, she again saw another hallway. Another hospital. White walls washed in fluorescent light. Machines beeping out of sync with her pulse as bandages covered her hands.
Don’t.
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself in the present. Vienna. Now. Niki.
When she was finally waved through, she adjusted the strap of her backpack even though it hadn’t shifted. It gave her hands something to do. Something controlled. Her heart beat too fast as she followed the posted signs deeper into the building, each step drawing her closer to a man she was terrified of disappointing.
By the time she reached the lift, her shoulders ached from how tightly she had been holding herself together.
She caught her reflection briefly in the stainless steel door: too pale, eyes too sharp, posture rigid in a way that would once have made Toto pause and ask quietly if she was all right. She looked away before the thought could take root.
When the doors opened, she stepped inside without hesitation. Her palms were damp. The scars on her hand pulled faintly. Her pulse sounded loud in her ears as the lift began its ascent.
Normal face, she reminded herself.
She had a lot of practice pretending she wasn’t breaking.
She just hoped Niki wouldn’t notice.
The lift slowed with a soft mechanical sigh before shuddering to a stop. Lizzie barely had time to brace herself before the doors slid open.
She stepped forward, and stopped short.
“Oh—sorry,” she said automatically.
Two men stood just outside the lift.
The first was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark coat unbuttoned as if he’d forgotten to fasten it on the way out. His expression was tight, distracted, brown eyes rimmed faintly red in a way that suggested he’d been staring at something difficult for too long.
The second stood half a step behind him, younger by a few years, posture rigid and contained within a reedier body. A pair of blue eyes, sharp and unmistakably intelligent, met Lizzie’s. She caught it immediately: the straight line of his rounded nose, the familiar set of his brow and mouth. Features she remembered from old photographs and childhood paddocks, from before the crash, before the fire.
Niki’s face, younger and rearranged.
Mattias. Niki's younger son.
Next to him, Lukas. His eldest.
Recognition seemed to flicker across both men’s faces. For a beat, none of them moved.
“Lizzie,” Lukas said finally, voice clipped. Not unfriendly, but not warm. "This is a surprise."
Lizzie caught it immediately, the way Lukas’s gaze sharpened as her appearance set in, something tight and resentful flashing across his face as his eyes lingered on her features a beat too long. Not on her, she realized painfully, but on the familiar lines he’d seen countless times. Helen’s cheekbones. Helen’s mouth, Helen's slender face colored in paler watercolor strokes. The resemblance seemed to strike him like an old grievance pulled fresh from its drawer, and whatever sympathy might have existed drained cleanly away as he schooled his expression into brittle politeness.
"Hello Lukas,” she replied, matching his tone without meaning to. Her shoulders tightened instinctively, her body already bracing for judgment.
He glanced past her, into the lift, as if checking that she was alone. “You’re … visiting our father?”
“Yes,” Lizzie replied cooly. “He asked me to come.”
Something darkened in his eyes at that, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. He nodded once, jaw tightening.
"Hmph, he didn't mention it." Lukas added after another moment of silence.
Lizzie resisted the urge to laugh. "He tends to do that."
Lukas frowned at that. But Lizzie saw the corner of Mattias’s mouth twitch, as if the comment had caught him off guard despite himself. It wasn’t much, but it was real, something close to amusement flickering there before the weight of the place settled back in. Unlike Lukas, he didn’t look at her face again. His gaze dropped instead, lingering on her gloved hands, on the careful way she was holding a wrapped gift.
Something softened in his expression then. Not quite pity. Not quite sympathy either. As if he understood that this wasn’t just a courtesy visit. His eyes flicked briefly back up to hers, gentler now, before he looked away again.
“We were just leaving,” Mattias said, his voice softer than Lukas’s. He hesitated, just long enough for the pause to mean something. “He’s… resting now. And,” he added carefully, eyes flicking back to her hands, the gloves, the gift, “he’s had a long morning.”
The emphasis was subtle but deliberate. A warning disguised as politeness. Prepare yourself.
“I won’t stay long,” Lizzie offered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She hated how they sounded, apologetic and small, like she needed permission to take up space.
Mattias studied her for a brief moment, something knowing passing through his expression. As if he understood that she was already grieving a version of his father she hadn’t seen yet.
Then he stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor behind him.
“Third door on the left,” he said gently. “The nurses will let you in.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
For a moment, it seemed like Mattias might say something else. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His gaze flicked over her face once more, conflicted, before he and Lukas stepped into the lift.
As the doors slid shut between them, Lizzie caught her own reflection again in the steel, smaller somehow than she remembered. She stood there for a second longer than necessary, pulse still racing, before forcing herself to turn toward the corridor.
She squared her shoulders and started down the hall.
Niki was waiting.
---
The room was smaller than she remembered.
Or maybe it only felt that way because the man inside it no longer filled space the way he used to.
Lizzie stopped just inside the doorway, her hand still on the handle. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t make herself move.
Niki lay propped up against a stack of pillows, the hospital sheets pulled neatly to his waist. The red hat sat stubbornly on his head, exactly where it always had—defiant, familiar, wrong. It looked too large now, perched on a skull that seemed smaller than memory, the brim casting a shadow over a face drawn thin by illness.
The pneumonia clung to him visibly. She could see it in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, in the faint wheeze that followed each breath. His shoulders looked narrower, the sharp angles of bone more pronounced beneath the thin blanket. Even his hands—once so expressive, so commanding—rested quietly atop the sheet, veins raised, skin papery.
It hit her harder than she expected.
This wasn’t the Niki she carried in her head. Not the man who barked orders across garages, who smoked too much and laughed too rarely, who once told her she drove like she was angry at the track itself. That Niki had filled rooms without trying.
This one looked… finite.
“Well,” he said, blue eyes flicking up from under his red cap the moment she stepped fully inside. Sharp as ever. Missing nothing. “You finally learned how to dress.”
The words were dry, unimpressed, but the scrutiny behind them was familiar enough to sting.
Her throat tightened. “Good to see you too, Niki.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Niki’s eyes dragged over her slowly, assessing and cataloging in that blunt, surgical way that had always made people squirm.
“You know, you are supposed to tuck a sweater like that into your trousers, Pippi,” he said dryly. “If you’re going to let someone dress you, at least make them do it properly.”
The nickname landed with quiet force, threading straight through her chest.
She rolled her eyes, dry as ever, but her fingers betrayed her—she tugged absently at the hem of the sweater, smoothing it down, then worrying at the fabric again before she caught herself. “Careful,” she said, stepping closer. “If you’re going to be rude, you’re not getting your gift.”
Niki snorted and waved a dismissive hand, irritation entirely performative. “Don’t threaten me with that nonsense. Unless you’ve brought drugs or liquor,” he added dryly. “In which case, I might reconsider.”
Despite the huffing, something softer slipped into his eyes—brief, unguarded—an acknowledgement he’d never voice. The way his shoulders eased told her enough.
She latched onto that instead of the ache tightening her throat and moved to the side table, setting her bag down. “It’s a better distraction I promise,” she said, pulling out her laptop. “And marginally more legal.”
He tracked her hands as she worked, eyes narrowing slightly. “If it’s another racing documentary, I’m throwing it out the window.”
“Flight simulator game,” she replied. “I figured you’d appreciate something that still lets you leave the ground.”
That earned a small, grudging smirk.
They spent a few minutes setting it up, shoulder to shoulder in a way that felt achingly familiar. She could still see it, Niki perched behind her in the garage during testing for Mercedes during her first Junior year, arms folded, gruffly unimpressed by everything except the data. He’d sit with her for hours then, cutting through telemetry with blunt clarity, telling her when she was being clever and when she was being stupid. But unlike the mechanics who tiptoed around her burns or watched her too closely after Rob, waiting for cracks, Niki never treated her differently. He never softened. Never flinched.
It had been grounding.
Now, he grumbled about the controls instead. She teased him for crashing into the Alps on his first attempt. For a brief stretch of time, it almost felt normal.
“Still terrible at landings, I see.” she said lightly.
“I don't want to hear it from you,” he shot back. His mouth twitched. “You are dive-bombing like you’re trying to crash on purpose.”
“I am,” she replied without missing a beat. “Keeps things interesting.”
The joke landed, and then Niki’s chest hitched. A rough cough tore out of him, sudden and wet, his shoulders jerking as he turned away, hand gripping the edge of the bed. The sound scraped down Lizzie’s spine, sharp and wrong, souring the moment instantly.
When it passed, something in her chest sank as she realized how rare moments like this were becoming. How few chances she’d have to sit like this with him again, elbow to elbow, pretending the world wasn’t closing in.
Her smile faltered. She busied herself tugging at the cuff of her sleeve, smoothing it once, then again, eyes fixed somewhere just past his shoulder.
Niki noticed.
“Tell me about the new team,” he asked, casual on the surface. “Are we settled in?”
The question hung between them, ugly in its simplicity.
Lizzie shrugged, still worrying the fabric at her wrist. “It's been fine.”
Niki raised his eyebrows slowly as his eyes narrowed. “That’s all?”
Her mouth flattened. She looked away, jaw setting. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”
Silence stretched, thick and knowing. Niki watched her the way he always had, measuring and deciding.
“Are you going to spit it out,” he said finally, “or should I guess?”
Her stomach dropped.
Lizzie hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Did you know about the clauses in my McLaren contract?”
The room stilled.
Niki didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked once. He glanced briefly toward the window before looking back at her.
“Toto told me about some of them,” he said at last. “Judging by your face, you’re not pleased.”
The words landed like a blow. He'd known then. The lifestyle clauses. The quiet lines about image and discretion, about who she could be seen with, how she could be seen, how many glasses of wine became too many when there was a camera nearby. The implication that her private life required supervision. Something sharp twisted low in her chest. She’d expected resistance from teams about her past, even from Toto in his careful, paternal way. But not from Niki.
Her voice came out tight. “You always told me to be myself.”
Niki’s gaze didn’t soften. “On track,” he said flatly. “Off it, there are plenty of reasons for those clauses to exist.”
Lizzie's cheeks smarted with embarrassment.
“That's rich for you to say.” she shot back, sharper than she meant to. “If McLaren wanted someone to roll over for them like a dog, why the hell did they take me? They could have had other drivers.”
“Because Andreas Seidl isn’t an idiot and saw your potential,” Niki replied evenly. “And because, despite his pig headedness, Zak knows when to listen to his peers.”
“I'm aware,” she retorted hotly. "Zak's already made it very clear to me how little he wanted me before you stepped in."
There was another nasty silence.
“He will change his mind.”
“And if he doesn't?”
Niki exhaled. “You don't have other options, Lizzie. So I would suggest you try to help that along.”
She laughed under her breath, humorless. “Good to know. I’ll work on my elevator pitch.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s not like a single team would take me on merit anyway.”
Niki looked at her then, properly. Irritation flickered first, quick and familiar. Then something heavier followed, quieter. A sadness he didn’t bother to hide.
He exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that carried more weight than the words that followed. “If this is why you’re grey‑rocking Toto,” he said, “then make peace with him.”
Lizzie’s jaw tightened. “You called him.”
“No,” he said. “He called me."
“I’m not apologizing to him.”
Niki’s eyes flicked up to her, sharp despite the fatigue lining his face. “You are not a child,” he said bluntly. "So stop acting like one."
That did it.
“He was the one who went hot and cold with me!” she shot back. “He backed me when it suited him, and the second I became inconvenient he turned on me. He lied to me Niki, he pretended it was all for my own good and then stabbed me in the back.”
"Don't be dramatic, Lizzie."
Her voice shook despite herself. “Those clauses weren’t about protecting me and you know it. They were about protecting him. His business interests. His image. His conscience. As soon as things got hard this year, he left me to deal with it alone. So don't tell me to apologize to him.”
Niki didn’t answer straight away. His jaw worked once, fingers tightening subtly in the blanket, as if bracing against something internal.
“Toto has made many hard decisions to support you,” he said finally, voice clipped but careful. “Decisions that did not look good on paper, that could ruin him, so you would not be destitute or alone. You are not the only one who feels betrayed.”
The words slipped under her skin before she could stop them.
The smell came back first, sterile and sharp. Fluorescent light buzzing overhead. A corridor stretching longer than it should have. Her body reacted before the memory could finish forming; shoulders tightening, breath going shallow, stomach turning hard.
The room where they'd led her was small and cold, and she'd shivered as she climbed onto the table. The nurse had offered her a warm blanket, draping it over her legs as she explained the process in a calm, soothing tone. Lizzie had nodded, her throat too tight to speak. As the procedure began, she'd focused on the ceiling, trying to block out the sounds, the sensations, the crushing weight of everything that had led her to this moment.
But someone had reached for her hand, squeezing it gently, and she'd turned her head. Toto was still seated next to her, eyes on her face and posture stiff. But his had was steady as he held her. Lizzie had held on tightly, her tears coming faster. She'd wished desperately that it were her mother’s hand she was holding instead. But no amount of childish longing could've made her appear.
“It’s alright,” Toto murmured softly above the noises of metal tools. “It will be over soon. I'm here.”
She pushed the memory down ruthlessly.
“I know what Toto's done for me. I don't need you to remind me, Niki.” she said quietly. "But that doesn't change that he lied."
For a moment, she thought he might snap at her. Instead, something in him stilled. The irritation drained, replaced by something heavy and burdened.
"He is trying his best," He finally responded. "It would be nice for you to try as well. You might find that Toto understands more than you think."
Lizzie pressed her lips together, frustration and shame rising in her throat.
“Why do you care so much anyways?” She turned away from him again. “I’m not Mercedes's problem child anymore.”
Niki looked away first. Just briefly. The pause stretched longer than it needed to, his gaze fixed somewhere past the window, past her. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge.
“Because it would make an old man feel easier,” he said quietly, “not to see you and Toto at each other’s necks every other week.”
The phrasing landed wrong. Final. Like someone tidying unfinished business.
A familiar, sick fear stirred within her chest, sharp and instinctive. She recoiled from it, jaw setting as she shoved the feeling down.
"Well you don't need to worry then, we won't be seeing much of each other anymore." Lizzie replied mutely. "Zak's already got someone else looking on me now to make sure I'm behaving, so Im sure Toto's happy to be rid of me."
Niki had been sinking back into something quieter, almost melancholy. But at the name, he snapped alert.
He turned his head sharply, blue eyes suddenly razor‑focused. “Who?”
Lizzie blinked, caught off guard by the change in him. “I, uh ... Mika Häkkinen,” she said. “Zak said McLaren sometimes uses him as a mentor, since he's brand ambassador I guess. To help juniors settle. Get comfortable.”
Niki didn’t look away. “Did Zak say why he asked Mika? Why not someone else?”
She frowned, confused by the intensity. “No. Mika told me he offered to do it. Said he had too much free time or something.”
Whatever color had been lingering in Niki’s face drained all at once. His mouth pressed into a thin line, the hand on the blanket curling in on itself as if he’d grabbed hold of something invisible.
He paused, visibly weighing something, then said bluntly, “Don’t get comfortable with him.”
Lizzie turned back, irritation flaring hot and immediate. “You’re the one telling me to make nice with McLaren.”
“I meant Zak,” Niki shot back.
She scoffed. “Zak barely acknowledges I exist. No one does, they all treat me like I’m contagious. The only person who’s been kind to me there is Mika.”
Niki studied her for a beat too long. “And have you asked yourself why that is?”
She turned on him sharply. “Is it really so hard for you to imagine,” she said, voice tight, “that someone might take an interest in me because they want to? Not because they’re managing me, or fixing me, or getting something out of it?”
Niki’s jaw tightened. He went silent for a moment, before looking out the window. “Don’t assume the intentions of people you do not know just because you are lonely.”
Something in her finally snapped.
“I’m not lonely!”
He met her gaze. “You are. You are also the only person denying that.”
The word burned.
Lizzie broke eye contact sharply. She turned away before he could see her face fracture, before the sting behind her eyes could turn into something worse. She bent down too fast, yanking her bag toward her with a rough, impatient motion, the zipper snarling as she dragged it open.
Her hands moved without finesse, shoving the laptop in at the wrong angle and jamming the charger in after it, knocking the bag against the bedside table hard enough to make it thud. The sound echoed too loudly in the small room. She swallowed, jaw clenched, breathing shallow and furious as she forced herself not to cry.
Anger came first. Hot and humiliating. Then the shame of it, of having said too much, of being seen like this, stripped down and wanting in front of the one person she hadn’t expected to turn on her too.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She hated that her fingers were shaking. Hated that her throat felt tight and useless. She wiped her palms against her trousers like that might steady her, like she could pack herself back together as quickly as she was packing her things.
She straightened, shoulders rigid, bag clutched too tightly in her grip.
“The airport,” she said. “Coming here was a mistake.”
They both knew it was a lie.
She let out a short, bitter laugh before she could stop herself. “I don't expect you to understand.” she said sharply. She shook her head, words tumbling out harsher than she meant.
There was a pause.
She looked up, still bristling, and found him watching her with something that made her chest tighten. Not anger. Not judgment. Pity, edged with disappointment. Like he was seeing a familiar pattern forming and hating it.
“Don’t fall into old habits,” Niki said then, more firmly. “Just because change feels hard.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped.
Niki’s eyes narrowed. “Then show me your boarding pass back to London.”
She froze.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. The room seemed to tilt, the lie collapsing in on itself.
“I—”
“You don’t have one,” he said, sharper now. “Because you never booked it.”
“That’s not—” She cut herself off, breath hitching as frustration surged. “Why are you interrogating me like this?”
“Because you’re lying,” Niki snapped back, irritation flaring through the fatigue. “And because every time you lie like this, you end up somewhere you shouldn’t be.”
His words landed hard.
Niki closed his eyes briefly and sighed. They both knew.
Switzerland. Sebastian.
Her chest burned. Shame surged hot and sudden, right on the heels of anger—anger that he didn’t trust her, anger that he thought he knew her better than she knew herself.
“You think I’m running away,” she said bitterly. “You think I can’t handle anything unless someone’s managing me.”
“I think you’re hurting,” he shot back. “And pretending otherwise.”
“Because everyone keeps telling me what I should feel!” she snapped, voice rising despite herself. The words hung there, uglier than she’d meant, cutting closer to something raw. "How I should behave. Like I’m the problem for not coping better.” Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag. “At least someone actually listens to me. Someone doesn’t look at me like I’m broken or embarrassing for being angry about all of this.”
Niki swore under his breath and pushed himself upright, the movement slow and unsteady but determined. “That does not change what already happened,” he said sharply. “And it doesn’t erase what it almost cost you.”
He braced his hand against the mattress, breathing harder now. “You are too talented to make the same mistake twice.”
The words hit her like a slap.
Her vision flashed white, memory surging up before she could stop it—Switzerland, cold air biting her lungs as she stepped off the train. The cobblestone streets and quaint wooden houses, her breath fogging in the air as she walked towards Sebastian's home. Part of her had hoped she wouldn’t find him. Part of her needed to. She'd turned the final corner toward Sebastian’s street, her heart hammering so loudly she could hear it in her ears. His house sat exactly where she'd remembered it, warm light glowing through the kitchen windows, the pine trees behind the yard dusted with snow.
Her steps slowed.
She'd known the path around the side of the house by heart. She had taken it dozens of times before, slipping through the back door when the world outside the paddock felt too loud and complicated. Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. She had rehearsed the words the entire train ride. Maybe he would be shocked. Maybe angry.
But maybe, just maybe, he would choose her.
She stepped toward the gate that led to the backyard.
A hand closed firmly around her wrist.
Lizzie had gasped and spun around.
The red cap was unmistakable.
And the scarred, wrinkled hand gripping her sleeve made her stomach drop.
“Niki?”
Niki had stood there, breath fogging in the cold air, his expression carved from something harder than anger.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked quietly.
Shock quickly turned to fury.
“You followed me here?”
He didn’t deny it. Lizzie pulled her arm free.
“Leave,” she hissed. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“No,” he said. “But someone had to stop you before you ruin your life.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding anything,” he said evenly. “I’m asking you to think for five seconds before you walk through that door.”
“I have thought,” she shot back.
“Then tell me the plan.”
“I’m going to talk to him.”
“And then?”
Lizzie had hesitated.
“And then we figure it out.”
Niki studied her for a long moment.
“Figure what out?” he asked quietly. “How to fit yourself into a life that already exists without you?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” Niki said. “You don’t.”
“You think if you tell him this, he will change everything for you.”
“He deserves to know.”
“And you deserve more than being someone’s mistake.”
Lizzie’s breath caught.
Niki gestured subtly toward the house.
“You are about to throw away your career, your future, everything you’ve fought for… for a man who will never build his life around you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You don’t know how he feels.”
Niki’s expression hardened.
“I know exactly how men like him feel.” The words were quiet, but brutal. “He loves the idea of you. The freedom. The thrill. The girl who doesn’t belong to his real life.”
Lizzie’s hands had shaken with anger and hurt.
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Niki said bluntly. “What is not fair is that you think if you give him everything—your body, your future, your career—he will suddenly choose you.”
She'd stared at him, stunned.
“He already has everything he wants,” Niki continued, his voice steady. “because you continue to give him unlimited access to you for nothing in return.”
Lizzie'd shook her head, tears stinging her eyes.
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
Before she could answer, laughter had drifted through the cold air.
Lizzie had frozen.
The sound came from the backyard. Both of them turned toward the fence. Lizzie stepped forward instinctively and peered around the corner of the house.
Sebastian had stepped into the backyard with his daughters. One of them clung to his leg while the other raced through the snow-dusted grass. He laughed as he scooped the younger girl up and swung her into the air.
“Papa!” she's squealed.
He laughed again.
The sound had shattered something inside Lizzie.
Sebastian crouched down to help them roll a snowball together, brushing snow from their mittens while they argued about how big their snowman should be. The tenderness in his expression was almost unbearable. This was his life. His daughters. His home. His family.
A future that had never included her.
For a moment she had believed he might choose her. Watching him now, she understood the truth.
He never would.
Behind her, Niki placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Lizzie,” he said softly. She didn’t look at him. “It’s better if we go.”
Her vision blurred with tears as she turned away from the house before Sebastian could ever see her standing there. As she walked down the road, her hand pressed instinctively against her stomach. By the time they reached the end of the street, she had already made her decision.
Her eyes blurred with tears again inside the hosptial room, and she looked away from Niki's burning gaze.
“Don’t,” she choked, tears spilling before she could stop them. “You don’t get to throw that at me.”
'I am not throwing anything at you. I am telling you the truth."
"Just stop!"
She turned blindly toward the door, bag swinging hard against her hip as she stormed forward.
“Lizzie—”
Niki forced himself to stand, legs trembling beneath him and panic breaking through his control. “Don’t leave like this—”
The door opened.
“Ah, Niki,” a familiar voice said mid‑greeting, warm and accented. “Ich habe—”
The words cut off.
Lizzie looked up.
For a split second, her brain refused to cooperate, as if the name and the face refused to line up in the same reality. Then recognition slammed into her hard enough to steal the air from her lungs.
Gerhard Berger stood in the doorway, coat still half on, a small tin clutched in one hand. His expression had already shifted from easy familiarity to something frozen and startled as his eyes landed on her.
It felt like being punched in the chest.
Her mind jumped, unbidden and cruel, straight to the contact in her phone she hadn’t deleted and couldn’t bring herself to block. The one that had rung and rung weeks ago before cutting off abruptly. The one that had once known her laugh, her secrets, her grief.
Aline Linardi.
Gerard's daughter, his love child from some long lost romance with a Brazilian model. Her brother's old fiance.
Her old friend.
Gerhard seemed to clock the change in her face immediately. Something tightened around his mouth, a flicker of understanding passing between them that made her skin prickle.
“Well,” he said quickly, already retreating, voice forced into lightness as he stepped back. “Bad timing. I’ll— I’ll come back later.”
He crossed the room in two long strides, set the tin carefully on Niki’s table without looking at Lizzie again, and squeezed Niki’s shoulder once. “Get some rest, old man." he added quietly, before turning and leaving just as abruptly as he’d arrived.
The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.
The silence that followed was worse.
Lizzie’s breath came back in a shallow rush. He knew she'd called Aline, knew Aline had been refusing to speak to her. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until her chest started to ache with the shame of it. She swallowed hard, blinking, trying to ground herself in the room again and remember why she'd been storming out in the first place.
And that was when she saw it.
The photograph.
It sat half‑hidden on the far side of the bedside table, angled away just enough that she hadn’t noticed it earlier. Niki, younger, broader, unmistakably himself. And beside him—her mother. Helen, in a Ferrari jacket, hair loose and smiling in that rare, unguarded way she almost never wore at home. The year stamped itself into Lizzie’s bones instantly. 2004. Maranello. Before she'd retired, back when Helen had still believed she could have everything.
That photo had lived on a shelf in their LA house for years.
Her stomach dropped.
Lizzie looked back at Niki slowly, dread and hurt blooming together in her chest. She’s been here, the thought came sharp and undeniable. She'd come here to see her.
She can still show up for you.
But not for me.
Something passed over Niki’s face then—regret, resignation, a sadness so deep it made his eyes look older than his body. He knew exactly what she’d seen.
Lizzie didn’t trust herself to speak.
She moved suddenly, scooping her bag back up with rough hands, wiping angrily at her eyes as tears spilled despite her best efforts. “I hope the rest of your treatment goes well,” she said, the words brittle and too formal, like glass held together by pressure alone. "Don't bother calling anymore."
“Lizzie—” Niki started, his voice breaking sharper than he meant it to.
She was already at the door. Lizzie yanked it open and spilled out into the corridor, her steps quick and uneven, the strap of her bag cutting into her shoulder as if she needed the pain to keep moving. Niki called after her then—once, twice—her name roughened by effort and fear, echoing down the sterile hall. The sound chased her past closed doors and muted monitors, following her long after she stopped listening, long after she refused to slow, long after she told herself she couldn’t turn back.
The nurse in the cooridor didn't notice the heavy tears falling from her face as she brushed past her.
You’re hired to media-train McLaren’s rising young talent — an Australian with a reputation for giving interviews like he's reading IKEA instructions. You expected a challenge to get him out of his shell. You didn’t expect him to be so … likeable. But once that ice is broken, and you catch yourself day dreaming about the sky McLaren driver, there's no going back. Not if Lando Norris has anything to do with it.
✦ starring: Oscar Piastri x PR Consultant!Reader
✦ Warnings: Language, alcohol mention, mild sexual thoughts (Oscar POV), mutual pining, awkward flirting, soft burn, one (1) meddling Lando Norris.
✦ word count: ~30.3K total (multi-part series)
✦ Author’s Note: BEFORE ANYONE STARTS KICKING OFF YES I KNOW I'VE BEEN AWOL FOR A HOT MINUTE. My country is falling apart and still I must work 😭 But HELLO and welcome back to fumbling!Oscar Piastri as he nearly destroys a luxury hotel room because a woman agreed to have dinner with him :) I’m actually obsessed with how catastrophically bad he is at everything that's not racing related. Truly nothing makes me crazier than competent-everywhere-else Oscar being adorably, painfully hopeless when it comes to women, featuring evil older brothers Lando and Max F. Anyway, dinner has begun!!! Emotional stability is fragile!!! We love a boy trying his best!!! Stay tuned in the near future to see just how well (or terribly) dinner goes, I will hopefully be back to a more regular posting schedule soon . As always, I haven't proof read it to perfection (sorry), likes and comments are welcome, and thanks for sticking with this story!💖
✦ Tags: #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fic #f1 fanfiction #slow burn #friends to lovers #media trainer au #soft oscar #lando being a cupid
Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!
Fuck, I should’ve listened to my Mum.
Oscar's hotel room looked like a bomb had gone off around him.
Not his usual lived-in sprawl. This was full-scale chaos.
His suitcase lay unzipped on the floor where it had landed the moment he’d arrived, as if it had detonated on impact and taken the rest of the room with it. Clothes were everywhere, flung, trampled or half-buried under one another. T-shirts twisted around each other into loose knots, jeans tangled and half inside-out, socks scattered like casualties across the carpet. A hoodie hung off the edge of the bed, one sleeve dragging along the floor like it had tried to crawl away and given up.
A stack of polos was slung over the back of the chair, some damp with sweat still and a one permanently creased beyond saving. One shoe lay on its side near the door, the other kicked halfway under the bed. At some point, he’d knocked the lamp sideways; the shade was tilted, throwing the light at an odd angle that only made the mess feel more frantic, shadows cutting across fabric and floor.
Nothing had ever made it to a drawer.
This was normal. This was how every race weekend started. Dump the suitcase. Live out of it. Repack it all into a lump in a rush on Sunday night.
Earlier, he’d barely noticed the state of the room at all. He’d come and gone in a blur like he always did. Press appearances, free practice, engineering meetings, routine check boxes that bled into one another until time flattened out. He’d dropped his bag, kicked his shoes off, changed shirts without thinking. His focus had been everywhere else.
On lap times. On feedback. On getting things right.
And on her.
Mainly her.
The rest of it, the mess and the slow accumulation of chaos, had faded into the background. Just another nuisance he’d assumed he could deal with later. Now, standing barefoot in the middle of the wreckage, Oscar felt a slow, creeping unease settle in his chest.
He turned in a slow circle, eyes tracking the mess like it might rearrange itself if he stared hard enough.
There was nothing fancy in the wreckage. Nothing even remotely nice.
Everything he’d packed, well thrown into his suitcase on Tuesday really, was either too casual or wrinkled. Badly wrinkled. Like it had been aggressively crumpled and then sat on for hours. He picked up one shirt at random and shook it out, only to wince at the deep creases running straight through the middle.
Fuck.
He dropped it back onto the pile and scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, the anxiety blooming now that he actually let himself think about it. He’d been excited about this dinner, stupidly so. And he'd so gotten caught up in the small, private thrill that she’d agreed to come with him that it hadn’t even occurred to him to check whether he'd brought anything nice enough to wear.
Team gear. Normal stuff. Clothes meant to disappear into sponsor logos and papaya coloring.
He tugged at his still‑damp hair with one hand, huffing out a breath as he reached down and closed his fingers around a lone dress shirt. It was one of the better ones he'd managed to pack, pale blue and crumpled near the foot of the bed where he'd no doubt stepped on at least once in the past twenty minutes. He held it up in front of himself, eyes catching on the spider web of deep wrinkles and creases across the blue fabric.
It's just a little creased. It'll be fine, no one will notice.
It was a sponsor event. This was what he normally wore. No one would think twice. He tugged the shirt around his shoulders, quickly buttoning it and running a hand across the front to smooth any lumps.
He glanced at his reflection.
For a second, he looked mildly less boyish.
The version of himself he wished she’d recognize.
He adjusted his collar. Lifted his chin. Shoved his hands into the pocks of his trousers. Practiced a smile the way he practiced corner entry, steady and precise and trying to hide his nerves behind control.
But his eyes caught on the wrinkles still in shirt. The rumpled hair. How his pants were suddenly too loose and he was still barefoot in the middle of a disaster zone.
…would she notice?
The illusion collapsed all at once.
Of course she would.
A low groan pulled out of him as he tugged the shirt back over his head, fingers snagging impatiently on the fabric. He didn’t bother folding it, just tossed it aside and turned, scanning the room with a sharp, frantic look.
I need an iron. Where was the iron again?
He yanked open the wardrobe again, crouched, shoved aside spare pillows and a useless laundry bag until he finally found it wedged in the back like a last resort. The ironing board followed, awkward and reluctant as he dragged it free.
Oscar spread the shirt across it, hands hovering for a second as he frowned down at the creases, trying to remember what his mum had taught him. Start with the collar. Or the sleeves? Steam first?
He scowled.
“Yeah, alright, it's just a shirt.” he muttered, already over it.
He plugged the iron in and went at it with far too much force, dragging it aggressively over the fabric like pressure alone might bully the wrinkles into submission. They only seemed to multiply, stubborn lines setting in where he didn’t want them.
“Come on,” he grumbled, jaw tight.
The iron caught his thumb.
“Ah—fuck!”
He dropped it with a sharp clatter, shaking his hand and hissing under his breath. In the scramble to set it upright again, the hot plate brushed the shirt.
There was a faint hiss. A darkened mark.
Oscar froze.
He stared at the singed fabric, chest sinking as the reality of it hit him.
That was it.
The shirt was ruined.
With a quiet groan, Oscar lobbed the shirt back onto the floor where it joined the rest of the wreckage, then dropped onto the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of him. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling a little faster than it should have as the frustration finally caught up to him.
This is why, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
This is why she thinks being around you is 'babysitting duty.'
Because he couldn’t even manage a shirt without setting it on fire. Because he still lived out of a suitcase like a kid on a school trip. Because no matter how many meetings he sat through or data sheets he memorized, he still looked and felt twelve years old when it came to anything that wasn’t a car.
That was how she saw him. Young. Unorganized. Socially Inept. Someone to manage, to shepherd through sponsor dinners and PR obligations with a careful hand on his shoulder.
Not a man.
And God, he wanted to be one. Wanted to be taken seriously, not just professionally as a driver, but by her. Wanted her to look at him and see something solid. Intentional. Someone she didn’t have to coddle.
Someone she could desire.
His jaw tightened as he dragged a hand down his face.
Maybe he could still get out of it. Fake a headache. Say he felt off. No one would question it, drivers were always coming down with something these days, weren’t they? He could send a polite apology to Mark and her, promise to make it up at the next one.
He exhaled sharply.
The thought felt like failure.
A knock sounded at the door.
Oscar groaned again, louder this time, and pushed himself up from the bed. He crossed the room, stepping over clothes, tugged the door open—and stopped short.
Lando stood in the hallway, already half grinning like he’d just caught him mid-crime.
“Was gonna ask if you were ready,” Lando said without missing a beat, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Heard you yell from halfway down the hall and figured I’d come check you hadn’t, I dunno, lost a limb. We’ve gotta head out in—”
He cut himself off.
His eyes slid past Oscar’s shoulder.
The grin froze. Then widened.
“…Jesus Christ,” Lando breathed, staring into the room. “Mate. Did your suitcase explode?”
Oscar instinctively shifted, trying to block the view. “It’s fine.”
Lando snorted and pushed past him anyway, clapping a hand on Oscar’s shoulder to move him aside. “Yeah, no, this is definitely fine. Were you trying to burn the hotel down or just, like, send them a warning?”
Oscar’s ears burned pink. “It was an accident.”
Lando laughed, openly now, toeing the ruined shirt on the floor. “Didn’t even know you owned an ironing board. I just get all my stuff dry‑cleaned and delivered, like a normal person.”
Oscar grumbled under his breath, thinking dimly that he probably should start doing that.
Lando wandered farther in, hands in his pockets, surveying the chaos like an art installation. “Why don’t you just throw something casual on?”
Oscar gestured vaguely at Lando. “You’re not dressed casual.”
Lando glanced down at himself, then shrugged with a grin. “Gotta look good for the brand. Or any models present.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You’re the chill one. It suits you more.”
Oscar sagged a little at that, the comment landing heavier than Lando clearly intended.
Lando nudged another shirt with his shoe, suddenly thoughtful. “So why were you ironing?”
Oscar hesitated. “I just… didn’t want it to be wrinkled.”
Lando tilted his head. “Since when do you care about wrinkles?”
Oscar shrugged, cheeks pink. “Maybe I care sometimes.”
Lando blinked. Then raised his eyebrows in knowing amusement. “You’re literally the most checked‑out person I know, Oscar. You don’t give two shits about these events. So unless you’re trying to impress someone then—”
He stopped.
Slowly, a devious, shit‑eating grin spread across his face.
“Oh,” Lando said.
Oscar froze.
“Who’s the lucky plus‑one, Osc?" Lando drawled, the grinning spreading wider and wider on his tanned face.
Oscar fiddled with the hem of his shirt, his cheeks growing pinker by the second. “I don’t see why that’s important.”
Lando burst out laughing. “You fucking legend.” He walked over and slapped Oscar on the shoulder. "You finally making a move on that PR coach of yours then? Didn't think you had it in you.”
“No,” Oscar said quickly, stumbling over the word. “I mean ... She just—she seemed down. I just invited her to cheer her up.”
“Of course you did,” Lando said solemnly, nodding like he fully understood. "And I'm sure her at a table with you in a little black dress has everything to do with cheering her up."
Oscar's face went fully red at that. He wasn't wrong.
Lando did another double take of the room, then turned on his heel. “Hold that thought, lover boy.”
“Wait—where are you going?” Oscar asked, mortified.
The door slammed.
Oscar stood there for half a second, staring at the wood like it might explain itself, then started pacing. Back and forth. Over a discarded shirt, around the bed, nearly tripping over a shoe. His heart thudded uncomfortably loud in his chest.
That’s it, his brain supplied. He’s telling everyone.
He could already picture it—Lando bursting into the lift, loud and gleeful, announcing to anyone within earshot that Oscar had nearly set his hotel room on fire trying to iron a shirt for his little dinner date. The word alone made his stomach twist. It wasn't a date, he knew that. Still, he imagined the looks, the jokes, the inevitable ribbing that would follow him all the way through the weekend.
God, he really didn’t want her hearing about this secondhand. Didn’t want her laughing about it later, filing it away as more proof that she was right to keep him at arm’s length.
A knock sounded again.
Oscar groaned, opened the door, and promptly stopped.
Lando stood there again, this time with Max Fewtrell beside him with an equally smug grin on his face. Max held up a hanger triumphantly, a crisp shirt dangling from it.
“I think you're the same size as Max, mate,” Lando announced, letting him and Max into Oscar's room yet again. “Go on, put it on. It's Prada, very fancy.”
Oscar took the shirt gingerly, slipping it off the hanger as if it might disintegrate in his hands. He focused hard on the buttons, on the fabric, on anything but the way Max and Lando had positioned themselves like an audience, watching his every move with far too much interest.
"Care to explain what's going on again?" Max said with a chuckle, surveying the room with a raised eyebrow. "Happy to help of course, Mate. Just a little ... concerned."
“Because,” Lando announced to Max as Oscar tugged off his tee and tugged it over his head, “We can't have Osc here turning up looking like a schoolboy or an absolute slob for his date.”
“It’s not a date,” Oscar protested automatically as they herded him backward toward the mirror, his hands fussing at the hem as he tried to settle the shirt properly.
“Sure,” Lando said easily, leaning against the desk.
Max's face perked up mischieviously. “Ahh. She fit?”
Lando groaned theatrically. “Very.” He spread his hands wide at his hips, palms curving outward before giving an appreciative little squeeze of his fingers.
Oscar yanked a shoe off his foot and lobbed it at Lando without thinking.
Lando dodged it with a laugh. Max let out a low whistle. “Impressive arm,” he said, clearly enjoying himself.
Oscar huffed before he finished buttoning the shirt with fingers that felt clumsier than usual, tugged it straight, then reached for his belt. The moment stretched as he fastened it, aware of their eyes on him, aware of how ridiculous this all felt.
And how much he cared anyway.
When he finally turned back around, Lando and Max both nodded in unison, expressions shifting into something almost fond.
“Hm, yeah.” Lando said. “That'll work.”
“Fits,” Max agreed. "Looks better on you than it does on me, you bastard."
Oscar couldn't help but take a peer in the mirror once more.
Lando let out a sigh of relief, clapping his hands once. “Job done. We’re brilliant.”
He and Max began to make their way back to the door, till going on about the evening. But on the way out, Lando called back, “Cologne. And do something with your hair, you Muppet.”
Max laughed. “Keep us posted!"
The door mercifully shut before he could hear Lando's reply.
Oscar stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, flushed and mortified but undeniably more put together, and exhaled.
For a moment, he just stood there, hands braced on the sink, letting the noise drain out of his head. The laughter in the hallway. The adrenaline. The embarrassment. He breathed in through his nose, slow and deliberate, the way he did before climbing into the car.
Alright, he told himself. Reset.
When he straightened again, he barely recognized the version of himself looking back. The borrowed shirt fit properly. The belt pulled his posture straighter. He looked… older. More intentional. Not quite the boy everyone seemed determined to see.
The confidence held for all of five seconds.
Oscar usually left his hair alone. Towel‑dried was his go-to when his hair was vaguely cooperative, doing whatever it wanted with minimal complaint. But Lando’s voice echoed in his head anyway.
Do something with your hair.
So he found himself with a hairdryer in one hand and a brush in the other, squinting at his reflection like it might offer guidance. He tried once. Then again. The result was somehow worse.
Tonight, it refused to behave on principle.
He dug through his toiletry bag and unearthed the tiny travel bottle of gel he hadn’t touched since Monaco. The first attempt was too slick. The second was too stiff.
The third gave him a part he absolutely did not have.
Oscar stared at himself, unimpressed. “Who do you think you are?” he muttered.
With a sigh, he washed it out and tried again, fingers lighter this time, movements slower. Eventually he settled on something that looked styled without looking like he was trying too hard. He leaned closer, studying his face, debating the stubble before deciding it made him look older.
Less twelve.
Good.
He reached for the cologne, hesitated, sprayed once. Then, against his better judgement, twice. Immediately, he regretted it.
He leaned in, inhaling cautiously. Too much? He straightened again, frowning at himself.
Probably fine.
Standing there, shoulders squared, he looked more mature than he felt—and yet there was still that familiar prickle under his skin. Like he was wearing someone else’s clothes. Like he’d been handed a version of himself he hadn’t quite earned yet.
She’ll see right through this, he thought.
Then he huffed softly at himself. Get a grip. You’re being ridiculous.
He reached up to fix a loose strand of hair. Then did it again. And again. On the fifth attempt, his phone buzzed against the counter.
Oscar groaned.
He didn’t even need to look at the screen.
If he ignored it, she’d call again.
With a resigned sigh, he wiped his hands on the towel and answered the FaceTime call, angling the phone so she wouldn’t immediately clock the chaos behind him.
“Well,” his Mum said, smiling into the screen, “don’t you look smart.”
“Yeah,” he replied, aiming for casual. “Sponsor dinner. Fancy place, apparently.”
She hummed, eyes flicking briefly off‑screen, then back. “And you ironed your shirt for it?”
"Tried. I uh ... had an ironing mishap, so this is borrowed.”
She laughed. “Last time I checked, I thought sponsor dinners with for 'team kits' or 'whatever Mark tells me to put on.'”
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, grinning despite himself. “Just trying to make a good impression.”
His mother raised a knowing eyebrow. “On the sponsors?”
Oscar looked away, trying not to flush again. “Yep. Sponsors.”
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push. Somehow that made his ears burn more. He suddenly became very interested in checking his sleeve cuffs.
“Well,” she said gently, eyes warm as they flicked toward his collar, “whoever it is you’re going with, they’re very lucky you’ve made such a nice effort. All those buttons and everything.” She smiled, kind and careful. “Don’t stay out too late, love.”
“I won’t.”
When the call ended, Oscar exhaled and looked at his reflection again. The collar button was crooked.
He fixed it for the third time before exiting the bathroom with a sigh.
The watch should've have been an easy decision. He knew he was supposed to wear the sponsor one, the sleek, expensive thing that caught the light just right. The one that said professional, polished, worth the investment. It sat on the desk exactly where he’d left it.
Instead, he reached for the other one. The old, battered piece from his school days, scratched and slightly loose, the strap softened with wear. It didn’t announce anything. It didn’t impress.
But it was his.
A small, stubborn part of him needed that reminder, something familiar, like an anchor to the version of himself that existed long before logos or obligations.
He glanced around the room once more as he latched it on. The discarded shirts. The abandoned iron. The general chaos. Even dressed like this, he still felt like the kid who left all his socks on the floor of a Bahraini palace.
He glanced one more time at his reflection in the mirror.
Maybe he was that kid still. But tonight, it didn't matter. Tonight, he wasn't going to be ashamed of it anymore.
Maybe she’d see that version of him too beneath all the preening and the Prada. The earnest one. The slightly awkward one. The one who wanted to be more than a project. Maybe she'd like it just as much as this kind of him.
He pocketed his phone and checked the message he’d sent her with the address. No reply yet. His stomach twisted, slow and nervous.
You have nothing to be nervous about. It's just dinner.
Oscar let loose a held breath, grabbed his jacket, locked the door behind him, and headed out.
The sponsor event was already alive and in full swing when he arrived.
Low music threaded through the massive restaurant, smooth and unobtrusive, paired with the clink of glassware and the murmur of polite conversation as people drifted through a loose cocktail hour. Waitstaff moved between small clusters with trays of champagne flutes and neat little plates of hors d'oeuvres that looked too delicate to actually fill anyone up. A Richard Mille logo glowed discreetly on a screen near the entrance, looping tyre footage no one seemed to be watching.
Oscar paused just inside the doorway, jacket still on, pulse ticking a little faster than it had any right to.
He told himself he was early to get the lay of the land. To be helpful. To look prepared.
In reality, he just needed somewhere to stand that wasn’t pacing outside like a teenager waiting for his date.
He made a slow circuit of the room first, accepting a drink he barely touched, nodding along to conversations about tyre compounds and marketing activations while only half‑listening. Every few seconds, his attention snagged on the entrance.
Nothing.
“Looking spiffy."
Oscar looked around. Mark was suddenly at his shoulder, giving him a quick once‑over with an approving nod. Before Oscar could respond, Mark had a hand at his elbow, already steering him toward a man Oscar vaguely recognized as some kind of regional executive.
“Osc, this is the man I was telling you about earlier,” Mark said easily. “Frederico, this is Oscar Piastri. You'll find he's a fair bit quicker than I am these days...”
Oscar smiled, shook hands, said the right things, but his mind kept drifting, eyes flicking past the man’s shoulder toward the door. He nodded at something he didn’t fully hear, laughed a second too late, felt the conversation sliding past him while his thoughts stayed stubbornly elsewhere.
Any minute now, he told himself.
Still, the knot in his stomach tightened.
He checked his phone under the table, thumb hovering as he re‑read the address he’d sent her. Same restaurant. Same time. No typo. No missed detail.
Was I too blunt?
He’d just sent the address and the tim. No follow‑up, no see you there, nothing to soften it. He pictured the message now and winced. It read like logistics. Like work. Like he hadn’t cared.
Maybe he should have checked in. Asked how her afternoon was. Given her an out. Or worse, maybe she’d read it and assumed he hadn’t actually meant it after all.
She’s just running late, he told himself.
Still, the knot in his stomach tightened.
Something cut through the low murmur of the room, a laugh that sounded almost like hers. Oscar’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, eyes sweeping toward the bar. For half a second, his chest lifted with stupid, fragile hope.
Then he saw Lando.
Lando was leaned in close to a very pretty blonde, grin turned on full wattage as she laughed at something he’d just said. Max stood beside him, drink in hand, watching the whole thing with obvious amusement.
When Lando caught Oscar staring, his grin sharpened. He waggled his eyebrows in exaggerated encouragement, nudging Max to his right and saying something that made them both snicker.
Oscar looked away quickly, heat creeping up his neck, the disappointment settling heavier than he wanted to admit.
He drifted back toward the high table he’d claimed, then away again, then back and circling like he didn’t quite know where he belonged. Each time someone stopped him for small talk, it got harder to focus. He smiled too late. Laughed at the wrong beats. Gave answers that were just a fraction too vague.
An event coordinator appeared at his side, polite and apologetic. “Mr. Piastri? Just to let you know, we’ll be seating for dinner shortly.”
Oscar nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah—thanks.”
As the waiter moved on, Oscar glanced around the room and felt his chest tighten. People were beginning to drift toward their tables now, conversations breaking apart, chairs scraping softly against the floor. He checked his watch without meaning to.
It had been nearly an hour.
The realization landed heavier than he expected. An hour into the evening and she still hadn’t shown. No message. No missed call. Nothing.
His stomach sank, the nervous edge tipping into something sharper, more personal.
Maybe she’d changed her mind.
Maybe he’d misread the whole thing. Maybe this had always meant more to him than it had to her.
He swallowed, throat tight, and forced himself to keep moving, to keep answering questions, to keep smiling like everything was fine as he was steered towards his table—even as the knot in his chest pulled tighter with every passing minute.
He sat. Folded the napkin. Unfolded it. Stared at the place setting.
He checked his phone one more time.
Still nothing.
...She's not coming.
Oscar let out a small sound of disappointment, fingers fumbling with the sleeves of his shirt.
If I slip out now, he thought numbly, Mark might not notice.
But Oscar didn't have enough time to plan an exit plan. Because a familiar sound cut through the low hum of the room.
The dull, unmistakable thud of a notebook being shifted from one hand to a nearby table. The faint rasp of paper against a leather cover. A sound he’d heard a hundred times in meeting rooms and paddocks and quiet corners of hospitality suites.
Oscar stilled, his head snapping up before he could stop himself, heart lurching, eyes already searching. Someone near the entrance turned, smiling broadly.
“Hey! Didn't expect to see you here. You look killer.”
The door to the dining room opened. And the room seemed to recalibrate.
Light spilled in from the cocktail parlour, and there she was—walking in with that same quiet composure, notebook tucked under one arm, hair catching the light just enough to make his chest tighten.
For a moment, Oscar forgot how to breathe.
He stared. Too long. Long enough that he had to blink hard, like he was snapping himself out of a trance.
She looked… fuck.
The dress clung to her like it had been poured on, all soft curves and deliberate lines, the kind of figure-hugging silhouette that felt lifted straight out of an old Sofia Loren film. It cinched at her waist, followed the slow, hypnotic sway of her hips as she walked, moved with her instead of against her.
She looked sultrier. Vampier. Like she’d stepped into a version of herself he hadn’t known he was allowed to see.
Oscar became suddenly, acutely aware of his own body. Of the way his collar felt too tight, too warm against his throat. Of how he hadn’t blinked in far too long. His gaze kept snagging on her movement, on the confidence in her stride, the easy way she carried herself through the room.
His brain lagged hopelessly behind, scrambling to catch up while his heart kicked hard against his ribs.
A few people glanced up as she passed. She didn’t react. Either she didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. That calm confidence, paired with the way she moved, hit him harder than anything overt ever could.
All he could think, stupidly, was how he'd wish he'd worn more deodorant. That there were less people around them. How his eyes kept betraying him, tracking the slow, hypnotic sway of her hips as she crossed the floor.
Oscar stood too quickly. His knee clipped the table leg. The wine glasses rattled.
“Shit—” he muttered, steadying them unnecessarily.
When he looked up, she was smiling. Warm. Observant. Amused.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he echoed, then flushed. “I, uh … wow. You look… nice.”
Too honest. Too fast.
She laughed. a quiet genuine sound that curled through his chest like relief, her mouth tipping into a smile that said she’d clocked his nerves and found them endearing rather than awkward.
He tried to recover. “Very professional.”
That only made her laugh a little more. “Thank you,” she said. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
For half a second, as she stepped closer, he caught it, her gaze dipping and tracing the broad line of his shoulders beneath the borrowed shirt before she looked away again, smooth as if it hadn’t happened at all.
Something steadied inside him.
He pulled out her chair. “Here, uh ... let me.”
She thanked him as she sat, their hands brushing briefly. It was nothing. It felt like everything.
Oscar took his seat across from her, careful this time not to bump anything. Around them, the restaurant hummed on, but at their table the noise had softened, the moment narrowing into something quieter.
For the first time that evening, Oscar wasn’t the rookie. Or the pet project. Or the driver being managed.
He was just Osc.
And for once, instead of being terrified by the feeling as a gorgeous woman sat across him, he let himself relax.
Book One - Light the Spark
Chapter Nineteen: Poor Little Lizzie
Now, I'm looking to the sky to save me. Looking for a sign of life. Looking for something to help me burn out bright
In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.
✦ starring: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)
✦ Warnings: ....Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also - +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language and profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and substance abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.
✦ Word count: ~159K total (ongoing multi-part series)
✦ Author’s Note: Lizzie is reaping the consequences of her actions (a tiny bit) in this chapter which we sorta love but also hate, and Sebastian is back up to his old tricks again because he's a fuckable asshole. Another F1 veteran sighting has occurred, interested in hear thoughts on how Lizzie's tentative professional relationship with them is evolving. As always, comments and hearts are always appreciated and help boost this story to more wonderful people like yourself. Happy Reading!
✦Tags: #original female character #Enemies to Lovers #Competition #Angst, #Eventual Smut #Slow Burn #Daddy Issues #References to Depression #Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD #Burn Scars #Car Accidents #SMUT #Drunk confessions #Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings #Drinking to Cope #Implied/Referenced Grooming #Age Difference #Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole #Female Formula 1 Driver #Jealousy #Cheating #Secret Relationship, #Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning #Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms #Drunk Sex, #Identity Reveal #When Will These Two Morons Kiss? #The sexual tension between these two is crazy #Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink #Lizzie hating her scars, #Protective Toto Wolff #Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual #because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father #secondary romantic plots, #but we all know where this is going #Hurt/Comfort #Gender and Power Dynamics, #Feminist Themes #this one has character development! I hope.
Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!
✦ Rules ✦ BoB Masterlist ✦ AO3 Work ✦ Next → ✦
⋆♫⋆ Poor little Liddy used to always quit, But she never really quit, She'd just say she did⋆♫⋆
The Savoy Hotel
London, UK
January 21, 2019
- 𓅂 -
The walls were shimmering around Lizzie like heat rising off tarmac, their edges soft and indistinct. Light was spilling from the bedside lamp in low golden streams, but it glowed too warmly, haloed and syrup-thick, as if the bulb had forgotten how to work without flickering. The fan above her was buzzed with a sound she couldn’t quite place, almost like static underwater. The room was familiar, she’d been there a hundred times in her head—the hotel room in Maranello two years ago. Yet it was wrong in tiny, imperceptible ways: the curtains were the wrong shade of cream, the clock on the nightstand blinked without numbers, the air too still.
But she didn’t care too much about it, didn’t have time to focus. Not really.
Not when Sebastian was there.
Her breathing was slowing as his touch grew gentler, each motion of his hand against her skin punctuated by a kiss, featherlight and achingly tender. The stark contrast between his earlier hunger and this careful attention had left her heart aching in ways she couldn’t quite name. Her body had responded so instinctively to him, to his punishing thrusts, the way his hands gripped onto her like a vice. She could still feel her hips rising to meet his as her heart thundered in her chest, the heat between them as she moaned, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her core till that strange, unfamiliar fullness began to bloom in her low stomach.
“Sebastian,” she’d gasped, her voice trembling as her hand gripped his arm tightly, her vision blurring from the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. “I—mmm, ahhh! something’s happening.”
Sebastian’s breath had been warm against her ear as he’d leaned down, his voice low and coaxing. “Yeah, are you close, Häshen?” he’d asked softly, though the gravel in his tone betrayed his own struggle for control.
She could only nod, unable to find her words as her breath hitched. His hand had slid between them, his fingers finding her core with practiced precision. He stroked her in time with his deep thrusts, the combined sensations driving her to the brink. Lizzie had been a moaning mess beneath him, body writhing as she'd chased the feeling that was building, stronger and stronger…
"Want to feel it this time” he’d whispered, his voice thick and commanding, his lips brushing against her temple. "Cum for me."
The simple command had been her undoing. The pleasure that had been coiling inside her finally snapped, shattering through her like a tidal wave. Lizzie’s body arched against him, her back leaving the bed as a new kind of climax ripped through her, the sweet release of gushing liquid leaving her trembling around him as a scream built in her throat.
His hand had covered her mouth, muffling the sound as she shook uncontrollably beneath him, her nails raking lightly against his arm. “That’s it, good girl,” he’d murmured, his voice low and strained as he slowed his thrusts, dragging out every last tremor of her release. "Let it all out."
Lizzie’s eyes were fluttering closed now, exhaustion tugging at her, her mind a swirling mess of conflicting emotions, embarrassment, trust, unease, and something unspoken that lingered between them. God it had felt so good to be beneath him, twitching and crying and at his mercy.
"Tired already?" Sebastian was asking, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before settling beside her. His body was curving around hers as though they’d always fit this way, his arms wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. The steady rhythm of his breathing began to calm her racing heart, grounding her in the moment. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
Lizzie let out a soft, breathless laugh, her hand instinctively finding his chest. Her touch was light, tentative, but there was a comfort in the solid thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers.
"You’re impossible.”
Sebastian only chuckled, the sound low and rich, his fingers skimming lazily over her shoulder, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. “So I’ve been told,” he replied, the amusement in his tone tinged with tenderness.
For a moment, the room was sinking into silence. Only the quiet mingling of their breaths filled the air, the afterglow settling over them like a fragile veil. Lizzie lay still, her chest rising and falling in time with his, but her mind refused to rest. She could feel his gaze on her, unwavering and heavy, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet it. Her eyes traced the crumpled fabric of the sheets, her thoughts spiraling inwards. A flash of blonde hair was blooming unbidden to her mind—Hanna. Her name alone was clawing its way up her throat, sharp and relentless. She tightened her grip on the sheet, her fingers twisting the fabric as if to anchor herself.
"Seb…" she whispered, her voice so faint it barely broke the stillness. She hesitated, her heart hammering in her chest. "What we just did… it was wrong."
Sebastian’s hand, which had been tracing soothing patterns along her arm, stilled. For a moment, the warmth of his touch lingered, a silent question hanging between them. Then, as if to reassure her, his fingers resumed their slow, rhythmic strokes. He exhaled deeply, the sound measured, as if choosing his words with care. "Why do you feel that way?" he asked, his voice soft, inviting her to speak but steady enough to ground her.
Lizzie swallowed hard, her gaze finally lifting to meet his. The tenderness in his eyes was making her chest ache even more. “Hanna,” she said simply, the name falling like a stone between them. Her voice trembled as she continued, "I didn’t even think about her until now. I should have. I just… I got so caught up in everything, and I didn’t—"
“Lizzie.” Sebastian interrupted her gently, his hand coming to rest against her cheek. His thumb brushed her skin, his touch calming but firm. "Hanna and I… we’re on a break right now. That’s why she hasn’t been at the Ferrari events. Things between us… they’re complicated."
Lizzie frowned, her brow furrowing as her guilt tangled with confusion. "A break?" she repeated, her voice barely steady. "But… that means you’re still together, aren’t you?"
Sebastian’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, his expression faltered, frustration flickering across his face. He nodded slowly, though his eyes softened as they held hers. “Technically, yes. But it’s not… it’s not like we’re really together right now. We’re trying to figure things out." His voice dipped lower, quieter, as if trying to convince both her and himself. "Tonight… tonight wasn’t about her. It was about you and me."
Lizzie’s chest was tightening too, her heart warring with itself. She wanted to believe him, to take the lifeline he offered and let herself breathe. But the knot of guilt inside her only seemed to twist tighter. “I just…” Her voice cracked slightly, and she lowered her gaze again. “I don’t want things to be weird between us, you’re … you’re so important to me, Seb. I can’t lose you.”
Sebastian’s expression softened instantly, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The gesture was warm, tender, and full of promises she wasn’t sure he could keep. "You won’t ever lose me," he murmured, his lips brushing her skin. "This… it doesn’t have to change anything. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. Nothing more. I’ll always be here for you, Lizzie. Always."
Her chest ached at his words, her emotions a tangled mess of relief, doubt, and a hollow emptiness she couldn’t explain. She nodded, letting herself believe him for now, if only to ease the weight pressing down on her.
“You should get some rest,” Sebastian said softly, his voice a balm to her frayed nerves. “It’s been a long night.”
Lizzie closed her eyes, exhaustion finally pulling at her, but the unease lingered like a shadow, creeping into the edges of her consciousness. As his arms tightened around her, her body melted into his warmth, but her mind refused to let her rest. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this moment wouldn’t fade as easily as he promised. Sleep crept in, tugging at her limbs and clouding her thoughts until her body grew heavy against the mattress. But just as she started to surrender to it, the bed shifted beside her and the warmth disappeared, replaced by the faint rustle of fabric. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, just in time to catch Sebastian moving in the dim light. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as he pulled his clothes back on, his back turned to her. He was leaving.
Then—more movement. This time a flicker near the blinds, a presence just beyond the veil of sleep. The air shifted.
Lizzie turned her head slowly, her eyes heavy with sleep but dragging themselves toward the strange stillness in the corner of the room. Her vision blurred, light bending strangely, like fog on a windshield. There, half-obscured in shadow and haze, stood a tall young man. Her heart stuttered. A lit cigarette was balanced between long fingers in front of him, thin smoke snaking through the air as he stepped into the light. He looked younger in the low light, she thought as his face became more clear. She didn't remember him being that young. But the shape of his jaw was still the same. The slope of his nose covered in tan freckles. The tousle of dark hair. The quiet, simmering brightness of his brown eyes.
Rob.
His figure was indistinct but unmistakable, like a memory resurrected. She wanted to reach for him, say something, but he didn’t step forward. Didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, taking a drag of his cigarette and watching her with the same assessing stare he gave everything. And then he spoke, his voice low, hoarse, but laced with something sharp. Disappointment.
"He will always leave you, Pippi. I thought you knew better than to come back for more.”
The words hit like ice water.
Rob’s head tilted slowly, the cigarette in his fingers turned downward as if to indicate something below. Lizzie followed his gaze, her dream-self barely breathing as her eyes trailed to the floor near his feet. There, resting on the carpet that hadn’t been there before, was a duffel bag she vaguely recognized. Black canvas, worn around the edges. The zipper was pulled halfway open, and peeking from its mouth was a photograph.
A snapshot she knew instantly, because she'd seen it before. The edges slightly curled, the ink slightly smudged. Sebastian, arms wrapped around two young girls, grinning like fatherhood had rewritten his whole body. In loopy handwriting, almost childlike, the words scrawled across the bottom: ‘Für Papa.’
Lizzie’s heart plummeted. It hadn’t been there before. Not in the real memory of that night. But he had conjured it anyway. Shame crushed her ribs.
Rob ficked his cigarette, and the ash felt onto the photo like tiny particles of black rain. And as she stared, tiny flames began to lick up the edges of the photograph. First slow, a curl of smoke. Then faster. The image blackened and warped as the flames consumed it, and then the entire duffel caught—the cloth bubbling, hissing. And then Rob too. T he fire crawled up his legs, danced across his chest, swallowing him. His ruined skin seemed to peel and crackle anew, the smell of burning flesh so real it made her gag. Yet his eyes never left hers, even as the inferno took him. Even as his face became something else entirely.
Lizzie couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. She was frozen in place, paralyzed by terror, her breath caught in her throat.
Then the shadow lunged.
In a blink, Rob was no longer standing in the corner like a warning, he was above her. Towering, monstrous. His familiar silhouette distorted into something else entirely.
Gone was the boy she’d grown up beside. Gone were the soft edges of memory. What hovered above her now was the thing she’d never been able to forget—the image burned into her brain since the coroner’s office in Spa, since she’d stood beside a steel table with her burned hands shaking and stared until her knees nearly gave out.
His skin was bubbled and blistered, charred red and black like melted wax. His face, once strong and handsome, was grotesquely deformed, features erased by the flame. His hair was gone, hands ruined with tendons visible beneath layers of scorched flesh. His mouth was torn at one corner, teeth visible through scorched muscle, and one eye was sealed shut beneath a stretch of puckered skin. The other, unblinking and glassy, burned into her.
He reached for her.
Lizzie screamed. She scrambled back, legs tangling in sheets that weren’t real, but couldn’t move fast enough. Her body wouldn’t respond. She was stuck. Suffocating. His burnt, skeletal fingers closed around her scarred wrists. The heat from them was blistering. She could feel her burns re-blistering, feel the weight of him pinning her like a judgment.
Then he shook her.
“WAKE UP, PIPPI.”
Lizzie jolted awake with a start.
Her lungs heaved violently, the dream clinging to her skin like sweat and the ghost of Rob’s voice still warm in her ear as the world came back to her in fragments.
The first thing she registered was the dull, pulsing ache behind her eyes. Then the taste of whiskey and regret on her tongue. Her throat was scorched raw. Light bled in through the hotel curtains, fractured and too bright, cutting across the bed like a scalpel. The pounding in her skull was relentless, each throb echoing like footsteps down a hallway.
She didn’t know where she was at first.
But there was the smell of warm linen, the lingering trace of cologne she knew too well. And then, the weight. Heavy and familiar, an arm draped across her. A body behind her. A strong heartbeat against her spine.
Sebastian.
Her lungs stilled. He was still asleep, arm slung over her like he’d held her in the night and forgotten to let go. One of his T-shirts clung to her frame—soft, oversized, smelling like him. He must have dressed her after she passed out. She couldn’t remember.
She blinked, slowly this time, trying to piece together the edges of memory.
It came in waves. Hot skin against hers, the scrape of his stubble along her jaw, the way his mouth had dragged over her collarbone like he was starving. She remembered the hitch in his breath when she’d moaned his name, the almost frantic way he’d clutched at her like something slipping through his fingers. The desperate rhythm of his thrusts, the tangled sheets underneath her hands, the hoarse sounds he made when she came undone beneath him. Again. And again.
And she had let him. Welcomed it. Craved it.
For one foolish, breathless moment, she let herself sink into it. The illusion: the ache of being wanted. The quiet hum of being held like she mattered. Like she was still someone worth holding.
Because in the grey hush of morning, her first instinct wasn’t to move. It was to fall back asleep. To stay in this sliver of peace. In the warmth of his chest at her back, the firm line of his thigh tangled with hers. To remain with his arm slung low across her waist, his palm splayed possessively against her stomach, like even in sleep he couldn’t bear to let her go. The fabric of his T-shirt clung softly to her bare skin, too big, but it smelled like him: woodsmoke and soap and something darker beneath.
But the ache behind her ribs settled in slowly. She knew better now. She should have known better then.
The Maranello dream came rushing back like a ghost. Her hotel room with it's dated art, the smell of rain-soaked cobblestones from the cracked window, the weight of Sebastian’s body next to hers, his hands cradling her like she was breakable, his voice low and coaxing:
“You won’t ever lose me.”
She’d believed him. Even when she shouldn’t have.
The next morning, she’d woken up alone. Sheets still warm. No note. No goodbye. Just a hollow ache and the sound of water hitting tile from the hallway, reminding her that nothing had changed.
That afternoon he’d looked at her like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t laid herself bare for him the night before. All charm and easy smiles, standing under the Ferrari banner at the press event while Lizzie stood to the side, trying not to crumble.
Back then, it had wrecked her. Back then, she thought she’d done something wrong.
Now she knew better. Now she saw it for what it was: the slow drip-feed of affection he rationed out just enough to keep her wanting. A habit she couldn’t seem to kick.
She didn’t even remember falling asleep in his hotel bed. Couldn’t even remember how she’d gotten there exactly. But her body remembered him. And the bruised sweetness of being touched like she was something cherished again, not broken. Something precious.
But it was a lie. And she knew it.
And still, Rob’s voice lingered, his words like ash in her throat.
"I thought you knew better than to come back for more.”
His ruined face still hovered just behind her eyes, that phantom of judgment burned too deep to forget. She could see it now, his charred hand pointing to the photo in Sebastian’s duffel, the one she’d seen last night and pretended not to care about. His daughters, Matilda and Emilie, smiling. Alive and whole and still there. The woman no doubt behind the camera, the one that he still went home to at night.
Rob would be ashamed of her. She knew that.
But she craved the warmth too badly, the closeness too much. And she was so tired of clawing her way through cold, of waking up untouched. So she did what she always did, pushed it down into her chest, and let her eyes flutter shut.
Then: buzz.
Her phone vibrated violently against the nightstand.
Lizzie flinched, lifting her head with a wince, untangling her arm just enough to reach for it. Sebastian shifted behind her, a low noise escaping his throat. His arm tightened instinctively around her waist, pulling her back in, like he could anchor her there. Like he knew she’d try to leave.
Carlos’s name blinked across the screen.
Shit.
She hesitated, then croaked out a hoarse, “Hello?”
“Lizzie?” Carlos sounded sharper than usual, too awake for this hour. “Joder, you sound like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
She sat up fast, panic surging through the hangover.
Shit.
The screen read 7:04 AM. Her throat burned and her head throbbed, and somewhere beneath the haze of sleep and the splitting headache, panic unfurled sharp and fast.
Carlos.
Flat.
Woking.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
Her voice cracked as she scrambled for a lie. “I—shit, I’m sorry. I overslept.”
“Are you at your flat?” he pressed, suspicion lining his words. "I’m outside. We were going to breakfast still before simulator work, no?”
Carlos had been trying anything lately to get her to open up to that warm, easygoing way of his. Asking her to grab coffee, suggesting getting breakfast before work at the factory, anything that came to mind he seemed to suggest. It wasn’t that Lizzie disliked him. But she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he’d been nudged into it by Zak. Team bonding. More McLaren politics.
So naturally, she hadn’t wanted to go this morning. And now, she’d completely forgotten.
"No I'm not,” she muttered, sitting up fast and instantly regretting it. The room tilted sideways. “I forgot. I’m not… I’m not home.”
“Oh. You okay?” Carlos pressed, concern edging into suspicion. “I can wait a few minutes for you to get here.”
She rubbed at her eyes. “I'm fine, just—” she struggled to find something reasonable to say. “I’ll meet you at the factory before nine, I swear.”
A pause.
“Alright, just don't be late…”
“Got it.” Her thumb hovered over end call. “See you later.”
She hung up and dropped the phone onto the duvet. Her phone was still buzzing and beeping in her hands, unread messages flowing in from Maya and Sorcha from last night and this morning.
Sorcha:
Mate, where are ya?
Is everything alright?
You cannae just run off like that.
Maya:
Lizzie, you need to tell us where you went.
Please just call me when you're awake.
I know you're struggling, but you can't keep shutting us out.
Lizzie closed the phone's screen with a quiet click of the home button.
It was only then she felt the subtle shift of pressure, Sebastian’s hand sliding away from her stomach like a retreating tide. She turned, the movement slow and cautious, the bedsheets whispering against her the bare skin of her thighs. He was already watching her, propped up on one elbow, steel blue eyes heavy-lidded but alert.
There was something eerie about his stillness. The way he blinked lazily, as though he’d been studying her for longer than he cared to admit, memorizing the curves of her spine and the mess of her hair before she stirred. The shadows from the early morning light painted his face in sharp relief, softening nothing. His gaze lingered on her with an unreadable calm, like he’d expected her to turn over just then, and had been waiting for it.
“Need to be somewhere?” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep.
Lizzie nodded, a small, automatic motion, but she still couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. The image of Rob’s ruined face was still burned across the inside of her skull, and the weight of her shame sat heavy in her chest. She felt raw, like her skin had been scraped thin by the nightmare, by the truth of what she’d done, of what she’d ignored. She could still see the photo haunting her from the corner of her memory.
‘Für Papa’
And yet, she’d stayed. Let herself be held.
"Yeah, I need to get going." She said softly, looking down at the pillow.
She turned over without a word, the sheets whispering against her skin as she sat up, already swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her movements were brisk, purposeful, like if she moved quickly enough, she could outrun the weight of the guilt still coiling in her ribs. She reached for her crumpled clothes, her stomach sinking as she noticed the huge tear in her tights, the same ones he’d hastily pulled down hours ago.
Behind her, she heard the sheets rustle.
“You could borrow some sweats,” Sebastian offered casually, like they did this all the time. "Or we can just go get you new tights."
She turned.
He had sat up but was still lounging there, tousled and infuriatingly at ease, one arm tucked behind his head. At peace, almost. Like the night had gone exactly the way he planned and he had no reason to feel guilty for any of it.
Lizzie’s chest went tight.
“Don't have time,” she said shortly, yanking on her skirt. “I have to be in Woking in under two hours.”
He sat up slowly, stretching like a cat, spine arching with lazy, feline precision before he slid to the edge of the bed. As he rose, he brushed past her, the back of his hand grazing the small of her back with a touch that lingered just a beat too long, possessive, habitual, like muscle memory. The contact made Lizzie flinch, but she said nothing.
Sebastian moved to the other side of the room and picked up a glass of water from the nightstand, taking a slow sip. He didn’t look at her right away.
“Big day at McLaren?” he asked offhandedly, but there was something under it. The inflection was too casual, too light, a manufactured ease. And Lizzie, raw and too aware, caught the undercurrent instantly: suspicion. The way the words floated out like a probe.
His eyes flicked over her bare legs and ruined tights with faint amusement, but the question hung between them like smoke.
She stiffened. “Yes,” she said coldly, brushing her ripped tights back over her legs. “We're doing more sim testing later. I was supposed to get breakfast this morning with Carlos, for team building."
Sebastian only raised an eyebrow, but there was something sharper behind the lazy arch. "He your new alarm clock now?"
The words were flippant, but the undercurrent wasn’t. Lizzie heard it clearly—the bite, the jealousy, the insinuation curled beneath the casual smirk. As if Carlos was just another Pierre. As if she was already hopping to someone else's bed. The implication struck low and mean, especially coming from the man who still had a girlfriend and two daughters waiting for him somewhere else.
She turned as she zipped up her skirt, her expression freezing over into something glacial and precise.
Pure ice.
“When’s your flight back to Switzerland?”
He stilled for a beat, her question catching him off guard. There was the smallest shift, barely perceptible, but she caught it. The blink, the pause, the faint furrow of his brow as though his brain scrambled to catch up. Then he said, too easily, "Later."
Lizzie laughed under her breath, hollow and humorless.
"Right," She replied coldly, throwing her coat over her shoulder. “I should be going."
It hadn’t just been a lucky layover. It had all been staged. The hotel, the charm, the perfectly timed night. A performance wrapped in silk and cologne. And she had fallen for it, like an idiot, because he’d looked at her like he used to. Like she meant something.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore. And from the flicker of something unreadable, almost cautious, in his expression, she knew he hadn’t expected her to notice.
And now he knew she had.
He moved without comment, brushing past her again on the way to the bathroom. “I'll be back in Switzerland for a few weeks till pre-season testing in Barcelona. Door’s open whenever.”
He wasn’t trying to make her stay longer, knew that she wouldn't. He wasn’t awkward or ashamed either. He was open ... comfortable. It wasn’t a gesture of warmth. It was a warning. That she could come back, make this a regular thing between them again. That he thought, knew, she would.
Lizzie stared at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, flushed cheeks, mussed hair, eyes rimmed with regret, and felt something in her chest curl in shame.
She was doing it again.
Becoming the version of herself she swore she wouldn’t. The one who took scraps and pretended they were affection. The one who mistook longing for love.
She gathered her things in silence.
"I'll see you Barcelona." She replied mutely.
Sebastian didn’t argue. He just nodded, like it was fine. Like he could wait. He’d changed. She didn’t know when, or how, but she could feel it in the way he looked at her now. Like maybe he finally knew what he wanted, but didn’t expect her to believe it yet.
She moved to the door.
“Häschen,” he said, just as she touched the handle.
She paused.
“I meant what I said,” he said. “Last night."
I’m not pretending. I know exactly what this is.
And for a second, just one, Lizzie almost turned around. Almost stayed. But the image of Rob's charred corpse was still floating in the back of her mind. So she tightened her hand on the door, walked out into the hallway, and didn't look back till she was in the bustling London street with a cigarette lit between her shaking fingers.
- 𓅂 -
The drive to Woking from Milton Keynes had been reckless, almost frantic. Lizzie weaved through lanes like her tires were still heating through, her grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled and twitchy as she ashed the remainder of another cigarette out her window. Rain misted the windshield, swept aside by wipers moving too fast, too often. Early commuter headlights flared like searchlights across her vision, and more than once she braked too late, sending her heart skittering into her throat.
The clouds pressed low over the M25, a slate-colored ceiling threatening to crack open. Her thoughts ran just as heavy—Sebastian, Rob, Max—all crowding the corners of her brain like ghosts jostling for space.
By the time she swerved into the Woking car park and killed the engine, her entire body felt tense, frayed to the wire. She slumped forward for a moment, forehead brushing the top of the steering wheel, breath shallow.
When she finally looked up, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked startled and pale, more than she usually did. Her mascara was a bit smudged, lashes clumped. Eyes bloodshot. Lips dry and bitten raw from the cigarette smoke and her own knawing. Her hair was still damp at the roots, half-tamed into a braid that had mostly collapsed during the drive. The turtleneck bunched unevenly at her throat, and her coat was buttoned wrong.
She looked like someone unraveling. And she felt even worse.
Her hands trembled as she adjusted the edge of her turtleneck, the fabric still biting at her skin like penance.
The hickeys were vivid. Angry red and purple blotches blooming along the edge of her collarbone and up the side of her neck. She hadn’t noticed them until she was halfway out the door, hairbrush in one hand and tights ripped from the night before still balled in the other. A flare of shame had crawled up her spine as she yanked the shirt on, swearing under her breath.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.
George:
Hey, just wanted to check in. You okay? We missed you at darts night. Alex brought that terrible American whiskey again. Thought it might make you laugh.
She stared at it for a moment too long. The guilt was instant—hot, irrational, and choking. Wasn’t she the one who had been upset just days ago when George and Alex had posted a photo without her? She’d felt replaced. Excluded. And now? She couldn’t even muster a reply. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she shoved the phone deep into her coat pocket, telling herself she didn’t have time to worry about it.
But the lie curdled as soon as it formed. She knew she was hot one minute, cold the next with the two of them. Especially George. He didn’t deserve it. Not when he was the one dropping by her apartment every so often to make sure she was still alive and not suffocating under a mountain of take out containers.
But she couldn’t seem to help it lately, the avoidance, even with Maya and Sorcha. Like something inside her was crumbling from every angle and lashing out at anything that got too close.
She slammed the car door shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing across the car park like a gunshot. The cold hit her instantly, but she barely registered it. Her boots slapped against the concrete as she hustled toward the side entrance, her breath coming too fast, misting in the morning air.
She knew why she was fraying. Why every nerve in her body felt like it was splintering outward.
It was Max.
His face as he’d cornered her in London. That furious, unreadable look in his eyes. The bite of betrayal behind it. But worse than his expression had been his words—sharp, final, and delivered with a callousness that still scraped against her ribs: That was your own fault.
She couldn’t stop hearing it. Over and over. The same way his eyes had gone cold, like he hadn’t once known her at all. How she'd ran into Sebastian's arms immediately after. The words struck again—That was your own fault. Something twisted in her gut, the sting of it still fresh, still raw.
She shoved the thought away hard, bile rising in her throat again, but this time, anger chased it. She needed to get it together. Now. No more unraveling. No more spiraling. Just come up with something half-believable for her race engineer Will about her tardiness and move on. Lie cleanly. Smile if necessary.
The Woking factory was already buzzing when Lizzie arrived inside. She ducked through the side entrance, her badge scan delayed by trembling fingers. A bead of sweat slipped down the side of her temple despite the cold.
The simulator wing loomed ahead, sterile, humming, painfully bright.mLizzie paused just before the threshold, still wracking her brain for an excuse.
"—told her to be here at nine sharp. Where the hell is she?"
Fuck.
She’d thought she had more time to come up with a decent lie. Something quick and clean that Will might actually buy. Her fingers fumbled with her lanyard as she turned abruptly, ready to walk the other way, buy herself a few more minutes to think.
And then she slammed straight into someone.
The collision sent her stumbling half a step back, the lanyard tumbling from her hands onto the floor.
"Shit—sorry," she muttered, flustered, already bending down to grab it.
But the man in front of her beat her to it, scooping it up before she could reach it. As he handed it to her, her burned fingers brushed briefly against older, more weathered ones—strong, calloused, and unflinching.
"You are getting good at losing these," came the quiet, amused voice thickened by a Finnish accent. "I think you will have to staple it to your head next time."
Lizzie froze, and peered up as she straightened.
Mika.
He handed her the lanyard with a faint, wrinkled smile, that ever-present twinkle in his blue-green eyes.
Lizzie froze for a second, her brain caught in a strange stall, until the comment finally registered. He was joking. Her breath stilled as she realized what he was referencing: the story he'd told her in Abu Dhabi. The DTM race in 2005, where she'd dropped her lanyard in front of him, cheeks flushed with timid awe when he’d picked it up and signed it. Just like now.
The memory made her flush again, half embarrassment, half the sheer whiplash of the surreal morning. But Mika, once again, was completely unbothered by her lack of decorum or response. He seemed calm, almost immune to the jagged edge of her nerves, his presence a steadying force against her unraveling state. Just like he had been the last time she'd seen him. It was as if nothing about her flustered arrival phased him in the slightest.
Before she could say a word, Will’s voice echoed sharply from around the corner.
"Lizzie, there you are. We've been looking everywhere for you, Simulator testing was supposed to start at 15 minutes ago."
Lizzie stiffened, but Mika turned smoothly toward him.
"Sorry, my fault," he said easily, a calm smile on his face. "We ran into each other on my way in, and I stopped to ask her about the last rally in Monaco. I got ... carried away."
Will blinked, clearly irritated but disarmed by Mika’s casual delivery. He grunted, then waved her in.
"Right. Well. Finish up and go get set up, Lizzie."
Lizzie offered a breathless nod and murmured, "Sorry. Won’t happen again."
As Will walked away, Mika lingered. Lizzie lingered too, caught in indecision. Part of her wanted to thank him, ask why he kept helping her, but she still didn’t trust the answer. She knew Zak had asked him to keep an eye on her, maybe keep tabs on her, he'd made that abundantly clear in Abu Dhabi. But Mika would have reported back to McLaren about her tardiness, her lack of discipline, not covered for her. Helped her lie.
Her hand moved absently to her neck, scratching beneath the collar of her turtleneck, unsure of whether to thank him or leave. Mika’s eyes flicked toward the motion, just a brief glance, but enough to land squarely on the edge of the bruise she hadn’t quite managed to hide quickly enough.
His eyes lingered a second too long. Lizzie froze. Then he looked away, as if weighing his words very carefully. His brow furrowed slightly, almond eyes flitting back to hers.
"You... might want to fix your collar. Before Zak comes around," he said at last, light but deliberate. "And your bag."
Lizzie’s cheeks flamed, eyes darting to her open bag where the pack of cigarettes, the other evidence of her latest indiscretions, peaked out. Her hand flew to her neck, tugging the fabric higher in a sudden panic as she shuffled her bag closed.
"Right. Thanks," she muttered, mortified.
Mika gave a faint shrug, looking out a nearby window. "I am not judging. Just—people assume things, and talk. Bad way to start the week."
There had been no condemnation in his tone, no disgust or distain, no teasing smirk. Only something softer. Something that looked suspiciously like understanding. Lizzie desperately tried to quell the heat crawling up her neck at how foreign and uneasy the compassion felt.
As if on queue, Zak Brown turned the corner. A Coca Cola representative in a bright red coat tailed behind him as he trundled along, one of McLaren’s marketing execs walking beside him. There spoke loudly as they went, Zak's booming laugh echoing down the hall and they grew closer. Lizzie instinctively flinched, groaning inwardly. Of course.
As if the day wasn’t already shit enough.
Zak greeted Mika with a curious smile, clearly surprised to see him lingering near the simulator center. “Mika,” he said jovially, “you’re cutting it close. You’ve got a meeting in a bit, don’t you?”
Mika offered a casual shrug, still unruffled. “Just passing through. I stopped Lizzie to chat and lost track of time, my fault that she’s running behind.”
Zak seemed pleased at the explanation, giving Mika a half-nod of approval before turning his focus to Lizzie. “Glad you two are getting on. Good to see you're settling in more with everyone here Lizzie.”
Lizzie resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but her glower said enough. Settling in. Right. Like she was some sort of wild horse being broken in by handlers.
Zak didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He moved right on.
“Anyway, heads-up. Coca Cola reps are flying in next week from Atlanta. We finally secured that contract extension. Big money. But part of the deal is they want to meet you and Carlos before pre-season testing in Barcelona. Shoot some promo material.”
He paused, then added with a pointed tone: “They’re very excited about having an American driver. Let’s not give them any reason to regret the investment, Okay?”
Investment.
The word slammed into Lizzie like a slap. Her jaw clenched, shoulders stiffening beneath her coat. She caught the not-so-subtle implication behind his phrasing. That she wasn’t there because she’d earned it. She was there because she might sell well. Because she looked good on posters. Because she checked boxes, as long as she could 'behave' herself.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and nodded mutely.
The marketing exec, practically buzzing with excitement, piped up beside him. “You’ve got strong Instagram traction with the right demographics already. We’ll make a splash next week.”
He looked down glanced at his tablet again. “Have you picked your racing number yet? They were asking about that on the call.”
Lizzie didn’t trust herself to speak. She exhaled slowly, then said, “Eight.”
Mika seemed to go still beside her. Lizzie frowned the tiniest bit, and tried not to focus on the way his hands seemed to cease their fidgeting from within his pockets.
“Good, good." The exec nodded as he jotted something down, already making notes about the branding opportunity. "Any reason?”
“For Niki,” Lizzie said, her voice quieter now. “He won his ’84 title in the McLaren with that number.”
“Perfect." The marketing exec cut in. "Legacy, history, it’s clean. We can work with that.”
But Lizzie’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen Niki since his lung transplant. The guilt gnawed at her ribs like something feral. She kept telling herself she’d go. Kept not going.
Zak offered a thin smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good, glad that's all settled. Oh, one more thing. Carlos’s sim data looks great this week. Really solid feedback and consistency. Take some time to watch his runs, might help smooth out the kinks Will said you were struggling with.”
He paused just long enough to make it clear that no such praise was coming her way.
"Mika, good to see you again."
Then he turned and walked off with the execs in tow.
Lizzie stood frozen, her throat burning. She’d been logging some of her best sim times all week. Almost caught up to Carlos twice. She’d hoped for a nod. A glance. A damn word. But it never came.
Only silence. Like she wasn’t worth the acknowledgment. Just a reminder that she was here to be marketed and dressed up like a mannequin, not respected.
Mika lingered nearby, watching Zak go. Lizzie felt the intensity of his stare when he looked back at her, his gaze steady and observant. After a moment, he spoke in that same quiet cadence.
"I stopped by last week to talk with Pat," he said, almost offhandedly. "I saw your simulator times on the screen. You are carrying lots of speed already, and your cornering stability is very good. With a few ... tweaks to the low-speed exits, you will catch Carlos easily before pre-season testing."
Lizzie blinked, momentarily stunned. Not just by the comment, but by the fact that he'd taken the time to look at her simulator runs beyond just the time. To analyze her feedback that no one else had bothered to dig deeply into. Her lap data. Her feedback on the low speed instability and the persistent understeer.
No one else had mentioned it, not even Will.
Mika seemed to pause again, mulling over his words before adding, "I know it feels like you are... how do you say... fish out of the pond, at the moment." He winced, then gave a sheepish shrug. "Not the right saying, but you know what I mean. Without your normal ... support system."
Her throat tightened. The phrase was clumsy, but the sentiment struck dead center. She knew what he meant, who he meant. It must be obvious to him now, to everyone, like a missing piece of scaffolding everyone else could see but pretended not to notice. Her silence with Toto hung around her like a neon sign.
"Pat and I were impressed. I wanted you to know that."
The words landed awkwardly in her chest, unmoored. Lizzie didn’t know how to absorb praise. It scraped against old wiring—her father's criticisms, her mother's meaningless affection, Toto’s often tactical instructions. The idea of someone simply being impressed by her, no strings attached, felt like a foreign language she hadn't spoken in years.
She flushed again, unsure of what to say, and looked down at the floor as if it held the answers.
Mika seemed to hesitate again, fingers brushing the edge of his pocket before finally pulling out a business card. He held it out to her, almost sheepish.
"In case you need someone else to talk to," he said softly. "About racing. Or anything. I'm retired now, so I'm bored a lot." He offered a faint, crooked smile, like he wasn’t sure the joke would land.
Lizzie took the card from him slowly, trying to summon a smile in return, but it came out wobbly and more a mask than anything real. His sincerity hit her somewhere deep, unsettling in a way she couldn't name. Mika smiled a little awkwardly, nodded toward the simulator, and murmured something about not keeping her.
"Have fun."
He turned and walked off, leaving her clutching the card like a fragile slip of possibility.
She tucked it into the edge of her lanyard square, fingers lingering longer than necessary. She still didn’t trust him, not really, but something about the gesture lodged itself inside her, a tiny anchor amid the chaos.
By the time she slid into the simulator seat, she was still trying to make sense of the conversation. Her fingers moved on instinct as she adjusted the settings and radioed in.
"I'll be ready to start in a moment."
But before she gave the final call to start the program, she pulled out her phone and typed a blunt message to Niki Lauda:
Are you allowed to have visitors yet?
The response came just as she was buckling in:
Niki Lauda:
Yes. We need to talk. Come next week. And leave the drama in England.
Lizzie sighed, locked her phone, and slid it back into her pocket. She gave the engineer overhead the thumbs up, the simulator rumbling to life around her as the lights deemed. Her scarred hands gripped the wheel tightly, and as the simulator loaded, her mind drifted—Europe. Niki. The thought of returning to Austria stirred something uneasy in her chest. Not just because of Niki’s condition, but because of who else lived a train ride away.
Who else she’d been trying not to think about all morning.
The hickeys beneath her collarbone began to itch again, a phantom sting that made her jaw clench. Like her body was remembering before her mind would allow it. She exhaled sharply, forcing her eyes forward. She buckled in tighter, scarred hands flexing over the wheel, and radioed the engineers with a clipped, "Ready."
The lights blinked out. The screen in front of her loaded the Barcelona track in startling clarity.
Five, four, three, two, one.
The light went green, and she slammed her foot to the floor. The simulator pressed her back into the seat with force, the hum of the faux engine in her ears a kind of blessed white noise. For a moment, the pressure, the guilt, the noise—all of it faded. Only the track remained. But still, the lingering thought remained.
Leave the drama in England.
Lizzie shook her head once, jaw tight, and barreled into the next corner.
I just BURNED through Burn Out Bright and I'M OBSESSED. May I please be added to the tag list?..... also like.... I want to just lock Lizzie abd Max in a room and tell them to figure it out. Like holy shit. Seb is giving me such weird vibes and I don't like it. Pierre can eat gravel for all he's worth(as far as the story is telling us at least).
AGAIN I'M OBSESSED AND IT IS SUCH A GREAT STORY!!! 💜💜
Hi!!
This cracked me up, because 90% percent of their issue are just Lizzie being too prejudice against Max to see the deeper truth and Max's pride getting in his own way when it comes to his healing journey (see what I did there??)
Ya, hate to break it to you but Seb and Pierre are gonna get worse before they get better. But I'm glad you're enjoying the story and I've added you to the taglist!
Also side bar, but if you'd like to claim that emoji (💜) for the anon emoji directory, just let me know and I'll make a note of that.
Thanks again for keeping up with the story!!!! ♡⋆˙♡⋆˙
I just want to say that I’m loving ice breaker!!! Please I need chapter nine! SOS
Aw thanks ♡⋆˙♡⋆˙
It's been so fun to write, I haven't had much time lately (see earlier post on whats going on in my life) but I am working on the next chapter and hope to have it out in a week or so.
Wow Chapter 18 is something. I knew Seb had some feelings for Lizzie but I didn't know that they'd slept with each other in the past. This is getting messy and I feel for Lizzie. Thanks for the update! Looking forward to reading the next one!
EEK I'm glad you enjoyed it!!
So throughout the story so far, we've had some woven in flashbacks that have hinted at the infamous Maranello hotel night in 2017. We will be building more and more info on what exactly went down with her and Seb in the past (hint: it gets worse), but I would definitely suggest going back and reading some of the LizziexSeb focused chapters for those teasers and you might get even more hints about what happened!
Ya our girl is really going through it Lord. I mean she does it to herself, but getting out of a self sabotaging loop is so hard especially if your own family won't speak to you and your ex bestie is now your #1 enemy.
Hi! Could you please use the "keep reading" tumblr post feature on your long posts? It is widely used as a courtesy for those people who are scrolling a tag on the tumblr app so the app won't crash when scrolling too long. Thank you!
Hi anon!
So I’ve been trying to figure out how to add this feature to some of mine built in HTML. Basically, I’ll add it when editing but then when it posts, it doesn’t save. If you have any tips to get that to save on there I’m open to them!
Thanks for the heads up 💕
EDIT: I think I figured out how to fix this? For some reason it's not saving on my desktop, but if I go to edit it on my mobile then the "keep reading" feature does seem to save. Thanks again for letting me know :)
Book One - Light the Spark
Chapter Eighteen: The Words I Can't Say
Now, I'm looking to the sky to save me. Looking for a sign of life. Looking for something to help me burn out bright
In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.
✦ starring: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)
✦ Warnings: ....Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also - +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language and profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and substance abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.
✦ Word count: ~159K total (ongoing multi-part series)
✦ Author’s Note: TRIGGER WARNING: SMUT and mentions of S.A. I want to be very clear, if it's not already clear in the chapter below, I am NOT depicting non-con in the flashback Lizzie has below. As you will read, there is an internal conflict between what Lizzie is told to remember by others about said event and what she deep down knows to be true. This adds a lot of detailed emotion to her feelings about Max, which we will explore more and more as the story progresses. Just wanted to clear that up in advance though :) I am newer to writing online so if my tags don't reflect that pls let me know. But Lord have mercy this chapter got heavy quick, there is so much going on and poor Lizzie is really going through it. Sorry it's so long I really put myself through the wringer writing this one but there are so many important pieces of plot foreshadowing going on here. Also, what do we all think about the mystery person mentioned, the one Lizzie tried to call in Abu Dhabi??? All shall be revealed in time. I also hope that it becomes more clear why we are exploring a secondary love plot with Seb outside of the main one at this time as Lizzie enters this season, but rest assured it all has its purpose in our slow burn (can't tell y'all everything now can I.) For now we'll just have to watch Lizzie self destruct and maybe break up a family. As always, comments/kudos/feedback are always appreciated. Happy Reading!
✦Tags: #original female character #Enemies to Lovers #Competition #Angst, #Eventual Smut #Slow Burn #Daddy Issues #References to Depression #Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD #Burn Scars #Car Accidents #SMUT #Drunk confessions #Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings #Drinking to Cope #Implied/Referenced Grooming #Age Difference #Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole #Female Formula 1 Driver #Jealousy #Cheating #Secret Relationship, #Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning #Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms #Drunk Sex, #Identity Reveal #When Will These Two Morons Kiss? #The sexual tension between these two is crazy #Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink #Lizzie hating her scars, #Protective Toto Wolff #Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual #because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father #secondary romantic plots, #but we all know where this is going #Hurt/Comfort #Gender and Power Dynamics, #Feminist Themes #this one has character development! I hope.
Want to join or be removed from my taglist? Send me a comment below. Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!
✦ Rules ✦ BoB Masterlist ✦ AO3 Work ✦ Next → ✦
⋆♫⋆ Every time I think of you, I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue, It's no problem of mine but it's a problem I find, Living a life that I can't leave behind⋆♫⋆
The Blackfriar Pub
London, UK
January 20, 2019
- 𓅂 -
The air inside the pub hit Lizzie like rampant static, too warm, too loud, too everything. Lizzie stumbled back through the side entrance, barely seeing the room through the hot blur in her eyes. Her chest heaved erratically, shallow breaths catching in her throat as panic crept higher, tightening like a vice she thought she'd kicked after all these years. Her body was already locking down, her lungs forgetting how to pull in air. Her gloved fingers trembled violently, one hand slipping loose while the other stayed clenched in a damp, shaking fist.
She could still feel it, Max’s fingers brushing the scarred skin on her wrist like poison. The flash of contact had sent her spiraling, a match dropped in a field of gasoline. Her body remembered before her mind did: the rage of the fire, the billowing smoke, the crushed metal blistering her skin as she desperately tried to reach Rob in the car. Her hands were on fire. Rob was still limp in his seat.
And the world was ending all over again.
She clutched the phone so tightly to her ear it hurt, the smooth glass grounding her, barely. Sebastian’s voice hummed on the other end, soft and measured like a rope tossed to someone already sinking beneath the waves.
“Hey,” Sebastian said in German, his voice low and casual, a slight slur at the edges from a drink or three. “Are you ... still out in London? I was just wondering if—if you might feel like stopping by the bar still before you head back to Milton Keynes… I’m downstairs at the—"
Lizzie tried to force herself to respond, to swallow the tightness rising in her throat. But her chest was caving in around the pain. She clenched her teeth. Her eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, she thought she could trap it inside.
"Lizzie? ... What’s wrong?"
But it broke loose anyway.
“My god,” Lizzie she choked, the words tearing out of her like shrapnel. “What a cunt. I can't believe he'd fucking—"
The words cracked against the quiet of the hallway, jagged and venomous. But the fire behind it dissolved immediately into wreckage. Her knees buckled, one shoulder hitting the plaster as she sagged into the wall, forehead pressed against the cold surface. Her breath broke in gasps.
Sebastian's voice changed instantly, sobered and sharpening in concern. “Lizzie? Talk to me. What happened, are you hurt?”
But she could barely hear him. Her whole body shook. Max’s voice still echoed in her ears, cutting and dispassionate, like he hadn’t been a part of her life in any real way.
I was doing what I was told. You made me the villain.
Just let it go.
The way he’d looked at her, eyes defensive, voice devoid of any real guilt. The way he hadn’t denied it, hadn’t even flinched, when she accused him of leaking the story about her and Pierre. He could have stopped it. He could’ve told the truth.
Instead, he’d let her world fall apart.
That was your own damn fault.
That's what he'd said.
She thought of the months afterward. Of the headlines that had branded her a pariah, a distraction, too much drama to be trusted. Of the sponsors who quietly backed away. Of the whispers in the paddock that painted her as unhinged and unstable. At McLaren, the marketing team resented her. They called her a PR nightmare behind closed doors and rolled their eyes when her name came up in meetings. Zak didn’t trust her anymore; he barely made eye contact in debriefs and treated every mistake like a confirmation of her supposed fragility. Even Carlos had been watching her too closely in the factory, as if waiting for her to break. Like one more headline, one more anonymous quote, and she'd completely lose it in front of everyone.
And Max had stood there the whole time, saying nothing. He’d let everyone believe she was paranoid. Unfit. Alone.
And she was.
She couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t—” she rasped, trying to form words as she wiped furiously at her face. “I just—”
Across the room, she spotted Maya and Sorcha by the bar, still laughing at some private joke, completely unaware that Lizzie’s world had just imploded. The young guy from earlier was gone. The pub spun around her, too bright, too loud, every voice distorted like sound underwater.
Maya’s gaze caught hers first, her expression shifting in an instant from amusement to open alarm as she saw the tears streaking down Lizzie’s face, the way she clutched at her trembling hands like they were the only things holding her together.
“Lizzie?” Maya called out, already moving, voice tight with panic. “Wait ... what's happened?"
“Jesus fuck,” Sorcha said, her eyes widening as she caught up. “Lizzie, what’s gotten into ya?”
Lizzie shook her head, incapable of forming words. Her throat was raw, her chest locked up like it had forgotten how to function. All she could manage was a breathless, “I have to go,” her voice barely audible under the weight of it all.
Maya reached for her, instinctively brushing at Lizzie’s sleeve, but then her coal brown eyes dropped to the phone clutched tightly in Lizzie’s shaking hand. She hesitated.
"Lizzie, who are you talking to? Tell me what's going on so we can help."
When Lizzie didn’t answer, Maya gently reached toward the phone as if trying to get a glimpse of the screen.
But Lizzie recoiled like she'd been electrocuted, jerking away so fast she nearly stumbled. Her bag swung against her hip as she clutched it close, her face crumpling as she backed away from both of them.
“I have to go,” she repeated, more ragged now. Not an explanation, just a lifeline. The need to escape burning behind her ribs. "I'm sorry."
And then she turned and ran.
The pub door slammed behind her, and the night struck her like a slap. The air was cold and biting, wind slicing through the fabric of her coat like knives. She stumbled out onto the pavement, gasping like she’d surfaced from drowning, the air too sharp to pull in fully. Her vision swam, phone shaking in her hand as she yanked it back to her ear, the only tether she had left to sanity.
“Seb,” she sobbed, barely able to get his name out. “Where are you?”
“I’m outside the Coal Hole,” he said quickly, his voice suddenly alert, no trace of alcohol now. “It’s on the ground level of the Savoy. Lizzie, please don’t walk alone. Just get a cab, I’ll pay for it, just tell me where you are—”
But she was already moving, already unraveling.
“I can’t …” Her voice collapsed in her throat. “I just need—”
She hadn't the slightest clue what she needed. Didn’t know where she was or what she was doing, only that she had to get away. From the pub. From the look Max had given her. From the sound of his voice, biting and raw, like she was a mess he couldn’t clean up. Her boots hit the pavement in uneven bursts, no rhythm, no destination. The city reeled sideways. Lights smeared into streaks. Car horns bled into sirens. The buzz of electricity from a nearby lamppost crackled like it was inside her skull.
Her coat dragged behind her, caught in the wind like a noose.
And then—
The thud of a bass line was slamming through her chest like a heartbeat again. The dizzy sway of bodies. The scent of cologne, rich and spiced, mixed with sweat and gin. Her own laughter, drunken, breathless, not herself. And breath behind her.
Max's breath. Hot and damp against her neck, hands at her unburned waist.
“You should wear this more often, it's pretty…”
She flinched mid-step, nearly rolling her ankle on the curb. Not now. Not that night. But the memories surged anyway, like floodwater breaching a dam.
“God, Lizzie … you’re so soft…”
His voice again, a rasp in the dark of the coat room. Her back slamming into cool wood. The searing heat of Max's mouth trailing down her jaw. His hands under her thighs, lifting her onto a bench like she weighed nothing. Her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her skin burning beneath the sequined fabric of her dress.
His voice, low and devastating against her ear:
“Did Finnan ever kiss you like this? … even notice how sensitive you are right here?”
Lizzie gasped aloud, stumbling sideways into a streetlamp. Her hand slapped against cold metal, steadying her, barely. Her vision swam.
No, no, no, no ... Not again.
She shoved the memory back, but it had opened the door. The next wave was faster, harder.
A flicker of heat. Slick, long fingers slipping past the elastic of her panties. Her breath catching, her whole body tensing, then melting under his touch. Her own voice, foreign, desperate, tumbling out in a languid moan.
“Ahhh! Yes, oh Max... more ... please.”
The words echoed like gunfire in her head. She doubled over. A dry heave clenched her throat. The sidewalk tilted beneath her feet.
Stop it. Just stop. You don’t remember it right. Rob said, Rob told you that—
But memory didn’t care what Rob said.
The workbench was under her again. Her dress bunched at her waist. Max’s hands anchoring her, one gripping her hip, the other working her open. Her head falling back, vision blurred, her neck exposed to the air, to his mouth, to everything. Her body lit up, nerves pulsing like power lines about to snap. Her hips bucking, seeking him, chasing the impossible pressure building faster than she could understand.
And that voice again. Rough and gentle. A command, a plea, a promise.
“Let go, Pippi. Let go for me.”
Her knees gave out for real this time.
She caught herself against the wall of a building, her breath coming in shallow, high-pitched sobs. The shame was instant. Nuclear. Because she remembered that part. She remembered the way her body clenched around something for the first time, the way he'd coaxed her through it and held her when she was left twitching and trembling beneath him.
Remembered wanting it.
Worse, needing it.
But then she'd woken up the next morning with the taste of gin in her mouth and Rob’s gentle voice pounding through her skull: He used you, Lizzie. He doesn’t care about you. He never did.
Her mind screamed. That had to be true. Because the alternative…
Max whispering, raw and pleading "I’m the only one telling you the truth anymore." … was something she couldn’t afford to believe.
Seb's voice was in her ear again, alarm rising in it like growing tidal waves.
"Häschen ... please talk to me."
She clutched her coat tighter, as if she could sew her body back shut.
“Seb…” she whimpered, pressing the phone to her cheek like it might absorb her. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hang up.”
"I won't," Sebastian's voice carried through the voice, like some siren song drawing her forward through the darkness. "I promise. I got your location, just keep walking to your right."
She didn't ask how he still had it, thought she'd turned it off ages ago. But tears continued to bubble down her cheeks.
She was so ashamed. Of all of it.
Of leaving her friends. Of the panic clawing at her lungs still after all these years. Of how instinctively she was running to Sebastian, someone whose comfort she knew she shouldn’t want, whose presence she had sworn to keep at arm’s length. But she couldn’t stop. Because she needed something, anything, to silence the self-destruction Max had triggered in her.
Because he hadn’t even looked hurt, or ashamed.
Just self-justified.
Like none of it didn’t mattered. Like she never had.
She turned the corner, her limbs stiff, her body threatening to give out beneath the weight of it all. And then she saw him.
Sebastian.
Standing tall outside the hotel’s stone entrance, scanning the street with a tight, furrowed brow, a mustache framing the thin line of his worried mouth. The lamplight gilded the edges of his wool coat and his ruffled blond hair in a warm halo. He looked like something out of a dream. Beautiful. So unfairly, painfully beautiful.
Which somehow made everything worse.
“Lizzie!” he called, his voice rising. “Careful—!”
But she didn’t hear the honking. Didn’t see the cars. She was already moving, throwing herself across the street like she didn’t care if it ended her.
She reached him in three ragged breaths, grabbed the front of his coat and crashed into his chest.
The sobs came all at once, loud and aching, pulled from a place so deep inside her she hadn't known it was still raw. Sebastian’s arms closed around her instantly, no hesitation, just instinct. She sank into him like a stone falling through water, her face pressed tight into his chest. The scent of his faint cologne hit her like another wave. She knew it was dangerous to be this close to him, to let him hold her like this. After everything that had happened. After all the boundaries she had drawn, and all the reasons she'd drawn them.
But in that moment, none of it mattered.
Because it was only Sebastian who knew how to soothe her anymore. How to stroke his hand down the back of her neck, just over the fine hairs at her nape, then slowly down her spine in long, anchoring passes. Only Sebastian who whispered to her in quiet German, the cadence calm and low.
"Langsam atmen, ja? Ein und aus. Gut, noch einmal für mich, Häschen."
Slow breaths, Okay? In and out. Good, one more time for me, bunny.
And slowly, painfully, her body started to listen. Her sobs softened. Her shoulders stopped convulsing. Her death grip on his coat loosened just slightly. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, standing there in the dark of the sidewalk like the world around them didn’t exist. Like it didn’t matter if anyone saw.
But she felt Sebastian glance around once, and felt a flicker of caution behind the slow drag of his hand over her back. His fingers moved gently to her jaw as he tilted her face upward, brushing the tears away with his thumb.
“Come inside,” he murmured. “Let’s get you warm and out of the street.”
And without a word, Lizzie let him guide her through the hotel bar doors, his hand firm and steady at the small of her back.
Sebastian led her to the back of the bar, away from the lobby crowd and prying eyes. It was quieter here, tucked near a window where the street lamps cast dim, golden bars across the floor. A radiator murmured against the chill, warming the low-lit corner where the cushions were soft and worn, like the kind of place that remembered old confessions.
Lizzie sank onto the seat, folding in on herself. There was already a drink waiting for her, her favorite. She cradled it in both hands, ignoring the warning voice in her head that screamed at her to put it down, as if the cool glass might hold her together. Her phone lay face down on the table beside her, silenced and ignored.
Sebastian sat down beside her, not crowding her, but close enough that she could feel the quiet weight of his attention. It radiated from him like heat off pavement, a solid and steady anchor.
"Tell me what happened."
He didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch, until the knot in her throat loosened enough for her to speak.
Finally, she rasped, “I was out with some friends. We were just grabbing drinks before Maya and Sorcha's term starts next week, and then I—” Her throat bobbed.
“I ran into Max.”
Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted in quiet surprise. Even he, with all his practiced calm and years of studied diplomacy, couldn’t mask how rattled he looked.
“You ran into ... Max?” he asked gently. "Here, in London?"
Lizzie laughed weakly, bitter and broken. “Yeah. I guess the universe wanted to punish me more than it already has this month.”
Sebastian watched her, unmoving.
“We fought,” she continued. “Of course we did. We always do. Screaming match, in the back alley of the pub.” Her hands curled tighter around the glass. “I thought for a second, just one second, that—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Stupid.”
Sebastian's gaze softened. “It’s not stupid.”
“I don’t know what I wanted from him,” Lizzie said, her voice small. “Closure, maybe. An apology. For Brazil. For Rob. For that night. For…” she hesitated, staring into her drink, “…everything.”
She didn’t say what night. She didn’t have to.
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change, but he stilled beside her. His hand, still resting over hers, tightened just slightly.
He knew.
He was the one who’d come her the next morning, when her own memory was more haze than truth. He was the one who hadn’t looked away when she’d crumbled, when her brother’s protectiveness turned to quiet fury, and the only other person she’d always leaned on for comfort in the moment's Rob couldn't, even when the person who had hung up on her when she'd called her in Abu Dhabi wasn't capable of providing it.
That morning came back to her in flickers. The ache in her throat. The burn in her muscles. The sheets pulled up too tight, the distant smell of her brother’s cologne clinging to the spare bedroom. The soft knock on the door. Not Rob. Not her.
Sebastian.
He'd stood quietly in the doorway as her world cracked open. Not saying anything. Just there. He hadn’t asked if she remembered.
He’d only said, “Do you want tea?”
And when she’d whispered “yes,” when her voice barely worked, he brought her the mug himself and sat on the edge of the bed without a word.
Lizzie had nodded, trying to sit up. Her whole body ached. “What… happened?”
Sebastian had hesitated. “You were at Jimmy Z's. Maya and Sorcha found you in the alley, and we came across them trying to help you up.”
That… tracked. Mostly. But it hadn't explained the way he'd been looking at her. Like she might break. Like she already had. Lizzie had swallowed hard.
“Where’s Rob?”
Sebastian had moved closer to her on the bed. “He’s here. He just… he’s having a hard time.”
His voice had dropped slightly, like he hadn't wanted Lizzie to hear the full truth. Lizzie’s hands had trembled as she lifted the mug, gripping it too tightly as she sipped.
“Did something happen?”
There was a long silence.
Then: “We’re not sure. That’s why…” Sebastian had trailed off, his hand brushing the hem of Lizzie’s blanket. His voice had turned careful. “Häschen… I know you don’t remember everything yet. But I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Lizzie’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”
Sebastian hadn't met her eyes. “I mean… I think you should go see a doctor today with Rob, when you're up to it. Just to check. In case…” Another pause. “In case —”
“No.” Lizzie’s voice had cracked. Her hands had gripped the blanket, her knuckles white. “No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
Sebastian reached for her hand. “Lizzie—”
“I said no!” she snapped, the sudden volume startling them both. Her chest heaved. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—”
Sebastian had let the silence hang, like he'd known silence would hurt less than kindness.
And now, sitting across from him in the dark hush of the bar, silence rang out once more. Lizzie swallowed the lump rising in her throat, like she was trying to push back something sharp.
“I just thought… maybe if he looked at me and said it—said he was sorry for what he did—it would help.”
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered. “You thought it might make everything less hard,” he said.
She nodded.
“But he didn’t say it,” Sebastian added.
Her voice was so small when she answered. “No. He just asked me to just let it go.”
But she couldn't. Not when she could still see Rob's face in the doorway, tight with fury and pain twisting his mouth.
“Why can't we say it?”
Rob’s voice had cut through the room like a blade. Lizzie had looked up from Sebastian's face to see him standing just outside the door, his expression cracking with anger. He was looking straight at her. His arms were crossed tight over his chest like he was holding himself together with sheer force.
“You won’t tell us what happened. You won’t even let us say his name.” His voice had been so low, shaking with a rage she'd never heard. “Why are you protecting him?”
“I’m not—” Lizzie stood abruptly, the blanket falling to the floor. “I’m not protecting him! I just know that—"
Sebastian had stood up too, blocking the space between them. “Rob, stop—”
But Rob had stepped forward, ignoring him. “ No, she needs to hear this!"
“I remember him trying to tell me something,” she'd said, her voice thin and uncertain.
Rob’s face had gone ghost pale, and he paused. Sebastian hadn't moved an inch beside her.
“About what?”
“I… I don’t know exactly.” She'd swallowed hard. “He just kept saying… that he was the only one telling me the truth anymore.”
Rob had flinched like he’d been slapped. “Truth about what, Lizzie?”
“I don’t know!” she'd shouted, frustrated, the words spilling out too fast. “It was loud. I was drunk. But I remember him—his voice. He sounded... so serious. Like he needed me to hear it. He said—he said you were keeping things from me. That I didn’t know the full story.”
Rob’s jaw had clenched. “That’s not true.”
“I’m just telling you what I remember,” she'd said, but the more she spoke, the less solid it felt. “I—I think I asked him what he meant, but everything got jumbled. He looked at me like—like I didn’t get it. Like he wanted me to.”
“And you believed him?” Rob had asked, barely able to get the words out. “After everything—after what he ... did to you?”
Lizzie had blinked, thrown. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying… I remember what he said.”
“No, you don’t.” Rob’s had voice cracked like glass. “You remember the parts that make it easier. The ones that make him look better. And you’re clinging to them because the rest is too hard to admit.”
“I’m not—”
“You are!” Rob had shouted back. “Lizzie, you couldn’t even stand on your own! You couldn’t walk. You were barely conscious, your dress was half hanging off you, and you want me to believe he was trying to protect you?”
“I never said that!” Lizzie had begun crying, her voice shaking now. “I never said he was I just—he didn’t force me, Rob! I—I kissed him first, I wanted to—”
“You don’t know what you wanted, you were plastered!” Rob had roared. “You don’t remember it all, and you’re filling in the blanks with the version you can live with!”
Lizzie had stumbled backward, breath caught in her throat, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like a shield. Sebastian had reached for her to steady her, but Lizzie pushed him away violently, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
That’s when she'd finally stepped into the room, her voice cutting through like soothing water. “Rob. Enough. You're not helping."
Rob had turned to her, breath ragged as if he was making some kind of case for himself. “You saw her last night, . You know what he did—”
“I know she’s scared right now,” She'd said, stepping between the two of them. Her tone was low, calm—but deadly sharp. “and confused. And the last thing she needs is to be screamed at by the one person she trusts the most.”
Rob’s chest had heaved. His fists trembled. And then there had been silence.
The echo of that moment still lived in her bones. Even now, with Sebastian beside her again, comforting her like he always had all these years. Because Sebastian hadn’t asked her to explain herself then, he understood. He always did. He hadn’t tried to solve her emotions. He just held her hand in the aftermath, when her body was still humming with confusion and guilt and the faint ghost of pleasure she still didn't know how to name.
Lizzie’s knees had given out beneath her at the sound of her brother's accusal, and she dropped onto the edge of the bed in Sebastian's arms, hands tangled in the blanket, breathing like she was drowning.
“I didn’t—” she'd whispered. “I didn’t say no. I pulled him into the room. I kissed him. I wanted—”
But her voice broke under its own weight.
"We know," Sebastian had murmured, his hand running up and down her arm soothingly. "We know."
Rob had moved, knelt in front of her, his hand curling gently around Lizzie’s fingers.
“I'm sorry, Pippi. I believe you,” he said softly. “But that doesn’t mean he didn't lie, that you weren’t taken advantage of.”
Lizzie had shaken her head violently. “No. It wasn’t like that.”
Her heart had felt like it was splitting in two. Because somewhere inside her, she'd still remembered how Max had touched her face. How he’d asked her if she wanted him to stop. How she'd told him to stop talking and just kiss her. How his voice had broken when she'd said his name.
But all she'd felt was the hollowness consuming her as she fell apart in Sebastian's arms.
Now, in the low light of the bar, Sebastian squeezed her hand softly. “You don’t need his apology anymore,” he said gently. “You already know what happened.”
Lizzie let out a sound—half laugh, half sob. Her eyes were glassy, her lips trembling. “He ruined… everything, Sebastian.”
The words dropped between them like stones.
“Rob’s death. That night. Everything that came after. Everything Max touched…” She shook her head. “It just turned to ash in my mouth.”
Sebastian didn’t speak at first. He just nodded once, a quiet, steady acknowledgment. “I know.”
Lizzie looked away, her throat tightening. Because he didn't know what she'd done, how much she'd ruined on her own in the pain of her own pain. All she could think about was the voicemail.
Her voice, cracked and breathless:
“Please. I need to talk to you. I’m sorry for what I said—I didn’t mean any of it. Please, just… don’t shut me out.”
Silence.
Lizzie had reached out again. And again.
But she had chosen not to answer.
The only other person Lizzie had ever looked up to besides Rob and Sebastian. The one who had been there the morning after—who had taken her to the doctor, who had held her hand when she couldn’t hold herself together, because Lizzie was too afraid to call her own mother. The one who had once whispered, “It’s all going to be okay. Rob and I are here for you, no matter what.”
But when Rob died, when Lizzie uncovered what Red Bull had done, what they'd buried, what they'd risked ... everything shattered.
And she had shattered with it.
The funeral. The headlines. Christian and Helmut in the corner of the church like a pair of vultures pecking at the bones of their meal. That moment when Lizzie had snapped, had lunged at them, wild with grief, with truth, with fury.
And she had tried to stop her. Had grabbed her arm with Sebastian at her heel, tried to pull Lizzie back. Tried to whisper something calming so that she wouldn't cause a scene, despite the grief that was gripping her too.
And Lizzie, burning, crumbling, lost, had turned on her like a lit match.
“You could have stopped him! Rob would have listened to you before anyone, you let them put him in that car, you let Max ...”
The words still rang in Lizzie’s ears. Blame wrapped in agony. She’d meant Rob. She’d meant Max. She hadn’t meant it at all. But that didn’t matter.
Because after that, she had disappeared. No returned calls. No messages. No goodbye. And Lizzie was left with the wreckage. With the Red Bull documents still hot in her hands. With the family unraveling around her and no one left to reach for but Sebastian.
He was the only one who’d stayed.
And in the quiet, Lizzie tightened her grip around his hand. Because she knew, if he left, too...
There’d be nothing left of her at all.
“I just…” Lizzie's voice dropped. “I still feel so angry. I thought I’d be past this by now, but I’m not. And it makes me feel crazy. Like I’m still stuck there and everyone else has moved on.”
Sebastian reached out, slow and deliberate, and placed his hand over hers on the table. His touch was steady, familiar, warm. The pressure of it made her chest ache.
“You’re not crazy,” he said softly. “or overreacting. You’re grieving, we all are in our own way. That doesn’t come with an expiration date.”
Something loosened in her ribcage. The tightness in her throat didn’t vanish, but the sharpest edge of it dulled just enough. She sniffed and looked down at their hands.
“McLaren’s been a disaster, Seb.” she admitted. “The team hates me. Zak barely looks me in the eye. Half the sponsors treat me like a liability now because of the offseason press.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened where they gripped hers.
“I think… I think Max might’ve helped leak what happened with Pierre.” Her voice broke slightly. “Or at the very least, didn’t stop it. That’s what started all of it ... those stories. The ones that made me out to be conniving. Slutty. Manipulative.”
Sebastian’s face darkened. “Lizzie, you aren't …”
“Doesn't matter, that's what they all believe." She laughed humorlessly, defeat rising in her chest.
He squeezed her hand slightly. “I wish you’d taken the Alfa seat. With Kimi and me, I could’ve watched over you more closely. Advocated for you if the team overstepped.”
She gave a dry smile, twisting her glass. “You know why I couldn’t.”
There was a pause between them. Quiet and heavy. The subtext settled like dust.
Because Toto had vetoed it. Because even he had known Lizzie didn’t make clear-eyed decisions where Sebastian was concerned. And yet… here she was. Sitting in a dark bar corner with him again, like no time had passed at all. Like Sebastian hadn't upended her life too.
Still, she didn’t move her hand.
Sebastian shifted beside her, the low bar light catching the tired angle of his jaw. “Well,” he said with a faint huff, “I guess it’s not all rainbows on my side either.”
Lizzie turned slightly, watching him.
“Ferrari’s been…” he trailed off, searching for words, “difficult. Not in the usual ways. It’s just—” He paused, brow furrowing. “I’m constantly reminded I’m not what I used to be. That maybe I'm past my prime. Too careful. Too… replaceable.”
His tone was quiet. Careful. He didn’t name names.
Didn’t have to.
Lizzie’s stomach turned as the implication landed. She knew what, who, he meant.
Charles. Her closest friend. Her ally in everything. The person who had begged her to stay away from Sebastian, to have a fresh start.
She looked down at the table, guilt creeping in like a slow fog. He didn’t say it out loud, but she could feel it in the shift of his voice, the way he avoided her eyes. Like he was bracing for her to take someone else’s side. Like he already expected her to drift.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. “That’s not how I see you.”
Sebastian stilled.
His eyes lifted to hers, wary at first, then softened with something unspoken. The silence between them hummed with history.
Lizzie hesitated, then spoke, her voice low and steady. “You’re not washed up, Seb.”
He blinked.
“You didn’t win four world titles because you were lucky. Or young. You won because you’re brilliant. And if Ferrari can’t still see that… then maybe the problem isn’t you.”
A beat passed. His throat bobbed once, and something fragile flickered in his expression. Something like gratitude, or maybe grief.
He swallowed, then reached for his glass again, a faint, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“To forgetting about our terrible teams, then.”
She hesitated. Then clinked hers softly against his.
They drank.
And kept drinking. One round bled into the next. The night stretched. Words flowed easier. Their laughter softened around the edges, full of things unsaid.
Sebastian, looser now, leaned back in the booth and muttered, “Hanna wants another baby. She’s been pushing for months about it. Wants Emile and Matilda to have another sibling.”
Lizzie blinked. Her glass paused midway to her mouth.
Right. Hanna.
“I don’t know if I want that,” he said softly. “To start over, having another baby in the house. To be… that man again.”
Lizzie didn’t reply. Just tossed the rest of her drink back in a single pull. He didn’t seem to notice the tightness around her mouth, or how her eyes glistened too suddenly in the dim light.
“Do you still talk to Pierre?” he asked after a moment.
“Now and then,” she said. “But it’s not the same. I don’t want to poke the bear with Zak. He’d love a reason to throw me under the bus and get rid of me.”
Sebastian hummed but didn’t respond. Just kept watching her, his eyes roaming in quiet calculation. Measuring her mood, her distance, her closeness.
By the time midnight rolled past, Lizzie was comfortably numb. Her limbs heavy, her lips loose, her mind syrup-thick. The low amber lights of the bar had softened into a warm blur. The weight of the night had pressed her down into the seat, and she’d let it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself stop holding things together.
Sebastian’s presence beside her had gone from comfort to gravity. Too steady. Too warm. She didn’t even realize how much she was leaning into him until the room tilted the moment she stood.
Sebastian was up in an instant, his hand catching her elbow before she could fully wobble. “You can’t drive ... like this,” he murmured, his voice equally slurred, tinged with the edge of concern, and something else. “Stay. I can take the couch.”
Lizzie shook her head, sluggish. “No… no, s’fine. I’m good.”
“You’re not,” he said gently, thumb brushing against the inside of her arm. “You can barely stand.”
She knew he was right.
She also knew why he wanted her to stay. And for a split second, she almost told him no. Almost said she couldn’t, shouldn’t, do this.
But the truth was, she didn’t want to walk away either.
So she nodded, barely, her better judgment dying in the back of her mind.
Fragile and forgotten.
They didn’t speak much after that. The city blurred behind the taxi windows, and the elevator ride up was silent. Their reflections shimmered in the metal walls, dulled by the flicker of tired overhead lights. Sebastian hovered behind her, not quite touching, but close. Like he was still waiting for a signal that hadn’t come. Or maybe it had. Maybe it was this. Lizzie stared at the numbers glowing above the elevator doors and said nothing.
Because deep down, she already knew how this night would end.
And still, she stayed.
When the elevator doors opened, Lizzie stepped out without looking back.
She didn’t have to.
She heard Sebastian follow, his footsteps steady behind her as they walked the quiet hall. The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, and when the keycard clicked in the lock, it sounded louder than it should have.
The door shut behind them with a soft finality, sealing them into a hush that felt almost sacred.
Lizzie stepped inside slowly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was holding something in. The room was dim, lit only by the muted glow of a bedside lamp. It smelled faintly of him, that clean, woodsy scent she remembered, but softer now, dulled with time. Still, it tugged at something deep and buried.
She didn’t want to remember.
“I’ll take the couch,” she said, voice automatic and thin. Her jacket slid from her shoulders.
Sebastian didn’t move. “You don’t have to.”
She didn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers trembled as she peeled off her shoes. Her body felt too big for itself, like her skin didn’t fit right anymore. Sebastian lingered near the door, quiet and still, his hands shoved in his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching for her too soon. The soft thunk of his keycard and phone hitting the table was the only other sound in the room.
As she kicked off her other boot, her foot bumped into his overnight bag by the wall.
The impact nudged open one of the side pockets, and something slipped loose.
A photo.
Dog-eared, bent at the corners, half-sticking out like it had been shoved there in a hurry. Lizzie froze. Her chest tightened.
She crouched down slowly and gently tugged it free.
It was a printed snapshot. A little blurry, a little worn, clearly touched often. In it, Sebastian stood between his daughters, both of them grinning, one of them mid-laugh. Matilda had drawn something messy in marker on his cheek. Emilie had her arms wrapped around his waist, chin hooked over his shoulder. There was a handwritten note scribbled in pink ink on the back corner in a child’s handwriting:
Für Papa.
Her heart sank.
She could picture it so easily, one of them slipping it into the bag when he wasn’t looking. Tucking it in as a quiet reminder of what waited for him at home. Lizzie slowly set the photo on the nightstand, her hands trembling. He had a world. A real one. People who needed him.
And she was… what?
She didn’t even know anymore.
The pressure built behind her eyes, and without thinking, she sat down, too fast, on the edge of the couch. The cushions barely gave beneath her weight, like even the furniture was bracing for impact. Her hands curled into the fabric.
And the guilt settled in her bones. For a second, she thought she might throw up.
"Lizzie?"
She didn’t answer right away. Her throat worked. She stared down at the floor, her vision swimming. Just leave, the voice in her head whispered. You don’t need to be here. This isn’t smart. it isn’t fair to them.
“Nothing,” she muttered. But her voice was too brittle, too sharp at the edges. The thought of going back to her flat, alone, spinning, spiraling, clung to her.
“Häschen,” Sebastian said gently, crouching beside her. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head.
Sebastian blinked. “What is?”
That was your own damn fault.
Max's words curled through her head like smoke, thick and poisonous. Her nails bit into her palms. She could still feel the burn in her cheeks, the disbelief in her bones. The way Max had looked at her, like she was the villain in her own story. Like she’d deserved it.
Maybe she did, after all the pain she'd almost caused those little girls two years. What she was doing again now. Her chest started to tighten again.
This was a mistake.
She shouldn’t be here. Not with Sebastian. Not like this. But if she left now, if she went home alone, those words would follow her like shadows on the walls. They’d crawl into bed with her. Into her skin. Into her bloodstream. She didn’t want to sit in the dark with that. She didn’t want to remember how Max had looked at her like she was something broken.
She didn’t want to feel anything.
She shifted forward slightly, elbow braced on her knees, her head in her hands. Her breath stuttered, shallow and uneven. Sebastian’s footsteps were slow behind her. She heard him pause, then come a little closer, but not too close.
“Hey,” he said gently, his voice no louder than a murmur. “What's going on?”
Lizzie didn’t answer right away. The photo burned behind her eyelids. Not the image itself, but everything it meant.
“I saw it,” she said after a moment. Her voice was flat. “The photo. In your bag.”
Sebastian was quiet for a beat. Then a soft exhale. “They like to sneak things in when I pack.”
“Did Emilie draw on your face?” Lizzie asked, her laugh brittle and wet.
He smiled faintly behind her. “Yeah. That was a meltdown morning, actually. I had to go straight to the paddock like that.”
Lizzie bowed her head, her breath catching.
“You’re a really good dad,” she said softly.
The silence after that was heavier. She felt the cushion dip as he sat beside her, not touching but close enough to feel his presence.
His voice was lower now, almost murmured. “Talk to me.”
She didn’t answer. He waited. Then, very gently, he reached over and placed a hand against her back. Just enough to let her feel the warmth of his palm through her sweater. Not pushing. Just there.
“You’re starting to shake again,” he said, not unkindly.
Lizzie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her hands were still clenched in her lap, knuckles white.
“I’m not trying to ruin anything,” she said finally, her voice fraying at the edges. “I didn’t come here to…”
Sebastian sat beside her still, giving her space but not retreating.
“You’re not ruining anything,” he said, though it wasn’t automatic. It came with effort, like he knew she wouldn’t believe it.
But Lizzie just shook her head. “I keep hearing his voice,” she whispered. “Max. In the alley. He said... ‘This is all your fault.’”
Sebastian went still.
“I thought he meant Brazil. Or the coatroom. Or... everything that came after. And maybe he did. But now...”
Her eyes were glassy now, but dry — too dry.
“I feel like I’m stealing something.”
Sebastian reached out, slowly, cautiously, and placed his hand on hers.
“You’re not stealing anything,” he said, quieter now. “You’re in pain. That’s not the same thing.”
“But it feels the same,” she admitted.
He didn’t speak. Just let her sit in that. Let the weight of it settle between them like fog.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said finally, her voice nearly drowned out by the hum of the radiator.
Sebastian was quiet for a beat. “Why not?”
“Because this…” she lifted her gaze to the muted glow of the lamp, then let it drop again. “This isn’t good for me,” she added bitterly, forcing a dry laugh. “For both of us, it’s always been a bad idea. You have a life, Sebastian. You have kids. You have her. And I just keep…”
He didn’t argue. Just exhaled through his nose and gently rubbed slow circles against her spine, like muscle memory, like he’d never forgotten how.
She looked away, blinking fast. “Max was right. I ruin everything.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s not.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The words had already carved themselves into her skin, Max’s words. They echoed, cold and unrelenting, like a cracked bell tolling inside her chest. Sebastian shifted closer. His arm slid around her with slow, deliberate care, and she let herself lean into it, her shoulder pressed against his chest, the edge of her temple brushing beneath his jaw. He held her like that, like a dam holding back floodwater, the pressure of her grief quiet but rising.
“You think I don’t see how careful you are not to mention Charles? You think I didn’t notice how it pains you to say her name?” She exhaled shakily. “You’re trying so hard not to hurt me, and I’m just… sitting here, pretending this is okay.”
There was silence. But it wasn’t cruel. It was tired. Honest.
Sebastian looked down at their hands, then up at her again. “I’m not pretending. I know exactly what this is.”
“Then why are you letting it happen?” she asked, barely audible.
His lips parted, like he was about to say something. But then he paused. Thought better of it. He didn't need to say it. She knew. Lizzie's breath caught. Because it was real. Painfully, achingly real. And yet it didn't make it better. She leaned in slowly, her forehead pressing to his shoulder. This time, when his arms came around her, she didn’t resist. She wasn’t sure if it was a mercy or a mistake.
But she stayed.
He didn’t push her to speak. He just waited, thumb tracing faint shapes over her upper arm. “Do you want me to take you home?”
Lizzie could feel it, the softness in his voice, the warmth in his touch. It made her chest hurt. Like she was finally being seen after months of pretending she was fine. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of it all.
Lizzie shook her head without hesitation. “No.”
Her voice cracked on the word.
“I don’t want to think anymore,” she whispered, tearing falling freely. “I just want it to stop.”
Sebastian said nothing for a moment. Then, almost too quietly, he finally let loose what she knew he'd been holding in for hours.
“Let me help you forget then.”
She felt it in the way he said it, that it wasn’t a seduction. Not really. It was a life raft.
Lizzie turned her head slowly, her cheek sliding against the soft knit of his shirt. When she looked up, his face was already tilted toward hers, and his eyes were searching her face, not with hunger, but with something quieter. Sadder. A kind of reverence, almost. Or maybe guilt.
Her lips quivered.
She knew it wouldn't fix anything, knew it wouldn't lead anywhere different than it had all the times before. And still, despite everything, she didn’t say no. Because in this moment, she couldn’t bear to be alone. Couldn’t stand the silence of her own mind.
She needed something, someone, to take up the space where the pain had settled. Sebastian’s hand cupped the side of her neck. His fingers warm, callused, familiar.
Her eyes fluttered shut just as he leaned down and kissed her.
It was slow at first, uncertain, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that asked a silent question. And Lizzie answered it not with words, but by kissing him back harder.
As if forgetting might finally be within reach.
Sebastian deepened the kiss slowly, almost carefully, as though afraid to shatter the fragile consent she’d just given him.
But she didn’t pull away.
She let herself sink into it, into the pressure of his mouth, the warmth of his breath, the familiar way he tasted like whisky and mint from his toothpaste. Her fingers curled into the front of his sweater, grounding herself in the texture of it. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Then Sebastian shifted, guiding her gently into his lap.
She went willingly, straddling him, her knees bracketing his thighs. Her arms slipped around his neck like instinct, like no time had passed at all.
For one aching second, it was 2017 again.
The faded yellow light of her hotel room in Maranello in the winter night. The low hum of an old radiator. Her heart pounding like it might break through her ribs as she'd found herself pulled down onto his lap, her legs straddling him. Her breath had come in shallow gasps between his kisses, her heart racing as Sebastian's hands roamed over her back, his fingers tracing deliberate patterns that sent shivers down her spine. His lips left hers only to trail along her jawline and down her neck, the sensation drawing a soft gasp from her.
The world outside the room had ceased to exist, reduced to the mingling sounds of their breaths and the electric charge of his touch. The sensation was overwhelming, a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that left her reeling. As his fingers tugged off her coat, a thrill of anticipation had coursed through her veins. But when his fingers had moved to slip beneath her blouse, Lizzie felt a rush of something cold and uncertain.
Lizzie had pressed a hand against Sebastian’s chest, halting his movements. “Wait,” she'd whispered, her voice trembling but firm.
Sebastian had froze instantly, his brow furrowing as he drew back slightly, his dark blue eyes scanning hers with concern. “Why?” he'd asked softly, his voice gentle but weighted, tugging at something deep inside her.
Lizzie had hesitated, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to find the right words. To tell him the one thing she'd never shared with anyone besides Rob in confidence. That she was a virgin. Embarrassment had tightened her throat, leaving her silent as she looked down at him.
The quiet had between them stretched, heavy and charged, until understanding flickered in Sebastian’s eyes. His expression had softened, and he let out a low, strained groan, leaning forward to nuzzle her neck. His lips had brushed against her skin, the tenderness of his touch making her breath hitch.
“Oh,” he'd murmured against her neck, the single word carrying a depth of understanding that needed no explanation.
Her heart had clenched, worry gnawing at her as she wondered if she had shattered the delicate intimacy between them. But before she could pull away, Sebastian’s hands had tightened on her hips, anchoring her in place with a reassuring steadiness.
“Don’t,” he'd whispered, his voice a low, soothing command. His lips had brushed against her ear, his breath warm and tantalizing as he asked, “Just -what do you want?”
The question had lingered in the air, heavy with promise, as his lips trailed soft, deliberate kisses just beneath her ear. Lizzie’s mind had raced, her emotions a chaotic whirlpool of longing and uncertainty. She'd closed her eyes, her pulse pounding as her fingers curled against his chest.
“I—” she'd stammered, her voice barely audible over the rush of her heartbeat. “I don’t want you to stop. I just want…” She'd paused, her breath hitching as she gathered her courage. “I want you to show me how to do it, properly.”
Sebastian had pulled back slightly to meet her gaze, his dark eyes searching hers. A slow, crooked smile had spread across his lips, a mix of amusement and something deeper sparking in his expression.
“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” he'd murmured, his tone warm and edged with a teasing affection that made her stomach flutter.
And before she could respond, he'd captured her lips once more in a kiss that burned slow and deep, leaving her trembling with anticipation. He’d let her take her time. Let her tell him when she was ready.
Now…
Now, his hands were more urgently, sliding beneath the hem of her turtleneck shirt, spanning the curve of her waist like he couldn't resist himself. Every touch was deliberate, every motion filled with longing. His mouth moved hungrily against hers, coaxing, devouring, needy. Rushed, no longer hesitant.
With a deliberate motion, Sebastian guided her hips forward, then back, setting a slow, sensual rhythm. His hands moved confidently, their warmth grounding her as she matched his movements, just like he'd taught her that night in Maranello.
At first, Lizzie’s motions had been hesitant, her body stiff with uncertainty. She'd felt clumsy, unsure if she was doing it right, the vulnerability of the moment tightening her chest.
“Like this,” he'd murmured, his tone low and soothing but laced with a faint edge of teasing. His hands dragged along her hips with patient precision, coaxing her into the rhythm he set. His guidance was firm yet gentle, his thumbs pressing into her sides just enough to steady her.
Lizzie had gasped softly as her body began to respond, her movements becoming less mechanical and more instinctual. A shaky breath escaped her lips as she felt the friction building between them, unfamiliar but undeniably intoxicating. Her hands braced against his shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt for stability.
“I—I don’t know if I’m…” she'd stammered, her voice trembling as her cheeks flushed a deep pink.
Sebastian’s grip had tightened slightly, his touch reassuring but commanding. His lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze steady as it swept over her, drinking in the sight of her. “You’re doing perfect,” he said, his voice warm but firm.
Sebastian’s hands maintained their steady hold, guiding her hips with unhurried precision. Each deliberate motion sent a spark through her, subtle at first but growing with each pass as she began to relax into the rhythm. Her breaths had grown shallower, her body loose with something sweet and warm.
He'd tilted his head slightly, his tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips as his eyes flicked downward to where their bodies moved in tandem. "Yeah, just like that,” he'd praised, his tone rich with quiet approval, his dark gaze locking onto her face. “You feel that?”
Lizzie had nodded slightly, her lips parted as she focused on matching the rhythm he set, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. The friction between them had built steadily, a simmering heat that left her dizzy and breathless. Then Sebastian had adjusted his angle, tilting his hips up to meet hers more fully. Lizzie had frozen for a moment as she felt the undeniable hardness of him beneath his pants, the realization sending a wave of heat straight to her core.
Her cheeks had burned, but instinct took over, and she'd shifted her rhythm, grinding more deliberately against him. The change in motion drew a low, guttural groan from Sebastian, his fingers flexing against her thighs as if to steady himself.
She could feel his hardness under her now, his fingers flexing again her thighs as he let out a shaking breath. The months of distance, the weight of everything unsaid between them for the past year, funneled into the way his fingers pressed against her hips and the way his breath hitched when she ground against him slightly.
The sound sent a shiver down her spine, the high growing as she felt the effect she was having on him. His head tilted back slightly, his blonde lashes fluttering closed for a brief moment as he exhaled deeply, his grip tightening as if to keep himself anchored.
“You always feel so good like this,” he murmured, his voice rough, the restraint in his tone barely masking the growing tension between them. His hands moved to guide her hips again, amplifying the pressure and drawing another sounded from Lizzie as the sensation intensified.
Lizzie’s breaths came faster, her body responding to the growing heat between them. Her grip on his shoulders tightened, her fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath as she leaned forward instinctively, pressing her hips closer to his. Sebastian's arms snaked up her back, his mouth finding the shell of her ear and biting gently.
Lizzie gasped.
It felt so right. That was the dangerous part. The way her body melted into his like they still belonged to each other. Like no time, no betrayal, no silence had ever passed. Sebastian broke the embrace only long enough to lift her shirt over her head, his lips trailing down her throat, featherlight and reverent.
“Fuck, Lizzie,” he murmured, voice low and rough against her collarbone. “You ... I can't stop thinking about you.”
His fingers traced the lace along her chest, his touch light and reverent, before slipping to the clasp at her back. The bra fell away with a deft flick of his fingers, and his gaze swept over her with a mix of lust and desperation.
“Still so pretty,” he murmured, his voice a low hum as he leaned forward, his mouth latching onto her chest with deliberate precision. Lizzie let out a soft cry, her hips bucking against him instinctively as the sensation coursed through her like a jolt.
“Ahhh! Oh Seb,” she gasped, her rhythm increasing as her body writhed in response to his lips and tongue.
Her fingers tightened against his hair reflexively, tugging at the strands. Sebastian groaned softly, the sound deep and throaty, as he bit down gently on the sensitive peak of her breast. His hand moved to the other, his fingers kneading the soft flesh as Lizzie let out her first loud, unrestrained moan, the sound reverberating through the quiet room.
Overwhelmed and aching for more, Lizzie’s hands found the hem of his shirt. She tugged at it desperately, her movements clumsy but insistent. “Off, please.” she pleaded, her voice breathless.
Sebastian pulled back just enough to smile breathlessly up at her, his hands briefly leaving her to help her lift his shirt over his head. The shirt joined hers on the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Lizzie’s hands moved across his chest, her fingertips tracing the familiar lines of muscle and the faint scattering of scars etched into his skin.
Sebastian inhaled sharply at her touch, his head dipping briefly against her forehead as he exhaled a soft sigh. Their lips met again, the kiss deepening with urgency as the air around them seemed to crackle with heat. The grinding of their bodies became a rhythm all its own, every press and roll amplifying the sensations building between them.
Lizzie barely had time to say something before he stood, lifting her with practiced ease, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
They’d done this before, some many times in so many places. Always with that same crackling tension, the hot pull between longing and regret. He crossed the suite in long strides, nudging the bedroom door open with his shoulder. The bed was already turned down, the lamp casting everything in that same soft golden glow.
He laid her down on the sheets with a soft thud, the desperation in his eyes making her chest clench.
Sebastian hovered over her, his curls falling into his eyes, his breath ragged. He was drinking her in, like he couldn’t believe she was real. Back then, he had undressed her like she was breakable, taking his time, brushing kisses against her shoulder blades like he was afraid to shatter her. Now his hands were shaking for a different reason, need. Frantic, unfiltered, years of want funneled into a single breathless moment.
Her skirt was yanked off her in one sweep, fumbled loose between kisses as his mouth dragging down her throat. Then came her tights, caught and twisted at her knees. He hissed through his teeth, pulled again.
A sharp rip.
She gasped.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Not sorry. Just distracted. Just obsessed.
His hands were everywhere now. Skimming, kneading, grasping as if he could erase whatever had come before him through sheer persistence. His lips traced the slope of her chest as if relearning her, kissing lower, breath ragged.
“You’re still so ...” he whispered, not quite aloud.
His hand slid over her thigh, rough but careful, and when his fingers found the slick, wet heat of her, Lizzie arched as if a live wire had been pressed to her spine. Two fingers slipped inside her with an unerring confidence that spoke of long-practiced memory. He knew her body as well as his own, knew the exact angle, the precise pressure point he needed to find. Her breath hitched, a strangled little sound in the back of her throat.
It all dissolved then. Her pride. Her logic. Her grief.
He lowered his head, his blonde curls brushing against her inner thigh. The first touch of his tongue was a shock, hot and wet and demanding. He lapped at her, tasting her, his tongue moving in firm, relentless circles against her clit while his fingers stretched her from the inside. It was a dizzying, overwhelming assault on her senses.
“Look at me, Lizzie,” he rasped, his voice a low growl against her skin. His eyes, dark and dilated, were locked on her face, watching greedily as her expression went slack with pleasure.
She couldn’t form words. She could only feel. The clever dance of his fingers, the rough drag of his tongue, the possessive heat in his gaze as he watched her unravel. She clutched at his shoulders, head thrown back, mouth parted in a soundless cry. Her body responded before her mind could catch up, chasing the sensation, letting go of everything except the way he was touching her, urgent and relentless, like her pleasure was the only thing he needed to believe in.
“That's it,” he whispered, his breath hot against her. “Just focus on how good this feels. On me.”
He was right. She was so close, teetering on that sharp, brilliant edge. He shifted, his mouth becoming more insistent, his fingers driving deeper. She broke with a keening gasp, legs trembling violently around him, a sharp cry torn from her throat as the world splintered. Heat flooded her, a pulsing, blinding release that went on and on, washing away thought, leaving her blissed-out and boneless and moaning for him on the sheets.
She didn’t cry out his name.
But in that moment, she didn’t need to. Because the way he watched her, obsessed, starving, said he’d take whatever she gave him and still come back for more.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving. He surged up, his expression a mask of raw, frantic need. There was the harsh rasp of a zipper, a grunt of effort, and he shoved his jeans and boxers down his legs, just enough to free his thick, hard cock. He didn’t waste a second. He gripped her hips, yanking her flush against him, positioning the head of his cock at her still-pulsing entrance.
For a heartbeat, they were still. His feverish gaze locked with hers, a silent, desperate question passing between them. And Lizzie let herself believe that this was still the same man who had kissed her like a promise on a balcony in Shanghai. The same man who once whispered in her ear in Jerez that he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted her.
Because even if that man had been a lie…
This still felt real.
Then, with a low groan that was torn from the depths of his chest, a sound of both agony and ecstasy, he thrust inside her.
Lizzie gasped sharply, a ragged, hitching sound that was stolen from her lungs. Her hands flew to his shoulders, fingers splaying wide as her body stretched to accommodate him. The fit was as tight as she remembered, a shocking, overwhelming fullness that pushed at her limits. There was no pain, not really—just the intense, familiar sensation of being completely, utterly filled by him. Her hips lifted instinctively from the bed, trying to meet the impossible pressure.
“Scheiße,” Sebastian groaned, the word a hot puff of air against her cheek. His voice was thick with satisfaction as his hips stilled for a moment, letting them both feel the perfect, impossible fit. His gaze roamed her face, watching every flicker of emotion, the way her pupils blew wide, the tremor in her lower lip. “You’re so tight still,” he muttered, his free hand stroking from her sternum up to the hollow of her throat, his thumb pressing lightly against her frantic pulse. "Pierre barely knew what to do with you, did he?"
It should have made her mad, how flippantly he said it. But all she could do was moan, a low sound that betrayed how much her body craved this. Lizzie whimpered softly, her nails digging into his skin as she struggled to catch her breath. “Seb…”
He began to move, slow and deliberate at first. His hips rolled with a fluid, predatory grace that sent deep, resonant shockwaves through her. Each inch of his length slid against her, a delicious, terrible friction that promised annihilation. The heat and pressure built steadily, a gathering storm in her core, drawing soft, helpless moans from her lips with every practiced rotation. He watched her intently, his gaze drinking in every detail of her expression, the way her lips parted on a silent plea, the deep crimson blush that crept from her chest up her neck to her cheeks, the way her dark lashes fluttered as her body clenched and unclenched around him.
“I love it when you make that face.” he murmured, his tone thick with a raw awe that was laced with a dark edge.
Sebastian’s mouth was hot and wet against her collarbone, teeth scraping lightly over the tender skin there as he picked up the pace, moving inside her with a growing, relentless intensity. His hands gripped her hips with the kind of bruising urgency that blurred the line between craving and control. His breath hitched when she arched her back and clenched around him, her head tipping back into the pillow, lashes fluttering, her lips parted in a silent, desperate gasp.
“Say it,” he whispered raggedly against her throat, his voice a gravelly plea. “Please say you missed me.”
Lizzie’s hands fisted into the rumpled sheets, the cheap cotton twisting in her knuckles. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, her lungs refusing to fill completely, but her throat remained stubbornly shut. Her whole body was unraveling, a tapestry of sensation coming undone thread by thread, but her voice wouldn’t budge.
Sebastian drew back, his thrusts deepening, aiming for a spot he knew would shatter her. His hips snapped harder into her, the slapping sound of skin on skin echoing dimly in the low-lit hotel room, a primal rhythm joined only by the frantic rustle of the sheets and the helpless, broken moans she couldn’t stop from spilling.
“Häschen,” he said again, more forcefully this time, his patience fraying. His voice, low, guttural, clung to her skin like sweat. “Please tell me.”
She couldn’t. That aching confession, I missed you so much it felt like I was dying, it sat heavy and bitter on the tip of her tongue, but her body overrode everything. She didn’t want to feel the loss. Didn’t want to remember the emptiness. She just wanted to be touched, to be filled, to be used until it all disappeared into a white-hot haze of sensation.
Her fingers clawed into his shoulder, nails dragging four white lines over his tanned skin. “Mmmm, harder,” she begged, her voice hoarse and unrecognizable. “Don’t stop—please, just—harder—”
There was a flicker in Sebastian’s eyes then. A shadow that crossed behind the hunger.
Bitter. Disappointed.
His grip on her changed, becoming less of a caress and more of a manacle. He adjusted her body with a devastating ease that came from knowing it too well. He pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness making her cry out in protest. Before she could react, he flipped her over onto her stomach and dragged her hips back until she was kneeling in front of him, her face pressed into the pillows. The position erased any chance at eye contact. Any pretense of intimacy.
Just sensation. Just force. Just her body, offered up to him.
His palm splayed across the small of her back, holding her steady as he entered her again from behind with a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from her lungs and made her cry out, the sound muffled by the bedding.
The noise she made wasn’t from pain. It was from pure, unadulterated relief. Here, like this, she didn’t have to look at him. She didn’t have to pretend.
Sebastian grunted, finding a rhythm that was deep and punishing. His fingers dug into the soft curve of her hips like he was anchoring himself there, claiming her. She welcomed the way he used her body, welcomed the way the sheer, overwhelming force of it quieted the screaming storm inside her head.
“Is this what you wanted?” he bit out between clenched teeth, his voice strained with effort and frustration. “You want me to just fuck you dumb? Make you forget everything else?”
She said nothing. Just moaned a wild, desperate sound as her body trembled with the effort to hold on, to take everything he was giving her.
He hissed and pulled her up by the shoulders, forcing her spine to arch and her legs to quake as he continued his relentless assault. One hand tangled cruelly in her hair, yanking her head back, her gaze forced toward the cheap art on the wall, though she saw nothing.
“Tell me,” he growled. “Tell me no one else makes you feel like this.”
Her lips parted, a choked sound escaping, but it wasn’t the words she wanted to say. It was nothing. Just a breathless, broken, pleading—
“Ahhhhh! Don’t stop! Right there—oh fuck, please don’t stop—'
Something inside him seemed to twist and harden behind her. The tender edge vanished completely. His next thrusts were brutal. Controlled. Devastating. He moved with a force that felt almost desperate, as if determined to leave an imprint she couldn’t shake. And Lizzie let him. Took all of it. Let herself get lost in it until she couldn’t think.
Not Max. Not Spa. Not Rob. Not what this desperate, shameful act made her.
Only pleasure. Only heat. Only the way he filled her so completely that there was no room left in her mind for grief.
He angled his hips slightly, the head of his cock dragging against her g-spot with every deep plunge, and the pressure finally built into an unbearable, exquisite peak.
Her vision whited out at the edges, and Lizzie came with a strangled, keening cry. Her whole body clenched violently around him, her nails ripping into his forearms as she spasmed. A hot, gushing flood erupted from her core, soaking the sheets beneath them and splashing against his own thighs and stomach. Her body twitched and bucked, legs kicking weakly as she squirted, the release utterly overwhelming and completely involuntary.
She let out a strangled gasp, leaning her neck back against him in surrender, trying to escape the overstimulation that made her nerves feel like exposed live wires.
But he didn’t stop. His rhythm slowed, his strokes becoming long, deliberate drags that wrung every last shudder from her orgasm-spent body. His voice was there, low and rough and curling around her like smoke.
“Mmm, thats good,” he murmured against the back of her neck, his body slick with her release. “Can Pierre or anyone else make you cum like that?”
Lizzie shook her head, a sob catching in her throat, but no sound came out.
He thrust deeper, a punishing, possessive stroke. “Hm?”
She whimpered, broken and raw, but the words clung to her throat like glass. Her nails dug into his skin as he plowed into her more and more, her body twitching with every drag of him inside her.
“They can't, can they,” Sebastian said again, smug now, his voice tinged with the satisfaction of a victor. His fingers wandered back to her core. “No one else makes you squirt and gush all over their cock until you can’t see straight. No one else knows just what to do to make you scream their name.”
She gasped, hips bucking uselessly, still wrung tight from the pleasure, from the lingering aftershocks that refused to end.
“You want to cum again, Häschen?” he growled, and he angled his hips again, hitting that same spot over and over that made her sob into his skin. The friction, combined with her raw sensitivity, was already sending her spiraling again.
“Yes!” she finally choked out, her voice cracking, utterly wrecked. "Please, yes-"
"Then say it."
She was sobbing now, a babbling, incoherent mess of pleasure and surrender. “There's no one else!—just you, just you—please, Seb—”
That did it.
Sebastian let out a sharp, guttural groan, his rhythm faltering as her broken words gave him exactly what he’d been tearing from her. His hand clamped hard around her hip, holding her pinned as he drove into her one last time before his release spilled up across her thighs and stomach. Lizzie's body gave out, another orgasm wracking her core as her body went limp into pure, shattering oblivion.
They collapsed together onto the bed, tangled and slick with sweat, her fluids, and silence.
Sebastian exhaled slowly from behind her, his face pressed to the side of her neck and his arms still around her. His lips brushed her shoulder, almost reverent.
His voice came low, hoarse. “Lizzie…”
But she was already gone. Panting, trembling, half-conscious, her mind was adrift in the hazy remnants of what they’d just done. What she’d just given him. What she still couldn’t admit to herself. She sunk into the mattress, limp and wrung out. The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving only salt and exhaustion.
Sebastian's hand brushing gently down her stomach, but he didn’t say anything else.
Not about what just happened. Not about what he'd so desperately wanted to hear. He just pulled the sheets up around them, wrapped an arm back around her waist, and let her curl into him like she used to, like none of it had changed.
But it had.
And as Lizzie closed her eyes, letting the numbness take her, all she could feel was the dull, hollow ache that always followed when she gave in to voices screaming for numbness. When she finally had nothing left to give.
She stared at the hotel ceiling, mind traveling to Max's words a finally time.
Book One - Light the Spark
Chapter Seventeen: Remembering You
Now, I'm looking to the sky to save me. Looking for a sign of life. Looking for something to help me burn out bright
In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.
✦ starring: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)
✦ Warnings: ....Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also - +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language and profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and substance abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.
✦ Word count: ~159K total (ongoing multi-part series)
✦ Author’s Note: Finally getting caught up with scheduling these next few chapters as I continue to work on more B.O.B content (I know, I know ... see my most recent independent post for more details on my current headspace with writing.) Anwayssss, we are finally getting some drama!!! Max and Lizzie continue to misunderstand one another and come for each others necks, whats new, but I hope these dual perspectives give a rounded idea of just how wide the emotional gap is between our characters. We're also getting a little hint at what happened between them in the past (gasp), and perhaps some foreshadowing that Rob wasn't as perfect as he seemed? Who knows, not me ofc :) As always, I didn't proofread so there may be typos, and if you're enjoying the series and feel so included feel free to leave a kudos/comment/or share with a mutual <3
✦Tags: #original female character #Enemies to Lovers #Competition #Angst, #Eventual Smut #Slow Burn #Daddy Issues #References to Depression #Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD #Burn Scars #Car Accidents #SMUT #Drunk confessions #Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings #Drinking to Cope #Implied/Referenced Grooming #Age Difference #Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole #Female Formula 1 Driver #Jealousy #Cheating #Secret Relationship, #Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning #Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms #Drunk Sex, #Identity Reveal #When Will These Two Morons Kiss? #The sexual tension between these two is crazy #Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink #Lizzie hating her scars, #Protective Toto Wolff #Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual #because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father #secondary romantic plots, #but we all know where this is going #Hurt/Comfort #Gender and Power Dynamics, #Feminist Themes #this one has character development! I hope.
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⋆♫⋆ If only I'd thought of the right words, I could have held on to your heart, If only I'd thought of the right words, I wouldn't be breaking apart ⋆♫⋆
The Blackfriar Pub
London, UK
January 20, 2019
- 𓅂 -
The cobbled alleyway street tilted from under Lizzie's feet.
Her stomach dropped violently with the vertigo of it, the little cold breath she had left knocked clean from her lungs as if the frozen pavement had risen to punch her in the ribs. Her heart slammed once, violently, and then just… stalled. She couldn't believe what she was seeing, couldn't believe he was standing there in front of her. She blinked against the hazy yellow glare of the alley’s streetlamp, the edges of the world dimming like a film reel burning out.
But she could still see him towering over her.
Max.
Time bent around them, silent and absolute.
Her vision sharpened slowly, unwillingly, and she took him in piece by piece.
Framed by the warm glow of the pub’s hanging sign, he looked almost unreal. Still tall, shoulders broad and backlit like an old memory come to life. His sandy blond hair was more grown out in the off season now, curling slightly at his temples and tousled from the wind. His jawline was sharper than she remembered, more defined, a bit of dark stubble cutting the roundness it used to hold. But there was still something in the way he stood, the restless shifting of his posture. This wasn't the version of him she had seen in the paddock last winter or in her face at Brazil, suited up and furious or masked and collected behind a tinted visor. This Max wasn’t flanked by engineers or lit by the glare of a thousand cameras.
He looked... softer somehow. Less perfect.
His dark coat rustled faintly in the wind, collar turned up against the cold, breath misting faintly in the space between them. There was still that faint pink rising in his cheeks from the cold, something he'd never managed to fix despite endless complaining when they were teenagers. And his eyes—God, his eyes up close in the warm light were the same as she remembered. Wide. Expressive. Framed with long, honey lashes. Startlingly blue.
Just as stunned as hers.
And for a fleeting second, she felt like she was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in years.
Lizzie barely remembered falling down. Didn’t remember reaching for anything. But there he was, grounding her. One hand in hers like he’d caught her on the way down and hadn't meant to let go. She could barely hear the music from the pub anymore. Couldn’t feel the chill or the blood rushing to her face.
Everything inside her went quiet, save for one thought rising slow and hot from her gut:
Of course it’s him.
Because the universe had been hurling chaos and disasters at her all month. Of course she would end up flat on her ass like this. With Max.
An awkward silence dropped between them, charged and unspoken. Lizzie was frozen. The alley felt too narrow, too exposed. Her brain screamed at her to do something, say something, move, run, but her body refused to obey. She couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop seeing the way the light softened him, made him look almost like the boy he used to be. Like the friend she’d once had. The one who’d made her laugh when she couldn’t breathe. The one who'd fixed her broken car stereo for her with hands that were gentler than he ever let on in front of the others.
The one who'd nearly destroyed her career. Who'd taken Rob from her.
She swallowed hard.
For a second, just one second, she considered pretending she was drunk. Just stumbling past, pretending none of this happened. That he hadn’t happened. But he was still holding her hand.
And he wasn’t letting go.
Then, so quietly she almost didn’t catch it over the roar in her ears, Max whispered.
"Lizzie..."
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Because she wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for him. Not for the years of pain lodged between her ribs that his voice could still crack open. And somehow, somehow… despite everything, despite all the fury still curling in her chest, she could still remember what it felt like to be eighteen and trust him.
She hated it.
Hated him.
Hated how her fingers hadn’t recoiled on instinct. And that’s when it all came crashing back. The shouting. The headlines.
The betrayal.
Her hand snapped out of his like it had been burned all over again.
Max flinched.
Lizzie pushed herself up without a word, using the wall instead of him. The cold brick scraped her palm, and for some reason, she preferred the sting. She didn’t look him in the eye on her ascent.
She couldn't.
- 𓅂 -
For a moment, Max was sure he was dreaming. Or somehow much drunker than he thought he'd be after two watered down beers.
He had to be.
Because there she was.
Lizzie.
On the ground in front of him, knees bent awkwardly in front of her, eyes wide, lips parted in stunned disbelief. She looked at him like he was a ghost.
Maybe this version of him was to her, the one wearing a wool coat too sized too big for him and a tired expression. He’d come to London to see some friends from Team Redline, mainly due to Gianni's insistence that he meet new potential sim racers for the team. Partly because he knew Max was having a shit month. It was supposed to be a stupid, chill pub night. Laughter. Pints. A break from racing.
From the constant thoughts of her.
But the night had unraveled the second he arrived. First it was the usual questions: How’s the season going? How’s Dilara?
He’d given half-hearted answers to both, but they all latched on to the subtext, everyone could tell things weren’t great. Someone asked if he and Dilara were on the outs. He’d just shrugged and muttered something about not being in the mood to talk about it.
But then a newer guy, some mate of Gianni's that Max barely knew, had tried to be funny. Joked about the new American girl joining McLaren and whether Max could get her number for him. Gianni had bristled beside him, and Max had heard the well-aimed kick from underneath their table.
Max had then looked up, deadpan, and said flatly, “I don’t want to talk about racing either.”
The table had gone quiet after that. Everyone else seemed to know Lizzie was a touchy subject, always had been.
To cut the tension, the same guy had gestured toward a group of university girls nearby and said, “Speaking of girls, I’m gonna go in for the kill on that blonde one over there. You want to tackle her friends, mate?"
His friend, the quieter one who Gianni had said was quick on the e-racing scene, looked over unsure. "I dunno..."
But the guy from before had just laughed, patting his friend on the back.
"Oh come, what about brunette in the middle? She seems more quiet than her mates, bet you could get her number.”
The others chuckled, two of them peeled off to chat up the group. Max hadn’t looked. He’d just stared at his pint, barely sipping. Wondering if he should leave. Wondering how many nights he would spend fuming over thoughts of Lizzie instead of enjoying himself.
And now, Lizzie was here.
She was the brunette. Of course she was. He still couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Time froze for a moment.
She looked so different out of her fireproofs, out of her armor. Her hair was down, much longer than he remembered, free and unbraided. Bronze strands framed her cheekbones, which had lost the soft roundness from their teen years. Her nose still stood like a line of quiet command down the center of her face, high-bridged, straight as a blade, and tapering into a refined, astute point beneath the lamplight. There were more tiny freckles under her eyes than he remembered, faint, sun-kissed. She wore a heavy cream barn coat, clearly expensive. And underneath it a tight turtleneck that clung to her figure, with a short skirt, dark tights, and knee-high boots all highlighting her long legs.
She looked stylish. Grown. Max didn’t remember her dressing like that.
Didn't remember her in anything but ripped jeans and hand-me-down racing jackets.
But there were the constants. Her bottom lip was red and raw on one side from where she chewed it anxiously. Her fingers still fidgeted with the sleeves of her coat, tugging at the threads like she used to.
It all felt too quiet. Too surreal.
Max’s breath hitched, the cold air sharp in his lungs. Time seemed to be collapsing inward, narrowing to just the flush of her pale face in the frigid air. Her bangs were slightly damp and windblown, full mouth just open like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
He'd seen that expression before so many times.
God, had he seen it before.
He blinked and the alley disappeared, swallowed whole by the sound of pit lane at Silverstone. The high-pitched whine of electric drills, the hiss of tire blankets being stripped away, the acrid sting of burnt rubber in the air.
It had been early in the morning. Still cold. 2016 Preseason test runs for Toro Rosso had just begun, and Lizzie had been given her first slot in the car since being named a Red Bull development driver. Everyone had been watching her, half out of curiosity, half expecting her to crumble under the pressure.
She hadn’t.
Max had been standing just outside the garage, absently scrolling through sector times on a tablet, earbuds in, head down. He hadn’t even noticed her pulling in until the mechanics jogged out with the jacks.
Lizzie brought the car to a clean stop. No drama, no missed marks.
He was still reading telemetry, brow furrowed, when he wandered over to her side of the garage.
“Did you feel the rear step out again through Turn 9 on throttle?” he'd asked, distracted, his eyes still flicking across the screen. “I swear the car still has instability mid-corner. Even on—”
Then he's looked away from the tablet, and down.
Lizzie was peeling off her helmet, her hands clumsy with adrenaline. The balaclava followed, slowly, caught on the static in her bronze hair.
And there she was.
Face flushed from the heat, eyes wide, chest still rising and falling from the effort of it. The pure, startled joy on her face hit like sunlight breaking through cloud. Her mouth was open in breathless awe, like she couldn't quite believe she’d done it. Like she hadn't yet realized she was grinning.
She looked up at him and said something, he still didn’t know what.
Because his brain stalled.
Just completely stalled.
Her expression was so open, so unfiltered, it stunned him. Like someone had cracked her wide open and left the engine inside still humming. It was rare to see anyone look like that after a run on a rainy day, drivers usually came back cursing the balance or too wired to speak.
But not Lizzie. Not then.
She looked like she'd just touched the stars and wanted to go again.
And it knocked something loose in him. Heavy and faltering, like a gear misaligned mid-shift. Like he couldn’t get the throttle to respond no matter how much he pressed down. Even now, in the alley, all these years later, it hit him the same way.
Because her face, tilted up toward him in the dark, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief, was exactly the same.
The cold air blurred at the edges of his vision, the sounds of the alley and pub fading into nothing. Max made to say something, anything, to break the tension.
"Lizzie..." He started, voice barely above a murmur.
Something connected in the air, a switch flipping with lightning speed, and then her face changed.
Her hand tore itself from his like he'd electrocuted her—sharp, instinctive, as if his touch had scalded her skin like a hot brand.
The rejection hit him like a punch to the gut as Max stuttered back a step. The sting of her silence was heavy in the air, her refusal to accept even the smallest offer of help from him, landing hard and fast against his chest. Offense and bitterness rose in his throat as reality slammed back into place, harsh and cold as the night air.
One thing, at least, hadn’t changed. Lizzie was still as stubborn as ever, and would apparently rather fall flat on her face than accept help from someone.
Especially him.
So he stood there as she shoved herself upright using the wall, refusing his help completely. She didn’t even look at him.
Of course she didn’t.
But then there was a slip of ice in the dark, the sound of her polished boots giving way to the wet pavement, and she slipped. Lizzie caught herself awkwardly against the wall, a hiss of pain leaving her mouth as her hands scraped the stone wall.
Max moved before he could think. His body reacted faster than his mind could correct it, the instinct to catch her overpowering the bitterness still bubbling in his chest. One hand grasped her forearm, the other slid around the small of her back in a motion so fluid it felt rehearsed, like some old muscle memory waking up. Her body pressed briefly against his, and for a heartbeat, the closeness of it undid him.
It was too much.
Her breath hitched audibly, and Max's heart thudded in answer, some primal, long-buried part of him recognizing the way she fit against him. Unwilling, obstinate, but there.
She looked up at him, dazed, still half in his arms. And for a heartbeat, just one, he forgot why he was angry at her again.
Forgot the headlines.
Forgot Brazil.
All Max could think about was how stupidly clear her eyes looked in the lamplight, blue-green water colors, deep and unreadable. The color shifted in the glow like sea glass, the core of them still a soft gold, bottomless and bright and familiar in a way that made something in his chest twist sharply.
“Sorry,” he murmured, realizing too late that he was touching her again as he released his grip. “I ... I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
If was as if Lizzie had forgotten where she was. Max watched her blink once, twice. Then she pulled back sharply again and brushed her skirt off with quick, jerky motions. Something flickered behind her eyes as she looked down at her boots, like looking at him might reopen something she’d spent years trying to bury.
“What are you doing in London?” she asked finally, her voice low and flat like she wasn’t used to saying things to him that didn’t end in an accusation.
Visiting friends,” Max said, cautious. “You?”
“Same.”
He gave a slow nod. “Right. Your friend goes to uni here… Maya.”
Her gaze shifted to the side, almost like she was surprised he remembered. She nodded, but still didn’t look directly at him.
Silence.
Max rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture felt boyish, too familiar for how foreign this moment felt. “You look… well.”
A flicker of something crossed her face—surprise? Discomfort? She glanced at him briefly, then away again. A faint flush crept into her cheeks, her eyes flicking to him like she wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not.
“You too,” she said finally, voice quiet, unsure.
She crossed her arms, probably for warmth, more likely to create space between them. Her fingers picked at the edge of her sleeve again, and for a moment, Max felt something strange stir in his chest. Something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.
Hope.
Just a sliver of it.
This weird, stilted, civil exchange somehow reminded him of how they used to talk. Back when things were good. When they didn’t have to tiptoe around each other, when their silences had been companionable instead of hostile. When she used to text him mid-race weekend with dumb memes or leave troves of half-empty Red Bulls in his driver room fridge as a joke.
And for just a second, he let himself wonder if maybe, maybe there was still a way back from all this wreckage.
Then Lizzie asked, “Did you see a tall brunette go inside?”
Max blinked. “What?”
“He was grabbing my gloves,” she said, already withdrawing.
Max followed her eyes down. Her hands were red and chapped from cold, a raw glow underneath the lamp light. The familiar burn scars were spidering up to her wrists harsher than he remembered, flaring back at him at like some sick torch in the darkness of the alley. He hadn’t meant to stare, but he did.
Too long.
Too obviously.
And just like that, he saw the wall come up around her. Her body tensed. The cold mask slid back into place. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets hard.
“Did you need something else?” she asked, voice clipped.
He frowned, caught off guard by how quickly her tone had turned cold. “No—”
“Then move. You’re in my way.”
The chill in her voice carved through him like ice. Whatever fragile moment had existed between them was gone. Shattered. Max’s ears burned with the harshness of it. Shame and bitterness rose in his throat like bile. He stepped back, jaw tight, stomach twisting.
He bent to retrieve his hat from the damp ground, his fingers curling around the brim harder than necessary. The fabric was wet and limp in his hand. Somehow, it felt like the perfect metaphor for the whole damn night.
“You haven’t fucking changed at all.” He spat over his shoulder. His voice cracked sharper than he intended, raw and loud in the narrow alley.
He didn't care. He felt stupid. So stupid for letting his guard down, for thinking they could have even a scrap of what they used to. That maybe there was still some part of her that remembered the version of him she once cared for.
Then her voice rang out, sharp as broken glass. “Well, based on our lively conversation in Brazil, neither have you.”
He froze, the words lodging deep. Then he turned.
Fast.
His face flushed with heat as he rounded on her, anger licking up his spine like flame. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She took a step back, her spine hitting the brick wall with a soft thud, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just met him head-on, chin tilted defiantly, her expression unreadable but burning beneath the surface.
“It means exactly what I said,” she replied, calm but cutting.
Max let out a short, bitter laugh. “Right. Because you’re never wrong about anyone or anything.”
She crossed her arms, unbothered by the sharpness in his tone. “Not about you.”
That stopped him. Just for a second. Max stared at her for a long beat, the air suddenly feeling colder around them.
His voice dropped, low and bitter. “You’re talking about that article, aren't you.”
She didn’t deny it. Didn’t blink.
“You honestly believe any of that media bullshit? Are you kidding me?” he asked, disbelief threading through his voice. “You think I had something to do with that ...”
“I believe the memo I read,” she cut him off, voice rising. “I know what I saw. And those files told me pretty plainly that your father knew what Red Bull had done was wrong and tried to help them cover it up anyways. But that doesn't matter to you, does it? As long as it benefited you, as long as you ended up on top.”
Max recoiled like she’d struck him. “You think I was part of that, Lizzie? You think I knew about any of this going on? I was just as young and out of the loop as you were, and I never would have helped them—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Her voice cracked like glass. “Don’t act like you’re innocent just because you didn’t sign a fucking document or watch them build the car. You pushed Rob too hard on track. You let them prioritize you when he was struggling just to get a rise out of him. You didn’t stop them from putting his life in danger.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t know, Lizzie! I didn't know the car was that dangerous. None of us did."
”But you knew enough!” she shouted, her voice breaking entirely. “You knew something was wrong in the team and you said nothing. You let them protect you while I buried my brother.”
“I didn’t ask for that!” he shouted back, stepping toward her. "I didn't ask for any favoritism. I just thought I was doing what I was told, what Helmut told me I had to do."
“Well you certainly didn't refuse it either,” she hissed at him. “I'm sure that fancy promotion and the fat pay bonus helped you sleep plenty at night.”
It felt like a punch to Max’s face, every word. Every accusation.
But then her voice shifted, quieter, shakier, unraveling in real time. Her hands were trembling now, her breath catching in her throat as though the words weighed too much to say.
“Do you even understand what you've done to me?” she finally said, her voice breaking. “To my family?”
Max opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Lizzie leveled a look at him, betrayal carved into every sharp line of her face.
“My mom was institutionalized, Max. For a year. A full fucking year. Because she couldn’t stop taking pills just to sleep. Because she’d close her eyes and see her favorite kid on fire, so she kept shallowing them till my Uncle found her on her bathroom floor choking on her own vomit. And my dad?” Her voice cracked. “He hasn’t spoken to me since I left LA. He won't even call me to tell me how she is."
Max felt something inside him twist hard. Shame, confusion, helpless rage. All his fury at being accused, all the disbelief that she thought he had anything to do with it, dimmed. Just slightly. Just long enough to feel the depth of the crater she was still climbing out of.
He should have said he was sorry. Should have found the words to tell her she didn’t deserve any of that.
But all he could do was watch her fall apart in front of him. Not just angry. Not just furious.
Fractured.
And Max froze. Lizzie's voice rose, and somehow that made it worse. And then she said it.
“You destroyed my hands. You nearly destroyed my career. And now the whole sport thinks I’m mentally unstable. A liability. Because of you." She practically spat the words at him. "And the media circus with Pierre? You think that just happened? The cameras, the photos, the accusations? You don’t think I know that was because you too? None of this would have happened if you had just left me the fuck alone!”
Max stiffened, like she’d just slammed a door in his face. The tenderness in him shriveled. He blinked once, twice, and the bitterness returned. Familiar. Shielding.
That was what this was really going, wasn’t it? Pierre.
Of course it was coming back to Pierre.
It always came back to Pierre.
“That was your own damn fault,” he snapped, voice like ice. “You and Pierre were never smart in the paddock, you—”
“Don’t you dare tell me it was my fault when he only came to apologize for your behavior!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the alley walls, sharp enough to make a passing car on the next street slow for a second.
Max flinched. He could have warned them about the photographer. About the angle. About how it would look, her in his arms in that gravel covered alley way between the motorhomes. But he hadn’t. Because part of him had wanted it to fall apart. Had wanted someone to see and vilify them for it. Because Pierre had been on the same damn team as him, and Lizzie had never screamed at him like this. Had never accused him of betrayal.
She had saved all of that rage for Max.
And it fucking hurt.
Max’s jaw tensed, the words tearing free before he could think better of them.
“I didn't want any of that to happen!” he shouted back. “You came after me in Brazil, Lizzie. You think I have some photographer in my back pocket, waiting for the two of you to slip up? I never wanted the team to lie about Rob, or for Red Bull to spin my rivalry with him into some soap opera, or for things with Pierre to get leaked."
The alley stank of cigarettes and spilled beer, but neither of them noticed. Lizzie’s eyes were glassy in the orange spill of the streetlamp overhead, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling in short, jagged breaths.
“Funny,” she bit out. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
Max’s face twisted. His voice cracked when he shouted back.
“Are you listening to yourself? If I had any control over that now, or any of it back then, none of this would’ve happened! Rob would still be here, you wouldn’t have left Red Bull, you wouldn’t have been put through that alone, you would’ve been—”
He stopped.
Too late.
The word had already tried to escape him.
“Would’ve been what?” Her voice sliced through him. “Safe?”
He flinched like she’d struck him. His gaze jerked to the cobblestones. Anywhere but her eyes.
But she stepped closer, each word like a fuse being lit.
“Safe?” she repeated, more bitter this time. “In that coatroom? Alone with you? Drunk and stupid and still... still believing you were the only one who gave a damn about me?” Her voice wavered. “The only one who ever told me the truth?”
That last line stopped the breath in his lungs.
He looked up.
She was trembling now, her entire frame tight with rage, grief, confusion. Not from the cold. From everything boiling over. From everything unsaid.
“What?” he whispered. The word barely came out.
Lizzie’s head tilted slightly, her mouth curving into something like a smile, but it was brittle. Hollow.
“Don’t act like you don’t remember.”
Max’s heart punched against his ribs.
He remembered. God, he remembered.
The coatroom at Jimmy Z’s. The music thumping outside the door like a pulse. The warmth of her against him, how fast it all escalated. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her voice a slur of desperation and longing. His hands trembling, trying to slow things down while hers tugged him closer. The way she looked at him when he'd pulled away and it shattered.
He had wanted to explain, tell her everything then. Had started to. But her eyes had gone glassy with tears, and Rob’s name had slipped from her mouth like a curse. Everything had gone sideways.
And now—
“Lizzie...” His voice broke around her name.
She blinked slowly. And then she said it, like she was quoting a line from a bad memory:
“‘I’m the only one telling you the truth anymore.’” Her voice curled around the words like they were poison. “Isn’t that what you said?”
Max went cold.
Because he had said it.
And if she remembered that—if even a shard of that night had lodged itself into her memory ...
“As if that’s ever been true,” she snapped.
Max stepped toward her instinctively, one hand half-reaching, as if he could physically reel her back before she spiraled any further. Before she ripped open what little they had left between them.
“It was true.”
“No.” Her eyes were wet now. Furious. “Rob told me what you did. What you lied about.”
She was shaking. Max could see it. Not just her hands, her entire being was fracturing in front of him. Max wanted to tell her she didn’t know the half of it. That Rob hadn’t been in that coatroom, hadn’t heard the things Max had tried to say when it was just the two of them, drunk and raw and half-breaking. That Rob had kept far worse from her, had lied to protect himself, not her. Had built a wall of silence around the truth and dared Max to keep it standing.
But he couldn’t say any of that.
Not now.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said, almost pleading.
“You used me!”
It landed like a slap, raw and loud in the narrow alley.
“That night—" Her voice cracked. “I know why you did it. To get to Rob.”
Max reeled back like she’d punched him in the gut.
“That’s not what happened!” he shouted.
But she didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t.
He felt it all unraveling, the conversation, the year of distance between them, the weight of Rob’s death, the truths he almost told her. And beneath all of it was a single horrifying reality: She was remembering just enough to condemn him.
But not enough to know the truth.
And maybe that was worse.
The alley fell into silence again, except for the sound of their breathing, uneven and serrated. Max’s fists were clenched at his sides, every muscle strung tight like wire. He could feel the precise moment he stopped trying to understand her, and started trying to defend himself.
And somewhere, under all the noise, a quiet voice whispered:
You lost her the second you let Rob lie to her.
Max dragged a hand down his face, ashamed now more than angry. The flush in his chest cooled as his gaze fell on her, on the unshed tears glittering in her eyes despite how hard she tried to blink them away. He hadn’t meant to bring her to this.
Not again. Not tonight.
“This isn’t how I wanted the conversation to go, Lizzie.” he said hoarsely, his voice rough from everything he hadn’t said for two years.
Lizzie let out a short bitter laugh, watery and sharp like glass cracking under pressure. “All of our conversations go this way.”
Max took a small step forward. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough that his voice could fall lower, his shoulders could ease, his anger could bleed into something quieter. And maybe, just maybe, she’d see the truth behind it. That he wasn’t her enemy. That he never wanted to be.
“I’ve wanted to apologize to you,” he said, the words sticking like thorns in his throat. “About Rob. About everything. I know how horrible it was for you. To lose him. And to be left with…”
His eyes dropped to her gloved hands, then away quickly. She flinched. A full-body reaction like the word itself had claws.
“But you wouldn’t talk to me,” he went on, his voice softer now, fraying at the edges. “You shut me out. You made me the villain and I didn’t know how to come back from that. I didn’t know how to make it right.”
Lizzie’s expression cracked, just slightly. A tremor through her mouth. A flicker of something fragile across her face before it steeled over again.
Her voice came low and tight. “You can’t make it right, Max.”
She stepped to move around him, boots crunching softly against the frost-laced alley.
Max reached out instinctively and caught her wrist.
“Lizzie—” His voice cracked. “How long are you going to hold this over my head? How long do we have to fight before you just let the past go and forgive me?”
His fingers grazed the edge of her scar on her hand, and her reaction was immediate, violent. She yanked her arm back like he’d touched fire against her skin again. He let go at once, hand falling to his side, fingers tingling.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, sharp bursts as she straightened, her chin lifting like a banner. Her words were flint and stone.
“Until you’ve earned it.”
And then she looked at him, really looked at him, and something behind her eyes changed. Hardened. Broken, Vengeful.
“And you know what? You never will.”
Her voice, low and cold, slid straight under his skin like a blade.
“Because you're a spineless, fucking coward,” she said. “Whose greatest achievement in Formula One will be stepping over someone else’s lifeless body to get where you are now.”
The words landed like a punch to the sternum.
Max staggered a half-step back, blinking like he hadn’t understood her, like surely she didn’t mean that.
But she did. He could see it in her eyes.
She meant every word.
He felt it happen, something silent and final inside him cracking, the last intact piece of something soft folding in on itself and going still. For a long moment, he just stood there, blinking down at her, heart pounding in his ears. And then, slowly, the hurt began to burn off, evaporated by something sharper. A bitter cold swept through his chest, numbing everything it touched.
A shuffle of footsteps cut through the air behind them. Max turned his head, fury still pulsing hot in his jaw.
It was Lukas, the new quiet sim racing acquaintance, rounding the corner, casually swinging a pair of gloves in one hand. He slowed as he came closer, taking in the sight of Max and Lizzie standing inches apart, their expressions tight, shoulders braced, the air between them thick with static.
His friend blinked, visibly thrown by the scene. “Oh. Uh… hey. I found your gloves. Hope you don't mind that they're a bit wet, your friend might have spilled a bit of her pint on one."
Of course.
Max’s stomach twisted. Of course the idiot had gone in to get them like some knight in shining armor. He could see it now in the light, the shape of his wry mouth, the twinkle in his blue eyes. Because he didn’t just look like Pierre in passing, he moved like him too. Same casual lean, same easy smile. Max hadn’t noticed it until now, and the realization landed hard. Like being slapped across the face with something he’d already lost.
That was the only reason she'd even entertained him. Because he looked like Pierre.
Anger and bitterness flared hot and fast in his gut, mixing with shame. He hated that he was thinking it. Hated even more that it felt true.
Lukas offered the gloves out to Lizzie, but then his gaze dropped, just a little too low. Just long enough to catch her hands under the harsh yellow lamplight. To her scars. Angry red and pale across her knuckles, wrapped around her wrists like melted chains, visible even under the edges of her coat.
Lukas’s face changed. A flicker of confusion first. Then realization. Then something colder—shock, maybe even disgust.
Max saw it all.
Lizzie saw it too.
She flinched, not visibly, but Max could see it in the way her whole body pulled inward. Her shoulders curved protectively, her head dipped, and her fingers fumbled quickly for the gloves.
She tugged them on with stiff, shaking hands, forcing them into place like she could make herself disappear with enough layers.
“Thanks,” she said, voice low and quick. “And good luck at your tournament.”
Lukas hesitated. “Hey, do you maybe wanna—”
But then her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced down. Max caught the name even from a distance.
Sebastian Vettel.
Her entire body changed. Something in her jaw softened while her shoulders tensed, like relief and dread collided all at once. The kind of look people gave when they saw a life raft drifting toward them, but still weren’t sure it would hold.
She answered without hesitation, slipping into German as she turned away.
“Hallo,” she said tightly, her voice frayed.
And then she walked. Not stormed. Not fled. Just walked, brisk and purposeful, like if she didn’t keep moving she’d fall apart. Max stood rooted, eyes locked on the space she’d just vacated. But her voice floated back to him before she disappeared around the corner, sharp and loud and splintering:
“Mein Gott, was für eine Fotze.”
My God, what a cunt.
Max exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach.
Behind him, Lukas finally blinked and spoke.
“Wait—was that… Lizzie McKean?” A beat passed. “Like… the Lizzie McKean? The F1 driver, your old mate, the one whose brother—”
“Yeah,” Max said sharply, cutting him off before he could finish. "I'm going back to my hotel. Tell Gianni I left."
He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t say goodbye.
He just walked.
Down the alley, back toward the streetlights. Hands jammed into his coat pockets. Jaw clenched so tight it ached. His breath ghosted around his face in short, hot clouds that only made the cold more biting.
He was so angry.
At her, for throwing his apology back in his face. For calling him a spineless coward, a cheat. For still knowing how to make him feel twelve years old and worthless. And angrier at himself. For believing, for one stupid second, that maybe—just maybe—things between them could be different.
Fine, he thought. So be it. Have it your way, you fucking bitch.
If she needed him to be the monster, he’d stop trying to prove he wasn’t.
Whatever part of him had still hoped she’d see him, really see him, died right there in the dim lit alley. What was left behind hardened.
heyy, i was just wondering if the ice breaker series is still ongoing (no pressure of you are taking some time off, am just curious:))
Hello lovely angel anon,
I've honestly been putting off responding to this because I couldn't really find the right words to say. It means so much that people have reached out to ask about the status of the series and to check in on me, and I feel like y'all deserve some transparency.
So I live in the U.S (I'm an American citizen) and besides time spent studying abroad I've lived here my whole life. I can't go into what I do for various personal and security reasons, but I work in foreign affairs as a private citizen on behalf of the US government. Over the last three weeks, things have begun to devolve so quickly and heavily (both in the level of stress and workload for my job, and with what I'm seeing with with my own eyes/hearing from friends in other cities) that I am seeing my country slip into authoritative fascism in real time. It's been happening slowly for years, but they've stopped trying to pretend they aren't doing it. ICE is going door to door in my city illegally forcing themselves into peoples homes and checking papers, government departments and contractors are now legally allowed to discriminate against women/POC/LBTQ+ people, and we are now threatening to take Greenland by force which would result in the possible dissolution of NATO. People are terrified here. As a women whose dedicated her life to strengthening diplomatic relations, I am now having to come to grips with the choice that I may have to leave my dream job (or perhaps my country all together if it gets worse) in order to continue to live by my morals OR to stay to try and make whatever little effect I can have. As someone who has a deep love for the country I know and the potential America has to be a welcoming, diverse and open society, this is really heartbreaking and depressing.
That being said, due to my work situation and just life, writing has taken a back seat for me lately. But I am still planning Ice Breaker chapters along with other stories like Burn out Bright. I know that I promised about 15 chapters for Ice breaker, and I plan to eventually deliver on that. Hopefully the next chapter of Ice Breaker will be out in the next week or so. But if y'all notice a decline in my posting engagement or activity, just know that I may not be in the headspace to write at that time.
This community has been wonderful, F1 has given me something else to feel excited about and to forget a little bit about what's happening. But I hope that everyone understand that for me and many other Americans in this community, you may not be hearing from some of us as regularly anymore.
Not to be sappy, but I'm going to drop this in here as a reminder to everyone. Even if you live in the US as well, and somehow feel removed from the situation because it's "not your problem." If you care about your fellow man, it is:
Due to popular demand (and because I have no self control) I am offically making Ice Breaker a multi-part series! Therefore it needed it's own masterlist home ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
You can find it on my home page or linked here if you want to heart it to save it!
